Another man in whites dropped his rifle and stared disbelieving. He did this for only a fraction of a second since one cannot disbelieve for very long when one undergoes a frontal lobotomy, performed with the driving shards of one's own skull, propelled by a short, un-seeable, knuckle blow to the head. The propeller had done less damage.

Remo snapped open the cockpit door above him and was in the cockpit in one motion. One man was still yelling in French at the pilot. Both carried light submachine guns strapped to their laps. Their guns stayed strapped to their laps, which was more than their heads did to their necks.

"Welcome, our French friends, bringing joy for needles," Rerno said. The passenger, who was nearer to Remo, had a well-manicured Van Dyke. It was destinguished and gray. Then it was red. The deep perceptive gray eyes became red also. They were where the man used to do his seeing, before Remo loosened his spinal column at the neck.

Remo saw the pilot's eyes widen as he watched the slashing hands butcher his passenger's face.

"It's right behind the seat. You can have all of it. I will fly you anywhere Monsieur. Anywhere."

'You're only saying that because you love me," Remo said and gave the pilot's head a healthy little snap. So much for the plane. Then back outside to where the man lay in pain from the propeller goring.

His hair was graying and Remo could see he was facing death with nobility, a strength that could only make a man think of royalty.

He could barely speak. But he gasped, "You are the one the old lady predicted, are you not?"

Reno shrugged. "Maybe next time, if you pay for advice, you'll take it."

"You are the one."