The man was pulling at his wrist straps, still mumbling the same word over and over. Each time he said it, he seemed to grow more afraid.
Shaken, Smith quickly exited the room. He found a copy of Westchester County's Journal News at a nursing station beyond the locked doors of the security wing. On the front page was a story he had read that morning before coming to work. Ignoring the glances of curious staff, he returned to the empty security corridor. The man was still tugging at his wrist straps when Smith reentered the room.
"Is this what you are referring to?" he demanded. He held a front-page photograph up to the patient's nose.
When the man saw the picture, his eyes grew wide. He began spouting a stream of terrified words, none of which-beyond the one he'd noted earlier-Smith recognized. Not that it mattered. The CURE director now understood exactly what the man feared. As well as who was behind the unsuccessful attacks against Remo.
As the man cowered from the newspaper, Smith flipped it around, examining the black-and-white picture.
It was something that had been of great interest both in Westchester County and nationally for more than a year now.
The above-the-fold picture showed a house with a high fence. Superimposed over it in one corner was a large photo of a man and woman. They had been moving into the home for what seemed like forever. In just two more days, it would become official.
Smith tucked the paper sharply under his arm. As the patient continued to babble the chillingly familiar woman's name, the CURE director walked briskly from the room.
REMO HAD TO SKIP to one side to avoid slipping on the brains that were spread like a gray oatmeal paste on the floor of the New Orleans Raffair office.
The Master of Sinanju's hands were slapped firmly on either side of Tommy Rovigo's head. The pressure he'd exerted had forced the man's brain up through his balding pate like a spitwad through a straw.
With fussing fingers, he tossed the gangster away. Tommy Guns thudded to the floor, an angry red cavity where his gray matter had been.
"Call your shots, Little Father," Remo said, irritated. He danced across a cerebellum minefield, loafers searching out a clean spot.
Chiun wasn't listening. He was moving away from Remo, sweeping like a kimono-clad typhoon toward Fondi Bisol.
"Don't shred me!" Fondi shrieked in terror. He flung his gun away and threw up his hands.
As Fondi cowered in fear, Remo felt another gun zero in on his back.
"Oh, great," he groused. "A shoeful of brains, and now we're gonna get shot at again. Told you we should've come in the back," he called after Chiun.
"If you are just going to stand there and complain, you may wait in the car," the tiny Asian retorted.
Remo opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he was going to say was lost in an explosion of gunpowder.
Twirling on one heel, he dodged the bullet that had just been fired at his back. In a heartbeat, he was face-to-face with a very startled Angelo Tanaro.
"I mean, it's not like you get treated any better when you come in the front. Am I right?" Remo demanded.
Tanaro seemed stunned that the bullet hadn't found its mark. This time, when he aimed at Remo, he held the trigger down.
Remo danced around the hail of lead. Pockmarks erupted in the wall behind him.
"See?" Remo insisted. "It ain't all champagne and peeled grapes with the front. We're always getting shot at. But does he ever listen to me? No."
Behind him, he heard Chiun's gangster scream. Before him, Tanaro was trying to track him with his gun.
He fired left; Remo moved right. He fired right; Remo twirled left. He fired right again; Remo vanished.
"Missed me," a voice said very close to Angelo Tanaro's ear.
When he turned, he found he was looking into the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.
"Say good-night, Guido," Remo said.
Pivoting on the ball of one foot, he sent a pointed toe into Angelo's throat. There was a pinch of pain at the mobster's Adam's apple. It was followed by the most horrible sucking sound Angelo had ever heard.
When Remo's foot swung away, it was trailed by Angelo Tanaro's esophagus. Ghastly and elongated, it splattered against the office wall like a slippery red snake.
The gangster fell to his knees, clutching the dimesize hole in his throat. Remo finished him off with a pulverizing heel to the forehead.
"There," Remo announced, spinning to the Master of Sinanju. "No mess to slip on. Nice and neat."
"Stop your childish prattling," Chiun insisted from across the room. He sounded distracted.
When Remo saw what his teacher was up to, he rolled his eyes. "Oh, not again," he exhaled. There was a large paper shredder in the corner of the office. The Master of Sinanju stood beside it, a puzzled expression on his face. As he studied the device, he stroked his thread of beard thoughtfully. Kneeling on the floor at his feet was Fondi Bisol. The gangster's hands had been crushed flat and stuffed into the paper slot.
"God, please, no," Fondi wept.
"Can we speed this up, Little Father?" Remo complained, coming up beside the old man.
"I cannot find the On switch," Chiun frowned.
"It's broke," Fondi blubbered. Tears rolled down his dark cheeks.
"You stay out of this," Remo warned. "Chiun, let's go."
A deeply displeased expression took root on the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face. His scowling eyes darted to the four corners of the room. They lingered for a moment on the idle coffeemaker before he shook his aged head.
"Pah!" the old Korean snapped.
His hands became vengeful blurs. Daggerlike nails hummed through muscle and bone. A final scream from Fondi Bisol died to a croak in his throat.
When Chiun stepped away from the body a moment later, Fondi lay in tattered strips on the floor. His severed arms hung slack from the mouth of the paper shredder.
"And the fates conspire to rob yet another spark of pleasure from a kindly old man's life," Chiun said, glowering at the remains.
Remo nodded agreement. "Let's get going," he said. "We've still got miles to go before we sleep." Chiun didn't argue. Leaving the bodies where they lay, the two men slipped from the office and out into the mild New Orleans night.
Chapter 30
"When did they hit New Orleans?"
"Coupla hours ago, Don Anselmo. Took out everybody. It was a big mess, what I hear." Anselmo Scubisci couldn't even remember who was in New Orleans. He thought maybe Tommy Guns was there.
Not that it mattered. Whoever was there was dead. Four offices had been hit so far, all around the country. There were only three left.