He thrust his stiffened fingers into the metal of the roof of the bus and used his entire body to pull. The roof was rusting old metal on the outside, hardened blast- proof composite underneath, but it wasn’t designed to be tear-proof. Remo felt it come up in his hands and he dragged it back hard, peeling it away and exposing the interior through the ragged gash. The mercenaries inside had just enough time to figure out what was happening when the flying grenade deposited itself directly inside. Remo felt the bus lurch under his feet.
He laughed boisterously. “You’re right,” he called to the second bus. “Very funny.” He pushed the roof sloppily back in place to hold in the billowing black smoke. That ought to asphyxiate any survivors.
There were angry, disbelieving shouts from the other bus, and the occupants triggered their weapon at Remo again, but something went wrong. As the grenade launcher was firing, the emergency door on the bus slammed shut, pushing the launcher inside. The grenade fired and detonated instantly. Fire and smoke shot from the open windows, and more explosions followed as the heat reached the ammunition.
Chiun stood holding the emergency door closed with one hand as smoke whistled from the seams. “Sir Mutha assembled a cultimultural assortment of rabble, but few Reagans,” he pointed out.
“Huh?”
“To what does your ‘huh’ refer?”
“Never mind. Look who’s coming to dinner.”
More buses were converging on Jamaica House, flanked by jogging ranks of soldiers in dark urban fighting uniforms, and their faces were of all colors. The troops and buses quickly formed a half circle and began filling the streets with gunfire. The Jamaicans guarding the prime minister’s residence took dangerous chances to return the gunfire, and were shot down for their risk-taking at every chance.
Remo drifted into the open space, drawing the gunfire to him, then running directly at the runners, doing a quick series of sidesteps to avoid the hail of bullets. Chiun was alongside him, and together they landed in the midst of the gunners. The direct approach in a firefight was always so disconcerting to the gunners that they usually had trouble responding in the most logical manner: by ceasing their gunfire. Attempting to follow the impossible movements of the Masters, they inevitably ended up shooting their comrades.
Five of the attackers toppled before the gunfire halted and the soldiers attacked man-to-Master.
Remo slithered through the mayhem, kicking rib cages to splinters, snapping arm bones, opening skulls. One of the gunners placed the barrel of a handgun within inches of his head and triggered the weapon. The fighter was perplexed to see that the American had transformed into a Colombian mercenary named Dinito—the gunner’s own brother—but there was no time to stop the blast of the bullet. Dinito sprayed all over Hope Road.
“My brother!”
“You’ll see him soon enough. But first, where’s Sir Mutha?”
Remo held the gun, and the Colombian couldn’t make it move. It was as if the thing were locked in place.
He kicked savagely at Remo’s shin to shatter it, but the shin seemed to have a life of its own. It was never where the Colombian thought it was.
Then Remo grabbed him by the elbow and applied pressure. The Colombian howled like a coyote.
“Sir Mutha. Yes, you know where he is, or no you don’t.”
“I don’t.”
“Fine.” Remo pushed the gun into the Colombian’s face and just kept on pushing. The gun didn’t break. The face did.
“This is getting us nowhere,” Remo complained as the last of the attackers collapsed at his feet. “We don’t get paid by the scalp. We need to locate the man in charge.”
Chiun nodded at the wave of reinforcements coming their way and looking wary.
Twenty jogging troops half encircled the Masters of Sinanju.
“Hands up,” ordered a black man with a dangerous scowl.
“You are Haitian, not Jamaican,” Chiun observed. “Do none of this country’s people feel compelled to battle alongside Sir Mutha?”
“You can ask him when you see him.”
“Will we see him soon?” Chiun gave Remo a cocky look.
“In about thirty seconds. Now put your fuckin’ ’ands in the air.”
“Is he in the bus in back?” Chiun asked.
“Yes. Now put you ’ands fuckin’ up.”
Chiun cocked his head. “Whatever you are telling me to do, it sounds lewd and impossible. I decline.”
Remo wanted to get out of there soonest. He glanced at the ground, and Chiun gave him an imperceptible nod.
“Kneecap that old fuck!” snarled the Haitian, but as the gunfire rang out, the victim vanished. One second they had their prisoners backed up against a burned bus, the next they had nobody.
Remo and Chiun went to ground and came up on the other side of the bus before the Haitian had figured out they were gone. “Thanks for getting what we needed out of that guy, Little Father.”
“It was no great skill to do so. All you had to do was think to do it.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t.”
