Remo had no intention of escaping. The Ramada Inn would do just fine. He waited.
"Why'd you go and do that, Remo?" Bruno asked mournfully.
"Do what?" Remo asked, his face innocent.
The door opened and one of the trio waved for them to come in.
"Guess my room's ready," Remo said, sliding out of the car.
The man who had waved fell in behind Remo as he approached the partly ajar door.
Remo whistled amiably. This was ridiculously obvious. The only question in his mind was whether they were going to shoot, stab, or bludgeon him to death.
They did none of those.
The moment Remo stepped across the threshold, the third man wrapped his thick arms around Remo's torso, pinioning his arms.
That told Remo that they were going to use the infamous Italian rope trick on him.
Confidently Remo walked in.
The rope was held loose in the hands of the man standing off to the left of the open door. He looped the heavy coil around Remo's exposed neck. It felt like a scratchy python.
The other end was caught by the man standing behind the door. He kicked the door closed with his foot as he hauled back on his end of the rope like a sailor securing a docked boat.
The other man did the same.
As the loose loop of heavy hemp tightened around Remo's throat, he tensed his throat muscles. He didn't bother fighting back. He just held his breath.
"Arggh!" Remo said in a choking rush of air.
"Tighter," a voice hissed. "Don't let him get a peep out."
The hemp constricted like a noose around Remo's throat muscles. It was strong, but his training was stronger.
"Arrghh!" Remo repeated, forcing blood up his carotid artery so his face turned an appropriate shade of red.
"Tighter," the voice repeated. "This ain't no fuckin' taffy pull.'
Remo said "Urggg" this time, for variety.
"Jeez, this guy's stubborn," the third man said at Remo 's ear, digging his chin into Remo's shoulder. The smell of garlic was enough to make a man pass out-even one who was not allowing air to enter his nostrils.
The man on the left started to pant. His face was going purple, making Remo wonder who was strangling whom.
The opposite man, straining on his end of the rope, kept losing his grip.
"I'm gettin' friggin' rope burns," he said through clenched teeth.
"How're we doin', Frank?"
The man called Frank lifted his chin and said, "His face is turning red. I think he's almost done."
At that moment the room phone rang.
"I'll get it," Remo said in a crystal clear voice. He strode toward the nightstand, dragging the three men with him. One man lost his grip on the rope and snarled a curse as his palms were singed by the sudden friction.
When Remo casually reached out for the receiver, the one called Frank was forced to relinquish his bear hug.
"Hello?" Remo said into the phone. "Yes, everything's just dandy. Thank you." He hung up.
"The guy in the next room complained about the noise," Remo told the one thug still holding on to his end of the rope and what was left of his composure. "Said it sounded like someone was being strangled. Imagine that."
That brought out the guns. The rope dropped to the floor. Frank gathered Remo up into another bear hug.
Remo swept one foot up and around. Corkscrewing, he left the floor, taking Frank with him. The man was stubborn. He held on.
It happened so fast it didn't seem to happen at all. One second Remo was in the cross hairs of two revolvers, and the next, the revolvers were embedded in the cracked plaster of the ceiling like misplaced doorknobs.
The two thugs stared at their stung hands, blinking the way people blink when something is not quite right.
Frank landed on the bed and went "Whoof!" gustily. He didn't get up immediately. His head had somehow gotten jammed in a pillowcase with a pillow.
Remo let him be. His perpendicular toe returned to the rug, braking his spin. His kicking foot joined it smartly.
Then he had both thugs by the throat and his fingers dug in like blunt drill bits.
"Let's see if you can do red," Remo said airily.
He squeezed.
The faces above Remo's hands became like thermometers in August. The red color just suffused upward like mercury.
"Nice healthy shades," Remo said, changing his grip. "How's your purple?"
The man in Remo's right hand could manage only a pale smoky lavender. But the one on his left achieved true purple.
"Fair enough," said Remo. He made his voice sound like Mr. Rogers. "Now, can we say 'Argghh'?"
Neither man could, it seemed. One did leak a little drool out of his mouth in trying, which Remo thought unacceptable.
He broke the man's neck with a sharp leftward twist. It was easier than it looked. Remo could feel the flexing of his neck vertebrae, felt the pulsing of his carotid, and sensed the cartilage of his larynx as it struggled to make sounds. He knew exactly where to apply the pressure that would turn the two adjacent vertebrae into exploding bone fragments.
Remo let go when he sensed the lack of electrical current running down the man's severed spinal cord.
"Now you," Remo said, turning to the other man. "Who do you work for?" He let the man get a tiny sip of air.