Warren Murphy: Skull Duggery

His arms went up automatically, ready to defend himself. His foot never touched the ground. Before Remo could react, he was flying.

There was no preattack warning, no jolt of impact. Whatever had happened, Remo had been taken at the absolute moment of imbalance.

He landed headfirst in a snowdrift.

Furious, Remo pulled his head free, shaking off wet snow. He leapt to his feet and whirled, ready to reply to a followup attack.

Instead, the chauffeur was calmly closing the rear limo door on a stooping figure. Remo caught a momentary image of a tall, lean man in a greatcoat and Russian-style fur cap before he disappeared into the limousine interior. The door closed. Grinning with fierce anticipation, Remo flashed for the chauffeur's jet-black back.

Sensing Remo's approach, the limber figure turned. He dropped into what Remo instantly recognized as a praying-mantis-style kung-fu stance. Remo's grin widened. He no more feared kung fu than he did flying Popsicle sticks.

Remo raised a tight fist. His other hand, straight-fingered as a spear, floated up to parry any thrust.

"This will be over in a second, Kung Fu," Remo taunted.

It was.

Remo let fly with his fist. But there was nothing to connect with. His fist slashed through thin air, and kept going. It carried him with it.

Remo landed on his hands and knees. He rolled into his back, his feet up to ward off an overhead attack.

The kung-fu man was coming out of his crouch. The splash of trampled snow at his feet told Remo the story. The diminutive man had slipped between Remo's legs as he had attacked.

It was unbelievable. No kung-fu dancer was that good.

"You're good pal," Remo said tightly.

"I'm the best," the other returned arrogantly. His voice carried a familiar lilt. Remo tried to place it. Somehow, it fit the man's masked look, bizarre as that seemed.

Remo got to his feet in a hurry. The two men squared off, Remo standing tall, the other crouching, his hands weaving invisible patterns in the air before him. His movements were smooth and graceful. He wore a red button over his heart, but Remo had no time to read the slogan on it.

"Got a name?" Remo asked, circling his foe.

"Yes. Death!"

And, venting a high-pitched cry, he executed a flying kick.

Remo saw it coming. Not as soon as he should have, but there was a lot of driving snow in the air.

The kick flashed by Remo's twisting head. He reached out to snag the polished shoe as it slashed by his cheek. Remo took hold and twisted sharply.

Like a worm on a hook, the driver squirmed in the air. The other foot became a piston. It drove against Remo's open chest in a pounding flurry of blows.

The attack was elemental in its fury. The guy had no fulcrum except thin air, but his kicks were as hard as if his back was braced against a stone wall.

Remo kept his ribs tense, protecting his lungs and the precious empowering air inside them.

Inevitably, his opponent lost his balance. Remo spun him by the foot. The guy turned over in midair like a tightly wound rubber band unraveling.

He landed on his stomach in the snow.

Quickly Remo set his heel on the back of the guy's neck. He reached down for the mask.

From within the car, a shrill voice spoke a single word:

"Sagwa!"

And while Remo's attention was drawn to the voice, the prostrate chauffeur turned into a tiger once again.

"Hey!" Remo said. It was a stupid response. But he had underestimated his foe. He should have immobilized him with a fast kick while he was down.

Black-gloved hands grabbed Remo's ankles. Remo set himself. But instead of pulling, the little guy lifted Remo straight up.

There was no countermeasure possible. Remo went into the air. Not high, but high enough for his opponent to gain his feet while Remo was registering his predicament.

Remo received three rapid-succession kicks to the face as he came down. They blurred into a drumlike tattoo, and Remo landed on his face in the snow. Again.

A fourth blow to the back of his neck made him taste snow.

Later Remo realized he must have been out for four, possibly five seconds. But as he experienced it, he spat out wet snow at the same time he sprang to his feet.

The limousine was already backing away.

"Hey, we're not done," Remo called, moving for the retreating grille.

The car stopped suddenly. The driver leaned down behind the wheel, and a tiny section of the grille popped open, disclosing a silvery nozzle.

It began squirting greenish vapor.

There were not many things Remo Williams feared, but gas was one thing he had no Sinanju defense against. You either breathed it and suffered the consequences or you didn't breathe it and escaped them.

Remo had no idea whether it was nerve gas, tear gas, or laughing gas billowing toward him, and he couldn't know until it attacked his respiratory system. Which he definitely did not want.

It was a vomitous green and that was enough.

Remo backpedaled inches ahead of the spreading cloud. When he gained a few yards, he turned around and broke into a dead run.

Behind him, the car shifted into reverse and sped away.

Remo kept going. He ducked around a corner. Somewhere a dog barked and then made a high-pitched yip of a sound. Then it whined and made no more sound.

A car came in Remo's direction, forcing him to leap off the road.

The driver honked once and gave Remo the finger in passing.

"Same to you, buddy!" Remo called after him.

Then, seeing his blinkers indicate a turn onto the gasfilled street, Remo waved his arms and called after him.

"Hold it! Don't go down there!"

The car kept going. It pushed swirls of green gas aside and the driver's honk of response turned into a long wail of a sound. The car struck something with a tinny crump.

Remo took a deep breath and ran back up the street.

Batting away clouds of green, he found the car. It was joined at the bumper with a parked van. Remo got to the driver. Yanking the door open, he reached and found a pulse. It was strong. The man's breath tickled Remo's palm when he held it up to his nose.

When Remo pulled him off the horn, he detected the faintest of snores.

That meant the gas was an anesthetic, not a nerve agent.

Satisfied on that point, Remo ran to his car and gave chase.

The snow was pelting his windshield. As fast as the wipers pushed it aside, more scabrous flakes collected on the glass.

The tracks of the limo were fresh. Few drivers were out in the storm, so Remo had an easy time following the car.

The distinctive tread wove in and around the upscale New Rochelle neighborhood. Remo followed at a decorous pace. As long as the tracks were visible, he figured it was best if the masked driver didn't know he was being followed.

Eventually, the trail led to a side street and turned into a driveway.

The tracks disappeared under a closed garage door.

"Bingo," Remo said. He coasted past the house and around a corner, where he parked.

Remo stepped out into the blinding snow, making unusually faint tracks through several backyards and to the garage.

There was a door on the side of the garage. Remo tried it. Unlocked. He slipped in after listening and detecting no sounds from within.

Remo froze just inside the door.

He was not surprised to find a car in the garage.

What made his mouth suddenly hang open in astonishment was that the car was a white convertible. The top was down. The body was as dry as an enameled bone.

Remo drew a line along the hood with one finger. He picked up grime.

"What the hell?" he muttered.

He dropped to his knees to check the tires. They were also dry. Not only that, but the tread was not the tread he had followed. The limo tread had been serpentine.