For once Remo's training was not equal to processing the information his brain was receiving.
He flashed among the crouching agents and began relieving hands of weapons. Slap. Slap. Slap.
He used restrained force. Still, a few fingers got broken. But every visible weapon went bounding along the grass, clips and bullets popping out.
Remo started sweeping around for another pass when the agent spread-eagled over the President paused, holding his fire.
He had seen Remo. He was the only one who had. He adjusted his weapon, trying to track him. Remo feinted, moved backward and managed to keep the muzzle pointing every place except where he was.
During the lull, the First Cat ran toward the nearest shelter. Marine One.
An agent hollered, "The cat! Stop the cat! It's rabid!"
In the act of weaving, Remo shot forward.
He came up behind the cat, reaching out to grab its tail.
The cat felt the hand and curled its spine, claws unsheathing. It was like taking hold of a live high-voltage wire, Remo found. Hissing and spitting, the cat squirmed and struggled and went for Remo's throat.
Remo simply spun in place and gave the cat a kaleidoscopic 360-degree view of the White House grounds.
When he finally dropped it, the cat wove dizzily on its feet and staggered three steps.
A bullet caught it in the flank, and it flopped over dead.
"What'd you do that for?" Remo snapped as trotting Secret Service agents approached.
"It was rabid."
"I had it under control. That was someone's cat."
"Who the hell are you?"
Remo pulled out his wallet and showed his Remo Eastwood Secret Service ID card and gold badge.
"You're with us?" the agent asked skeptically.
"Yeah."
"Dressed like that?"
"I'm undercover."
"Where are your sunglasses?"
"If I wore sunglasses in December," Remo said acidly, "I might as well carry a sign saying, Pay No Attention to Me. I'm an Undercover Secret Service Agent."
"Then what are you doing here without a White House pass?"
"Maybe you should disentangle the President before you throw your weight around," Remo suggested.
The agent looked past Remo's shoulder.
The President of the United States lay under a pile of three Secret Service agents. Two more had poured out of Marine One after the shooting began.
A muffled "Get off me" was coming from under the pile.
"It's okay," Secret Service Special Agent Dick Armbruster said.
"It's not okay until I know what went down," Capezzi said from somewhere within the pile.
"The Presidential cat is rabid. It tore up a bunch of agents. We were trying to stop it from attacking Big Mac."
"Did somebody say something about Socks?" an anxious female voice called.
All heads turned.
It was the First Daughter. She was peering around one of the Ionic columns strung along the White House breezeway, her face as white as the column she clutched. Sunlight glinted off her braces.
"I'm afraid we have bad news about Socks," Armbruster said.
"But he's right here," said the First Daughter.
And from behind the column, a familiar black-and-white mottled face peered with dull yellow eyes.
"If that's the First Cat," Vince Capezzi said, pointing toward the cat sitting at the feet of the First Daughter, "who the hell is this?"
The dead cat on the grass just lay there, dead.
"Somebody has some tall explaining to do," the angry voice of the President of the United States said from under a pile of protective agents.
"All right, all right," Jack Murtha called out. "Everybody on their feet."
"Hey, where is that guy Eastwood?"
Everyone looked for Secret Service Special Agent Remo Eastwood. But he was nowhere to be found.
THE PRESIDENT of the United States didn't know whom to trust.
It was written on his face as his Secret Service agents picked him up off the grass at the foot of Marine One's fold-down steps.
"We're going to walk you to the Oval Office, sir," Vince Capezzi said.
"What's going on?" the President asked, shaky voiced.
"I wish to God I knew," said Capezzi.