Remo slowed down. He was not surprised to see the predatory black limousine parked in front of his house. He couldn't explain it, but it didn't surprise him.
He braked and popped out from behind the wheel grinning with fierce anticipation.
"Rematch time!" he sang. He strode up to the limo. Unhappily, the driver's seat was vacant.
Remo shifted direction without even pausing and bounded to his front door. He noted two pairs of footprints. One entering the house and the other coming away. The Asian chauffeur had gone in. The other prints matched the inexplicable tracks back at the safe house.
"Good," Remo muttered. "It'll be just him and me."
Grinning, Remo rang the front doorbell so the chauffeur wouldn't know it was him. He could hardly wait to take another crack at that arrogant little guy.
There was no answer after the first ring, so Remo leaned into the buzzer, holding it down.
A voice called through the door.
"Who is there?"
"Avon lady," Remo called back, smiling in recognition of the chauffeur's distinctive clipped accent.
"You lie!"
"Try saying that to my face," Remo called.
The door flew open. The black-masked chauffeur stood there. He looked exactly the same as he had the previous day, down to the red button over his heart. Remo saw it clearly this time.
In black pseudo-Oriental slash letters it said: BRUCE LEE LIVES.
Remo's grin almost burst into laughter.
A fist started for his face. But Remo was ready for it. He ducked to one side and let the force of the blow carry the chauffeur past him.
Just to be sure, Remo kicked at one of the man's moving ankles.
The chauffeur couldn't stop himself. He went right into the mushy snow.
Remo slammed the door after him, locking it. He caught a flash of purple silk from the half-open spare-room door.
"Okay, Chiun," he called, "what the hell is going on here?"
The figure in purple was bent over an open lacquered trunk, ignoring Remo's challenge. Remo had no time to think about what that meant because an unfamiliar voice hissed, "Sagwa! Au ming!"
Remo started to whirl, his surprise on his face. He hadn't detected another person in the house-no heartbeat, no respiration.
Before he could complete his turn, the locked front door exploded off its hinges and came toward him like a flying wall.
Remo stopped it with a hand, braced by a stiff arm. The impact forced him back a half-step, and while the energy was pushing at his stiffened arm bones, he redirected it back toward its source.
To an observer, it looked as if the door had attached itself to Remo's palm as if by static electricity: It hung on his hand for measurable seconds, then rebounded with no apparent force applied. In fact, Remo's hand had suddenly pushed it back.
The door flew back the way it had come. It met the stiff fingers of the black-masked chauffeur's right hand.
The door split as if precut and the halves slammed away. One struck on a corner and bounced like an eccentric wagon wheel.
Remo was already in the air. One foot snapped out in a flying kick.
His opponent copied the action.
The heels of their shoes collided like irresistible force meeting immovable object. They bounced off one another, neither man having gained an inch.
Remo hit the floor, recovering. His eyes sought the third man in the room. He caught a momentary glimpse of a tall figure in a long purple gown in the spare room. He wore a Russian-style fur cap. It wasn't Chiun after all!
There was no time to see more. The chauffeur was circling toward him, body crouched, gloved hands weaving cryptic designs in the air.
"Chiun!" Remo called. "Where are you?"
Remo's voice bounced off the walls. There was no answer.
And then the domino-masked chauffeur made his move.
It was a high leap, executed with a blood-chilling scream.
Remo knew the scream was a device to paralyze him. He laughed. In Sinanju, one attacked in professional silence, not like a banshee.
Remo aimed a fist at the descending crotch. Let the little guy do all the work, he thought.
But the wiry chauffeur reacted to the sudden fist. His gloved hands grabbed a dangling ceiling light, arresting his plunge.
One foot slashed out at Remo's head. He parried it with his waiting fist and danced out of the way of a follow-up kick. The guy had incredible kicking skill. Not Sinanju, but powerful. It was as if his legs were driven by automatic pistons.
Remo looked for an opening. He got one ankle and simply yanked. The ceiling cracked. The light tore free like a molar coming out of a petrified gum.
Remo stepped back and let the man fall with the plaster debris. He taunted him with a laugh, which was a thousand times more unnerving than any high-pitched battle cry.
Off in one corner, the hissing voice said, "He is good."
Remo heard this in the moment the chauffeur took to untangle himself from the ceiling light. It made him pause. He should have taken the chauffeur out then and there, but he wanted to see who was at Chiun's trunks.
Remo turned to the sound of the voice, and in that half-turn, the black-masked chauffeur came at him, low and fast.
Remo backpedaled three steps to give himself kicking room. He miscalculated by a single step. He hit the wall with his back. He cursed.
A foot slashed up for his solar plexus. Remo braced for the impact by stiffening his abdominal muscles, simultaneously bringing his arms down protectively.
The foot never made contact. In midair, the chauffeur had turned like a spring-wound dervish and launched a piledriver punch at Remo.
He brought his hands up and out, fending off the hammering fist. The chauffeur landed and sent an open-hand blow suddenly knifing for Remo's temple.