"Now hold on there, fella," Roote said. "Ain't you forgetting somethin'? I whipped your ass last time."
As a reminder, he held up his hands. Sparks crackled between his metal-tipped fingers.
"You're nothing but a maniac crossbred with a microwave," Remo said. "I'm pulling your plug." The smile faded from Roote's face. He obviously didn't consider Remo a threat. He stood his ground as Remo strode ever closer to him.
"Are you working for Chesterfield?" the private demanded. "'Cause he's the real maniac. He knew what I was. But he went ahead and made me like this anyway."
"He's next."
Roote nodded. "Yep, I reckon he is. But I'll be the one gettin' him."
And with that, Roote lowered his hands. Optical targeting sensors locked on Remo's chest. All ten fingers combined their strength, launching a single explosive burst of electricity from Elizu Roote's gold fingertips.
But for the first time since his high-tech hardware was installed, something went wrong. He had a positive target lock, but for some reason, the target wasn't there.
The electrical surge passed harmlessly through the air, pounding into the rear of the shed. The tin roof rattled in angry protest.
Roote scanned the area quickly, looking for Remo once more. He found his target immediately- Remo was several feet to the left of where he had been. He was also much closer to Roote.
At the same time he was locating Remo, Roote's sensors registered another figure in the combat area.
He was coming around the far side of the shed. Racing in Remo's direction.
"Alien killer!" Arthur Ford screamed.
The ufologist was rushing at Remo from behind, brandishing one of the M-16 assault rifles.
When Remo glanced over his shoulder toward Ford, he presented Roote with a perfect target. He was a sitting duck.
The Army private raised his hands, locking on Remo. But at the moment he was about to fire, his autonomic preservation system suddenly kicked in.
Ocular scanners automatically fastened on Arthur Ford's raised gun.
It all happened in an instant.
The blue sparks leapt from Roote's fingers, gathering into a single burst of lightning, but Remo was already falling and rolling even before the bolt of energy popped from the killer's fingers.
The surge leapt over the back of Remo's T-shirt, soaring behind him, connecting with an audible thump with the barrel of Arthur Ford's M-16.
The shock flung Ford backward. He soared high in the air, crashing solidly into the rear of the shed. The metal buckled beneath the deadweight of his lifeless body. Both ufologist and gun dropped to the dirt.
Roote wheeled back to where Remo had been. He was no longer there.
To his horror, Remo suddenly reappeared, this time standing directly before Roote.
"Time to power down," Remo said flatly. Roote swung his hand around, trying to get a close-up shot at Remo. He found his arm blocked. And before he could fire again, he felt a sudden explosive pressure at the center of his chest. In the next instant he felt a push of warm air whistling past his ears, tugging him ever faster to the earth far below. The falling sensation was succeeded by a wet, engulfing blackness.
After that, Elizu Roote felt nothing at all.
ON THE LEDGE HIGH ABOVE, Remo Williams looked down at the limp body of Elizu Roote as it floated down the black strip of the Rio Grande. Desert stars twinkled brightly on the surface of the water.
Remo clenched and unclenched his hand. Something didn't feel right.
The crushing blow he had used against Roote's chest should have felt more solid. Instead, there had been an odd tingling sensation-almost as if the killing blow had failed to make complete contact. Obviously it had worked, however. Otherwise Roote would still be standing there.
Staring down at the limp body, Remo couldn't savor the victory. His success against Elizu Roote had come at a greater cost than he ever wished to pay.
He would have to collect the body of the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean would want to be buried in his native village, along with his ancestors. Although Remo tried to brace himself for what he would find inside the tiny shed, he knew that it would be impossible to do.
Heart heavy, Remo turned slowly back to the shack...
And nearly tripped over Chiun.
"Watch where you drop your fat white feet," the Master of Sinanju complained. He was observing the body as it washed slowly down the river. His face settled into lines of satisfaction as the current carried Elizu Roote around a bend and out of sight.
Remo no longer cared about Roote. He was staring in shock at the wizened form of the Master of Sinanju.
"You're alive!" Remo said, elated.
"And you are a lazybones," Chiun charged. "Now you get better. After I have done all the work."
"How?" Remo asked, dumbfounded. For the first time he noticed the film of dirt on Chiun's silver kimono.
Chiun shrugged. "The ground here is softer than it is back at the encampment of idiots," he said. He patted the sleeves of his kimono with his slender fingers. Thin clouds of dust escaped into the night air.
"So what?" Remo asked. Even as he said it, a light seemed to dawn in his eyes.
"Now you see." Chiun smiled. "You are not as uneducable as people say."
"You burrowed into the ground the second Roote started zapping the hut," Remo said, nodding in appreciation. "Like a prairie dog."
"Aside from the insulting rodent reference, you are essentially correct," Chiun agreed. "I will overlook the slur in consideration for all that you have been through."
Remo smiled. "So you finally believe me?" he asked.
Chiun was blandly surprised. "Did I ever doubt you?" he said.
All Remo could do was laugh.
As they walked away from the ledge, Chiun continued to flap his silver kimono sleeves against his skirts. Plumes of dust rose into the black desert night.
Chapter 29
In the paneled study of an anonymous ivy-covered townhouse in Arlington, Virginia, General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield was reviewing his Shock Troops notes. He was scheduled to make a presentation at the Pentagon in just under two hours, and he wanted to make certain that every shred of his involvement with the development of the project was purged from the records.
It was easy enough to do. He controlled the only remaining notes and schematics. The essential scientific staff was dead. The others only knew him as some kind of military liaison to the project. He had always played his cards right with the braniacs on the team. Good thing, too. Even though the shit had already hit the fan at Fort Joy, so far Chesterfield had been able to fob it all off on the CIA. He'd reinforce that impression this afternoon at the briefing.
The big leather sofa on which he sat creaked in protest as he adjusted his massive frame. A small pen gripped awkwardly in his huge fingers underlined important sections in his notes.
Harold Jones. Central Intelligence operative. The man was an idiot. His arrival on the scene had handed Chesterfield the scapegoat he was looking for.
When the investigations started, it would be a pleasure to watch Jones, the persnickety would-be autocrat, sweating before some congressional oversight committee, trying to explain that he had nothing to do with Shock Troops. No one ever believed the CIA. This would certainly not be the exception to that rule.
Maybe they'd even televise the hearings. The whole nation would learn of the CIA perfidy. Chesterfield would enjoy that.
Remo H. and Chiun, last name unknown. Jones's CIA hit squad. Remo was the muscle. Chiun was probably some kind of Chinese commie hireling.
It was beautiful. So much so that Chesterfield put an extra squiggle beneath both their names. He would be sure to mention them repeatedly during the briefing. It would lend credibility to his own story.
Of course, there was the one big loose end. Elizu Roote.