As Remo followed Chiun, he found the people excited and distracted by the coming demonstration. They were poor by his standards, but then, he was born and raised in America. The Western world didn’t know how good it had it
The Ayounde people were positively flush with riches by the standards of Africa, where nation upon nation suffered from malnutrition, generations of civil war and the persistent lack of recognition by the rest of the world.
But Ayounde was making strides of some sort. Somehow, they had gotten past the tribal conflicts and stifled the power grabbers—the cause of endless misery in one African nation after another. Not as many starving kids in Ayounde. Not as much rampant disease. Those were the things that mattered, weren’t they?
And now some idiot race-car driver was going to try to subvert the nation, making it ripe for fresh destabilization.
That ticked Remo off big-time.
He hoped he was going to be in time to do something about it.
But a moment later, he knew he wasn’t.
The cars streamed into National Square from every direction, and Remo went into the air, hopping atop a bronze statue along the roadside and finding himself sitting high over the happy crowds. Finally, he had the lay of the land, but his spirits sunk. They were still more than a mile from National Square, with a sea of Ayoundis packing the street ahead of him and the square itself. Six streets converged on vast National Square, and parade routes opened on all of them as the race cars rumbled toward the square,
“Chiun!” Remo called, spotting the flicker of the old Master, who seemed to float from the ground and land with all the weight of a bird atop a vendor’s canopy of mottled scarlet. Chiun assessed the situation at a glance.
“I go this way,” Chiun snapped. His voice was a squeak that was easy to distinguish from the cacophony.
Chiun slipped from the canopy and slithered toward the next intersecting street.
Remo bounded into the open parade route, which filled quickly in the path of the racers. Remo put on his own best speed, but the racers were moving dangerously fast. It was a miracle none of them had hit a spectator. He was on the rear racer in seconds and gave the tire a snap-kick that blew it open.
As the rear end swerved abruptly into the mass of spectators, Remo was leaping over the vehicle and delivering another kick that exploded the other rear tire, and its forward momentum dragged the rear end back to center. As Remo left it behind, the racer’s rear chassis ground noisily on the pavement and shuddered to a stop.
It took just seconds, but Remo knew it was too slow.
There were a lot of cars to kill and not much time for the killing. When he reached the second car, he bashed his fist on its rear end, tearing off the spoiler like a paper towel and crashing the back end of the car as if a wrecking ball had dropped on it. The tires exploded, the body panels withered and the mechanics inside the rear end became scrap metal—and then Remo realized his grave error.
He felt the pressure wave coming, an explosion, killing force. Weapons inside the car. Remo hit the deck with inhuman speed and lashed out powerfully at the crushed end of the car.
As it exploded, the car’s rear jumped skyward and the starburst of ugly orange fire and black shrapnel flew above the heads of the Ayoundis—mostly. The car stood on its oddly intact nose a moment. The driver dripped out of the cockpit in chunks and splashes. Then the car collapsed slowly onto its belly once more.
Remo was on his feet. The crowd was screaming. People were bloodied. One man was flat on his back with a gash in his head. Amazingly few casualties, Remo thought in the small corner of his brain that was still capable of being rational.
Most of his brain had stopped being rational many, many jiffies ago. Most of it was screaming.
Remo ran like something white-hot that is propelled from a volcanic crack in the earth. When he caught up to the next car, he hit the part in the middle—the soft, human part. That stopped the car just as well, and nothing exploded into the crowds except for a few flecks of brain matter. Remo kept moving. Fast. Still screaming, silently.
Idiot! Idiot! How many people had he wounded? How many would die because of him?
He came upon the front car as it was about to turn into the mile-wide parade wing within National Square. Remo slithered up to the side of the car as it slowed to forty miles per hour, hopping over it and batting at the helmeted driver—just hard enough to turn everything inside to jelly. The car missed the turn and hit the decorative stone wall, grinding along the wall until it stopped.
