By Eminent Domain td-124 Read online

Remo made a disgusted face. "Purcell's gotta be the crappiest teacher in town," he whispered. In punctuation he slapped the flat of his palm against the door's surface.

  The steel door sprang open, sweeping into the two men who stood just beyond it and carrying them around to the wall. With a horrid crunch of bone, the two startled Russians were crushed between door and wall.

  The remaining six men who were creeping across the roof saw barely a flash of movement from the door before Remo and Chiun exploded through the opening.

  Remo took the ones on the left, Chiun the three to the right.

  The Master of Sinanju's flashing nails formed gills of spurting blood in the throats of his three commandos. As they fell to their knees, clutching necks, three pulverizing heel strikes to the forehead launched Russian bone shards deep into Russian brains.

  Beside the old man Remo grabbed a commando head in each hand. He snapped them together, the head of the third soldier in between. Skulls cracked and commandos dropped.

  All six soldiers formed a tangled pile of limbs on the dark roof.

  "Count?" Remo asked, spinning to Chiun. "Seventy-three," the old man replied.

  He tipped his head, reconsidering.

  Whirling, the Master of Sinanju's outstretched toe caught the chin of a commando just peeking over the roof's edge. The man's head came loose in precisely the way heads weren't supposed to. The head bounced to the neighboring roof, rolling to a stop near an air vent. The body plummeted to the dark alley below. The wizened Korean turned a bland eye to his pupil. "Seventy-two," he amended.

  Remo heard the headless body thud to earth. Hushed voices called urgently to one another far below.

  "Say, Chiun, I've got a game for you," Remo said. "Ever play lawn darts?"

  Chiun stroked his thin beard. "I do not believe I am familiar with it."

  "You're gonna love it," Remo assured him. "It's right up your alley. Or down, as the case may be."

  Remo quickly gathered the eight rifles that had been dropped by the Russians. Bringing them to the edge of the roof, he leaned seven on the ledge, keeping one in his hand.

  "The object is to use a dart," Remo said, holding out a gun, "to hit your target. Permit me to demonstrate."

  Raising the rifle like a spear, he leaned over the edge of the roof. With a crack the gun rocketed from his fingers, disappearing down into the dark alley.

  Leaning on the ledge, both men watched the rifle scream into the head of an Institute soldier who was standing among the group that encircled the decapitated body.

  The flying barrel buried deep into skull and torso. By the time it stopped burrowing, the soldier looked as if he'd sprouted a gun-butt dorsal fin.

  "See?" Remo said, smiling at Chiun as the other commandos began firing in a blind panic up at the roof. "Lawn darts is more of a suburbs thing. I had stickball and kick-the-can growing up. But there's really nothing to it."

  Chiun appeared to agree. "Move, amateur," he commanded. Muscling past Remo, he grabbed a gun in each hand.

  The frantic firing of a moment before had begun to slow, but as soon as Chiun's bald head peeked over the roof's edge, the shooting began in earnest once more. Bullets whizzed around the flaps of the old man's hat. Frowning, Chiun ducked back, the guns still clutched in his hands.

  "Am I given extra points for distractions?"

  Remo shook his head firmly. "Part of the challenge."

  Chiun nodded. "I accept your rules," he said. As he tilted forward, fingers like sticks of bone hurled the guns down.

  The soldiers in the alley barely had time to register the blurry black apparition high above before two more rifles howled into their midst. Two upraised faces snagged the guns in nudgoggle. The barrels exploded out the backs of skulls, burying deep in asphalt. Like insects in a science project, the men were pinned to the alley floor.

  The shooting intensified, even more frantic than before.

  Chiun dodged the bullets, clapping his hands delightedly.

  "Bull's-eyes!" he sang happily as he slipped back to the safety of the roof.

  Bullets continued to zing through vacant air.

  "Not bad," Remo said. "But I wouldn't make room in the trophy case yet. We've still got sixty-nine more to go."

  Reaching over, he grabbed another makeshift dart.

  THEY LOST CONTACT with the Khrushchev Brigade at 10:30 p.m. When they called the Molotov Brigade, the Institute commando in charge failed to answer his radio.

  When the first sounds of gunfire pierced the night, Vladimir Zhirinsky jumped. Afterward the silence seemed all the more deafening, all the more menacing. The voices that did come over the radio were panicked and undisciplined.

  It was the Institute training. The men were former athletes and dancers. They weren't soldiers. They had encountered something unexpected and were reacting to it like a bunch of frightened gymnasts and ballerinas.

  "This is not happening," Zhirinsky said, his voice a barely audible rumble.

  The walls of his office were very close. The world had closed in. Tighter than the room, smaller even than the space in which Vladimir Zhirinsky existed. He felt the crush of his collapsing universe behind his bleary eyes.

  Around his ankles was a pile of crumpled paper. His great speech to Mother Russia. Worthless now. After the American voice had taunted him, he had decided to take his aide's advice and move up his address to the Russian people. Not only did he learn that the satellite on which the signal was to be broadcast belonged to Mickey Mouse, but he also found out that he had been dumped off the feed. The people would not hear his carefully crafted call to arms.

  He snapped. In a moment of rage he decided to set off his precious nuclear bomb and ride the mushroom cloud into oblivion along with his unknown American tormentors. But when the men he sent to detonate the device attempted to do so, it flared to life, launching off the flatbed trailer before coming to a spluttering stop in the drive-through arch of a downtown bank. It failed to explode.

  When he vowed to visit vengeance upon the incompetent head of the man to whom he had entrusted both the satellite and the missile, he learned Ivan Kerbabaev had disappeared.

  And so Vladimir Zhirinsky sat. Dark lids failed to blink over bloodshot eyes.

  More weak gunfire popped somewhere across town. Zhirinsky climbed to his feet, clutching his stomach. Sick eyes looked out the window.

  Beyond the frosty pane the Soviet flag waved mockingly at him. Zhirinsky pressed a palm against the glass, his sagging face filled with longing.

  When his part-time aide hurried into the room, Zhirinsky didn't even acknowledge his presence. "Comrade, we must leave," the young man announced.

  Zhirinsky continued to stare out the window.

  The dream was gone. The Americans had sent in some sort of commando force. Greater even than the men from the Institute. The Soviet Union was gone. Vanished into the mists of time like all great empires. It would never return.

  "Comrade," the voice behind him pressed. Zhirinsky turned from the window.

  His aide's face was pleading. "If we are to escape with our lives, we must go now," he begged.

  The distant gunfire intensified, then ceased. Zhirinsky considered his words. He tried to think, tried to force some small, rational part of his mind to understand the wisdom of the words.

  "We have failed," Zhirinsky admitted softly. "Listen. The gunfire has stopped. The men do not report that they are victorious, therefore they have failed."

  "Which makes it all the more urgent that we go now."

  "Go how?" Zhirinsky asked. "You have told me that our helicopters have been destroyed. We cannot take another plane from the airport, for our pilots are dead and I put into exile any Americans who could fly. I am trapped."

  The aide shook his head urgently. "The vehicles that brought the commandos here are still parked at the edge of town. Comrade Skachkov told me where they are. We can escape into the wilderness. There are provisions for a hundred men hidden at the camps the men were using. Whe
n they stop looking for you, we can flee back to Russia."

  Zhirinsky absorbed the man's words.

  "Skachkov," he said quietly. "You have spoken to him?"

  "He called a few minutes ago. His radio malfunctioned, so he did not know that the others were sent to the chamber of commerce building. He is on his way there now."

  A spark lit in Zhirinsky's coal-black eyes. "The tables have just turned," he intoned.

  He was thinking of that day he had met Lavrenty Skachkov in Gorky Park all those months ago. Zhirinsky had never seen his like-not even among the other Institute men. Whoever these Americans were, they could not be equal to Skachkov.

  "The dogs think they have beaten us back this day," Zhirinsky said ominously. "But we will be victorious. In case Skachkov is late arriving, I will fall back for now. Once he is successful in wiping out these capitalist spies, we will hasten back to Russia while the mood of the people is still with me. This revolution will be fought like the first. From house to house and in the streets."

  The words were spoken with proud certainty. Grinning like a conqueror, Vladimir Zhirinsky pushed past his aide and marched quickly from the small office.

  FLASHES POPPED like minifireworks from the alley floor. As Russian commandos laid down cover fire, nearly two dozen more mounted the fire escape.

  Remo and Chiun had exhausted their supply of makeshift darts, eliminating six more Institute soldiers. As bullets whizzed through air, they hunkered down behind the brick upper ledge of the Fairbanks chamber of commerce building.

  A bony hand slithered out, clasping on to the uppermost metal rail of the fire escape. Chiun tuned himself to the vibrations of the men climbing the stairs. When the first commando was nearly in striking distance, the Master of Sinanju nodded sharply.

  "Now," he hissed.

  Remo took the cue. Like a shot he flipped up and over. Shoulders didn't have time to brush the ledge before he was out in open air. He dropped like a stone, his legs curled tightly up to his trunk. Three stories down, his legs unbuckled, absorbing the fall like coiled springs.

  He fell so fast the men in the alley hadn't seen him. Goggles aimed skyward, they continued to shoot blindly into the air even as Remo spun to the fire escape.

  Remo slapped the metal twice. Flying hands cracked the heavy brackets that fastened the crisscrossing ladder to the rear wall. Three stories up, the Master of Sinanju shattered the upper bolts. Vibrations raced up and down the zigzagging structure, meeting with explosive force dead center.

  A sound like that of church bells striking a sour note rang out in the cold night.

  The Russians in the alley stopped shooting. On the fire escape the rest of the men froze.

  In the ensuing silence, all ears heard the first gentle creak. It was followed by a groan.

  And like a great metal dinosaur surrendering its last, the fire escape began to pull slowly away from the wall. By the time bolts started shooting like bullets into the side of the adjacent building, the men were already panicking.

  Russians on the ground tried to run. Those high up on the escape scrambled desperately for the top. Men jumped and screamed as, with a shriek of angry frozen metal, the fire escape buckled and dropped. Weighted down with its cargo of twenty-three Russian soldiers, it crashed in a mangled heap on top of eleven more in the alley below.

  As clouds of snow rose into the night, seven men who had avoided the crash attempted to flee the alley. Remo fell in among them.

  Hands and feet cut through them like a thresher's blade. He finished off any who had survived the crash just as quickly. Leaving the dead behind, Remo raced around the front of the building, ducking through the main entrance.

  Two men lurked inside the door. As he flew past, Remo launched an elbow into each skull.

  Another group of four commandos stood in the ground-floor hallway, backs braced against the wall, guns at the ready. They peered up into the dark depths of the staircase from which shots could be heard.

  Remo flew past the men, a flattened palm snapping out as he passed each in turn. Heads buckled plaster in a cascade of dust as Remo bounded into the stairwell.

  On the first flight of stairs he met another six. Screams and severed limbs fell in his wake.

  At the roof door he nearly plowed into the Master of Sinanju. The old Asian was springing into the landing.

  Chiun's weathered face was tight with concern. "How many?" the old man demanded.

  "We got a total of forty-one with the fire escape and in the alley. I got twelve more inside. What about you?"

  "Ten came through the roof door."

  "No kidding?" Remo said with a deep frown. "Then that's it for the ones here. Anna said the rest were in Russia. So much for the great Master from Sinanju who isn't from Sinanju. He must have been one of these guys." He waved a thick-wristed hand out toward the open roof door.

  Chiun shook his head firmly. "No," he insisted. "There is one more."

  "You sure? My count makes it-" He stopped dead.

  The two men still stood inside the open door. Chiun's back was to the roof. As Remo spoke, he spotted movement over the old man's shoulder.

  A dark figure had just scurried over the ledge. It landed on the roof on two certain feet. Slivered eyes sought out Remo and Chiun.

  Lavrenty Skachkov no longer wore the off-white uniform of the other Institute soldiers. He was dressed entirely in black. A stiff wind touched his closecropped white hair.

  Chiun sensed the movement behind him. He followed Remo's gaze, turning back to the roof. When he saw Skachkov, his face turned to stone.

  "Guess you were right with your adding," Remo said. He started out the door, but a touch to his elbow stopped him.

  "Beware the false Master, Remo," Chiun cautioned. "For although the scrolls record Wang's prophecy, they do not foretoken the victor."

  Remo glanced out at Lavrenty Skachkov. The young man stood a few feet in from the edge of the roof. Waiting.

  He seemed flawlessly balanced, spine in perfect alignment to the rest of his body. The Russian's hands were free at his sides as he watched Remo.

  "You've got a lot to learn about pep talks," Remo said.

  When Remo turned and walked back out the door, the Master of Sinanju came and stood just outside the door, a pinch of worry on his weathered face.

  On cautious, gliding feet Remo crossed over to where Skachkov waited. He stopped six feet shy of the Russian.

  For a cold moment, neither man spoke. They seemed to be sizing each other up. As the wind whirled around them, biting at their backs, Remo studied the Russian's lips.

  A cold hiss of air escaped as thin white steam into the breeze.

  "So what do we do now?" Remo asked when the silence had gone on too long. "Stare at each other until we both turn into ice sculptures?"

  Skachkov slowly shook his head. "Those who called me Master are dead," he said in heavily accented English. "To avenge them and truly earn the title, I must defeat you. Both of you," he called over to the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun still stood over near the entrance to the stairwell. His frozen expression did not change.

  Before Skachkov, Remo's face was also impassive.

  "Gotta get through me first, sweetheart," he said coldly.

  Something like the beginning of a superior smile touched the corners of Lavrenty Skachkov's lips. It did not have time to form completely before the Russian lashed out.

  In a wink he was up and out, his hand cutting air. All the hours of training, all the pain he had endured, everything he had learned was focused in that single moment of perfection. And to the Russian's delight, his target seemed oblivious to the crushing blow that was steering a deadly course to his wideopen, exposed throat.

  Chapter 34

  Skachkov's flashing hand got far enough to compress air to a microsliver before Remo's Adam's apple. At the last instant Remo tipped to one side.

  The Russian's face grew shocked. Forward momentum unstoppable in the stroke, Skachkov fl
ew forward. Bones cracked and muscles tore. His arm popped audibly from its socket as he landed face first on the roof. Scraping skin from chin and neck, he slid to a painful, protracted stop, finally coming to a rest at the toes of a pair of plain wooden sandals. He spit bloody gravel from his mouth.

  "That's it?" Remo complained. "That's Wang's big bad prophecy? You got me all worked up for some huge Godzilla vs. Megalon showdown. I could see him breathing, for crying out loud." Stepping over, he toed Skachkov onto his back.

  The Russian groaned in agony.

  The force of the unspent blow had cracked loose several ribs. A fracture split his sternum just over his heart.

  "Prophecies are not always clear," Chiun said, puzzlement evident in his own voice. He poked Lavrenty in the chest with his toe. The Russian screamed. "Still, most are better than this," he added, stroking his beard.

  Remo sighed. "Maybe we shouldn't gripe. For once we got off easy." He turned his attention to Skachkov. "Okay, twinkle toes, Anna told us there were only 144 of you guys here. That right?" To insure a truthful answer, he kicked the Russian in his dislocated shoulder.

  "Yes!" Skachkov cried.

  "That's all of them, then, Little Father. Except for the ones Anna said are still in Russia, the armies of death have taken a powder." He motioned to the prone Lavrenty Skachkov. "You want to do the honors?"

  "Wait," Chiun said. "There is one more question to ask." He turned his penetrating gaze down to the Russian. "How did you and these others come to possess your limited skills?" he demanded.

  Remo assumed he already knew the answer the white-haired commando would give. He was therefore surprised when the man did not instantly blurt out Jeremiah Purcell's name, the only other man on the planet possessed of Sinanju abilities. Remo was even more shocked by the Russian's eventual answer.

  Flat on his back, stabs of white-hot agony coursing through his body, the pain on Lavrenty Skachkov's face flickered to a brief moment of confusion. He looked from Chiun to Remo and back again, at last shaking his head.

  "You taught me," admitted Mactep Lavrenty Skachkov.

  And the puzzlement in his voice was reflected full on the faces of both Masters of Sinanju.