Chiun had done as well or better than Remo at neutralizing another avenue of race cars, but there were four more attack fronts coming, pulling into National Square even now. The people were cheering them, but now the awareness of trouble was spreading. The race cars slowed abruptly as they entered the makeshift track around National Square. The national police were getting the message and moving quickly into new positions.
National Podium, the great central dais that stood out in the open at the north end of the square, was getting the message late. Remo could see them now, the ministers in their perfect suits and medal-festooned military uniforms. Even a mile away Remo recognized the prime minister from the photo Smitty provided. The prime minister was said to be a pretty smart guy, but right now he looked as dull-witted as the rest of them, squinting at the smoke and the wreckage of the cars. Now the honor guard was showing signs of alarm. But they were standing on National Podium with crowds on all sides of them. They had no easy way to escape. But also, the attackers had no easy way in.
Or so he assumed.
Idiot! he thought. Why didn’t he ever think the worst of people? People always did the worst thing you could imagine them doing. At the first signs of trouble, the race-car drivers escalated their attack timetable. They veered off the parade route—directly into the crowd of onlookers.
There was a traveling tide of horror as arms of flame protruded from the nose of each racer into the people, who fled from the cars, some of them burning. Remo could see clear plastic canopies sliding into position over the tops of the driver cockpits. They were in attack mode. He scooted among the crowd, but even he was having trouble finding room to maneuver as the concern turned to panic. He moved up onto the fight posts, clinging and leaping onto the high-tension lines that stretched between them with banners bearing patriotic and advertising messages. Remo moved hand over hand, fast, as the sea of humanity became a shocked swell just inches below his feet.
He could hear the individual screams, but he could hear, too, the ugly sound of a population in terror. The swell pushed relentlessly. People began to go down in the crush. Many of them would never get up.
No matter if Remo had saved ten or twenty lives by diverting the explosion on the packed street—the true death toll was going to come from the riot of panic that gripped the tens of thousands of Ayoundis.
He found himself in the open, hard on the heels of an attacking column of race cars. What kind of morons was he dealing with here, attacking in frigging race cars? He hit the ground and ran fast, catching the front racer and leaping onto it. The driver inside showed surprise when the white man suddenly perched on the cowling of the racer. The facer veered hard right and left, and somehow the man with the thick wrists stayed where he was, as if his scuffed Italian shoes were glued to the Milkie Queen logo.
“This will get you off!” shouted the driver inside his cockpit, and he stabbed at the fire button on his flame thrower. One of those Italian shoes was just inches from the nozzle….
Remo felt the mechanical movement inside the car as the discharge valve snapped open and the high-pressure tanks pushed out a powerful stream of flammable liquid. He grabbed the nozzle and gave it a quick twist, just as the igniter snapped. The torrent of flame drenched the car from front to rear and the tires burst open, bringing the car to a halt.
Remo stepped off and caught a glimpse of the driver, gazing in horror at the plastic shield just an inch above his head. It would have protected him from defensive gunfire, but now it was melting in the intense heat and in seconds it would start to drip on him. Remo wondered how good his helmet and driving suit would be at protecting him.
Not much, he decided, when the screaming started.
Already the Master of Sinanju was moving like a shadow around the fire tongue from the next car. His training taught Remo long ago that one might step aside from any projectile, be it rock or bullet or slow-moving flamethrower. The driver discerned the failure of the flame and quickly turned to more conventional firearms, tattering the square with machine-gun fire. Remo dodged the fusillade. A bullet, after all, was just a fast rock.
But he was painfully aware that the good people of Ayounde didn’t know how to dodge bullets. He put a halt to the gunfire by leaping like a feather into the air, then falling like a boulder onto the protruding muzzle of the weapon. The canopy collapsed under him, crushing vital components, but Remo kicked out the tires for good measure. He delivered an identical kick to the plastic cover over the driver.
The plastic didn’t budge. It didn’t shatter, or even crack.
The infuriated driver laughed heartily at Remo. “You couldn’t get me with a bleedin’ sledgehammer!” he taunted.
