Remo caught Chiun's attention with a wave. He raised two fingers in the old V-for-victory sign. He hoped Chiun would recognize the signal for a double Scarlet Ribbon.
Remo had no time to wait. He began to run. He cut left, then right, not seeking shelter from the rounds that were flying in all directions, sickling leaves from trees and chopping the Spanish moss that decorated the eucalyptus. Remo picked up speed until he was moving in a weaving pattern known to old Masters of Sinanju as the Scarlet Ribbon.
Bullets flew around his head and feet. No one aiming could possibly hit him, Remo knew, because by the time they lined up on him, he was already moving out of target position. His only fear, strangely enough, was from wild ricochets. But as he wove the beginnings of the ribbon, his mind was free of all fear, all doubt. He was at one with the situation.
The ribbon started to gain color when Remo encountered his first opponent. He took him out with a slashing side kick to the testicles. Another terrorist spotted him, and Remo paused a half-step, whirled, and as the man opened fire, came up under the bullet track and slapped his larynx loose. He went down gurgling. The dying man's wild fire caused another terrorist behind Remo to scream in agony. His screams attracted the attention of the other terrorists and Remo became the focus of that attention.
Which was exactly what he wanted.
It was then that the Scarlet Ribbon truly turned scarlet.
Remo moved in and out between his attackers. A thrust here. A flying kick there. He lunged for a man who was frantically pulling an empty clip from a Mac 10. Remo yanked a full clip from the man's belt and jammed it into the man's cloth-covered mouth, spiking him to the side of the bullet-riddled bus.
Others, seeing him pause in mid-action, trained their weapons on him. Triggers were pressed. The crossfire missed Remo, who flashed into action again. It got several terrorists. For that was what the Scarlet Ribbon was designed to do-turn the fury of a large force upon its members with killing result.
Remo resumed his furious running. Halfway through the ribbon, he streaked by the Master of Sinanju. "Sluggard's taken off in a panic," Remo said.
"His kind always does," returned Chiun as he executed a Heron Drop. He flashed into the air, seemed to hang in space like a dandelion seed settling to earth, and while streams of fire converged on the spot where he floated, his sandaled feet, spreading, came down on the heads of two terrorists fighting at close quarters. Two necks collapsed like empty soda cans. Vertebrae shattered audibly. Chiun alighted delicately and moved on.
Rashid Shiraz saw his bullets miss the old Oriental once again. He saw him break two of his fellow Iranians' necks. He sighted on the Oriental again. He missed. He missed again. He reloaded. And in the precious seconds between pulling out the empty clip and snapping in a fresh magazine, three more of his men fell on the grass, their blood staining the ground.
Rashid turned his attention back to the white man. He was bigger. He would be a better target. But when he looked, he saw his men trying to cut the American down. The man zipped between the bullet tracks crazily. It was an insane maneuver because he was not running away from the bullets, but among them. It was as if he were daring the men to shoot at him.
Instead, the men ended up shooting at one another. Witnessing his entire force wilting like roses in the summer heat, Rashid felt his courage run down his legs. He ran for the bus, hoping its tires were not punctured. The bus started. He sent it lumbering around and steered for the gaping gate. One gate half was still caught under the chassis. It sparked and rattled, inhibiting speed.
As Rashid barreled toward the entrance, he saw the stupid American boy, Lamar Booe, in the guard box. He sent a spray of bullets into the box. Lamar went down. There must be no one left to talk.
The bus cracked the fieldstone gatepost going around the corner and Rashid floored the gas.
The bus picked up speed slowly. The chassis rattled against the trapped gate. In his right-side mirror Rashid spotted the white American running after the bus.
"Fool!" he spat. And then he noticed that the Oriental was coming up on the left side. He cursed the trapped gate. It was slowing him down so much that even the old one was gaining on the bus.
Rashid kicked at the gas pedal desperately. The speedometer hovered at fifty. He blinked, At fifty they should not be keeping pace. Yet they were.
Rashid, cursing behind his kaffiyeh, sent the bus skittering around. If he could not outrun them, he would run them down.
The bus slammed around. Its sharp turn sent the gate flying. The tires were free. Rashid pushed the accelerator harder.
The two saw him coming. They stopped, side by side in the middle of the road, as he bore down on them. They did not move. Rashid grinned fiercely. Good. They were paralyzed with fear.
Their faces did not look fearful as they filled the windshield, however. They looked resolute. Even fearless. Rashid could see the whites of their eyes now. There was no mistaking their resoluteness. Were they suicidal?
Rashid had no more time to contemplate it. The bus was upon them. He whipped the tail of his kaffiyeh in front of his face protectively. The impact would certainly shatter the windshield into a million dangerous pieces. He shut his eyes.
But no sound of impact came. Instead, there was a double pop. Rashid wrestled with the suddenly difficult wheel. He shook the kaffiyeh free so he could see. The windshield was intact. And in the rearview mirror he could see, on either side, the two enemies of Islam settling to their feet as if they were coming out of attacking spins.
But what had they been attacking?
When the steering wheel lurched to the right, Rashid experienced understanding. He had a momentary flash, like telepathy, that his front tires had burst. Somehow, he had the wild mental image that the two men had burst them. He could imagine their flying feet doing that somehow. He knew it was impossible, but his mind leapt to that conclusion as if it was the only way it could correlate what was happening to him.
Then the bus lurched off the road onto the soft shoulder and down the riverbank.
Rashid's face kissed the windshield with shattering finality and the brackish taste of the river mud fouled his mouth.
Remo waded into the water, shoved open the folding doors, and looked in.
"Dead," he called back to Chiun.
"So perish the enemies of Sinanju," Chiun said firmly.
"You mean the enemies of Reverend Sluggard," Rerno said, returning to the roadside. "And he was probably the only one who could tell us what's going on."
"Perhaps one of the others lived."
"After a double Scarlet Ribbon? We'll be lucky if their fingerprints survived."
"True," said Chiun. "Although I noticed that during the first stage of the attack, your elbow was bent."
"It was not."
"Slightly."
"No way."
"Just a hair."
"Let's see if the Booe kid is alive," Remo said, annoyed. "I think he might have something to tell us."
"What makes you say that?"
"Reverend-General Sluggard turned white as a sheet when I mentioned that the kid was back. He was scared shitless."
"Reverend-General?"
"He was wearing a uniform, sword, and all the trimmings. "
"Then I was right!" Chiun exclaimed.
"About what?"
"I will tell you after the boy confirms it."
"Why not now so I won't be surprised?"
"You will be surprised in either case. And perhaps then you and Smith will finally learn to heed my wisdom. "