Greg Grom closed the door, bolted it and moved the annoying little brass thingy into place for extra security. Then he raced to the other doors and windows of the suite, checking and double-checking the locks. All the while he was talking to himself about the possibility of a pair of nosy Feds.
What he actually said was, "Oh God oh God oh God..."
Chapter 13
At first Remo thought it was the snoring that woke him from an easy slumber, but he was accustomed to Chiun's honking and wheezing. His senses told him there's nothing out of place in his environment just the typical squeaks, groans, smells and grumbles of a hotel in the middle of the night.
So why was he not asleep?
Remo Williams, Reigning Master of Sinanju, was not the type to wake in the middle of the night with a niggling problem. But there was something. Wasn't there?
He rose silently from the floor mat that was his bed, strolling to the window and contemplating his view of the gravel parking lot.
"You dreamed it," Chiun squeaked.
"Dreamed what?" Remo asked.
"Whatever scary thing roused you."
"I didn't have a bad dream. I was thinking."
"Of course. And I suppose I was snoring."
"Matter of fact, you were snoring," Remo said.
"No, you were dreaming," Chiun said in kindly condescension. "Where else but dreams do you experience one highly improbable thing after another?"
"Like maybe a talking goat?"
Chiun sat up. "Remo, was there a talking goat?"
"Yes, there is."
Chiun's lips came together as tightly as Remo had ever seen them, his face going crimson. Chiun stood, the door slammed and Remo was alone in the hotel room.
Served the old biddy right. Taste of his own medicine. Slice of his own sour-grapes pie. Chiun had been a thorn in the keister for months. It seemed he had been getting increasingly grumpy and withdrawn ever since the Time of Succession, when Remo had finally donned the mantle of Reigning Master of Sinanju.
Remo hadn't really expected much change. He didn't believe that Chiun was going to start following Remo's lead or stop trying to drill his head full of five thousand years of Sinanju history, and in truth that hadn't happened.
But there had been changes. Chiun was less prone to being the harping teacher to Remo's inattentive student. Sometimes. Well, almost never. For a while the old Master had become extra-antisocial, spending hours watching TV or pretending to. Remo knew he was engrossed in deciphering whatever it was that had happened to him in Sinanju at the Time of Succession.
Remo didn't know what actually had happened to Chiun, and Chiun wasn't talking.
Chiun appeared in the gravel parking lot, slowly strolling away from the hotel in a sort of walking meditation.
Lately Chiun had become impatient with Remo's gaps in learning. The trouble was that Remo had learned the art of Sinanju years ago, and all that was left for Chiun to teach was the boring stuff-occasional bits of obscure philosophy that the old Korean always seemed to be making up as he went along. Legends of Sinanju Masters who were so unimportant or dull that they hadn't been mentioned in all these years. Then there was the stilted prose of the endless written histories.
Remo had experienced a new sense of pride and responsibility when he achieved the title Reigning Master. He had even agreed to undergo training in Chiun's archaic form of Korean calligraphy.
Oh. That was supposed to happen yesterday.
"Ah, crap," he announced to the empty room. "I forgot about the writing lesson."
Far across the parking lot the figure of the Master of Sinanju Emeritus turned and offered Remo a scowl that told him he had at least had the brains to figure out what he'd done wrong.
So that was what was bugging Chiun. But for some reason Remo thought it wasn't what was bugging him. So what was it?
He sensed the tiny surge of electricity inside the phone and snatched the receiver as it started to ring. "Yeah?"
"It's happening." It was Mark Howard. "Not far from you."
"Where's your dad, Doogie?"
"At home, getting some rest. Remo, listen-there's a disturbance going on at one of the bars in town. The police scanner feed says there's some bikers tearing up the place."
"Let me get this straight. You think a brawl in a biker bar is out of the ordinary?"
"Of course not," Howard said. "It's the Nashville Rock Hard Cafe. It's strictly an upscale place-you know, all kinds of expensive rock-star memorabilia and stuff. Caters mostly to tourists. The bikers are outsiders. I don't know what they're up to, but it sounds like they're laying siege to the place."
REMO DROVE across the lot and pulled to a stop behind Chiun, who was facing resolutely in the other direction, his scarlet kimono shimmering in the distant lights.
"The Fresh Prince of Folcroft says it's time for work," Remo called.
For a moment the old Master was motionless, then he turned, the picture of dignity, and entered the car. They drove into the heart of Nashville.
After some silence, Remo spoke. "Little Father, I am sorry I blew off the writing lesson."
"You deliberately avoided it," Chiun said evenly.
"Hey, no, it wasn't like that. Smitty needed me here to look into all the crazy types."
"You could have delayed the trip."
"Aw, come on! What good would that have done?"
"What good have you done since you arrived?" Chiun asked innocently.
"All right, so I'm batting zero. I told Smitty to get his investigators on this instead of me."
"But you did not insist. All this is a sham. Do you even wish to learn the most basic of skills necessary for a true Master of Sinanju?"
Remo was getting ticked. "What the hell have I been wasting my time on for all these years?"
Chiun stared at him coldly. Then he faced forward again. "You have learned just enough to make you the most uncouth and unmannered Master in five thousand years. You're a Mongol. A barbarian."
"Remo the Barbarian?" Remo asked.