"It's Amelia, Mr. President," said his secretary. "I did what you said."
"You gave them the beer?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"And the money and the tape player?"
"Yes, sir, but I don't know if I feel good about this. They seemed like an unsavory bunch of characters."
"Never mind, Arnelia. I'll call you soon."
Grom made his way to the front of the bus and stood at the driver's shoulder, nervously scanning the hideous extravagance that was Pigeon Fudge, Tennessee. After dropping Amelia at the car-rental agency, he had kept the bus circling for a half hour without a complaint.
"Horrible-lookin' place, ain't it?" the driver said conversationally. "You know why they call it Pigeon Fudge, don't ya?"
"Not really," Grom answered, not really listening. "It ain't from all the fudge shops."
"You don't say."
"Used to be a certain kind of pigeon that stopped by here from Canada in the summertime. But the original settlers came in the fall and set up their village and didn't suspect a thing. Then come summertime, and they had near to six hundred thousand pigeons congregating in the trees overhead. Made a terrible mess of the place."
"I can imagine."
"Word spread that the entire village was covered in pigeon shit, but for purposes of politeness the euphemism started getting used more frequently. And that's a story you won't find in the brochures." The driver chuckled. "In the brochures they say the name comes from all the fudge shops."
Grom pointed. "See that entrance?"
"Uh, yes, sir."
"We're going to pull in there."
The bus driver started to protest, but Grom was already making his announcement to the entourage. "Listen up, people! This is a security alert! Everybody take cover!"
Mayhem followed as men and women pushed and shoved to get under bunks and tables.
"What's going on, Mr. President?" one of the security agents demanded.
"We've got hijackers on board the bus," Grom said acidly. "If you people had provided me with adequate protection, you would know this by now."
The agents were flabbergasted. "Where are the hijackers?"
"On the roof."
"What?" the lead agent almost squealed.
"Prepare to apprehend," he commanded his partner.
"Too little and too late," Grom declared. "I've got my own enforcement team ready to handle the situation."
"That's unacceptable! We will handle this."
Grom snorted in the agent's face. "Listen, dim bulb, you leave this bus and you'll be a target. The people I've hired won't care who you are or what branch of the federal bureaucracy you crawled out of."
The former Secret Service agent gave Greg Grom a haughty twitch of the lip. "We'll see about that."
Chapter 26
"Olly Outlander's Old Tyme Opry," Remo Williams read. "Temporarily Closed for Remodeling-Open Again Soon Folks. What are we doing here?"
"I believe the signage is misleading," Chiun observed.
"Yeah, this place looks like it's been locked up since Dubya's daddy was running things," Remo said. The bus nevertheless rolled across the weed-grown parking lot and headed around the dilapidated lobby entrance. "You know, I have a feeling they're not really remodeling this place, either."
"There you are mistaken, my son. Here are the carpenters now."
The bus came to a halt in the middle of the empty lot. The brakes squeaked and the engine idled.
"You know, Little Father, I don't see any trucks. Just motorcycles. I don't think a real carpenter could carry all his tools on a motorcycle."
Chiun stroked his wisp of a beard thoughtfully. "You have a point, my son."
Remo shrugged. "Let's ask 'em. I think they're coming over for a chat."
Chiun nodded. "We will put on our friendliest faces." The Masters of Sinanju stepped from the bus and plummeted fourteen feet, but their feet touched down almost without a sound and neither of them stumbled. The bikers didn't seem impressed.
"How y'all doin'?" the Reigning Master said with a friendly wave.
"Wipe them out. Wipe them out," came the menacing chant.
"Wipe who out?" Remo asked.
"You're to blame," accused the barrel-chested giant at the head of the pack. "It's your fault!"
"What's my fault?" Remo asked.
"Everything!" The man had a heavy length of chain, which he whirled faster.
"You've been listening to the old Korean fart."
"We'll wipe you out!"
The bikers formed a half circle. Remo and Chiun were in the middle, backs to the bus.
"You are trapped," the leader growled. "Now you die."
"Maybe it's the leather jackets," Remo observed. "Nice warm day like this, they must be making you all hot and cranky."