"I'm not hiding from any ghost ronin. Besides, we're under contract to America."
"A Master buries the sword of his emperor. Do you remember that lesson, Remo?"
"Yeah. The emperor dies, the contract's void. Unless other arrangements are made. We're on the way to Washington to do just that, last I heard."
Chiun shook his head somberly. "No longer. We are on the way to Sinanju." Chiun stood up. "Come. We will return to Castle Sinanju, there to pack and prepare for your journey home."
Remo climbed to his feet. He towered over the Master of Sinanju. They stood regarding one another in the moonlight, Chiun gazing up, Remo looking down.
Remo spoke first. "As future Reigning Master, I have some say in this."
Chiun inclined his head politely. "You do."
Remo folded his lean, hairless arms across his chest. "Good."
"When you are Reigning Master and I am retired or dwelling in the Void. On this night you will obey Chiun your teacher so that the House continues."
"One step at a time is all I'm promising."
At that, Chiun flung himself out of the woods like a silken wraith, Remo padding after him, thinking, Won't my life ever settle down?
Chapter 9
Connecticut State Trooper Francis X. Slattery had pulled over all kinds.
His stretch of Interstate 95 got them all. It was close enough to New York City to suck up all the crazies coming north, and since as many crazies were hot to visit the Big Apple as escape from it, he got them coming in both directions.
It was worse in the summer. In winter, snow kept the chronic speeders within reasonable excess. Sometimes the snow kept them off the roads entirely. Even crazies had flashes of common sense.
But in midsummer everyone was on the road, sane or otherwise.
Yes, Slattery had pulled over all kinds. Topless blondes at the wheels of cherry-red convertibles. People humping in the back seat while doing ninety. Once, he pulled over a lime green Volkswagen Jetta to find an Irish setter at the wheel and the other occupants swearing up and down the dog had been exceeding the speed limit, stone deaf to their protestations.
But this was something new.
It wasn't that he'd never seen an armored personnel carrier barrel by. A lot of military traffic convoyed up and down 95. Usually they were spattered green and brown. Sandy colored during the Gulf War.
This particular APC was a smoldering red in the predawn light. And it was going like a bat out of Hades down the highspeed-breakdown lane.
Slattery pulled out from behind the Burger Triumph billboard and fell in behind it.
The license plate reflected his headlight glow. Not a military plate. Massachusetts. That was interesting. Some of the most certifiable drivers ever to blow through Slattery's life were from the Bay State. It was said there was a lot of inbreeding up there.
Punching up his on-board LEAPS computer, Slattery ran wants and warrants. The plate came back redhot. Seemed the very same vehicle had rolled over a Rhode Island State cruiser earlier in the evening. Literally rolled over, mashing it as flat as Ohio.
Slattery called it in. "Dispatch. Fifty-five pursuing fire-engine red armored personnel carrier south on 95. Mass plate 334-E. Vehicle conies back wanted in Rhode Island."
"Proceed with caution, fifty-five."
"You bet your sweet life," Slattery muttered, replacing the dash mike. He lit up his light bar and made the siren keen.
The APC probably would have accelerated, but it appeared to be pushing the envelope. It was too heavy to have much pickup, Slattery figured. And it was already doing seventy-five.
Hanging on its tail, Slattery let the strobing light bar and wailing sirens work on the suspect's nerves.
Trouble was the suspect appeared not to have any. He held the road at a rock-steady rate of speed.
Tiring of this, Slattery roared into the opposite lane and began pacing the other machine.
He got his second big shock of the night.
The driver of the fire-engine red APC was tricked out like a full-dress samurai.
Now, Slattery had seen a lot of weird stuff on I-95. Not once, not twice but on three distinct occasions, he arrested Batman in full leather flying down the road. Each time he arrested him, there was a different guy under the cowl.
None of this was on Halloween, mind you.
But this guy looked serious. His black armor looked serious. In fact, it looked like real armor. And with the light bar slashing crazy shards of multicolored illumination into the APC interior, the samurai glanced over briefly like a bored robot, then turned his attention back to the road as if a pacing state cruiser were no more of concern than a buzzing yellow jacket.
"Have it your way," Slattery muttered. Flooring it, he roared ahead of the APC and cut in front. He wasn't fool enough to stop dead. Visions of being the meat in a crushed-car sandwich came vividly to mind.
Instead, he eased up on the gas just enough to make the APC slow. It tried to scoot into the next lane. But the big red machine wasn't built for scooting. Slattery stayed ahead of him every mile of the way.
"Gotcha," he muttered.
After a while the APC engine began to sputter and miss. Slattery began thinking it was his lucky day.
The APC rolled to a gradual stop, engine sputtering.
When it was hung up on the soft shoulder on the road, Slattery brought the cruiser circling back. He parked it nose to nose with the APC, his high beams blazing into the APC interior.
The samurai sat rigidly behind the wheel, as if he had no eyes to be blinded with.
In the brief seconds as he apprised dispatch of the situation, Slattery got a good look at the samurai's face.
He hadn't any.
A flat black shield reflected his beams. That was all. It was creepy. But Francis X. Slattery had a job to do.
"Assistance en route," dispatch advised.
"Affirm," he said, hanging up the dash mike. Unholstering his SIG-Sauer, Slattery stepped out of his vehicle. He was on the wrong side of the road, but when dealing with samurai, it might pay to resort to the unexpected.
Slowly, to show he wasn't afraid, Slattery walked up to the passenger side of the APC. He saw that that side was marred by meaningless graffiti. Unless it was Japanese graffiti. Who could tell?
With one big hand, he rapped on the passenger-side window. "Roll it down, sir," he said with just the right amount of steel in his voice.