Remo threw himself on the ground as two fans of bullet tracks filled the air over his head from opposite sides. Rounds actually struck one another in midair, making short, ugly sounds and sending hot needles of lead spraying all around.
A few struck Remo's Hispanic pursuers. But only a few.
The pursuing Colombians did better. They chopped down about a third of the gang members in return. This brought further retaliation, and as he lay flat, cradling the cellular phone, Remo realized he had been forgotten. It was eye-for-an-eye time-which suited Remo just fine.
The firefight swelled into a crescendo of blood and bullets.
Moving low, Remo circled the mansion, the sound of firing covering him. He wondered why Chiun hadn't shown.
The Master of Sinanju listened thoughtfully as his patron explained the future.
"You will work for me. Exclusively."
"This is possible," replied Chiun. They stood before the dormant fireplace of the great parlor.
"I will pay you very, very well," continued Esperanza. "You will no longer need to work for the U.S. President."
"I do not work for him."
"Then who?"
"I cannot say."
Esperanza nodded. "I understand. I will expect the same loyalty."
Chiun inclined his head. "Of course."
"There is just one other matter," added Esperanza.
"Yes?"
"The one called Remo. He works for the government. He is CIA?"
"Possibly."
"He will be a hindrance to us. You must sever all ties with him."
Chiun touched his wispy beard in preparation before speaking.
Just then, the night exploded with the sound of automatic weapons fire.
Remo went in the back door. He brought it down with a flying kick and was past it before it quite hit the floor.
"Chiun!" he called. "Where are you?"
From a nearby room the Master of Sinanju's voice came, thin and unwelcoming.
"In here."
Remo veered toward the sound. He came up short, in a spacious parlor decorated in the Spanish style of old California. He pointed in the direction of Enrique Esperanza.
"That guy's a phony," he said hotly. "He's not Esperanza."
"It is true," admitted Enrique Esperanza. "I have taken the place of the real Esperanza, who had the misfortune to share a meal with a swimming reptile." He looked to the Master of Sinanju. "With your history, you must appreciate my cleverness. I had plastic surgery to make my face resemble his."
"Not to mention a dermabrasion," Remo inserted.
Esperanza smiled. "My new face is so much more photogenic, no?"
"No," said Remo flatly.
Esperanza shrugged and went on. "My plan is quite simply foolproof. I have recruited the very illegals I have helped to smuggle into this country in my-how you say?-previous life. The homeless will vote for me, too, because I have registered them under the names of the dead. Those who enjoy my cookies will also vote for me. Those I have frightened with my vision of the future of California will, sadly, not vote for Esperanza. But I think many of them have other plans for their own futures, which do not include California."
"Let's not forget the doctored voter punch-cards," Remo added darkly.
Chiun's wrinkled features acquired a questioning cast.
"Once I have my people put them in place," Esperanza explained, "they will insure that even those who vote against me will be casting a vote for Esperanza. Brilliant, no?"
The hazel eyes of the Master of Sinanju shone in appreciation. "Yes, it is very brilliant."
Remo shouted, "Chiun! What are you saying?"
"Merely the truth. This is a ruler after my own heart. He understands power. And he will achieve it."
"That mean you're sticking by him?" Remo demanded tightly.
"Only a fool would not," replied Chiun. "He is what is called 'a sure thing.' "
"Then call me a fool," growled Remo.
Chiun shrugged. "You are a child yet, Remo. You will learn that the true leaders are those who take power, not accept it from the fickle populaces."
Esperanza smiled broadly. "You are too late," he told Remo. "He is with me. There is no changing that."
"Too bad," Remo said. "Emperor Smith wanted him taken out."
Esperanza looked blank.
"Smith is my emperor no longer," Chiun said coldly. "Our most recent contract has expired. It will not be renewed. Better work has come along."
"He'll be sorry to hear that," Remo said. "Especially when he hears that you let a golden opportunity slip through your fingers."
Chiun cocked his head to one side. "What opportunity?"
"The one that atones for my earlier screw-up, when I let Nogeira get eaten by that alligator."
"What has that to do . . . ?"
"Because that's Nogeira right there," Remo said, pointing.
Chiun turned to the man he knew as Enrique Esperanza. "This is true?"
"Not at all," said a smiling General Emmanuel Nogeira. "I do not know what this man is saying."
"There's one way to prove the truth," Remo said. "The real Nogeira has five general's stars tattooed to each shoulder."
General Nogeira squared his shoulders.
"Nonsense," he said, tightening the cord on his terrycloth robe. "CIA lies."
"Then you would not mind disproving this accusation," Chiun said slowly, his eyes going as narrow and steely as knife blades.
"Seems to me, I recall a clause in that contract that covers unfinished business," Remo said pointedly.
The man who called himself Enrique Espiritu Esperanza looked from Remo to Chiun, to Remo again. His mouth fell open like a hungry frog's. "I refuse," he said, sweat forming on his smooth forehead. "I am Esperanza. I do not need to prove anything. To anyone. And when my men finish shooting at shadows, they will deal with that pig of a CIA agent," he added, indicating Remo.
"I see," said the Master of Sinanju, turning away. His hands slashed back like the talons of a striking eagle. Nails ripped the terry cloth away, exposing the broad brown shoulders of General Emmanuel Nogeira-and five bluish-green stars on each shoulder, where the artist's needle had inscribed them.
Before anyone could react, in from the front door poured a knot of triumphant Colombians. They burst into the room, holding their weapons at the ready for instruction.
General Nogeira pointed at Remo Williams and said, "Kill that blanco!"
Then the blood erupted from his naked throat, as the right index fingernail of the Master of Sinanju opened it with a seemingly careless slice.
As the once-again-dead dictator of Bananama started to tip forward into a fountain of his own gore, Remo went to work on the Colombians.
They were handicapped by the need not to fill the parlor with flying lead and hit their own leader, so they began backing around for clean shots even as Nogeira's throat split open.
Remo danced in. He kicked high, and sent the jaw of one Colombian crashing up through his own palate. His foot had barely touched the rug on the rebound when the attached ankle twisted, and Remo's other foot went for a handy temple. The kick didn't tear the second Colombian's head off his shoulders. It only dislocated it. But the result was the same. The floor began to collect fallen Colombians.
The Master of Sinanju was more direct. He stepped up to each of his intended victims, batting their impotent weapons away, and punctured them at critical points. A paralyzing stab to a heart muscle here. A jugular-severing slice there.
It took less than two minutes. Nobody got off a single shot. When it was over, Remo and Chiun were the only ones left standing among the dead and dying.
They bowed once to one another formally. Remo bowed a second time. The Master of Sinanju returned it. But when Remo started a third bow, Chiun made a disgusted face and said, "Enough! Only a Japanese would indulge in such an unseemly display of emotion. Do not be a Japanese, Remo."