Rage seemed so natural, so right.
And the outburst of violence so pleasurable in its release.
Unaccustomed though Chiz and Puma both were to playing before a live audience-neither had ever acted on the stage-they got into the spirit of the thing. The feedback of a crowd was like an energy boost.
Some of the people who cheered and hooted and urged them on were still laboring under the delusion that what was happening was not real.
That bubble quickly burst.
In a movement quicker than the eye could follow, Puma Lee stepped behind Stinger. Before he could react, she took hold of his elbows and lifted, raising and trapping his arms above his head.
Though they hadn't rehearsed this part of the show, Chiz knew exactly what to do. Closing on the bodyguard, he grabbed hold of the top of his armored vest and ripped it down and off. Then he gripped the man's shirt and stripped it down around his waist. "Jesus, don't..." Stinger pleaded.
They were his last words, if you didn't count the scream.
Chiz snatched hold of his collarbones, and as easily as he had torn off the vest, he ripped the man's muscles from his chest.
The crowd oohed and aahed. What special-effects treat this? What high-tech movie magic?
A make-believe torso spurting blood from clusters of broken arteries.
The folks in the front row knew the action was real. The blood that hit them was hot. And the smell that wafted over them, the smell of punctured guts as Chiz continued to root around in the man's body cavity-there was no way to fake that.
Puma slung the corpse aside.
People at the front edge of the mob tried to retreat, but were blocked by those behind them who refused to budge. Likewise, the two security teams found retreat impossible.
And then there was the chorizo.
A Mexican sausage so spicy that it was colored orange from all the chili powder and red peppers it contained. But the main thing about chorizo was the grease. When squeezed out of its casing into a hot skillet, or in this case, on a hot grill, the mound of spiced pork released pungent clouds of steam and a cascade of chili-tinted animal fat. Fat that was scraped off the grill with a spatula and into a gutter that dripped into a five-gallon plastic bucket.
A bucket long overdue for dumping.
The three-person staff of Senor Chorizo, all wearing minisombreros and sequined red felt vests over their aprons, had already jumped ship. As they were all Guatemalan nationals, and not fully Americanized Californians, the sight of brutal murder did not immediately make them think about popcorn and an extralarge soda. It made them think of death squads, which in turn, sent them on their heels, aprons flapping.
This left a half-dozen heaps of decased sausage oozing on the grill.
If there was perfume of the damned, this was it. Red chili. Cumin. Tumeric. Coriander. Garlic. A hint of clove.
With a higher annual income than the GNP of some island nations, Chiz Graham and Puma Lee could have had literally anything or anyone that their hearts desired. But all they wanted was that slops bucket of chorizo grease.
The security teams tracked Chiz and Puma with their weapons as the movie stars jumped the counter of the Mexican food shop in a single bound, like they had springs on the soles of their shoes.
None of the security guys wanted to shoot. Or rather, they all wanted to shoot, but the consequences of such an act were too unthinkable. Shooting unarmed civilians in the line of duty was one thing; shooting unarmed famous and rich civilians was another. If the first was a no-no, the second was the Empire State Building of no-no's.
Chiz and Puma ignored all the handguns and shotguns pointed at their backs. They were too busy struggling over who would take the first gulp from the chorizo bucket. Both had a firm grip on the container's rim; neither would relent, though the sides of the bucket bowed outward. Neither would relent because he or she knew that to give the other the first taste would mean there would be none left.
With a loud crack, the bucket split down the sides. And the rich orange oil splashed over their bare legs, shoes and the black tile floor.
Chiz flung himself facedown and began lapping at the grease. Puma, now in full control of the slops bucket, took a moment to pour what little remained down her throat. Then she, too, played human rag mop with her tongue.
They had cleaned about half the square footage of the floor when another bullhorn blasted at them from the far side of the counter.
"This is the LAPD SWAT team," said an unfriendly male voice. "Put your hands where we can see them and slowly, I repeat, slowly, rise up from behind the counter."
Chapter 25
Remo checked the rental car's rearview mirror. At the gated entrance to Chiz and Puma Lee's Bel Air estate, there were still no signs of life. Nothing had moved for better than an hour. That was when the mansion staff was herded off the grounds by three guys in full riot gear. Remo was tired of sitting, tired of looking up in the mirror and seeing zip. It was warm in the car, even with all the windows rolled down. The evening air was dead still.
The only sound was Chiun's snoring.
A low, steady rumble punctuated at irregular intervals by sharp pops. The Master of Sinanju slept sitting up in the front passenger seat, his torso held in place by his shoulder belt.
His napping wasn't a nodding-off every ten minutes, nor was it poor blood circulation to the brain, which one might expect of a normal, semisenile ninety-year-old. One of the benefits of a lifetime of study in mind-and-body control was that the Master was able to sleep anywhere, anytime. To drift off and awake instantly refreshed, ready for action.
Remo checked the clock on the dash. How could it possibly take Puma and Chiz so long to get here? he asked himself. The judge had ordered them to proceed directly from their lawyer's office to the mansion, a journey of no more than fifteen or twenty minutes by surface streets. To disobey the court's order meant both movie stars would go to jail. Which was why Koch-Roche had arranged for them to be escorted to their destination. It didn't figure that the security guys would go along with a side trip to some intermediate destination; what did figure was that something bad had happened. Something real bad.
Remo decided to call Smith. As he reached for the cell phone, it beeped. He knew it had to be Smith calling him, since no one else knew their mobile number.
At the sharp sound, Chiun's eyes snapped open. He gave Remo an irritated look, as if he'd been the one who'd caused the noise.
"Yeah, Smitty," Remo said as he picked up the phone. "What's going on?"
Chiun's expression mellowed and he yawned. The Emperor could do no wrong.
"A change of plans," Smith replied. Because they were talking on a cell phone, which could be monitored without their knowledge, the conversation had to be circumspect. "The job lot you were sent to collect is no longer, on the market. It was unexpectedly detoured, and another collector has taken control of the targeted items."
"Do I know the new owner?" Remo asked.
"A Mr. Black and Mr. White."
"No chance of retrieval, then?"
"Not at this time. The situation is fluid. The outcome uncertain."
"I take it, then," Remo said, "that we have another SpeeDee Mart situation in progress?"
"Yes, only more extreme," Smith told him. "Unfortunately, the matter is out of our hands, perhaps for good. I want you to proceed to the next shop on your list. The item there is definitely in the same league. Once it is under your control, it may open up other profitable areas of search."
"Got it. Later." Remo broke the connection and put the cell phone back in its cradle.
"And?" Chiun said, stretching like a cat.
"Our movie stars are not coming home anytime soon," Remo said. "The local police have them surrounded somewhere between here and Koch-Roche's office. It sounds like they must've killed again."
"The wild animal cannot change its spots."