"The others are not dead," said Chiun. "I brought them here to be killed by you. It is written that Shiva shall put down the second coming of the undead and my ancestor's disgrace."
Remo looked at the two blobs of barely existing matter that lay before him. He could not imagine how Chiun had managed to walk through downtown Houston with one on the end of each hand.
"Where does it say that Shiva will put down the undead?" he asked.
"It is written," said Chiun. "But do not worry. They are not truly of the undead."
"How do you know?"
"How do you know?"
"They entered my room unbidden. I was deep in the throes of the Final Death when they came in without permission. It was then that I realized that they could not be truly of the Creed."
Remo remembered when the mist came over him in the freezer. Chiun must have done what he had done when he realized that he had been tricked. Remo remembered how his stomach knotted and numbness had crept throughout his body.
It was the same sensation he had the last two times he had been poisoned. So he did what he did then. He upped the oxygen content in his blood to assimilate the poison. Then he concentrated his entire essense on his stomach. The center of all life and death. Then when all the oxygen and blood and poison rushed into his stomach, he threw it up and out.
In the freezer now was a little pile of frozen green, red and black. Just below Viki Angus' broken body.
Remo kneeled down on one knee between the quivering piles" of Yat-Sen and Gluck.
"I'd like to make this painful, guys, but I don't have the time."
He drove the first knuckle of each hand into their respective heads. What was left of their respective heads. He felt his digits sink deep into their whole and intact brains. Then he threw their carcasses into the freezer to join the puke.
Remo looked up to where Chiun stood before a quaking Charlie Ko. Remo's eyes met the old man's and there flashed an emotion between them. It was the love of father for son, and son for father.
Charlie Ko made his move. His legs straightened and he whipped his long-nailed right forefinger out in front of his hurtling body directly in line with the soft, thin, unprotected layer of flesh below Chiun's jaw. He felt the solid rush of adrenalin that came from knowing that he could take the old man's head clean off.
If it was still there to take. Suddenly the yellow body before him was gone and Charlie felt himself flying through empty air. Then there was a yellow flash from below, a tug at his wrist, and Charlie Ko stopped in midair on his feet.
His hand didn't. His hand, still with his forefinger out, still with his other four fingers clenched, spun across the metal balcony, teetered on the edge, and dropped over.
Blood began to spurt out of his right arm trunk as Remo leaped up onto the balcony and gripped the back of Charlie's neck and his right forearm in such a way that the bleeding stopped but the blinding pain didn't.
"Okay, fella," Remo said. "You want to talk now or wait till after lunch?"
Charlie poured out his soul, knowing that this was the end and that, somehow, his talking would make the incredible pain end more quickly.
"We were hired by this old man to kill every non-vegetarian in the country."
"How?"
"We used this two-part poison the old man gave us. One part went into the meat, one part went into the gas."
"Why?"
"Because the authorities would have been able to locate the poison easily and develop an antidote if any one part were toxic. The part in the meat is kind of weak. But the gas activates it, makes it deadly."
"How did you get it in the meat?"
"Eddie… he was the one on the stairs. He was the government inspector at this plant. We put it in the USDA ink."
Smith had been right. Remo returned his attentions to Charlie.
"Where's Mary?"
"She went to report to the leader."
Chiun looked at Remo.
"Where's he?"
"At the Sheraton. Room 1824."
"Good year. Anything else?"
"Yeah, yeah. Mary is going to the airport and spread the gas over the city."
Remo dropped Charlie in disgust. The pain behind his neck stopped, but the blood started coursing out of his stump again.
"Come on, Little Father, let's go," said Remo.
"No, my son, you must kill the man yourself."
Remo turned back. "Why?"
"It is written that you will deliver the blow that avenges my father's disgrace."
"Where does it say that?"
"Just do it," spat Chiun. "Must you always bicker?"
Remo moved toward Chiun and Charlie's contorting body. "How many times do I have to go through this thing?" he complained. "Every time we get a new assignment, it's written here that I'll do this, it's written there that I'll do that. Can't we just go?"
"It is written," said Chiun. "That the son of the son of the father must do the deed."
"I never read that," said Remo. "Was that part of the fine print?"
Charlie Ko looked up at the two and screeched, "Please."
"All right," said Remo. "If you put it that way." He moved in and with one stroke ended Charlie's torture permanently.
Chiun beamed. "My son, I am proud of you."
"Proud?" said Remo. "You're proud of me? Proud? Of me, the white man, the pale piece of pig's ear?"
"Well, perhaps proud is a little excessive," Chiun said. "Highly tolerant is more correct. After all, it has been many days and still my manuscript is not delivered onto television. Important things like that are not easily forgotten."
Remo sighed.
"And another thing. Your wrist was bent when you disposed of that garbage."
"Oh God, here we go again. He's dead, isn't he?"
"Dead is dead and wrong is wrong," said Chiun. "Why was your wrist bent?"
"I'll explain it all to you on the way to the airport," Remo said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was a beautiful day for flying. The sky was clear, the visibility was 50 miles and the sun was slowly sinking in the west.
The golden strands of sunset were just beginning to reach across the horizon when Ms. Mary Broffman radioed the control tower and asked permission for take-off.
She had told the leader of their success with the two agents of Sinanju, then prepared herself for the flight of the Final Death.
She had refilled the gasoline tank on her orange-and-white two-seater, specially fitted, Piper Cub airplane, nicknamed "hojo" because when it was flying it resembled a Howard Johnson's restaurant with its orange roof. Then she had checked all her gauges and shifts, then the engine and flaps, then the little motor-cycle motor attached to the dull-green cannister in back.
All was in readiness. By nightfall most of the meat eaters in Texas would keel over. And by the morning the country would be in panic. Bodies would be littering the streets. The government would probably be gutted piecemeal. Large corporations would be leaderless and hollow. All manufacturing would grind to a halt. The entire foundation of the country would crumble.
Those left would be helpless wanderers. For a precious few days, before the entire hemisphere was quarantined and the gas wore off, before the first of the doubtless many foreign attacks that would be launched to lay siege on the fat, dead nation, there would be time. Time to accumulate riches beyond belief. Wealth beyond measure.
And then to pilot another plane to another land, where the secret of the two-part poison would lead to incredible power and position.
The leader was a fool to entrust this vegetarian wonder to his "followers." By morning he too would be dead. Mary would see to it. And then there would be no one between her, and whatever she wanted. Not bad for a little girl from Staten Island. If someone had told her five years ago that she would have reached this position simply from interviewing a Chinese gentleman in a library for her China history course, she would not have believed it.
But here she was. Minutes
away from total, absolute freedom. "Piper Cub Z-112, you are cleared for take-off on runway three. Have a good flight. Over."
"Thank you, control. Am starting engines to take off on runway three. Over."
Mary started her engines. The extra-horsepower Volkswagen engine in front of her sputtered, caught, and roared to life. She felt the vibration in the joy stick between her legs and enjoyed the rush it always gave. Grass bent in the whirling propeller's wake. Dust was kicked up and swirled behind her.
An old, blind, Chinaman in a library. A rich Jewish girl who needed a quick interview to finish a report for a school she was to drop out of two months later. An alliance formed between a desperate man and a bored girl. An incredible adventure shared in life and death. And it all came to this. The total, mind-blowing power of having the fate of the entire nation behind you attached to a motorcycle motor.
The orange-and-white airplane began to move. Mary pushed the throttle forward and began to bump down the asphalt to runway three for her first sweep.
Dusk was descending so she switched on her red-and-white flashers to warn any approaching aircraft of her presence. The runway lights glowed in the distance and the airport floodlights suddenly switched on.
Mary turned the plane around to face down runway three for her first sweep to gain momentum and power for lift off. And in the glare of the airport lights, down on runway eight, a man hopped over the fence.
Mary began to inch forward. She looked toward the small human shape in the distance moving across the field in her general direction. The plane picked up momentum as she picked up her radio microphone.
"Control, control, this is Cub Z-112. There's a man on the field. I repeat, there is a man on the field. Over."
There were a few crackling moments of radio silence, then the tiny speaker over her head replied.
"Z-112, this is control. Where? I repeat where is the man? Over."
Mary's plane was rolling down the runway at a steady clip now. She turned to look down the field and saw what was definitely a man moving in a straight line across runway seven.
"Control, this is Z-112. The man is crossing runway seven. I repeat, runway seven. Do you read? Over."
Another few seconds passed, as if the control-tower man had stopped to carefully survey the field. Mary stole another look to see the man moving onto runway six. She could now see that his right arm was up in the air.
"Z-112, this is control. I see no man on runway seven. I repeat, no man on runway seven. Over."
Mary had reached the end of her first run and was sweeping around for her final taxiing for take-off.
"Control, this is Z-112," said Mary, her voice strangely tight. "He's there, control. I see him. He has just crossed runway six. I repeat, just crossed runway six. Over."
Mary stared out her window to her left now as she saw the man moving in a diagonal as if to cut her off. She could see that he was carrying something in his raised right hand. And that something was dripping.
"Z-112, this is control. I still cannot see a man on the field. Have you been drinking? I repeat, have you been drinking? Over."
"Idiot," spat Mary. "I have not been drinking and he's there, damn it. I can see him as clear as day. Are you blind or something? Look, look, he's crossing runway five."
Mary turned and saw the man coming toward runway three. His head was turned in her direction and she saw his dark hair and high cheek bones. She saw that he was wearing a black T-shirt, blue slacks, and that he was barefoot.
In his hand was a bloody meat hook.
"Z-112, this is control. I have checked with several members of the ground crew as well as double checking myself, and we can still see no man on the runway. You had better taxi back for inspection. I repeat, taxi back for inspection."
"Like hell," Mary screamed. "The lousy fucker's on the field and he's coming after me."
Mary revved up her engine full and thrust her throttle down. The plane leaped down the runway. She watched the speedometer climb and grinned, picturing the dark-haired man trying to catch up with her but left standing in all the flying dirt, pebbles, exhaust, and garbage her engine threw behind the plane.
She took a quick glance out of her window and felt a hammer blow in her stomach. He was still gaining on her. She watched in horrified amazement as he loped across runway four, the meat hook held up like the Olympic torch at the summer Montreal games.
He seemed to be moving very slowly but his form just kept getting bigger and clearer.
Mary quickly looked at the speedometer. She was just a few kilometers below take-off velocity. Just a few more seconds and she'd beat him. If she could just keep moving for a few more seconds…
Suddenly Mary laughed wildly. What was she getting hysterical about? Let him catch up with the plane. What was he going to do? Kick her? Trip her with the hook? At this velocity, even if he somehow managed to throw the metal into her propeller, it would probably just bounce off and do very little damage.
So let him catch up. Let him run into the plane. Let him get mashed against the side. Let him get sliced into cold cuts. Come on, Mr. Wise Guy Superman. Come and get it.
Mary had reached take-off velocity. She felt her stomach settle as the wheels of the plane left the ground. She saw the airfield drop away from her windshield.
She laughed again and looked back in triumph. The man had stopped growing larger. Mary smirked. But now the hook was getting larger. Mary suddenly lost her sense of humor.
She ignored the swirling sunset out the front as she watched, in dread fascination. The hook seemed to float alongside the plane in slow motion. It turned slowly in the air, getting bigger and bigger. Then it was lifesize right in front of her face.
Then her view shattere'd. There was a cracking scream and then a violent pressure, as if someone had dropped a barbell on her chest. She watched as every loose object in her plane broke loose in the rush of wind. She watched her flight plan fly up, her silver chromatic two-color pen, her sunglasses and her leather attache case. She saw her auburn hair streak across her vision and she slowly wondered why her seat belt had not snapped so she would be sucked out too.
She held on tightly to the throttle and looked down. Coming out of her stomach was the tail end of a meat hook.
The point and catch of the metal had rammed through her body and locked out the back of her pilot's seat.
Mary threw her head back and howled like a drowning wolf. She opened her eyes and saw the horizon stretched out in front of her in a slash. From the top left of her broken windshield to the bottom right. Like the edge of a guillotine blade. Like the edge of the leader's fingernail.
Then the ground filled her vision and then nothing. She did not even have the time to feel pain. She did not even see the engine explode into the cockpit with the raging force of a full tank of gas. She did not even know that when the airport emergency crew put out the fire at the end of runway three and found what was left of her body that the meat hook looked like just another piece of melted metal.
She never knew that when the dull, green cannister melted, the fire evaporated the white mist immediately. She never knew that the control-tower man reported to the board of inquiry that she had shown signs of drunkeness and hysteria just before take-off.
And she never knew that the man who had come across five runways to get to her, the man who could move his body in such a way that light did not reflect off it toward the control tower, the man who could move so that he would never be where any member of the ground crew was looking, the man who had hurled the cold, bloody meat hook into her cockpit, had stood by the burning, wrecked carcass of her plane just after it had crashed, spread his arms and said, "That's the biz, sweetheart."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"It's done, oh leader," said a voice in room 1824, the Houston Sheraton. "The meat eaters have gone to their Final Deaths."
The leader gripped the heads of the green-fanged dragon arm rests in supplication. He had waited, for what seemed like eons,
for those very words to be spoken. He would not worry if they were not spoken by his female translator's voice as he had expected. For they were spoken in Chinese. And they were spoken.
The male voice had said that the stomach desecrators had gone on to their Final Deaths. Which meant that now he could go on to his last reward. He could enter the afterlife and join his ancestors, his loved ones, and companions. His gamble had paid off. The doubt of entrusting his creed's age-old secrets to paid mercenaries was over. They had done their jobs. The objective of their creed had been achieved. The leader sighed.
"It is good," he said.
"No," said a high-pitched Oriental voice in another tongue. "It is not good. It is evil."
The leader knew the language. It was Korean.
Remo and Chiun stood before the blood-red chair and its wizened occupant in the darkened hotel suite. One overhead 40 watt bulb shone down between the three, bathing their faces in dim, yellow light.
The leader tensed and sucked in his breath.
"Sinanju," he exhaled.
"Yes," said Chiun. "And your turn has come."
The leader's white brows came together in a "V," the lines in his face deepened, then, he relaxed and smiled.
"It shall be as it is," he said, waving a hand. "But surely you must understand. You, who live by a belief as old as mine. You must know the honor and dedication that drove me on."
Chiun shook his head gravely. "Sinanju is not a belief," he intoned. "It is a way of life. A way of life we do not force onto others. Few are blessed with the honor that is Sinanju." The Master looked at Remo. "We would not have it any other way."
"So it is not done," said the leader with sudden apprehension.
"No, it is not," said Chiun, "The only ones cursed with the Final Death are your amateur help,"
The Korean leaned in to hiss into the leader's ear.
"You could have finished us as easily as drowning a child. Yea, as old and blind as you are. You had only to face us yourself and your creed could have ruled the earth again."
The Master rose to his full height.
"But you diluted your wisdom with the stupidity of others until you were no more dangerous than a dying wind. So now you must pay."
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