"No wonder. You were on foot. You should have stayed with me in the car."
"Spilt milk," Remo said.
"Que?"
"It's an expression," Remo said.
"Do not believe him," Chiun interposed. "He sings the same song to me."
"Why do you not check with your embassy people?" Lupe demanded. "Would your President not seek refuge there?"
"That's the tricky part," Remo explained. "We're not sure the Vice-President is up to any good. This could all be part of a plot."
"It is a plot," Chiun intoned feebly from the bed. "The President of Vice's plot."
Lupe frowned. "These things do not happen in American politics," she suggested.
"That's what we thought," Remo sighed. He took a sip of water.
"They happen in all politics," Chiun said firmly.
"So what do you say?" Remo asked Lupe. "Give us a hand?"
"You are in my charge. We will work together as long as you understand that Mexican jurisdiction applies." She pronounced it "yurisdiction."
"Anything you say. Are you ready, Little Father?"
"He is too ill to accompany us," Lupe said firmly.
The old Oriental's eyes narrowed to slits at that remark. He pressed his thin-fingered hands with their impossibly long nails into the bedclothes as if testing the mattress strength.
Without warning, he was suddenly in the air. He executed a smart back flip, landing behind Lupe. She whirled, her gun still in hand.
By the time she turned all the way around, the old one was no longer there and her gun had left her fingers.
She was aware only of her suddenly stinging fingers and a simultaneous flash of crimson silk.
She turned again, and the old Asian was standing there offering her gun back.
Officer Guadalupe Mazatl accepted the pistol in stunned silence. It felt lighter than it should. She broke open the cylinder and saw the chambers were vacant.
"Where are my bullets?" Officer Mazatl sputtered.
"Perhaps you left them in your other gun?" the one called Chiun sniffed.
"I have them," Remo said as he stood up.
He showed her his fist, opening it. Six brass bullets lay in his palm.
"I may need those," she sputtered.
"We don't like wild shooting when we go to work," Remo said, brushing past her for the door, "and we're going to work right now."
Officer Guadalupe Mazatl followed them out into the corridor, trying to reholster her pistol. She was so nervous it took her four tries to get the barrel to go in properly.
Out on the curb, Remo Williams got behind the wheel one step ahead of Lupe Mazatl.
"This is an official vehicle," she snapped. "My vehicle."
"Then you can sit up in front with me," Remo said politely. "That okay with you, Chiun?"
The Master of Sinanju nodded and eased into the back seat. Remo put his hand out the window for the keys.
Officer Mazatl folded her arms angrily.
"Trade you for some bullets?" Remo suggested.
"No."
Remo peered under the dash. "Maybe I can hotwire it, then."
"Very well," Officer Mazatl said reluctantly.
She got in and they made the exchange.
As Remo started the engine, Officer Mazatl looked into her open palm. "You gave me only two bullets," she complained.
"I don't remember talking numbers," Remo said, smiling as he pulled into traffic.
"You think you are so smug," Lupe spat.
"Just doing what comes naturally," Remo retorted. "So where do we go first?"
"Must drive. I will ask questions. First, did either of you see the license plate of the Bimbo Bread truck?"
"Not me," Remo admitted. He called over his shoulder, "You, Chiun?"
"Yes," Chiun said in a tired squeak. "It had some numbers on it. I do not remember what they were."
"Do you remember the letters under the numbers?" Lupe asked.
"Possibly."
"Did they say 'Mex Mex' or 'D. F. Mex'?"
"They said 'D. F. Mex.' I do not know what that could mean."