By Eminent Domain td-124 Read online

  In a shallow canyon below, white shapes scurried around a small fire.

  The Master of Sinanju's face grew worried. "They are spirits," he hissed.

  With narrowed eyes, Remo studied the figures below. At first glance they did look ghostly. The ten men wore off-white jumpsuits. Masks of cream white covered their faces.

  Training his ears on the valley below, Remo quickly found the supernatural give way to the painfully ordinary.

  "Unless somebody's changed what makes ghosts tick, those are just guys, Little Father. At least the last ghost I met didn't have a heartbeat."

  The Master of Sinanju tipped his head, listening to the sounds of the valley. Ten distinct heartbeats carried to his sensitive eardrums.

  "They live," Chiun said in soft surprise.

  "Live, breathe and stink like Russians," Remo said, his face fouling at the scent that had just carried to him on the breeze.

  Chiun had caught the distinct odor, as well. Abandoning all pretense of stealth, he rose to his full height. His lips puckered in displeasure.

  "If they are not spirits," he said, planting hands to hips, "why are they dressed to make us think they are?"

  "Winter camo," Remo suggested, getting to his feet, as well. "It'd give them an edge in the snow."

  "True Sinanju does not rely on parlor tricks to deceive the eyes of men," Chiun dismissed. "Therefore this whatever-it-is is false and stolen." He hiked up his kimono hems. "Come, Remo," he declared. "These brigands are already dressed for the Void. Let us dispatch them to the place where thieves dwell eternal."

  He started down the hill. Remo ran to catch up. "We save one for questioning," Remo insisted.

  "As you wish," Chiun said with crisp impatience. Eyes of hazel doom were directed on the men around the fire.

  Their last words carried to the group of commandos. Ten sets of black goggles turned to the hill.

  If there was shock beneath the masks, it didn't show.

  Remo and Chiun hit the valley floor at a sprint. Near the fire, the ten ghostly figures jumped to their feet. A few managed to grab guns. Almost in unison, all ten shifted their weight just as Remo and Chiun caught up with them.

  To any other eyes on the planet, it would have seemed as if they'd disappeared into the ether. Remo proved to the nearest man that he could still see him. He did this by planting the barrel of the man's own AK-47 deep into the center of his masked face. Both mask and face puckered. The man reappeared, harpooned on the end of his gun.

  "Peek-a-boo, I see you," Remo said as he tossed the body onto the fire. Sparks shot into the air. Near Chiun, a white-clad figure threw out a sloppy power thrust, palm forward, fingers curled.

  The cobwebs of Chiun's mouth drew tight at the affront.

  "You dare?" the Master of Sinanju cried, his voice flirting with the fringes of outrage. A downward stroke of his own arm severed the offending hand of the commando. As the hand fell, a long talon slid deep into the man's occipital lobe.

  The soldier fell like a cold white fog.

  A thrill of panic coursed through the remaining eight.

  One man tried to shoot Chiun. His smoking gun joined his steaming severed arms in the snow. "That is how Sinanju deals with thieves," the Master of Sinanju proclaimed, swirling into the midst of the men.

  Near Remo, one commando attempted a familiar Sinanju attack stance. One balled hand floated like a feathery mallet before his blank white face.

  "This one's not so crummy, Chiun," Remo called as he dodged a lightning blow.

  When he missed his intended target, the man's shoulder snapped from its socket. He fell screaming to the ground.

  "Okay, so I've seen better," Remo mused as the Russian rolled in agony in the snow. "But the pantry shelves ain't exactly stocked these days. Maybe I should keep him. In ten years he might be able to learn something."

  "Take a Russian for a pupil and I will disown you," the old Korean warned.

  Razorlike fingernails swept across a nearby pair of black goggles. Gashes raked the plastic. The eyes beneath popped like viscous balloons, sending streams of milky inner ocular fluid streaking through the air.

  "Why?" Remo asked. "Hasn't there ever been an alcoholic Master of Sinanju before?" With a sharp toe to the forehead, he finished off the commando with the dislocated shoulder.

  "Do not be ridiculous," Chiun snapped, eliminating the blinded soldier in the same way. "And pay attention."

  Another soldier leaped into the fray.

  Remo made an effort not to be distracted by the poetry of movement that was Sinanju. It had been a long time since he'd seen anyone other than Chiun or himself ply the art.

  When the commando attacked, Remo bent back at the waist, his spine forming a backward forty-five-degree angle as a sweeping hand attacked the spot where his chest had been.

  Another shoulder was dislocated as the commando's forward momentum carried him over Remo. Muscles and tendons strained and snapped, and he flew face first to the snow.

  "These guys know about two moves," Remo frowned. A pirouette ending in a crunching loafer heel to the back of the prone man's head sent the soldier to sparkling eternity.

  "It is two more than they have the right to know," Chiun replied, advancing on the next man like a vengeful dervish.

  The latest soldier shed his goggles in panic. His eyes grew wide at the old man's approach. A muffled shout issued from the flexible white mask that covered his mouth.

  Chiun's flashing fingers flew at the commando's neck. With nails strong as a lion's claws and as delicate as a surgeon's scalpel, he pierced the soldier's throat. A sharp twist snicked the spinal cord in three separate places.

  His strings cut, the soldier dropped limp to the snow.

  As displaced snow rose sparkling into the air, Chiun was already bounding over the corpse.

  Behind him three men were charging Remo. Frightened now, they'd abandoned their basic Sinanju training. Knives drawn, they lunged in unison at Remo's flimsy windbreaker.

  Before they could make contact, a thick-wristed hand flashed forward. The side of Remo's flattened palm snapped three successive knife blades.

  "Lesson number one," he instructed as the shards of tempered steel rocketed skyward. "Weapons cheapen the art."

  The three men slammed on the brakes. Eyes invisible behind goggles stared blankly at their naked knife hilts.

  "Lesson number two," Remo continued, aiming a single index finger straight in the air. "Don't look up."

  One of the men numbly followed Remo's finger rather than his advice. The returning knife blades shredded his upturned face to hamburger.

  There was a sharp intake of air from the remaining two as their bloodied comrade slipped from between them. Panicked heads twisted back to Remo.

  "Lesson number three-die with dignity." He gave them no time to do otherwise.

  Hands darting forward, he grabbed a fistful of ski mask in each and brought them sharply together. Waterproof masks quickly became home to a pair of misshapen masses that had formerly been human skulls.

  "Lesson number four," Remo said coldly as the bodies slipped from his hands. "Steal from the rest or face the wrath of the best."

  He heard a slippery hiss behind him. Wheeling, he was just in time to see the steaming red sack that was the tenth and final commando's internal organs slopping from out a yawning incision in his abdomen. The man joined his insides on the ground. Chiun stood above the gutted body, a look of deep disdain on his leathery face.

  "Dammit, you didn't save one," Remo groused. "Neither did you," the Master of Sinanju replied. He flicked an imaginary dollop of blood off his index fingernail as he padded over to his pupil.

  "Perfect," Remo scowled. "We better start figuring out a schedule for whose turn it is to save one, 'cause we sure as hell can't keep doing this all the time." He pointed at one of the dead men. "That one yelled some Russian claptrap at you before you finished him off. What'd he say?"

  Chiun folded his hands inside his kimono sleev
es. "'It is you,'" he replied, his voice betraying mild curiosity.

  Remo looked from the body to the Master of Sinanju. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

  "I am Reigning Master of Sinanju. Perhaps my reputation has preceded me," the old man speculated.

  "Right," Remo said skeptically. "Probably has your Topps rookie assassin trading card in a plastic collector's case on his bureau back home."

  He squatted to pull the mask off the dead man. It wasn't easy, given the fact that the man's eyes were oozing down his face like a pair of runny two-minute eggs.

  "Yuck," Remo complained as he tugged the mask free. He flung it to the snow. "You ever see this guy before?"

  After peering at the dead man for but a moment, Chiun shook his head. "Whoever he is, he is unknown to me."

  Standing, Remo surveyed the small encampment with a frown. There was no sign of how the men had gotten there. They might as well have been actual ghosts, dropped in the middle of nowhere like this.

  Stooping, Remo checked a few pockets. He came up empty.

  "Well, ain't this just hunky-dory," he groused.

  When he glanced at the Master of Sinanju, he found that the old man wasn't listening to him. Lips puckered, Chiun had turned a shell-like ear to the south.

  Remo cocked an ear the same way. The faint sound of a distant helicopter carried to his ears.

  Chiun was already marching back toward the hill. "I hope it's their ride," Remo grumbled, following. "And if it is, question first, eviscerate second, got it?"

  "Do not blame me if you can't keep track of your own silly plan," the Master of Sinanju called back. Up the hill and back down into the narrow gorge, they retraced their steps back out to the plain. By the time they emerged from the low hills, the helicopter had swept in close. A few hundred yards distant, it flew back and forth through the night sky.

  The helicopter almost seemed to be lost. But when Remo and Chiun emerged from the hills, it suddenly found focus. Banking right, it steered a beeline for them.

  "Infrared," Remo commented as they walked across the surface of the ankle-deep snow. He had detected the telegraphing signals directed from the approaching chopper.

  The helicopter was of an unfamiliar design. An extra set of rotor blades rose into the sky above it. Furiously chopping at air, the helicopter quickly ate up the distance to them, coming to an angry hover above the two lonely men on the desolate plain.

  Swirling clouds of snow blew out all around. "You think we're just gonna stand here looking at each other until the spring thaw?" Remo called to Chiun over the roar of the rotors.

  His eyes had left the helicopter for but a moment. The instant they did, he saw a sudden look of tight concern appear on the wrinkled face of the Master of Sinanju.

  Remo followed the old man's gaze back to the helicopter.

  A face now peered out the small rear window. A fringe of blond hair peeked out from under a furry parka hood.

  Remo's stomach sank.

  An instant after he'd seen her, the face of Anna Chutesov disappeared from view and the helicopter began to descend from the frigid black sky.

  Remo shot a hard look at the Master of Sinanju. "It's official," he called over the roar of the rotors. "We have a new winner in the Suckiest Week of My Life Sweepstakes."

  His words swirled away in a vacuum of wind-tossed snow.

  Chapter 16

  Remo could tell by the grave look on Anna Chutesov's face when she emerged from the Kamov that things were even worse than either he or Chiun imagined.

  She hurried over to them, the wind plastering the fur fringe of her heavy parka against her forehead. Her delicate face-used to freezing Russian winters-was bare. A scarf was knotted at her neck, spilling up around her pale chin.

  "Are you gonna start showing up now every time we kack a Russian hit squad?" Remo asked her. "Because at the rate we've been going lately, you're gonna be racking up some major frequent-flyer miles."

  "You killed some of them?" Anna asked by way of greeting. "Where are they?" Her tense voice was urgent.

  "Nice to see you, too," Remo said dryly. "And since we've dispensed with the pleasantries, you mind telling me just what the hell you people think you're doing here?"

  "The last time I checked I was a single person," Anna said thinly.

  "Why buy the cow when it gives its milk away like a barnyard harlot?" the Master of Sinanju volunteered. His hands in his kimono sleeves, he appraised the Russian with bland distaste.

  "I don't mean you you," Remo said to Anna. "I mean Russia you. We've got more dead Russians back there than you had running that backward country of yours back in the early eighties." He stabbed a thumb at the hills behind him.

  "They are there?" Anna said, her voice intent. "How far? How many?"

  "Ten," Remo replied. "About a mile and a half in."

  Before he could say any more, she had turned on her heel and was marching back through the snow to the Kamov.

  Remo gave Chiun a questioning look.

  "Do not look at me," the old Korean sniffed. "She is your scarlet woman."

  Turning wordlessly from his teacher, Remo dogged Anna back to the helicopter. Chiun padded alongside him.

  "Where are you going?" Remo demanded,

  "I must examine the bodies," Anna answered. "You may come along if you wish."

  "That's mighty white of you," Remo said aridly. "And don't waste your time. I checked them already. No ID."

  "You will forgive me, Remo, if I question your thoroughness?" Anna droned as she boarded the Kamov.

  Remo's face fouled. "Who swiped your Pamprin?" he said. He tried to board the helicopter but the Master of Sinanju pushed past him, settling into the seat behind Anna's.

  The Kamov was lifting off the ground even as Remo was pulling the door shut behind him. At Anna's direction, the pilot steered for the low hills.

  "So what's the big Russian deal here?" Remo demanded as they swept across the plain.

  "My government is not responsible for what is happening if that is what you mean," Anna replied. She was looking out the window. The first low hills dropped away behind them. "These men are renegades. There are more than just the ten you say you stopped. With any luck, this group can offer us some clue where the others might be."

  "Yeah, well, we'd kind of like to know, too," Remo said. "Seeing as how these guys have somehow gotten hold of some bogus, watered-down version of Sinanju."

  Anna's heart rate quickened. Both Remo and Chiun noted the change.

  "I know," she admitted darkly.

  "No, you don't," Remo said. "Sinanju the discipline is Sinanju the village's bread and butter. If someone steals from Sinanju, they're stealing food out of my people's mouths."

  "Your people," Anna stressed.

  "Yes, my people," Remo nodded. "They might be a pack of ugly, ungrateful backstabbers, but they're our pack of ugly, ungrateful backstabbers. We're responsible for them, and if someone else gets hold of Sinanju skills-any Sinanju skills-they dilute the market for the real deal. Not to mention making us look bad with their sloppy techniques. Back me up here, Little Father."

  The old man's face was unchanged. "I do not have to, for you are doing well enough on your own," he said.

  At the Korean's words and tone, Anna raised an eyebrow.

  "There, you see?" Remo pressed. "So where the hell'd these guys learn their moves?"

  Anna started to speak, but something out the window caught her eye.

  "Wait," she said.

  The helicopter was sweeping up the ravine, lights from the belly illuminating the terrain. They might have missed the bodies if not for the blood. The pilot managed to settle the Kamov in a small adjacent valley. As he cut the engines, Anna was popping the door.

  She hurried through the ravine, coming into the encampment in the direction opposite the one Remo and Chiun had first used. The two Masters of Sinanju followed.

  The first body was of the man Chiun had eviscerated. Stepping gingerly arou
nd the gore, Anna pulled off the man's goggles and mask.

  The face beneath was ghostly pale in death. The Russian's hair was dark. That was the extent of her examination. Anna threw down the mask, moving quickly on to the next body.

  "You know, someone of a suspicious nature might wonder what you were doing way out here," Remo suggested as she tugged off another mask.

  "Since these men are Russians, I was sent by my government to stop what could become an international incident," Anna explained as she worked. "We were flying near the village where the slaughter took place when a radio transmission we intercepted said that two very unusual CIA agents had set off on foot through the snow. They said the men were underdressed and ill-equipped to survive in such a hostile environment." She raised a thin eyebrow beneath her fringe of hood. "However did I know it was the two of you?" she said with dull sarcasm.

  Finished with that body, she moved on. Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was playing once more with his hat flaps, supremely uninterested in both Remo and Anna. "You might work up a head of steam on this one, Chiun," Remo said. "It's your village these guys stole from."

  "It is our village," Chiun replied. "You have just said so. And nothing of any real value can be stolen from the village. We are Sinanju's greatest resource. Well, l am. But you are a close second. Third or fourth at the most."

  There was an odd undertone to the old man's words. As if his apathy were feigned.

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Remo droned.

  Turning from his teacher, Remo found Anna in the process of pulling off yet another mask. She grunted displeasure at the man's brown hair.

  "I can't help noticing you're not patting down pockets," Remo observed. "Care to tell us exactly which Russian you're looking for up here in the Great White North?"

  "Great Frontier," Anna corrected tensely, wiping blood from her hands on a white jumpsuit. She used the toe of her boot to roll over the next man. His belly was burned black where he'd landed on the campfire. "The Great White North is Canada," she explained as she pulled off the latest ski mask.

  "You sure?" Remo asked. "I thought Great Frontier was space."