"Go to it."
The Master of Sinanju brought one fist to the hard steel inner wall. He began pounding. The wall acquired a deep dent. Then a deeper one. The entire building rang with each blow like a great blue bell.
Remo slithered around to join the Master of Sinanju at the hole in the facade.
"Let me take a whack at it."
They held their fists over the great dent and struck in unison.
The wall shuddered and dropped inward like a plate.
The hole in the window was large enough for Chiun to slither in like a black rag. Remo followed.
Once inside, they took stock.
The inner walls were stark white. They were standing on the fallen armored panel.
Remo said, "This place is like a fortress. How could anybody work here without windows?"
They started for the only door. It opened before they reached it.
Six hulking men in white T-shirts whose fronts were stamped with giant bar codes stepped through and started emptying riot guns and street sweepers at them.
The room filled with the ugly noise of weapons going off, multiple ricochets and lead punching through partitions.
Remo broke left and Chiun right, causing the killers to lose valuable time picking their targets.
But they moved with a sure speed that took Remo and Chiun by surprise. There was no hesitation. Three locked in on Remo and three on Chiun.
Not that that helped them. Remo cut in to decapitate the nearest target with a sideways chopping blow of his hand. The man ducked back, evading the blow. Caught off guard, Remo went into the wall, bouncing off.
Recovering, he tried again, while the other two were regrouping, their smoking muzzles coming around toward him with an icy certainty that reminded Remo of the tracking microwave dish.
Their guns blazed. The street sweepers coughed out shell after shell.
Remo evaded each one easily. But there was something wrong. Something that didn't add up.
While he maneuvered to land killing strikes, the Master of Sinanju gave out a shriek.
Remo allowed himself the luxury of a quick glance in Chiun's direction.
The Master of Sinanju was surrounded by three gunmen. They had him in a box. Their weapons boomed and crackled.
The Master of Sinanju swept out a flying kick, and his target twisted out of the way with a speed that defied the eye. Landing on his feet, Chiun swept back in a furious reverse, and his flashing fingernails missed his foe by scant microinches.
"Remo! They are as fast as I. How is this possible?"
"It's not," Remo growled, and used a toe to explode the kneecaps of the nearest man.
With no result whatsoever.
Remo thought he scored, but the man seemed to melt back before his strike. And he couldn't pause for a jab at his floating rib and stay out of the line of converging fire, too.
The rest was a maddening ballet of violence and death in which no one died and only the surrounding walls showed bullet damage.
"This is ridiculous," Remo growled, dipping under a smoky tracer stream.
Then he got it.
Bullets snapped past him. He heard the noise in his ears. But there was no accompanying shock wave.
In fact, the sound of gunfire wasn't coming from the guns. It was all around him, but the guns weren't making those sounds. Remo selected out the sounds and zeroed in on the gunmen. No heart rates. No heavy, quick breathing. No smell of sweat or pulsing body-heat radiation.
In the middle of ducking a shotgun blast, Remo closed his eyes.
His surroundings were completely calm. There was only Chiun whirling through the air like an enraged dervish, kicking at the air—kicking at nothing.
Remo .opened his eyes.
The three gunmen who had chosen him leveled then- weapons anew and opened fire.
Calmly Remo folded his arms.
The Master of Sinanju, seeing this, let out a shriek. "Remo, are you mad? You will die!"
The guns began blasting.
Harold Smith was oblivious to. everything that was taking place outside of the FEMA communications van. His eyes were on the computer screen. The open line to Con Ed was in his lap. His coat was draped over the chair back, and his tie lay undone about his throat. It was too humid for formalities.
He didn't notice the guy climbing into the front seat until he demanded the ignition key.
Smith started. There was a black guy in the driver's seat. He looked all of nineteen. His gray plastic baseball cap was scrunched down on his head, bill backward.
"Gimme the keys," he said.
"This van is property of the federal government."
"That's cool. I paid taxes one time. Now I'm collecting back."
"I cannot let you steal it."
"Tell you what, you get out now and I don't have to kill you."
"You have a gun?"
"No. You?"