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The kilts served another useful purpose. On the streets of London, where tempers were running high, the kilts were an invitation to pick a fight. McGarrity knew it was just a matter of time before he and his lads crossed paths with more English pig-dogs who would be itching to take them on.

“Stew!” A young ruffian in a kilt and a bloodied faced loped up the street. “Come on, there’s a big blow about to go with the London leather boys. We’re rounding up all the Mad Scots to give those faggots a what-for.”

It was music to McGarrity’s ears. He’d had enough of the Asian pansies that passed for gangs in this part of the city. “That sounds about right to me,” he grumbled.

They jogged after their friend, other young Scotsmen—and not a few women—accumulated around them, until they had an army of one hundred tartans.

“I’m hoping we’re going to get some good London ass to whup, boys, but I got a feeling this is gonna be another mouse hunt,” McGarrity complained.

Butler grunted. “Yeah, unless dey they got the fuggink American Marines backin’ up dere asses, dis many Scots lads’ll make mush of ’em, whatever many dey got.”

McGarrity laughed. “Butler, yer a friggin’ sight to see!”’

The Scottish gangbangers guffawed at Butler’s expense. He took it good-naturedly and examined his reflection in a storefront window, which showed his pierced lower lip was now swollen four times its normal size. It was purple and blotted, and the wound continued dribbling blood down his chin to soak into the front of his woolen shirt.

“I loog like a freegin’ zombie,” he announced.

The Piccadilly streets were deserted until they came upon the band of London tough guys who were lying in wait for them. The unlikely assortment included street trash, sneering punks, leather boys and British street gangs, followed up by nervous-looking British bobbies. The cops weren’t about to step in yet—they were outnumbered ten to one at this stage. Reinforcements in riot gear were arriving in panel trucks.

Stew McGarrity put on a big grin. “This could be a worthwhile romp, after all, lads.”

The two sides came together and the battle was on.

Chapter 10

“You can’t go to Piccadilly. There’s a bleeding riot going on there!”

“Just drive.”

“What?” The cabbie turned on his passenger, not believing what he was hearing. “People are getting killed!”

Another man got in the cab. The newcomer was as small as a child and as old as any human being the cabbie had ever seen. His beard consisted of a few threads of pale whiskers on his chin, and there were tufts of hair over each ear. The old man was Asian, wearing a bright robe.

The American gave him a look. The Asian clearly didn’t understand how taxicabs worked in the Western world. You don’t just go getting into other people’s taxis.

“Hey, Little Father,” the American said, and the cabbie realized they knew each other. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“The Emperor has requested I hasten to your side. I boarded the first available aircraft for London.”

“Huh,” the American responded, not sounding happy about the news. “Let’s go, mac,” he said to the cabbie.

“Look, fella, I am not gonna take you into a war zone. People are dying.”

The elderly Oriental man was sitting still as a statue, his hands in his sleeves, obviously as deaf as a post. The younger man sighed.

“Look, I have a job to do. My patience is gone. Now, drive this cab to Piccadilly or I will.”

The cabbie was infuriated. “Mate, think of the poor old bloke at least. Those bangers will beat him up just for looking like an old Jap gigolo.”

The cabbie briefly glimpsed the American reaching over the seat—fast—and then he was propelled through the door, out of the cab and onto the curb. He scrambled to his feet just in time to see half of his driver’s seat back topple out of the open door. It had been sliced down the middle. The old man’s hand was being withdrawn from the open space.

It couldn’t be what it looked like. Because it looked as if the old man’s fingernails had just done a machete number on the car seat—steel springs and all.

“I think a thank-you would be in order,” the American said as he walked around the car and sat in what was left of the driver’s seat. “I did just save your life.”

“My cab!” the cabbie started to say.

“You really want to get back in with the Jap gigolo sitting right behind you?”

“No …”

“Maybe you want to try to forcibly remove the Jap gigolo …”

“Stop saying that!” the tiny Asian squeaked.

The cabbie couldn’t answer and the cab was gone. He picked up the half of the seat back and held it close, like a frightened child with his most comforting stuffed animal.

“You just can’t do that—that’s all there is to it. Killing people indiscriminately attracts attention. There are some ethical reasons, too.”

“You heard what he said of me,” Chiun replied icily.

“But he wasn’t even saying that he thought you looked like a—” Remo stopped when Chiun glared at him menacingly in the rearview mirror. “Whatever he said, it was what he thought the gangbangers were going to think you looked like. So he was really doing you a favor.”

“And I was doing the world a favor by removing another English bigot from the population of procreators. It was you who committed a crime against humanity by preventing me from it.”

“I give up. Anyway, you’ll get plenty more chances to bloody your fingernail pretty soon.” Remo turned on the radio.

“They’re having a go at it twenty years from now,” exclaimed the disk jockey over a fading Toyah Wilcox track. “Bodies are piling up in London. There are reports that more than a thousand Scots have converged in Piccadilly to do battle with riot police. Scotland Yard spokesmen earlier said they’re pleased that the gangs are coming together of their own accord as it will make it easier to take them under police control. But the latest reports say the riot squads are being driven back and British army commandos are going in to do the job. Proof positive that the twenty-first century is completely blinking mad! We recommend you stay right here with us, in good old 1985!”

A synthesizer began repeating a soulless two-chord progression.

“I believe the announcer is delusional,” Chiun observed.

“Sounds like the Mad Scots aren’t lying down easy.”

“I do not believe it. The Scottish could never threaten Britain’s stability.”

“We’ll see in a minute,” Remo said. He balanced on the seat with half a back and considered Smitty’s dire warnings. The growing agitation all over the world had resulted in city-wide riots. The problem was that the agitation was general. Sure, a bunch of Scottish thugs were causing all the trouble now, but there had been reports of Londoners turning aggressive. And not just the lowlifes. Regular, middle-class English citizens were starting to join the fight against the Scottish invaders. If those numbers grew, the battle could consume the city and shut down the British government for days—or indefinitely. Even Remo was having a hard time buying into it.

Chiun interrupted his thoughts. “We are instructed to bypass the peccadillo in Piccadilly.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with that bird,” Remo said. “Did you just say something dirty?”