"A real hero ish always cautious," Frank slurred, pulling his hip flask from his jacket pocket. Hands shaking, he took a steadying gulp.
The first tank passed by, rumbling off down the street. At an intersection it took a left, moving out of sight.
The rest of the Ebla Arab Army, U.S., took a long time to pass by. Hidden in the shadows, Frank slowly drained his flask. By the time they'd gotten down to the last two tanks, Frank Hanlon was as drunk as a gibbon and raring to fight.
One tank was down the street. The second was the runt of the litter, chugging to keep up with the rest.
When the last tank was nearly upon him, Frank tossed his empty flask away. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he drew his Colt Python from his old police holster. Steadying himself so that the ground didn't wobble too much beneath him, Frank lurched out in front of the tank.
Staggering, he made it out to the middle of the street.
The big tank bore slowly down on him, mighty treads grinding remorselessly against the hot asphalt. It was huge. As big as a bull elephant. And unlike the elephants Frank had seen on many a sleepless night, the tank was ugly brown not pastel pink.
Feeling like that anonymous Chinese student in Tiananmen Square, Frank positioned himself defiantly before the tank.
He brought his revolver up, aiming carefully at the angled metal nose of the mechanical beast. He didn't know what kind of damage he'd cause to the tank. But it was time someone took a stand. And that someone would be Frank Hanlon, dammit.
With vain-glorious images dancing in his wheeling head, Frank fired. The gun was loud in his ears. He had only ever fired it on the police range. But he'd always worn protective headphones back then. The noise rang against his eardrums.
The tank kept coming.
Frank looked at the gun. In his boozy haze he had expected more to happen the first time he used it. Frowning a lopsided frown, he lowered the gun again.
This time he pulled the trigger several times in a row. He saw the sparks from the ricochets as the bullets caromed off the front of the tank.
The massive vehicle was closer still.
The gun was empty. Peering down into the barrel, Frank clicked the chamber a few times to make sure.
Nope, empty.
Belching confusion, Frank began patting the pockets of his hunting vest. He seemed to vaguely remember leaving his spare ammo in the car.
The tank was here.
The crew inside had no intention of even slowing. They were going to run the lone American down. Outside the tank Frank wasn't sure what to do. Should he run to get more ammunition, or should he stand his ground like a real hero would?
"Now, where did I park?" he asked aloud, scratching his belly with his gun barrel.
The tank was only a few yards away. Maybe it was just the booze, but it seemed to be coming a lot faster than he thought it should.
The rumbling was deafening. The loud, persistent squeak of a loose tread cried off the rattling walls of the surrounding buildings.
Frank Hanlon stood like a besotted deer charmed by headlights. If it had been up to him and his whiskey-fueled indecision, he would most certainly have been killed. Fortunately for Frank it was not left up to him.
In that fraction of space between life and oblivion, something else came flying into view:
Frank became aware in his hazy vision of a young man in a black T-shirt running in from the direction of the nearest hotel. An old Asian flew up behind him.
He couldn't believe their nerve.
"Hey, I'm the hero today," Frank yelled drunkenly over the roar of the tank.
With these interlopers stealing his thunder there was only one thing left to do. Frank decided to take a nap. "You two better be gone when I wake up," he slurred as his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.
Remo flew in front of the massive treads of the tank just as Frank collapsed.
"I'll take care of Jim Bean," Remo shouted over his shoulder. "You get the other one."
Chiun soared past Remo and Frank. Pipe-stem arms and legs pumping in furious concert, he raced down the street toward the other tank, which even now was in the process of leveling its cannon back toward them.
Remo grabbed the unconscious man beneath one limp arm. Flinging Frank over his shoulder, he bounded from the tank's path at the precise moment it should have crushed their bones to jelly. He tossed the snoring ex-cop safely to the sidewalk.
Behind them the tank suddenly stopped dead. It purred menacingly.
Someone inside had obviously been hoping that the gray-haired old lunatic would stand his ground. They were upset to lose their prey at the last moment.
The hatch popped open. A white kaffiyeh stuck angrily up through the opening, a sweating Arab face beneath it. It took the Eblan soldier only a moment to spot Remo. It was fairly easy, considering the fact that Remo was waving at him from a spot directly in front of the tank.
"Random safety inspection," Remo called up to the man. "I think these tires are low on air." Walking around the side of the tank, Remo kicked a toe out at the tread. With a series of loud snaps a row of thick metal hasps shattered agreeably. The tread popped from around the wheels, unraveling onto the road with a slap.
"Pretty shoddy workmanship," Remo commented with a sympathetic nod. "Foreign car, huh. You better believe it matters to me. Say, where's your inspection sticker? The emissions on this sucker must be off the chart."
The Arab ducked back down inside the tank. "Mujajat!" his muffled voice shouted.
By his tone Remo could tell that whatever the soldier had said, it wasn't complimentary. His suspicions were confirmed a second later when the man popped back into view, an AK-47 clenched in his rage-white hands.
"Hey, don't blame me if you can't keep this thing up to state and federal standards," Remo said, waggling an admonishing finger. "You got passengerside air bags in there?"
The Arab was no longer listening. Aiming at Remo's chest, the gunman opened fire. The rifle screamed to life.
Remo danced away from the hail of bullets, ducking in beside the tank. Crouching low, he ran along the side of the huge vehicle, punching his balled-up fist into the wheels of the tank as he went.
The giant metal disks shattered obediently beneath his hand. One by one they snapped and folded in on themselves.
Feeling the powerful blows reverberating up through the shell of the tank, the Arab stopped shooting. He began screaming to his confederates.
Still out of sight of the hatch, Remo hadn't gotten halfway through the series of seven wheels when the rear of the tank began lifting slowly into the air. It rocked forward with agonizing slowness, finally falling the last few feet to the street. When it was all over, the tank resembled a coffee table with one missing leg.
Remo slipped beneath the lifted belly of the tank. Kicking upward, he removed the next tread as he had the first. Again using his fist, he removed the first three wheels on the opposite side of the tank.
The vehicle fell forward onto its snub nose, evening itself out once more. It sat useless, engine running, three of its remaining four wheels high up in the air.
Inside the angled-forward vehicle someone finally cut the engine. The crippled tank grew silent. When Remo poked his head back up around the side of the armored vehicle, he found the original Eblan had been joined by two associates.
All three Arabs were armed with automatic weapons. They brandished the guns before them, crouching in alert postures as they scanned the area immediately around the tank for any sign of Remo. On the sidewalk Frank Hanlon groaned.