Fade to Black td-119 Read online

  Three seconds.

  A concussive wave at his back. Early. The terrorist had miscounted.

  He felt himself being lifted in the air; thrown forward.

  Something flashed in his peripheral vision. Hands windmilling. Slicing furiously at air. Chiun.

  And in that sliver of airborne time at the hellish forefront of a consuming wave of raw explosive energy, Remo finally noticed the Master of Sinanju's costume. In his altered police uniform, the old man looked like Korea's answer to the Keystone Kops.

  Remo made a mental note to ask Chiun about the outfit when they reached the Void, for there was no doubt in his mind that they were both going to die.

  And as this final thought flitted through the mind of Remo Williams, the wave of intense heat from the powerful blast overwhelmed them.

  Chapter 15

  When the sound wave screamed over his prone form, exploding with deafening force in his ears, Remo realized that he had survived the explosion after all.

  The ground where he'd landed shook from the intensity of the blast. Pressure waves expelled before the rushing explosive force shattered windows in all of the studio buildings around him. Glass fragments attacked the roadway like shards of finely honed ice.

  Even as the sound blew away from him, rumbling furiously into the distance, the wide stretch of road where Remo had been thrown was pelted with a hail of hot gravel and dirt. Chunks of smoldering wood from the flimsy New York facades scattered like matchsticks, curls of smoke rising from their charred ends.

  The explosion and its aftermath-even the fact that he had come through in one piece-meant little to Remo. He had only one overriding concern.

  As he scampered to his feet, Remo's worried eyes searched for the Master of Sinanju. His tense face became a wash of relief when he spied the old Korean scurrying out from beneath an abandoned studio jeep. Embers from the explosion had ignited a small fire on the jeep's striped-cloth canopy.

  Chiun was getting to his feet when Remo approached.

  "That was close," Remo exhaled. As he walked, he slapped grime from his chinos.

  "Close!" the Master of Sinanju raged, parchment face flushed red. "Have you lost your mind?" Nails like daggers were clutched in furious fists of bone.

  "What's with you?" Remo griped, instantly aggravated at the belligerent stance the old man had taken.

  "I will tell you what!" Chiun snapped. "This-this outrage!" He waved an angry hand back toward where the explosion had leveled most of Times Square.

  From where they stood, only a portion of the set was visible. The buildings had been blown backward, their artificial fronts collapsed onto wooden frames. An unseen spot-presumably ground zero-belched thick acrid smoke over the roof of the nearest soundstage.

  Remo was astonished. Chiun was actually mad at him. He stabbed a finger in the same direction. "That was a freaking bomb, Chiun," he snarled.

  "I am not an idiot!" the Master of Sinanju retorted, stomping his big boots in angry frustration. With each stomp, his feet hit the ground a full second after his boots' soles. "I know what it was! What did you think you were doing with it?"

  "I thought I was saving your life!"

  "A likely story," Chiun snapped.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You know," the old man intoned coldly. "Do not pretend otherwise."

  "I don't," Remo said hotly. "And I can't believe you. The whole way down from goddamn Washington, I was worried out of my mind that you'd be blown to bits when I got here."

  "And when you found me still in one piece, you decided to do the job yourself," Chiun accused.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Remo said. "How was I supposed to know you'd be standing in the middle of the street decked out for the Korean touring company of HMS Pinafore? And while we're on the subject, what's with that outfit?" He waved a hand from the Napoleon hat that teetered on Chiun's head down to his shiny black boots.

  "Do not change the subject," Chiun huffed, adjusting his bright green sash, "from the fact that you tried to kill me."

  Remo took a step back, shocked. "What?" he demanded.

  "Do not insult me by denying it," Chiun sniffed. As he shook his head, great sadness swelled where anger had been. "Oh, Remo, how could you? A bomb, no less. I knew you were jealous of my incipient fame, but how could you debase our art so completely? Could you not think of a less insulting way to kill me, like a blowgun or even poisoned food? A box of asps delivered to my trailer would have at least shown some inventiveness on your part. But this..." With a sweep of his arm, he took in the smoking debris.

  "Look, Chiun," Remo said, attempting to inject a reasonable tone in his voice, "you know how ridiculous this sounds. You accused me of trying to kill you before and you were wrong, remember?"

  "My only error was ever being foolish enough to think I was wrong," Chiun said. His hands slipped inside the sleeves of his uniform.

  "C'mon, you have to know I would never in a million years try to kill you," Remo argued.

  "I know nothing of the sort," Chiun retorted. His frown spread deep across his parchment face. "There is no telling how far behind your sabotage will put this production," he complained. "Had I only known the depths to which you would stoop to undermine me, I would have convinced this studio to produce a low-budget vanity project to keep your resentful mind occupied." Skeletal hands framed an invisible marquee. "Remo the Boom-Wielding Master: the Adventure Begins. "

  "That's the stupidest frigging subtitle in motion-picture history," Remo commented.

  "Go on," Chiun offered, grabbing at his chest. "Insult my creativity. Your spiteful words are further proof of your blind malice. O, what a dark day this is for the House of Sinanju. I cannot even begin to think how I will record your actions in the sacred scrolls."

  Remo had been racking his brain for a way to prove his innocence. Chiun's last words offered him an opportunity that hadn't occurred to him.

  "Okay, let's look at this from a different perspective," Remo began logically. "In the histories of Sinanju, you want to be called Chiun the Great Teacher, right?"

  Horror flooded Chiun's face. "You have been going through my things?" he gasped.

  Remo rolled his eyes. "You showed me, remember? You were afraid I'd get the Korean characters all wrong when I took over writing the histories."

  "I do not recall," Chiun huffed.

  "You told me that I was too stupid to get it right and that without proper instruction my Korean characters could lead future generations to think you'd trained a monkey. You had me write the damn thing five thousand times."

  Chiun's nose crinkled in concentration. "Or perhaps I do remember," he admitted.

  "Okay," Remo said, dropping his bombshell. "Would Chiun the Great Teacher ever train a pupil who would sink to using a bomb?" He let the words hang in the air between them.

  Chiun grew mute, considering for a long moment.

  For the first time since he'd met him, Remo was making logical sense. Maddeningly so. Chiun would never train someone who would deign to use a bomb. Assassinate his teacher, yes-that had been acceptable a handful of times in the long history of the House. But use a bomb? No. With great reluctance, he accepted the truth of his pupil's argument.

  "Very well," Chiun grumbled unhappily. "I will grudgingly accept that you did not try to kill me."

  "Amen," Remo sighed.

  A long nail waggled in Remo's face. "But this does not excuse your vandalism. It would almost be better to use a bomb to kill than to wreak this sort of wanton destruction. Your childish tantrum has disrupted my film."

  "Chiun, this had nothing to do with your movie," Remo said. "I really was trying to save your life."

  "I am perfectly capable of safeguarding my own life," Chiun complained.

  "In that getup?"

  "My costume is not the issue, Remo. We are discussing your seething resentment of my great talent." He tipped his head, in birdlike curiosity. "But while we are on the subject, do you like
it?" He held his hands out wide, offering Remo an unobstructed view of his uniform.

  By his tone, Remo could tell that the Master of Sinanju had softened. With at least a semblance of normalcy restored, he felt the day's tension drain from his shoulders.

  "It's great, Little Father." He smiled.

  "Do you really think so?" Chiun asked worriedly. He turned to offer Remo a full view of the costume's back. "You do not think it is too much?"

  Remo shook his head. "It's perfect," he said.

  Nodding acceptance, Chiun returned his hands to his baggy sleeves. "I was to wear it in my big scene today," he lamented. "Now I do not know what will become of my debut."

  "That's the least of your worries, I'd imagine," Remo said. "That little firecracker wasn't the only one I had to douse. There were five more parked all over the place."

  Chiun squinted in confusion. "What are you saying?"

  "I'm saying someone was trying to give blockbuster a new meaning, and it wasn't me. This studio was rigged to blow sky-high. With you in it," he added.

  This time there was no questioning Remo's word. Grave understanding blossomed on the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled face. The old Korean nodded craftily.

  "So, the dastards have finally shown their true colors," he uttered, his voice a menacing whisper.

  "You came to the same conclusion I did," Remo said tightly. He was thinking about the truck bomb that had been parked across Bindle's and Marmelstein's parking spaces. Under ordinary circumstances, the egotistical Taurus cochairs would never have tolerated an intrusion like that.

  Chiun was still nodding. "It could not be more obvious," he insisted.

  "I agree," Remo said.

  The old man pitched his voice low. "A rival movie studio has learned of my wonderful film and seeks now to ruin it."

  Remo blinked. "Um, that's not exactly who I had in mind," he said.

  But Chiun wouldn't hear it. "Do you not see?" he pressed. "This is a fierce business, Remo. Full of scoundrels and cutthroats. We must guard my film against further assault from the knaves at Paramount."

  "Paramount?" Remo asked warily.

  "It does not necessarily have to be them," Chiun confided. "It could very well be Twentieth Century Fox or Columbia. In truth, I do not trust any of the Warner brothers. This sort of thing would not be beyond them."

  "I don't think any of them are still alive," Remo suggested. "And I don't think this was a rival studio."

  "You are naive, Remo-" Chiun nodded "-as was I when first I arrived on this, the Lost Coast of America. Be warned-there are enemies lurking around every corner."

  "Some corners closer than you think," Remo muttered dryly. "Listen, Chiun, the only reason I even got wind of this is because I'm on an assignment." He went on to give a rapid outline of the situation, concluding, "Is there a scene in your movie where a Hollywood studio gets blown up?" Chiun shook his head. "There was, but it was removed," he admitted. "These fools made many alterations to my original Assassin's Loves, but that is no longer one of them."

  Remo hummed thoughtfully, glancing at the plume of smoke still rising from the blast site. It had trickled to a serpent curl of black. In the distance, the sounds of sirens rose over the soundstages.

  "It's still tied in somehow," Remo said firmly. "And I bet I know who can connect the dots."

  Chapter 16

  From a distance, they saw a single thinning thread of black smoke curling up beyond the high walls. It appeared to be coming from the rear lots at the far, far walls of the complex. Otherwise, Taurus Studios seemed completely intact.

  "Something went wrong," Hank Bindle droned as their limo drove along the outside of the plain white walls.

  Beside him, an ashen-faced Bruce Marmelstein slugged down the last of his martini before numbly dropping the empty glass to the green crushedvelvet seat.

  Fearful gawkers crammed every inch along the sidewalk, among them hordes of Taurus employees. "No explosion and now we're paying them to stand around," Bindle complained. He powered down a tinted window. "Get back to work!" he shouted to a kid on a bicycle. The boy responded by giving Hank Bindle the finger. "Did you see that?" the executive snapped at his partner. He stuck his face out the window. "I'm gonna ruin you! Try delivering papers in this town after today, you little punk!"

  Many of the people spilled over into the road, clogging traffic and blocking emergency vehicles. No police at the gates meant there was no one to deny them access to the studio lot.

  "Hurry up and go in!" Marmelstein snapped over the speaker when their driver hesitated at the main entrance.

  Leaving the crowd behind, they drove onto the lot.

  The buildings were perfect, just as they'd left them. There wasn't so much as a scratch or even a single bird dropping on the white facades.

  "Maybe it hasn't happened yet," Bindle ventured.

  "I think it did," Marmelstein replied. His sick eyes watched the distant smoke dissipating across the pate blue California sky. "But it was a big fat dud."

  "We didn't pay for a dud," Bindle whined. Driving deeper onto the lot, they finally saw the only obvious effects of the single exploded truck bomb. Hundreds upon hundreds of cracked windowpanes. Farther along, they could see those windows closest to the blast site had shattered completely. But otherwise, everything was exactly as they'd left it.

  "This is not good," Bruce Marmelstein said woodenly as the limo stopped in front of the executive office building.

  "Broken windows," Hank Bindle lamented. "A few measly broken windows. I don't think our insurance even covers broken windows."

  The Taurus cochairs waited for their driver to run around and open the back door. Climbing out, they smelled the hint of smoke on the breeze.

  "Smoke," Marmelstein complained. He placed a pinkie ring to his surgically altered chin. "I should be standing this deep in rubble right now."

  A horrified gasp from his partner snapped his attention away from the lack of mess.

  "What the hell is this?" Hank Bindle hissed. When Marmelstein looked, his partner was standing near their reserved parking spaces. A large truck had been parked across both exclusive spots. The only portion of either of their names still visible was the gilded "dle" of "Bindle."

  "This is great!" Bindle raged. "This is fucking great!" He launched a Gucci toe into the side of the truck. "Un-fucking-believable!" As he shouted, he repeatedly kicked the side of the truck in punctuation. "A fucking dud of a fucking bomb and on top of every fucking other fucking fuck-hole thing that has happened to-fucking-day, a fucking truck is parked in my fucking space."

  Each successive word brought a more violent kick from the studio executive. Sweating and red faced, he was enlarging the dent he'd already made in the truck's side when he heard a timid voice behind him.

  "Um, Hank?"

  Hank froze in midpunt. Turning angrily, he saw Bruce Marmelstein's eyes and nose peeking over the trunk of their limo. A nervous finger appeared next to the nose. It pointed carefully at the gleaming yellow truck.

  "You're kicking one of the bombs," Marmelstein whispered.

  Confusion lasted only as long as it took Hank Bindle to turn ever so slowly to the truck. The giant Plotz letters stenciled on its side stared down ominously at him. When he looked back at his cowering partner, his eyes were wide.

  Screaming for his mommy, Bindle dived over the trunk of the limo, collapsing painfully to elbows and knees next to Marmelstein. He scurried to a kneeling position. Both Taurus cochairs peeked over the roof.

  The truck remained silent.

  "Do up think it's kick activated?" Bindle whispered.

  "It didn't do that thing bombs do," Marmelstein said. "You know, that ka-boom thing?"

  Both men stared apprehensively at the truck. It persisted in not ka-booming. Bindle took this as a sign.

  He pointed to the building.

  "Maybe we should go inside," he mouthed. Marmelstein only nodded. Together, they crept to the gleaming glass doors of the executive office
building.

  When the cracked panes swung closed between them and the truck bomb that was capable of not only leveling the building they were in, but also obliterating several other buildings in the near vicinity, the two film executives breathed a sigh of relief.

  They took the elevator up to their office suite. The interior glass doors between their inner sanctum and their secretary's office had survived the blast. They pushed inside, trudging wearily onto the plush carpet.

  They hadn't gone more than three steps toward their desks when they were surprised by a frighteningly familiar voice.

  "The imbeciles return to the scene of the crime." Stunned, Bindle and Marmelstein wheeled around. Their eyes grew wide when they saw Remo leaning against the stucco wall next to the office door. Fear clutched their bellies.

  The door was blocked. As one, they settled for the next best thing. In a tangle of panicked legs, they made a mad dash for the picture window.

  Hank Bindle dived into the pane headfirst. Though cracked, the glass didn't give. He dropped like a stone to the carpet, clutching his bloodied forehead.

  Bruce Marmelstein did a karate-like flying kick. He missed the window completely, slamming instead into the mahogany wet bar. He bounced from bar, to desk, to floor. His landing was surprisingly soft, if a little lumpy.

  "Get off me," the lump that was Hank Bindle gasped.

  Using knees and fists, Bindle knocked Marmelstein off. Both men collapsed, panting, onto their backs. They found themselves staring up into Remo's hard face.

  "Now that we've got the floor show out of the way," Remo said.

  They had met Mr. Chiun's friend during the Hollywood terrorist crisis. At the time, Taurus had been purchased by the leader of a Mideast nation as a front for his invasion. Bindle and Marmelstein didn't know this. Even as tanks rolled down the streets of Hollywood, they were only interested in making the biggest movie ever.

  Only afterward did they really learn that they had participated in the most infamous case of terrorism to ever kiss American soil. Even so, neither Bindle nor Marmelstein ever fully realized what had actually happened back then. The one thing that they did know, however-the thing that they had carried with them ever since that time-was a fear of those dark, deep-set eyes. They had never wanted to look into those eyes again. But here they were. Back once more. And more frightening than either man remembered.