Not all of it was stone, either. Some was distinctly organic. A few times actual blood flowed.
It was grisly work, but Chiun refused to let it faze him. Each time a section came away, they checked it for any sign of Gordons's electronic brain. It was the small, irreducible heart of the assimilator. Every time they had crushed a Gordons form, the assimilator always found a way to another host, animal, vegetable or mineral, and rebuilt itself. Only by obliterating the brain could they ever be sure he would never return to haunt them again.
The trouble was, they had no idea what it looked like. Only that it was very small.
Remo was hacking away at the other leg now. The first lay shattered and unrecognizable now. His technique was different. He felt along the rough outer skin until his sensitive fingers found a weak spot. Making a fist, he hammered away.
Cracks formed. Rock dust squirted. Liquid squirted, too. The stone fell into large sections that in turn crumbled because they had been disrupted on the molecular level.
"It's not fighting back or reacting," Remo said hopefully.
"Therefore, it is dead," said Chiun.
"So where is the brain?"
"Talk will not find it," said Chiun, face tight, not looking away from his task. "Only force."
It took a while, but in the end the Coatlicue statue lay in heaps like a rock pile after the chain gang had finished. They stamped these into grit and mush.
"No brain," said Remo, looking around.
"No brain, no gain," said Chiun, eyeing the heavy-branched cypress tree with wary concern.
Remo frowned. "This is bigger than the both of us."
"No tree can defeat a Master of Sinanju, much less two."
"No argument there, but I think we have better ways to pass the next year." Remo looked around.
He was wondering how many antitank rockets it would take to blow apart a two-thousand-year-old tree when his gaze fell on the helicopter where Winston Smith and Assumpta waited for them with remarkable patience.
Subcomandante Verapaz was calmly walking toward it. He walked with very jerky steps and was taking great care how he placed his feet on the rainslick ground.
"Damn," Remo said. "Verapaz is trying to escape."
"Do not worry. I disabled the craft so it cannot fly-"
"How?"
"By disabling the pilot's ability to fly."
WINSTON SMITH WAS FUMING. His feet were on the chopper's pedals and he couldn't work them. His hands hung limp at his side, like spaghetti.
In the passenger seat, Assumpta was just as helpless. Her eyes kept looking toward him. Every time their gazes met, he had to look away. They were like a knife in his gut. It was a sickening feeling. He wanted to fly her away. He wanted to find some place where they could just live. Screw Verapaz. Screw the UN. Screw everyone. It wasn't worth it. Assumpta was worth it. He saw that clearly now.
The rain beat down on the cockpit bubble, obscuring his view of his surroundings. All he could do was wait.
A figure approached. He wore a black ski mask from which a pipe jutted.
Then abruptly the door opened and a strange voice said, "Hello is all right."
It was a crazy thing to say. Then Winston remembered what the old Korean, Chuin, had told him just before he squeezed their spines, rendering them helpless in their seats: I go now. But I will return. Remember this. Trust no one who may greet you with the words 'Hello is all right.'
It had made no sense, but now someone was saying exactly that. Smith said nothing. His jaw was locked up tight by whatever had stolen his motor control.
"Do you understand English? Are you deaf?" the unaccented voice asked.
When Smith failed to reply, a cool hand began feeling about his neck. With a sudden chiropractic crack of vertebrae, feeling flowed back into his limbs.
"Thanks," Winston said, grabbing the controls.
"I require transportation."
"You got it. Just help my friend the way you helped me."
"Certainly."
The masked man went around to the other side and relieved Assumpta of her paralysis, too. Winston saw then that his eyes were a very distinct green.
Assumpta squealed with joy, "Lord Verapaz! I greet you in the name of the people of Escuintla."
"It is imperative that I escape this area."
"Hop in," Winston said. "There's room in the back."
Assumpta crawled back, saying, "You may have my seat."
Subcomandante Verapaz got in. The chopper settled heavily when he did. He obviously weighed more than his size suggested.
Snapping switches, Winston got the rotor spinning and the ship into the air. The chopper was even more sluggish than before. It rose ponderously, spun once as the lift fought against whatever was weighing it down.
"Damn. We're too heavy!"
"Fire the rockets," Verapaz said.
"What?"
"My enemies approach. We are too heavy, and they will be upon us in under sixty seconds. Fire the rockets at them. This will solve both problems simultaneously."
Winston peered through the rain. Remo and Chiun were closing fast. He hesitated. Once they got within reach, that was it. He could kiss escape goodbye. Assumpta, too.
The words that came out of his mouth surprised even him. "Nothing doing."
"It is our only chance."
At his ear he could feel Assumpta's hot breath. "Do this, Weener."
"No."
"You are El Extinguirador. You yourself have said those two are CIA killers. You must destroy them to save us."
Winston set his teeth. "I can't."
"Then I will do it for you," said Subcomandante Verapaz in his strangely uninflected voice.
Grasping the collective, he jockeyed the ship around. His strength was incredible. Even with both hands, Winston couldn't get it away from him. The chopper began spinning.
With his free hand Verapaz armed the rocket pod.
"Let go, damn it!"
"Weener, do not fight him. He is our Lord Verapaz.
"I said let go, damn it!"
The helicopter stopped its lazy spin.
Through the swimming Plexiglas, Winston Smith saw the fleet figures moving in on them. They seemed to be floating, almost in slow motion. But they were covering the distance to the chopper with breathtaking speed.
A hand arrowed for the firing button, and Winston Smith reached down for his supermachine pistol. Thumbing the safety, he brought it up.
A projecting clip hung up on something. He yanked it free, and in the back Assumpta let out a shrill shriek.
"Weener-no!"
Smith whipped the barrel in line, placing it against Subcomandante Verapaz's masked forehead.
"Don't make me do this," he begged.
"You cannot hurt me with that," Verapaz said.
"This is the machine pistol to end all machine pistols. It will empty every drum and clip in one continuous bullet stream. All 250 rounds. Hollowpoints, Black Talons, Hydra-Shoks, everything. Your head will completely disappear."
"That will not matter."
"Yeah. Why not?"
"My brain is not in my head."
The words were surreal in their casualness. Winston Smith had his eye on the finger hovering over the rocket launcher. If it moved, he would fire. Every sense was concentrated on that finger.
And so he failed to see two tapered hands come up from behind him to grab for his gun wrist.
In that instant three things happened.
He squeezed the Hellfire trigger. The finger hit the rocket switch.
And the two hands pulled the Hellfire away from the Subcomandante's head. Pulled back. Back so the muzzle pointed into the rear of the ship. Where Assumpta sat.
The gun made an earsplitting noise in the tiny cockpit. Its sound lifted over the blade scream. Powder smoke filled the air.
As the rain beat down on the outside of the Plexiglas bubble, the inside was spattered with a livid red.