The sun was setting in a dazzling reflection of orange and yellow as Remo entered the Three-G, Inc., building through a shattered window. The place seemed to be falling into disrepair.
As twilight approached, weird shadows cascaded along the gleaming hallways, sending spears of darkness along walls and into corners.
Remo wasn't sure what to expect. He didn't care.
He had only one purpose. To destroy the Leader. He was the reason all this had happened. He had engineered this entire scenario for one purpose and one purpose alone. Revenge. He had baited the trap, and Remo had willingly stepped in.
The dying sun was expending its last shred of fiery orange brilliance as Remo entered a wide reception area. A sign posted near a horseshoe-shaped desk at the center of the room read TOUR BEGINS HERE. Beyond the sign was a long hallway, off of which were dozens of closed doors.
Remo concentrated every fiber of his being on the doors in the hallway beyond. He stood stock still, his hands at his sides, as he let his mind and senses sweep down the darkening hall more effectively than any electronic sensing device.
Nothing. No movement. No breathing. There was no one in any of the offices.
Remo was about to move down the hall when he heard the first pre-attack warning noises.
And he knew he had made a cardinal mistake for someone in his profession. He had overthought his adversary. While concentrating his senses on the offices up the hallway, he had allowed his opponent to get the drop on him. Literally.
Section upon section of styrofoam ceiling panels caved in above him, showering the entrance area with a blanket of manufactured snow. Six gyonshi dropped from the newly made openings with surprising agility, bent at the knees, and sprang up at him. A flurry of long-nailed fingers groped for his throat.
Twisting, Remo evaded the outstretched hands and sent a fist up into the groin of the nearest man. He was rewarded with the satisfying crack of a pelvis. The man howled in pain and dropped to the floor, grabbing at his injury and accidentally stabbing himself in the thigh with his own guillotine fingernail. He howled.
On the recovering step Remo executed a backward somersault, inches ahead of the glittering ring of poisoned claws, to land on one knee on the marble-topped reception desk. He scooped up a silver letter opener and hopped lightly to the floor.
"Mail call," he told the gathering swarm.
As one, the five remaining vampires lunged. Arms slashing, teeth bared, they closed in on Remo.
"Reject meat. . . ." they chorused.
"Say no to blood," Remo shot back.
When they were an arm's length away, Remo took the blade in his teeth and grabbed the wrists of the two on the leading edge. He yanked them toward him.
Momentum carried them across the reception area.
The pair crashed through one of the huge panes of glass that made up the outer wall of the room, sending an explosion of glass out onto the well-tended front lawn of Three-G, Inc. Remo flicked a third after them. He saw with a cruel grin that one of the bodies had been impaled grotesquely on a triangular shard of glass. The point jutted through the neck of the lifeless gyonshi, and a film of orange smoke rose into the chilly night air. The others were already getting unsteadily to their feet, like zombies burdened with osteoporosis.
The remaining pair thrashed and lunged, desperately trying to infect Remo with their guillotine nails.
Darting under their attacks, Remo caught up their wrists and, with a jerking movement, forced their sharpened nails into one another's throats. They fell apart, going in opposite directions and surrendering a haze of orange smoke.
Remo spat the letter opener back into his hand as the two survivors he had hurled through the window clambered and stumbled back into the fray.
One was a man, the other a woman. The woman seemed unharmed, but the man, about fifty and portly, was bleeding profusely from an open head wound. He was pale and weaved unsteadily. Remo guessed he was in shock from blood loss. Assuming vampires can experience shock, that is.
The man nearly fell into Remo's arms. He tried to claw at him with his gyonshi fingernail, but seemed winded.
"Reject meat.. . ." he gasped. "Accept the Final Death."
"Sorry, pal," Remo said softly. "Sister Mary Margaret would never understand." With blinding swiftness, he sliced the man's throat cleanly.
The final gyonshi woman, in a torn black Moody Blues concert T-shirt, lunged for him. Remo simply swatted her hand down, as one might scold an angry child, and drew the letter opener across her neck.
With a shriek she floundered away, even as her gurgling throat dribbled vile orange smoke.
Six down, Remo thought. But how many more to go?
The first man Remo had felled still writhed in agony on the floor. As Remo squatted down beside him the man attempted to scratch him with his sharpened nail, while cradling his mangled lower body with his free hand.
Remo felt pity for him. Not rage, not anger. Only pity. These health-food fanatics were all pawns in a twisted demon's game of revenge. Now that Chiun was lost, it was Remo the Leader was after. And the Leader would send anyone and anything into the fray rather than face Remo himself.
After Remo had sliced the man's throat, he didn't even watch the silent plume of orange smoke. He was already walking deeper inside the Three-G building, ready for whatever horrors Sinanju's old adversary had concocted as part of his sick game of revenge.
He was back in Sinanju.
The main square of the village was crowded. The villagers shouted cheers of encouragement. The buildings were newly whitewashed. Every nail was shiny and new. The village had never been so neat. Even the mud flats had become a golden beach.
Nuihc stood before him, arms crossed absently across his chest. He wore a two-piece black fighting outfit.
"Why have you brought me here?" Chiun asked. He did not look at the people of Sinanju. Their shouts were for Nuihc, not Chiun.
"It is not my doing, Uncle," Nuihc said, "but yours."
Chiun shook his head and inhaled deeply. "It is not I," he said.
"You," Nuihc said, smiling evilly. "And you alone. The poison coursing through your system has ripped away layers of your pretentious inhibitions, Uncle. Is there some ghost you have yet to exorcise?" Chiun did not respond. Nuihc's eyes opened wide, as if suddenly alighting on a stark truth. "Perhaps we have discovered the one thing the infallible Chiun fears: his own unsavory past."
Chiun brought his eyes level with Nuihc's. His nephew's orbs burned with undisguised hatred. Their gazes locked.
"The ignorant dog barks at its own stink," he said, his voice dripping with contempt.
Nuihc, once Master of Sinanju, struck up a fighting stance.
"Defend yourself, decrepit one!" he shouted.
Chiun stood his ground. "I will not fight you, shamed one."
Nuihc's eyes became angry steel slits. "Ah, I understand. Only when your opponent is unsuspecting, unprepared, do you strike. Here, where there are eyes to witness your treachery, you hold back. Time has addled your withered mind, uncle. You have forgotten that I do not share your compunctions. If you do not defend yourself, I will slay you like a dog in the street."
Chiun lowered his head. "So be it," he said quietly. And he turned his back in contempt.
Nuihc's eyes went wild. "I will have my revenge!"
Nuihc flew at Chiun, his index finger extended in a forward thrust-the identical stroke Chiun had landed against him years before.
Chiun would not react. He would not move to defend himself. If his physical fate was somehow sealed with his fate in this internal world of his fevered devising, then he would leave the outcome to destiny.