“Tauruth,” Chester burbled.

  It was the last word he ever spoke.

  Quintly Tortilli didn’t even see Remo move. In a mere sliver of time, the dangling beer bottle had swung up and launched forward.

  Facial bones surrendered to the thick glass spear, puckering Chester’s face in at the center.

  As the hood collapsed to the garbage heap, beer bottle skewering his brain, Quintly Tortilli let out a low whistle. More a reaction to Chester’s revelation than to the killer’s abrupt death.

  “Taurus,” he said. “Man, they’ve taken their hits over the last few years but—ka-blammo!—this has got to be the mother of them all.” He turned to Remo. “You know, I—”

  Tortilli found that he was alone. Glancing around, he spotted Remo racing toward the mouth of the alley, arms and legs pumping in furious, urgent concert.

  At Chester’s revelation, unseen by Quintly Tortilli, a rare emotion had sprung full-bloom on the cruel face of Remo Williams. And that emotion was fear.

  Chapter Eleven

  In the wake of the Oklahoma City bombing, tightened federal regulations had made it increasingly difficult to purchase massive quantities of fertilizer without proof of need. This was deemed necessary to keep terrorists from visiting explosive death on another unsuspecting domestic target. But difficult wasn’t the same as impossible. Lester Craig could attest to that.

  “You realize we’ve got enough shit back there to take out half a city block?” Lester asked proudly from the driver’s seat of a large yellow Plotz rental truck.

  It was as if his seatmate didn’t hear him.

  “Guard,” William Scott Cain said in icy reply.

  Lester had met William the day they’d started work on this project. Lester didn’t like his partner at all. Lester was more of a good-old-boy type. His passenger was more an Ivy Leaguer whose snobbishness was never more evident than in the condescending way he gave out commands.

  Guard. William Scott Cain made that simple, five-letter monosyllabic word sound like an insult.

  “I see him,” Lester griped, muttering under his breath, “ya smug little bastard.”

  They were at the north gate of Taurus Studios in Hollywood. The high white wall of the motion-picture studio ran in a virtually unbroken line all around the complex.

  Lester steered up the slight incline in the road where the high walls curved around to the simple guard shack. They stopped at the plain wooden barricade.

  “Passes,” the guard said tersely.

  The attitudes of studio guards traditionally ran hot and cold. Hot was reserved for celebrities and executives. For the likes of Lester and his companion, the attitude of all guards bordered on hostile.

  “He wouldn’t ask Tom Hanks for his pass,” William groused even as Lester flashed each of their laminated cards at the guard.

  Once the guard was satisfied, he leaned in his booth. A moment later, the gate rose high in the air.

  “Thank you kindly.” Lester smiled at the guard, for what he knew would be the last time.

  The two-and-a-half-ton truck with its cargo of ammonium nitrate eased past the uplifted wooden arm. With an ominous rumble, it headed deep into the Taurus lot.

  . . .

  The Master of Sinanju stomped his sandaled feet angrily as he whirled onto the exterior set.

  It was a mock-up of a New York slum. Post-production computer effects would erase the large Taurus water tower that rose proudly in the background.

  “I cannot leave you for a moment!” Chiun cried, his high-pitched voice sending shock waves of fear through the gathered cast and crew. The hems of his scarlet kimono billowed about his ankles as he flounced up to the assistant director. His hazel eyes were fire. “I take but one rice break, and the instant my back is turned you lapse into indolence! Why are you not working, goldbrick?”

  Arlen Duggal was clearly petrified. At Chiun’s typhoon-like appearance, he broke away from the female assistant he’d been talking to, backing from the fearful wraith in red.

  “It’s not my fault…” he pleaded.

  “It is never your fault, slothful one. Nor will it be my fault when I remove your sluggish head from your lazy neck.” Chiun glared at the comely young assistant.

  “Let me explain,” the A.D. begged.

  The old man didn’t hear. “Have you halted production on my epic saga to chatter with this hussy?” he demanded, pointing at the assistant. He raised his voice to the crowd. “Hear me, one and all, for I do issue a decree. From this moment forth, there shall be no females on this set. Remember to tell this to this slugabed’s successor.”

  “Mr. Chiun,” Arlen’s assistant interrupted.

  “Silence, harlot!”

  Tears were welling up in Arlen’s eyes. “It really isn’t my fault,” he begged. “The extras aren’t here.”

  Chiun’s eyes narrowed. He spun from the director and his assistant, scanning the gathered crowd.

  Most of the faces he saw belonged to behind-the-scenes crew. Very few appeared to be actual performers.

  “Where are my overcasts?” he asked all at once. “The scene we film today requires a multitude.”

  “They haven’t shown up yet,” Arlen informed him.

  Chiun wheeled on him. “This is your doing,” he said, aiming an accusing fingernail. “Your laxness infects the lower orders like a plague.”

  Arlen ducked behind his assistant, grabbing her by the shoulders. Positioning the woman like a human shield between himself and Chiun, he ducked and wove fearfully.

  “I think they might be afraid,” the A.D. squeaked.

  Chiun’s furious mask touched shades of confusion. “Afraid of what?” he demanded.

  “Of all the tension on the set?” the A.D. offered.

  Chiun’s face flushed to angry horror. “Are you creating tension on my set, as well?” he accused, his voice flirting with the early edges of cold fury.

  Hoping to defuse the situation, the woman behind whom Arlen was cowering spoke up.

  “They are here,” she offered, wincing at the painful grip on her shoulders. “I saw a couple of them not five minutes ago. They were over by Soundstage 1.”

  For an instant, Chiun seemed torn. As the old man stood stewing, Arlen saw his opportunity. Releasing his assistant, he began tiptoeing away in an awkward squat. He got no more than four teetering feet before a blur of scarlet swept before him. A daggerlike nail pressed his throat. When he looked up, he dared not gulp lest he risk piercing his Adam’s apple.

  Chiun’s eyes were molten steel.

  “Know you this, lie-abed,” the Master of Sinanju hissed. “Your skills alone preserve your life.” Spinning to the crew, he called, “Make ready, malingerers! I will see to the missing overcasts.”

  As the old Korean marched away, the gathered throng let out a collective sigh of relief. Arlen Duggal dropped to his knees. After touching his throat with his fingertips, he relaxed. No blood. The tension drained from his shoulders.

  “Worst thing about this is I’d still rather put up with him than Rosie,” Arlen muttered.

  He watched as the wizened figure disappeared around a building mock-up. Unbeknownst to Arlen, the tiny Asian was marching straight into the blast zone of the first of six powerful truck bombs.

  . . .

  Remo stood anxiously at the bank of phones in the bustling terminal building at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. Beyond the huge tinted windows at his back, massive idle aircraft sulked along the tarmac. Far off, a 747 rose into the bleak sky.

  Remo was on hold with Taurus Studios for five minutes before someone in the movie company’s executive offices finally deigned to answer.

  “Taurus Studios. This is Kelli. How may I direct your call?” The woman’s voice was bland and efficient, with a faint Midwestern twang.

  “Get me Bindle or Marmelstein,” Remo insisted.

  The woman didn’t miss a beat. “Who’s calling?”

  “Tell them it’s Remo.”

  “First name or last?”

  “First.”

  “Last name, please?”

  Remo stopped dead. He couldn’t remember the cover name he’d been using the year before while on assignment in Hollywood.

  “‘Remo’ will do,” he said after a second’s hesitation.

  “Oh. Like Cher,” the woman droned doubtfully. He could tell she was about to hang up.

  “Wait! How about their assistant, Ian?”

  “He was hired by Fox to produce the next Barbra Streisand picture,” the woman said frostily.

  Remo was getting desperate. He had to get through to warn Chiun.

  “Okay,” he pressed. “There’s a movie being made there right now. I know the screenwriter. Just—”

  But it was already too late. At the mention of the word writer, the line went dead.

  Remo slammed the phone down into the cradle. The receiver cracked and split open at the midpoint between earpiece and mouthpiece. Strings of multicolored wires were all that held the dangling plastic receiver together.

  He stood there for a moment, frozen.

  He had to warn Chiun.

  Smith. He’d call Smith.

  Remo hurried to the next phone. Scooping up the receiver, he quickly began to punch in the special code to CURE’s Folcroft headquarters. He had only depressed the one key a few times—not enough to make the connection—when he froze.

  He couldn’t call Smith. Not without telling him why Chiun was at Taurus. And if Remo blabbed to Smith about the Master of Sinanju’s upcoming movie, the old Korean would resolve to make Remo’s every waking moment a living hell for the rest of his life. If he was lucky.

  Even if he told Smith, that was no guarantee of guarding Chiun’s safety. If the CURE director sent a swarm of police to Taurus, the bombers might turn skittish. Cops could spook the terrorists into setting off the bombs sooner.

  “Dammit, Chiun, why do you have to complicate everything?” Remo griped. He snapped the next phone down in its cradle.

  Exhaling angrily, Remo spun away from the bank of phones. The instant he did, he spied a familiar purple leisure suit bobbing and weaving toward him through the main terminal concourse.

  Quintly Tortilli had caught up with him in the parking lot at the Dregs. On the way to the airport, Remo had been in too much of a hurry to throw him out of the car.

  A few heads turned as Tortilli shoved through the crowd, waving a pair of airline tickets over his head.

  “We’re all set!” Tortilli panted, sliding up beside Remo. He slammed into the phones, out of breath. “Two tickets on the next flight to L.A. We’ve got about seven minutes.” His famous face was slick with sweat.

  Remo was trying to think. “Yeah, and the bombs could go off before that,” he muttered.

  “But maybe not,” Tortilli stressed. “This is a business charter jet,” he added, flapping the tickets at Remo. “We can be in L.A. in an hour and a half. Maybe less.”

  “And stacked up over LAX for two days,” Remo complained. There had to be another way. Every minute in the sky worrying about the Master of Sinanju would be torture.

  Tortilli shook his head. “I can get us cleared to land as soon as we get there,” he insisted.

  Remo’s head snapped around. “How?”

  “Puh-lease,” Tortilli mocked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m me.”

  Remo frowned. “What kind of perks do you get when you make a good movie?” he asked.

  Before Tortilli could mention a word about his People’s Choice Award, Remo reached over and grabbed an extra-wide purple lapel. Dragging the director behind him, he sprinted for the departure gate.

  . . .

  “You there!”

  The sharp words sliced into Lester Craig’s marrow. He pretended he didn’t hear the voice. Averting his eyes, he continued walking briskly alongside the massive building that was Soundstage 1.

  “Hold!” the singsong voice commanded.

  Lester wouldn’t have listened under ordinary circumstances. Never would have listened under these particular conditions. But at the moment, the fury in that voice was more frightening to him than the jury-rigged truck bomb he was fleeing.

  Lester stopped dead. William Scott Cain stumbled into him.

  “What do we do?” William demanded.

  “Remember the extra who tried to run from him yesterday?” Lester said from the corner of his mouth. “Traction for six months, minimum.”

  Flies in amber, the two men remained stock-still as the Master of Sinanju bounded up behind them.

  “Are you two layabouts not employed as overcasts on my magnificent film?” the tiny Asian demanded as he slipped in before Lester and William. Narrowed eyes squeezed glaring fury.

  They knew better than to lie. The two men nodded dumbly.

  The Master of Sinanju’s tongue made an angry clicking sound, “That man’s laziness is a disease,” he hissed to himself.

  “Actually—” Lester ventured.

  The word was barely out before long-nailed hands appeared from the voluminous sleeves of Chiun’s kimono.

  “Silence!” he commanded. Angry swats peppered the faces and heads of both extras. “Return to work immediately or you will never breathe in this town again.”

  They didn’t need to be told a second time.

  Turning from the furious, slapping dervish, the two men ran off in the direction of the dummy New York exterior. In spite of the knowledge that, in less than two hours, a massive, earthshaking explosion would reduce the entire set and the studio on which it sat to smoking black rubble.

  Chapter Twelve

  The charter jet skimmed over the border between Oregon and California with steady, confident speed.

  In the cabin, Remo watched the skimpy white film of clouds dissipate beneath the sleek, gently shuddering wings. Glinting sunlight illuminated tense lines on his hard face.

  Quintly Tortilli had gone to the cockpit while they were still over Washington. To Remo’s relief, he didn’t return for a large chunk of the flight. Only when they were flying over California’s Salmon Mountains did the young director wander back down the aisle.

  Tortilli plopped into the seat next to Remo.

  “I’m back,” he announced.

  Remo continued to stare out at the wing.

  “I’m thinking of doing a disaster movie on a plane,” the director said enthusiastically.

  “It’s been done,” Remo grunted.

  “Not with curse words,” Tortilli replied happily. “I plan on using a lot of them. Every other word will be an F word.” He held up his hands defensively. “I apologize in advance. I know you don’t like that kind of language.”

  “What?” Remo frowned, finally turning from the wing.

  “You don’t like swear words.” Tortilli nodded. “You made that clear when you were strangling me. But when I use swear words in my movies, it’s like poetry. All the critics say so.”

  Remo couldn’t even remember what he had said to the director at their first meeting. He decided he didn’t really care. He turned back to the window.

  The ensuing moment of silence between them was filled by the constant hum of the engines. Soft murmurs of conversation rose from around the cabin. Somewhere close behind, a flight attendant banged items on a serving cart.

  “Anyway,” Tortilli continued after a short time, “the airplane movie is just one idea I’m working on. Do you realize I’ve got seventeen sequels in production for my werewolf movie From Noon till Night?”

  “I’m sure whoever invented Roman numerals is committing suicide right now,” Remo muttered.

  Tortilli didn’t hear him. “Course the first five sequels tanked, but we’re bound to hit with one of them,” he mused. “Say, do you remember that invasion trouble in Hollywood last year? All those tanks and troops from that Arab country? I forget the name.”

  In spite of himself, Remo found that he was being drawn in. It was probably good to get his mind off Chiun.

  “Ebla,” he supplied. “Yeah, I remember.”

  Tortilli grinned. “That’s it. Well, something you might not have heard about was the bombs. There’s a rumor that the terrorists wired all of Hollywood to explode. Boom! Everything gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

  “No kidding,” said Remo Williams, the man who had stopped those self-same bombs from going off.

  “Oh, sure. It was kept quiet afterward. I think the government was embarrassed about letting all those tanks and troops and explosives into the country. They gave them all a pass because they thought it was part of a movie.”

  Remo was rapidly losing interest. “Is this like one of your movies, or do you have a point?” he asked.

  Tortilli nodded conspiratorially. “The first movie of the summer season is a make-or-break actioner from Taurus based on those events. Die Down IV: Don’t or Die.”

  Remo’s face clouded. “They turned all that into a movie?” he said, appalled.

  “It’s a fictionalized account,” Tortilli replied. “A lone cop is dropped into the middle of the occupation and has to fight his way out. It’s gonna be a blockbuster. Opens two weeks before Memorial Day.”

  “Did it ever occur to whoever’s responsible that it’s in incredibly bad taste to capitalize on an invasion of America?” Remo asked.

  Tortilli frowned at the unfamiliar term. “Bad what?”

  Remo shook his head. “Does Hollywood at least get blown up?” he asked hopefully.

  “Among other things.” Tortilli nodded.

  Remo crossed his arms. “Good,” he murmured.

  “The point is, in the movie, the terrorists smuggle the explosives onto the studio lots. Ring any bells?”

  Remo frowned. He’d been so concerned with the Master of Sinanju that he hadn’t thought about how all this might relate to his current assignment. Worse, it took Quintly Tortilli to explain it to him.

  “They’re copying the movie,” Remo said dully.

  “I guess Cabbagehead wasn’t mainstream enough. They’ve branched out from indies to the summer blockbusters.”

  Remo considered the implications of what Tortilli was saying. Summer movies were notoriously big on mindless destruction. If the same people responsible for duplicating the plot points from the small Seattle film company had moved on to big-budget Hollywood films, the real-world terror could have just shifted from the equivalent of a firecracker to a nuclear bomb. Literally.