Remo pushed the elevator button. The stainless steel doors silently parted. Three men were waiting inside. Each was holding a baseball bat.
"Surprise," one of them said, stepping out. He was so big that he had to stoop to clear the top. Remo slowly took in the bull neck and muscle-corded arms. The man was wearing a garish flowered shirt and lime-green slacks. His bullet-shaped head was bald and shining. His thick, meaty hands were wrapped around a bat. The top hand sported a red ruby ring that winked like a flashing roadmarker.
"Out for a little batting practice, boys?" Remo said in greeting.
"Yeah," the big man answered. "You can be the ball." He whacked the Louisville slugger against his open palm.
The two other men stepped out from the elevator, taking up positions on either side of the bald man. One was black, the other Hispanic.
"What do you guys call yourselves?" Remo asked. "The Bad Breath Bears?"
"Very funny," Flowered Shirt said. "Watch me laugh." He took a mighty swing at Remo's head. The only problem was that by the time the bat reached the place where Remo had been standing, Remo was gone. The bat hit the marble wall with a thunderous crash and splintered into shards.
"How the hell did you do that?" the black man asked.
"Like this." Remo moved one wrist. The next moment, the black man was flying through the air. He screamed as his massive body smashed against the unyielding bronze-and-steel sculpture in the middle of the lobby. His baseball bat went flying.
"Strike one," Remo said.
The Hispanic member of the team took a pace forward. "Willy musta slipped," he said. He raised his bat. "You're gonna pay for that, shithead." The hickory slugger in his hand cut through the air with a sharp, swooshing sound. This time Remo didn't move. A moment before the bat made contact with Remo's neck, he reached out and grabbed its end with two fingers. He pushed, and the bat slid through the Hispanic man's hands like a greased knife, lodging deep in his chest.
"Strike two," Remo said.
The bald, bullet-head man, alone now, blinked a few times in rapid succession. His forehead creased into a puzzled frown, as he picked up the black man's bat.
"Look out for strike three," Remo said, tapping him on the shoulder. The big man whirled around to find Remo leaning against the elevator doors.
Baldy lunged at him, both hands spread wide on the bat. He slammed it against Remo's throat with all the force in his powerful arms.
Remo exhaled and the bat snapped in two like a discarded toothpick.
The broken bat clattered to the floor as the bald man locked his arms around Remo's neck. "You bastard," he whispered. At close range, the man's breath smelled of meat arid cheap wine. His thick fingers edged toward Remo's windpipe. His hooded eyes gleamed as his hands closed on Remo's throat.
"It's language like that that gives the game a bad name," Remo said. He took a half-step, turned his wrist, and the bald man disappeared through the floor of the elevator. Remo heard a high-pitched echoing scream and then a muffled thud from below.
"You're out," Remo called after him.
They walked to the penthouse floor. The foyer was decorated with life-size photos of couples holding hands, skipping along the beach, or staring longingly into one another's eyes. None of the people in the pictures looked as if they would have any trouble finding dates on their own. There was a big teak desk in the unoccupied reception area, and beyond it twin glass doors embellished with Dream Date's swirling gold logo. Remo padded across the thick cream-colored carpet and tried the doors. Like the ones downstairs, they, too, were unlocked.
"I really don't understand this," Remo said.
"What is so difficult to understand? My reputation has obviously preceded me. The two men you seek, knowing they had an appointment with death, have fled the scene."
Remo shook his head. "I don't know. If there isn't anyone up here, then why did they go to all the bother of providing the welcome wagon in the lobby? Those three clowns weren't just hanging around the elevator for exercise."
Remo was still pondering the situation as he followed Chiun through another pair of double glass doors. They passed under an archway and into a big room lined with desks. On each desk was a small computer terminal and some software. There were some open doors off to the right. Remo poked his head into one of them. There was a video unit, another small computer, a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, and a low table piled with brightly colored brochures.
"This is probably where they bring the clients," Remo said.
Chiun pounded on one of the video units until it shattered to dust. "The man must die," he said.
"Huh? Hey, what are you doing? We're not supposed to wreck the place."
"The person you seek is a sadist. He has filled an entire room with television sets, and none of them has so much as a channel changer."
"There are more doors over there," Remo said, walking past the old man toward yet another area. Through the new set of doors, the atmosphere was radically changed. The sterile, modern furnishings were replaced with high-backed leather chairs, antique tables, and paintings in ornate frames. "I think we're getting close to the boss's office."
They pushed open a door marked "Private." "I'll lay odds this is it," Remo said, surveying the elegant room. Even though there was only a single glass-and-chrome desk inside, the room was bigger than any of the ones they'd been in before. Remo rummaged through the few neatly stacked letters on the desk.
"Nothing," he said. He looked at the shelves of leather-bound books, the wall-sized computer unit, and the giant picture window with its panoramic view of the city.
Remo shrugged. "I don't understand any of this. Not a file, not a phone book. It just doesn't make sense."
Suddenly the computer hummed to life, tiny lights flashing all over the console. Steel panels slid into place, covering the doors, the windows, all possible means of exit from the room. At the same time the carpet began to smolder. Spirals of dancing flame sprang to life in a dozen different locations.
"Now it makes sense," Remo said.
?CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A sheet of flame enveloped the carpet with the suddenness of a windswept prairie fire. Noxious blue smoke filled the room, closing around them in swirling clouds.
"Chiun?" Remo called.
"Save the air in your lungs. You will need it."
Remo slowed his breathing. But the smoke still burned and blinded his eyes. He turned around futilely, hoping to spot the steel doors leading to the foyer and the stairs. But the smoke was so thick that he only managed to disorient himself.
"Wait to hear my voice, Little Father. I'm going to break through one of the steel plates into the next room. I think the fire's contained here."
Before Chiun could object, Remo hurled himself feet first toward what he hoped were the doors. He knew as soon as his feet touched a slick surface that shattered under him that he had found the huge picture window instead.
The glass exploded outward with a whoosh of flame. For a moment, Remo was suspended in midair, like all objects before a fall. Through the billowing smoke he caught a glimpse of the street sixty stories below.
Quickly he contracted himself into a tight ball and moved his left shoulder slightly toward the building. The movement gave him just enough impetus to thrust out an arm and catch hold of one of the comers of the blown-out window. The broken glass in the corner cut deep into his hand, but he forced himself to hang on until he could swing his legs back into the room.
It was less smoky now, but the flames were blazing higher. Waves of heat distorted his vision. It was so hot that he could feel his hair singe. A small bony hand touched his and deposited a ball of silk cloth into it to stem the bleeding.
"We go up," Chiun said. Raising his arm, the old man crouched and turned slightly. There was almost no breath coming from him, so complete was his concentration. Then he spiraled upward, crashing through the ceiling in a burst of pure power. After the rain of debris from his exit settled, Remo spun on his right foot and glided up to follow Chiun through the narrow opening.
The two men stood on a gravel rooftop. It felt good to breathe again. Above them was the night sky, silent and dotted with stars. Too silent.
"Do you know what's funny?" Remo asked.
"This is not an appropriate time for humor."
"What's funny is that no fire alarm went off. Quantril must want to burn his own building down."