"I had to wade through miles of kudzu before I found a road with cars on it. The first dozen cars wouldn't stop for me, but I had a lucky break."
"Yes?"
"Someone stole my rental car and happened to drive by."
"He stopped?"
"No. I ran after the car and pulled him out from behind the wheel while he was doing seventy."
"I assume there were no witnesses to this."
"A Greyhound bus happened by in the opposite lane, and the car thief bounced under the wheels, if that's what you mean."
"Good. Keep me informed."
Smith hung up.
Remo found a seat in the waiting area. Other passengers were standing around glued to TV monitors as the networks continued their special reports.
The footage of the death shot was shown a total of eighteen times in nearly as many minutes. Remo, who had dispensed death to the deserving countless times in a long career, turned away from the screen in disgust.
The hushed conversation of waiting passengers came to his ears, as much as he tried to block it out.
"Another assassination. When will it stop?"
"I remember when Kennedy was killed like it was yesterday."
"He was a good President, despite the stories that have come out."
"No, I meant Robert Kennedy."
"Oh. I thought you looked kinda young to remember Jack."
"There's nothing lower than an assassin."
A redheaded woman wearing glasses dropped her shoulder bag at Remo's feet and took the seat beside him. "Have they caught the man who did it yet?" she asked Remo, emboldened by the national tragedy to speak to a total stranger.
"Not that I heard."
"I can't believe we've lost another President."
Remo said nothing.
"The coward," the woman said bitterly.
"Who?" asked Remo.
"The assassin. There's nothing more cowardly than an assassin. What would make a person do such a cold-blooded thing?"
"Search me," said Remo uncomfortably. "Maybe he was a professional."
"As if that were an excuse," she sniffed. "Scum is Scum."
"Look," Remo said angrily, "I don't feel like talking to a total stranger just now, okay?"
The woman reached out and patted Remo's hand sympathetically, cooing, "I understand. You're upset. We're all upset."
Remo stood up and changed seats. Another total stranger sat beside him and asked the latest news. Without replying, Remo changed seats again.
Everywhere he sat, the word "assassin" was hissed in bitter tones.
They called the flight, and after the plane was airborne, Remo left his seat over the wing and took an empty one in the rear of the cabin where he could get away from the incessant talk of assassination.
In more than twenty years working for CURE, Remo had had his problems with working for CURE. Sometimes America didn't seem salvageable. Sometimes the man in the White House wasn't worth fighting for, either.
Many times before, Remo had gotten disgusted with everything and quit. He had always come back. Now he was convinced he had come to the end of the line.
He had given CURE too many years of his life. It was time to move on.
But to what? He hadn't given it much thought, but as he looked out at the unrolling Florida landscape, he wondered what place he would have in the world.
His only trade-if that was what one could call it-was in being an assassin. Remo could never go back to being a cop. He still liked the idea of going after the bad guys, but there was too much red tape now. He could never play by the rules again.
Being an assassin was something Remo had grown comfortable with. Strictly speaking, he never thought of himself as an assassin the way Lee Harvey Oswald and Sirhan Sirhan were assassins. They were nut loners. Remo was a consummate professional.
The first time the Master of Sinanju had told Remo that he was being trained in the ultimate assassin's arts, Remo hadn't thought of Sirhan Sirhan. He had thought of James Bond. A cool, capable guy who slides in and out of dangerous situations dealing with the bad guys no one else could touch.
That was certainly what they seemed to be training him for.
When it finally sank in that the Master of Sinanju was an assassin in the traditional sense of the word, Remo had been troubled. Growing up, he had learned to despise the word. Kennedy. Then King. Then another Kennedy.
"I don't want to be an assassin," he had told Chiun so very long ago.
"I am offering you the universe, and you decline?"
"I'm definitely declining."
"No white has ever before been offered Sinanju."
"Sinanju, I'll take. The assassin's belt I pass on."
"Belt! Sinanju does not wear belts. And you cannot separate the art from the result. You are Sinanju. Therefore, you are an assassin. It is a proud tradition."
"Not in this country. Here 'assassin' is a dirty word."
"When the songs detailing your glorious exploits reach the far corners of this benighted land, the word will be exalted."