In that moment, the other hand struck his abdomen once-hard and deep, fingers stiff. Remo felt the thrust clear back to his spinal column. The air blew out of his lungs and Remo doubled over, clutching himself, his face naked and defenseless.
In the split second before the grinning face of the masked chauffeur floated before Remo's going-gray vision and a black fist started to travel in his direction, Remo searched the room with his eyes. He caught an imperfect glimpse of a tall purple-silk-clad figure moving closer. For a moment, Remo thought it was the Master of Sinanju.
But he stood watching the tableau with absolutely no emotion on his sere-parchment countenance.
The blow knocked Remo's head back into the plaster wall. The top of his skull went in clear to his nose, and his body went lax, as if all the strength had gone from it.
Then slowly his head began to pull free of the hole, carried by the deadweight of his limp muscles, until he came loose. Remo made a clumsy pile of arms and legs on the bare floor.
The worst of it was that Remo was not unconscious. His eyes were closed, but he heard every sound in the room.
Most of all, he heard the arid voice of the purple figure as he left through the front door.
He was saying, "To think, Sagwa, all that training squandered on a barbarian lofan."
The chauffeur laughed grimly. The door shut after them.
Remo felt himself starting to lose consciousness. He fought it. Waves of darkness seemed to wash over his brain, but he reached into his inmost essence to hold on to consciousness.
It was a struggle. He wanted to surrender to the sweet peace that tried to claim him.
Remo refused. Deep within him, a fire began to burn and a voice from some inner reservoir intoned, "I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds."
For a moment Remo wavered between surrender and consciousness. His eyes burned with a smoldering light. The fire flickered. It was brief. His face warped into a mask of hellish agony.
Then he gathered himself together. He climbed to his feet. Every joint ached.
But when he stood erect, the burning-ember gleam in his eyes subsided, and he was Remo again.
He stumbled to the spare room. Shock was like a kick to his stomach when he saw that Chiun's steamer trunks were gone-all except an empty spare in need of repair. Remo plunged for the door, one arm across his bruised stomach.
Outside, he saw the limousine leave the curb like a silent black shark fleeing a coral reef.
Remo pelted for his Buick. He squeezed in behind the wheel, inserted the ignition key, and got the car started.
He roared after the limousine. It screeched around a corner. Remo slid into the turn right behind it. His maneuvering was ragged. He almost sideswiped a fireplug.
Coming out of the turn, he found himself on a long narrow street.
"You're good, pal," he said, gritty-voiced, "but not that good."
He floored the Buick, gaining on the limo's rear deck. On its jet-black bumper was a sticker: BRUCE LEE LIVES.
"You're dreaming, pal. When I get through with you, you're going to join him."
As Remo closed in, a silvery nozzle extruded from the limo trunk. Remo prepared himself for the expected jet of vapor. It squirted something dark and viscous instead.
Remo saw the spreading patch of oil splatter on the snow, and with a wrench of the wheel he sent the Buick up on the sidewalk.
His right-rear tire hit a patch of the gunk and he had to wrestle to keep the car straight. Every exertion made his stomach muscles cramp. He grimaced and fought to stay behind the wheel. His head began to pound.
The limo took a side street and then a street off that.
Remo did his best to keep up. The snow made it tough. Whereas before, he could use it to his advantage, literally skiing the car, now he was too badly injured to be the absolute master of every turn.
He slipped around corners, once swapping ends and finding his car suddenly pointing the opposite way in a drift.
Remo wrestled the wheel around and resumed the chase. This time he took it more slowly. The rattlesnake tracks were going to lead him, and he began to get a sense of where they were going.
They took a ramp onto Route 95, and Remo followed suit.
On the highway, he began to catch up. Remo stayed in the left lane to avoid any more oil slicks. Whoever had designed the car had built it to thwart pursuit.
The miles flashed by. Once the limo drifted into Remo's lane and he simply slithered out of the way into the right lane.
In response, the limo straddled both lanes, and suddenly greenish gas began streaming from its skin.
It looked like the engine had caught fire, except the vapor was green. Remo hastily shut every vent on the car. He took a deep breath and held it.
He hoped it was the same kind of gas as before. A nerve agent-especially the kind that worked through the pores-would kill him within seconds, he knew.
Remo held the road and his breath as the greenish streamers tore past his windshield.
A thin haze of green vapor seeped into the car. Remo ignored it. He felt no telltale skin tingling.
Eventually the gas gave out. When it was gone, Remo ran down every window and waited until the cold air had scoured the Buick's interior clean of gas before finally inhaling fresh air.
The limo picked up speed.
"Looks like you're out of tricks, pal," Remo said tightly.
Remo settled down for the ride. The overhead signs started to say "New Rochelle." Remo wasn't surprised.
The limo pulled onto an exit marked "Glenwood Lakes."
There the chase turned frenetic again. Once, Remo caught a glimpse of stern almond eyes in the narrow rear window. They regarded him without mercy or care.
On an angular turn, Remo lost control of his car, piling into a drift. He raced the rear wheels, and the car refused to budge.
Angrily Remo got out and simply lifted the car's rear tires onto better traction. His efforts transformed his face into a mask of pain-induced sweat.
He had lost sight of the limo. He decided that might be a good thing. It probably meant the driver thought he had lost Remo.
Remo took a side street. He recognized the neighborhood from the day before. With luck, he might beat the limo to the garage.
He hoped it was heading toward that same garage.