"Rematch time!" he sang. He strode up to the limo. Unhappily, the driver's seat was vacant.

  Remo shifted direction without even pausing and bounded to his front door. He noted two pairs of footprints. One entering the house and the other coming away. The Asian chauffeur had gone in. The other prints matched the inexplicable tracks back at the safe house.

  "Good," Remo muttered. "It'll be just him and me."

  Grinning, Remo rang the front doorbell so the chauffeur wouldn't know it was him. He could hardly wait to take another crack at that arrogant little guy.

  There was no answer after the first ring, so Remo leaned into the buzzer, holding it down.

  A voice called through the door.

  "Who is there?"

  "Avon lady," Remo called back, smiling in recognition of the chauffeur's distinctive clipped accent.

  "You lie!"

  "Try saying that to my face," Remo called.

  The door flew open. The black-masked chauffeur stood there. He looked exactly the same as he had the previous day, down to the red button over his heart. Remo saw it clearly this time.

  In black pseudo-Oriental slash letters it said: BRUCE LEE LIVES.

  Remo's grin almost burst into laughter.

  A fist started for his face. But Remo was ready for it. He ducked to one side and let the force of the blow carry the chauffeur past him.

  Just to be sure, Remo kicked at one of the man's moving ankles.

  The chauffeur couldn't stop himself. He went right into the mushy snow.

  Remo slammed the door after him, locking it. He caught a flash of purple silk from the half-open spare-room door.

  "Okay, Chiun," he called, "what the hell is going on here?"

  The figure in purple was bent over an open lacquered trunk, ignoring Remo's challenge. Remo had no time to think about what that meant because an unfamiliar voice hissed, "Sagwa! Au ming!"

  Remo started to whirl, his surprise on his face. He hadn't detected another person in the house-no heartbeat, no respiration.

  Before he could complete his turn, the locked front door exploded off its hinges and came toward him like a flying wall.

  Remo stopped it with a hand, braced by a stiff arm. The impact forced him back a half-step, and while the energy was pushing at his stiffened arm bones, he redirected it back toward its source.

  To an observer, it looked as if the door had attached itself to Remo's palm as if by static electricity: It hung on his hand for measurable seconds, then rebounded with no apparent force applied. In fact, Remo's hand had suddenly pushed it back.

  The door flew back the way it had come. It met the stiff fingers of the black-masked chauffeur's right hand.

  The door split as if precut and the halves slammed away. One struck on a corner and bounced like an eccentric wagon wheel.

  Remo was already in the air. One foot snapped out in a flying kick.

  His opponent copied the action.

  The heels of their shoes collided like irresistible force meeting immovable object. They bounced off one another, neither man having gained an inch.

  Remo hit the floor, recovering. His eyes sought the third man in the room. He caught a momentary glimpse of a tall figure in a long purple gown in the spare room. He wore a Russian-style fur cap. It wasn't Chiun after all!

  There was no time to see more. The chauffeur was circling toward him, body crouched, gloved hands weaving cryptic designs in the air.

  "Chiun!" Remo called. "Where are you?"

  Remo's voice bounced off the walls. There was no answer.

  And then the domino-masked chauffeur made his move.

  It was a high leap, executed with a blood-chilling scream.

  Remo knew the scream was a device to paralyze him. He laughed. In Sinanju, one attacked in professional silence, not like a banshee.

  Remo aimed a fist at the descending crotch. Let the little guy do all the work, he thought.

  But the wiry chauffeur reacted to the sudden fist. His gloved hands grabbed a dangling ceiling light, arresting his plunge.

  One foot slashed out at Remo's head. He parried it with his waiting fist and danced out of the way of a follow-up kick. The guy had incredible kicking skill. Not Sinanju, but powerful. It was as if his legs were driven by automatic pistons.

  Remo looked for an opening. He got one ankle and simply yanked. The ceiling cracked. The light tore free like a molar coming out of a petrified gum.

  Remo stepped back and let the man fall with the plaster debris. He taunted him with a laugh, which was a thousand times more unnerving than any high-pitched battle cry.

  Off in one corner, the hissing voice said, "He is good."

  Remo heard this in the moment the chauffeur took to untangle himself from the ceiling light. It made him pause. He should have taken the chauffeur out then and there, but he wanted to see who was at Chiun's trunks.

  Remo turned to the sound of the voice, and in that half-turn, the black-masked chauffeur came at him, low and fast.

  Remo backpedaled three steps to give himself kicking room. He miscalculated by a single step. He hit the wall with his back. He cursed.

  A foot slashed up for his solar plexus. Remo braced for the impact by stiffening his abdominal muscles, simultaneously bringing his arms down protectively.

  The foot never made contact. In midair, the chauffeur had turned like a spring-wound dervish and launched a piledriver punch at Remo.

  He brought his hands up and out, fending off the hammering fist. The chauffeur landed and sent an open-hand blow suddenly knifing for Remo's temple.

  Remo moved to counter it.

  In that moment, the other hand struck his abdomen once-hard and deep, fingers stiff. Remo felt the thrust clear back to his spinal column. The air blew out of his lungs and Remo doubled over, clutching himself, his face naked and defenseless.

  In the split second before the grinning face of the masked chauffeur floated before Remo's going-gray vision and a black fist started to travel in his direction, Remo searched the room with his eyes. He caught an imperfect glimpse of a tall purple-silk-clad figure moving closer. For a moment, Remo thought it was the Master of Sinanju.

  But he stood watching the tableau with absolutely no emotion on his sere-parchment countenance.

  The blow knocked Remo's head back into the plaster wall. The top of his skull went in clear to his nose, and his body went lax, as if all the strength had gone from it.

  Then slowly his head began to pull free of the hole, carried by the deadweight of his limp muscles, until he came loose. Remo made a clumsy pile of arms and legs on the bare floor.

  The worst of it was that Remo was not unconscious. His eyes were closed, but he heard every sound in the room.

  Most of all, he heard the arid voice of the purple figure as he left through the front door.

  He was saying, "To think, Sagwa, all that training squandered on a barbarian lofan."

  The chauffeur laughed grimly. The door shut after them.

  Remo felt himself starting to lose consciousness. He fought it. Waves of darkness seemed to wash over his brain, but he reached into his inmost essence to hold on to consciousness.

  It was a struggle. He wanted to surrender to the sweet peace that tried to claim him.

  Remo refused. Deep within him, a fire began to burn and a voice from some inner reservoir intoned, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds."

  For a moment Remo wavered between surrender and consciousness. His eyes burned with a smoldering light. The fire flickered. It was brief. His face warped into a mask of hellish agony.

  Then he gathered himself together. He climbed to his feet. Every joint ached.

  But when he stood erect, the burning-ember gleam in his eyes subsided, and he was Remo again.

  He stumbled to the spare room. Shock was like a kick to his stomach when he saw that Chiun's steamer trunks were gone-all except an empty spare in need of repair. Remo plunged for the door, one arm across his bruised stomach.

  Outside, he saw the limousine leave the curb like a silent black shark fleeing a coral reef.

  Remo pelted for his Buick. He squeezed in behind the wheel, inserted the ignition key, and got the car started.

  He roared after the limousine. It screeched around a corner. Remo slid into the turn right behind it. His maneuvering was ragged. He almost sideswiped a fireplug.

  Coming out of the turn, he found himself on a long narrow street.

  "You're good, pal," he said, gritty-voiced, "but not that good."

  He floored the Buick, gaining on the limo's rear deck. On its jet-black bumper was a sticker: BRUCE LEE LIVES.

  "You're dreaming, pal. When I get through with you, you're going to join him."

  As Remo closed in, a silvery nozzle extruded from the limo trunk. Remo prepared himself for the expected jet of vapor. It squirted something dark and viscous instead.

  Remo saw the spreading patch of oil splatter on the snow, and with a wrench of the wheel he sent the Buick up on the sidewalk.

  His right-rear tire hit a patch of the gunk and he had to wrestle to keep the car straight. Every exertion made his stomach muscles cramp. He grimaced and fought to stay behind the wheel. His head began to pound.

  The limo took a side street and then a street off that.

  Remo did his best to keep up. The snow made it tough. Whereas before, he could use it to his advantage, literally skiing the car, now he was too badly injured to be the absolute master of every turn.

  He slipped around corners, once swapping ends and finding his car suddenly pointing the opposite way in a drift.

  Remo wrestled the wheel around and resumed the chase. This time he took it more slowly. The rattlesnake tracks were going to lead him, and he began to get a sense of where they were going.

  They took a ramp onto Route 95, and Remo followed suit.

  On the highway, he began to catch up. Remo stayed in the left lane to avoid any more oil slicks. Whoever had designed the car had built it to thwart pursuit.

  The miles flashed by. Once the limo drifted into Remo's lane and he simply slithered out of the way into the right lane.

  In response, the limo straddled both lanes, and suddenly greenish gas began streaming from its skin.

  It looked like the engine had caught fire, except the vapor was green. Remo hastily shut every vent on the car. He took a deep breath and held it.

  He hoped it was the same kind of gas as before. A nerve agent-especially the kind that worked through the pores-would kill him within seconds, he knew.

  Remo held the road and his breath as the greenish streamers tore past his windshield.

  A thin haze of green vapor seeped into the car. Remo ignored it. He felt no telltale skin tingling.

  Eventually the gas gave out. When it was gone, Remo ran down every window and waited until the cold air had scoured the Buick's interior clean of gas before finally inhaling fresh air.

  The limo picked up speed.

  "Looks like you're out of tricks, pal," Remo said tightly.

  Remo settled down for the ride. The overhead signs started to say "New Rochelle." Remo wasn't surprised.

  The limo pulled onto an exit marked "Glenwood Lakes."

  There the chase turned frenetic again. Once, Remo caught a glimpse of stern almond eyes in the narrow rear window. They regarded him without mercy or care.

  On an angular turn, Remo lost control of his car, piling into a drift. He raced the rear wheels, and the car refused to budge.

  Angrily Remo got out and simply lifted the car's rear tires onto better traction. His efforts transformed his face into a mask of pain-induced sweat.

  He had lost sight of the limo. He decided that might be a good thing. It probably meant the driver thought he had lost Remo.

  Remo took a side street. He recognized the neighborhood from the day before. With luck, he might beat the limo to the garage.

  He hoped it was heading toward that same garage.

  It was, Remo saw as he came up a parallel street. Through the breaks between the houses, he saw the limo slide around a corner on Storer Avenue. It had made better time than he had anticipated.

  Remo pulled around the corner just as the limo nosed up to the garage. The door began opening automatically, obviously activated by a radio command.

  The limo lurched inside. The garage door began to accordion down like a Japanese bamboo curtain.

  Remo parked, got out, and ran for the door.

  Three steps told him that he wasn't in running shape. He slowed to a trot, his lungs burning with transmitted pain.

  The garage door clicked shut. Remo grasped the handle, feeling the last vibrations of an electric motor.

  The door wouldn't budge. Remo went around to the side.

  That door was unlocked. He pushed it in.

  Inside, he was confronted by the taunting sight of a white convertible sitting dusty and inert.

  There was no sign of the black limousine.

  Remo didn't waste time. He plunged out and hit the side door of the adjoining house like a cannonball on legs.

  He found the house sparsely decorated, but in an unmistakable Asian decor. He ran through the house, ready for anything.

  There was nothing. Every room was empty.

  Remo made three circuits of the house before he finally gave up.

  The garage was as he had left it. He checked for tracks. As before, faint wet smears of fresh rattlesnake tread stopped short of the convertible's rear bumper.

  Remo stood looking at those tracks for a long time.

  Then all life, all energy, seemed to drain from his hard face. Woodenly he stumbled back toward his own car.

  He squeezed in behind the wheel and reached for the ignition key.

  He lost it then.

  His eyes rolled up in his head and his bruised face hit the steering column.

  The horn gave out a long blast that startled the entire neighborhood, but Remo Williams didn't hear it.

  He was dead to the world.

  Chapter 8

  Remo Williams knew where he was before he even opened his eyes.

  The smell gave it away. It was a combination of hospital disinfectant and Pinesol.

  Folcroft Sanitarium, the cover for CURE.

  A familiar lemon-lime after-shave was sour in Remo's nostrils.

  "Hi, Smitty," he croaked.

  "Remo, it's Smith," Harold Smith hissed.

  "Would I say, 'Hi, Smitty,' if your name was Jones?" Remo retorted without humor.

  Slowly he opened his eyes. The light hurt like needles.

  "How long?" he asked the hovering face of Harold Smith.

  "You were brought here four hours ago."

  "Chiun?"

  "I tried to notify him. He is not at your home. In fact, it has been vandalized."

  "I know," Remo said. "I was one of the vandals."

  "Remo, before the doctor returns, I must have your report."

  Remo shut his eyes again. A kaleidoscope of images tumbled in his mind's eye-the vanishing limousine, the inexplicable footprints, and the tall man in the fur hat.

  "I don't know where to start," he admitted.

  "Where is Zhang Zingzong?" Smith demanded.

  "With Chiun."

  "And where is Chiun?"

  "For all I know, he drove a big black limo straight into the Twilight Zone."

  "I do not appreciate your humor at normal times," Smith lectured, "and especially not now.

  "I'm not joking, Smith. I don't know where Chiun is. The last I remember, I was getting into my car outside that weird garage."

  "You were found on a residential street in New Rochelle.'

  "Yeah, there. I followed the limo. It went into the garage. But it wasn't there when I went in. That was the second time that little kung-fu acrobat pulled that trick on me."

  "Who?"

  "The chauffeur with the mask," Remo said.

  "Are you delirious?"

  "Check the garage if you don't believe me. The limo isn't there."

  "You are not making any sense," Smith clucked. "I will come back when you are again yourself."

  Remo opened his eyes. He reached out and took Smith by the wrist. He squeezed. Smith's face twisted with the pain.

  "No time," Remo said tightly. "You gotta take me back there. I gotta find Chiun. I think he's left."

  "Left CURE?" Smith said huskily.

  "CURE. America, everything. I don't know yet. We had a fight, but I can't believe he'd throw everything we had away over a lousy fight. It must have something to do with that dingdong Chinese student."

  "Zingzong," Smith said. "His name is Zhang Zingzong."

  "Whatever. He and Chiun were fighting all last night. They made such a racket I checked into a motel. When I went back this morning, the limo was there, but most of Chiun's steamer trunks were gone. You know he never takes that many unless he's planning to go back to Sinanju. Then I got the stuffing kicked out of me by that kung-fu bozo."

  "You, Remo?"

  "Hate to admit it, but he was good."

  "I will undertake a search for Chiun. Please let go of my wrist."

  "I said," Remo added, squeezing so hard Smith's forehead broke out in a sweat, "there's no time. Screw your computers. Take me back to that garage. The limo went in there. It's gotta still be there, or it's not anywhere."

  "Very well," Smith said stiffly. "The doctor thinks there is no internal organ damage. But are you up to walking?"

  "Help me up."

  Unhappily Smith allowed his shoulder to be used as support. Slowly he eased Remo up to a sitting position.

  "Where are my clothes?" Remo asked, grimacing.

  Smith handed him a pile of clothes and primly turned his back while Remo painfully slid into them.

  "Lead the way," Remo said, getting to his feet with arthritic difficulty.

  "Are you certain this is wise?" Smith asked doubtfully.

  "Screw wise. We can't waste time."

  Remo let Smith drive. He regretted it as soon as they pulled into traffic. Smith drove like a maiden aunt. He slowed down at every yellow light, stopping dead and looking both ways before proceeding through stop signs, and observed the speed limit as if his car would self-destruct if the indicator touched the fifty-six-mile-an-hour mark.

  "Will you please pull over and let me drive?" Remo pleaded.

 

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