The boxcar side shivered under the drumming storm of rounds. Paint peeled. Indentations like silver washers cratered the peeling boxcar paint.
When they had expended their clips, Major Grimm ordered the firing squad at case.
Remo walked up to the boxcar. He put his ear to it. "I don't hear anything."
"He is dead," intoned Chiun.
"I thought he was dead to start with," muttered Remo.
"Now he is doubly dead, if not triply dead."
"What say we crack her open, then?" Melvis suggested.
Remo started for the door. "I got it."
That was as far as he got.
The samurai jumped from the boxcar. He came out through the closed door without bothering to open it.
Everyone was caught off guard. Including Remo.
Remo's entire body was one gigantic sensing organ. That was why he usually left his arms bare. So his sensitive body hairs and skin were receptive to shifts in air currents and other atmospheric vibrations.
Remo hadn't been aware the samurai was coming at him until he emerged from the door.
He popped from the blank door like a black soap bubble, landed in a crouch and came clumsily to his feet.
His katana was sheathed. Over his shoulder was slung a black leather bag, which hung heavy under the weight of its contents.
It was broad daylight, so everyone got a good look. The sun gleamed on his black plates, made the ornate helmet smoulder and most unnervingly of all, showed very clearly that the samurai had no face.
"Mercy!" said K.C., who started backing away. A dozen steps later, she turned and ran.
Remo moved in on the samurai. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Chiun flitting in from another angle.
They intercepted the apparition at the same time.
The ronin had no chance to draw his blade. Remo and Chiun were on him.
They each threw a blow, Remo directing the heel of his hand at the flat, blank face, intending to turn it to jelly. The Master of Sinanju came around spinning, one sandaled toe seeking a fragile kneecap.
Both connected. Remo struck the featureless face dead center. Chiun's foot bisected the knee joints. And passed through.
Encountering no resistance, Remo found himself plunging through the black, solid-looking form.
The Master of Sinanju spun past him, his flashing toe nearly catching Remo on the fly.
Recovering, Remo reversed. He brought an elbow back. It sank into the back of the samurai's flanged helmet.
The ronin strode on unconcerned.
Hissing like an angry cat, the Master of Sinanju recovered from his wild spin and stamped his feet hard. "Ronin! Hear me!"
The ronin may have heard, but he walked on, arrogant, purposeful, sword flashing from its sheath. He waved it from side to side to warn any other challenger he meant business. He looked like a batter warming up.
Major Grimm thought he was seeing things. But it had happened so fast he couldn't be sure. Appropriating an M-16 from a stupefied airman, he lined up the muzzle on the samurai's advancing chest. "Halt or I will shoot."
The samurai declined to halt. Or so his body language indicated.
So Major Grimm opened up.
The bullet track was noisy but abbreviated. There was no way he could have missed.
In fact, the boxcar directly behind the menacing figure began collecting more bullet indentations.
The samurai kept coming, unfazed by the noise and the hammering lead.
"Hand me another," Grimm called.
Another rifle was clapped into his hands. He raised the weapon, planted his feet wide apart and laid the sight on the precise center of the shielded face.
Grimm waited until they stood nearly toe-to-toe, then opened fire. The clip was only half-full. Still, sufficient rounds snarled out to obliterate the head, helmet and all.
The samurai walked into the still-chattering muzzle. Major Claiborne Grimm saw the last muzzleflashes disappear into the black face. The muzzle sank all the way in as the samurai came on. It looked as if he was deliberately and contemptuously swallowing the weapon.
Major Grimm was brave. Not to mention stubborn. He held his ground. Right to the point when the samurai walked into his body.
Then he fainted on the spot.
Grimm missed the rest of it.
Remo and Chiun got in front of the ronin, once more blocking its way.
They rained blows, punches, snap-kicks and, in the case of the Master of Sinanju, assorted invective on his unperturbable head.
The ronin didn't so much as flinch from any of it. He just walked on, swinging his blade with slow menace.
Chiun followed him, kicking at the back of his knees with strenuous fierceness, while Remo settled for taking the occasional swipe.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Remo complained.
"I do not care," said Chiun, kicking out again and again.
"Wonder what's in that sack?" said Remo.
"It is a kubi-bukuro. It is for carrying captured heads."