"That's funny," Sergeant Malloy said. "They stopped." He glanced beyond Simon to the stairs at the rear of the squad room. Silence rose up from below.
Jimmy Simon listened. He heard only the normal bustle of the busy station house.
"That's weird," Simon said.
Remo and Chiun were no longer listening to the police officers. Hearing more acute than any other human ears on the face of the planet was trained on the building's lower floors, filtering out the noise, absorbing the soft sounds. All at once, both men snapped alert.
"They are attacking," the Master of Sinanju snapped.
A sudden blur of movement, faster than the naked eye could perceive.
One moment they were standing in place; the next, both Remo and Chiun had vaulted over the desk. Sergeants Simon and Malloy spun a stunned dance around them as they flew past. Before Sergeant Simon could voice a protest, a fresh sound erupted from beneath his feet.
Gunfire.
"Oh, God," Simon said.
Remo and Chiun were moving swiftly across the squad room toward the rear stairs. Belly jiggling madly, Sergeant Simon sprinted to catch up. His gun was out of its holster.
"I just sent a man down to check on them," he huffed.
All objections to Remo and Chiun's presence were gone. Other officers were running for the narrow stairway.
"How many are there?" Remo demanded.
"Twenty-seven," Simon replied.
More muffled gunshots. Firing wildly. The kind of crazed shooting that indicated panic.
When they reached the basement level, they followed a short, gloomy corridor to a closed steel door. Remo, Chiun and the crush of officers massed outside the door. One man was already there when they arrived. His face was ashen.
The gunfire had stopped.
"What's the situation?" Simon demanded, panting.
"Two men inside," the uniformed officer at the door volunteered breathlessly. "The shooting started once they were locked inside. I don't know what's going on."
A small Plexiglas window sat at eye level in the door. The young officer jumped when a hand abruptly slapped against the glass.
"It's O'Reilly," Sergeant Simon said, exhaling relief. "That's his high-school football ring. Let him out."
"No," Remo snapped, snatching the keys that had been heading for the lock.
"What?" Jimmy Simon growled angrily. "What the hell-" He stopped dead. "Oh, my God," he breathed.
Sick eyes were trained on the door. The red flush of his cheeks paled.
O'Reilly's hand continued to tap against the window. But on closer scrutiny Simon saw now that the fingers were pale and lifeless. And then he saw the other hand holding it aloft, and saw the ragged flesh where O'Reilly's hand had been severed from his forearm. And then Sergeant Jimmy Simon-eighteen years on the force, immune to everything this crummy job could throw at him-was vomiting up his lunch onto the Midtown station cell-block floor.
The face of the man who had been pressing O'Reilly's hand to the window appeared briefly. Eyes wild, fangs bared, the creature took a vicious bite out the patrolman's severed hand before disappearing from view.
"Shit," Simon said, wiping puke on his sleeve. "Sweet Jesus, they're out of their cells." He slumped against the cold wall.
"Can they escape this?" Chiun demanded, waving at the door.
"I don't know. Maybe. There's this door and one way on the other side. They were built pretty tough."
Chiun turned to Remo. "Even now they look for weaknesses in this dungeon's fortifications," the old Korean said. "They must be contained."
"Why is it always us?" Remo sighed. He turned to Simon. "Okay, stand back, Pop 'n Fresh. We're going in."
"Are you nuts?" Jimmy Simon asked. "Did you see what they did? They'll eat you alive."
"Fine with me," Remo grumbled. "Dead is the only way I'm ever gonna get a rest in this life. All the time it's work, work, work."
The police could see by the look of angry resolve on the strange FBI man's face that there would be no arguing.
"At least take my gun," Sergeant Simon pleaded. Chiun swatted gun and sergeant away. The police fell back from the door, weapons leveled should anything try to escape when it opened.
"There's no way you two guys are going to get them back in their cells," Simon called, perspiring on the far end of his Smith And if they charge out of there, you're getting mowed down, too."
"Go deep throat a cruller and let me work in peace," Remo suggested, jamming the key in the lock.
Before he could give it a turn, Chiun touched Remo's wrist. "My son," the Master of Sinanju whispered, "there is something I did not mention to you when last we encountered these creatures." His parchment face was drawn tight.
"I don't think now's a good time, Little Father."
"Listen," the old Korean snapped. "It is important." There was a gleam of furious concern in his hazel eyes.
Remo felt the shudder of urgency pass from the frail little man who had taught him all he knew. He grew still.
"When we encountered the first of these beasts, I told you of the Sinanju legend. Do you remember?"
"That was over twenty years ago. And that time is still kind of fuzzy to me," Remo admitted. "I had the wind knocked out of my sails."
Chiun pitched his voice low. "You are avatar of Shiva-" He paused, waiting for the argument that always came after making this assertion.
But this time-for the first time-Remo remained silent. A shadow of acceptance crossed his brow. The wizened Asian could not take joy in the fact that his pupil had finally accepted destiny.
"While now is not the time to discuss what it is the gods have in store for you, there is more than mere glory with which you must contend. The legend that speaks of Shiva also speaks a warning. You who have been through death before can only be sent to death by your kind or my kind."
"I think I remember that," said Remo, who had been sentenced to die in an electric chair that did not work as part of the elaborate frame-up that had brought him into CURE. He scrunched up his face. "I didn't know what it meant then, and crap if I know what it means now."
"What's going on?" Sergeant Simon called nervously.
"Silence, gaspot!" Chiun shot back.