The Destroyer

His name was Remo, and he felt mildly sorry for the man who had erected the poorly hidden detection devices outside the elegant Tuscan estate. It was such a good try, such a sincere effort to construct a deadly trap, yet it had one obvious flaw. And because the builder did not appreciate this flaw, he would die that day, hopefully before 12:05 pm - because Remo had to get back to Tuscan early for more important business.

The electric beams, functioning very similarly to radar, were rather well concealed and appeared to cover the required 360-degree ring which is supposed to be perfect for a single plane. The land was cleared of just the right kind of shrubbery that gave concealment to attackers. The 'X' layout of the main house, seemingly an architectural eccentricity, was actually a very good design for cross fire. The estate, though small and pretty, was a disguised fortress that could most certainly stop a mob executioner or could, if it came to it, delay some special ops marine. Or two. Or ten. If it ever came down to it - because there was no chance that a marine, or any law enforcement for that matter, would ever besiege this estate outside of Tuscon.

The man called Remo was simply penetrating the one flaw in the entire defence; the builder had not prepared for the eventuality of one man walking up to the front door by himself, in broad daylight, ring the bell, then execute the builder along with anyone else who got in the way. The estate was designed to prevent a concealed attack. Remo would not even be stopped as he strolled past the beams in the open Arizona sun, whistling softly to himself. After all, what danger could one man be?

Remo casually walked up the sunbaked driveway, examining his nails. His appearance certainly gave no hint of danger.

He was just under six feet tall, with soft, friendly brown eyes and high cheekbones, a bit thin except for his thick wrists. His gait was smooth, and his arms flowed freely. He glanced at the far kitchen window and the far living room - he was being watched. Good. He didn't have to wait at the door.

He checked his watch. It was 11:45 am now. He figured it would take him a good fifteen minutes to walk back to town, a half and hour for lunch, then another hour to study for the big bust. Upstairs had even said to ignore the Thurgood hit if it took him too far away from his studies.

"I'll do it anyway," Remo had said. "It'll loosen me up."

So Remo, walking towards the 'X' - shaped fortress's front door, rang the doorbell. His left hand went into his pocket, and removed two silver packages, around the same size and shape as two flattened baseballs. These were the heroin he specially ordered from Upstairs. Wielded delicately, they could help him immensely.

A butler opened the door. He was a slim man, with the usual butler attire on. His gun was rather expertly strapped to his side, showing the faintest of faintest outlines. Most probably a Beretta, thought Remo.

"May I help you, sir?" Asked the butler.

"I've come to kill Mr Thurgood. Is he in?" asked Remo casually.

"Excuse me?"

"Look, I'm on a tight schedule here, so if I could just kill Mr Thurgood, I'll be on my way."

"Your crazy."

"Look, I don't have all day, you know."

"Your crazy."

"That may be, but I can't do my work out here, so if you could just get out of the way."

The butler, by this time, had recovered from the shock. "Would you like a glass of water, or something, sir?"

Remo sighed the sigh that you heave when working with small children who don't know what your talking about, and passed the two silver packages from his left hand to his right, seeing the butlers eyes follow the packages. His empty hand flatten, and it zipped out, stabbing the butler in the throat like a frogs tongue scoring a fly. It was over in less than a second. The butler's eyes went wide with surprise. Then he dropped.

"The quality of help these days, " said Remo disdainfully, as he stepped over the limp form that used to be the butler.

It was a beautiful home, with a sunken living room and polished chequered stone floors, with large, exquisite and exotic paintings strategically placed around the rooms. Lovely.

A maid say the body of the fallen butler and, dropping her tray, ran screaming. A man who had been watching Remo from the top of the right-hand stairs came clippeting down, blasting wildly with a large gun, most probably a .357 Magnum.

Fool, thought Remo. He should have utilised the distance and gotten a shot off. Not that it would have saved him, but at least he would have died trying to use the weapon effectively.

Remo passed the two packages from his right hand into his pocket, and then got started. He moved like greased lightning, stepping close into the man, taking his gun hand out by snapping the wrist with a chopping blow, before moving into an elbow through the breastbone, which he followed by making his arm right-angled and flicking it up 90-degrees, smashing the back of his fist into the mans nose. Zip-zip, the mans nose cartilage went into his brain, and he dropped like a sack of wet asparagus.

Remo quickly turned, seeing two men come out of a closet door. One was holding a shotgun, the other an Uzi. They both ran towards him, firing wildly. Remo felt a slight breeze as a load of 12-gauge buckshot whistled past his head. He hated these kinds of weapons. So noisy, he thought to himself, as he ran towards them.

Both men would have seen a black blur. The man with the shotgun would have seen it closer, because all of a sudden a hand had been smashed into his face, and he realised in the split-second of life, where everything became clear and everything moves in slow-motion, that this.guy had picked him up by his face, ran the ten metres to the nearest wall, and shoved.

Remo wrenched the head out of the wall, ducking and rolling as machine gun fire ripped through it, ruining the wallpaper and several expensive paintings. The boss is going to hate this guy, thought Remo as he picked up the dead body by the leg and threw it at the Uzi wielding man. If he survives, he thought. The body crashed into the man, forcing him to drop his gun and skid on the floor into a doorway. Remo was on him in an instant, and the former tough threw up his hands in defence, screaming wildly and squeezing his eyes shut. He waited for the final blow.he looked out of a squinted eye to see that the guy was just sitting there, watching him as if he was watching the stock market report.

Remo watched as the mans stain on his pants grew wider. How old are you? He thought. Not even twenty yet. Unfortunately, the door on which the boy crashed into burst open, and the man that sprang out shot the first live thing that he could see. The saw off double barrel blew the boy's head off, and then the man looked around. Where the hell was the other guy? He quickly snapped open the large double-barrelled gun, ignoring the empty shells that sprang out, and fed two fresh ones into it.

Already he had forgotten about the poor boy, thought Remo from his vantage point. As the man had burst out of the door, Remo had slipped past him into the hallway beyond without him knowing. Now he stood behind the uncaring murderer.

Ok, so Remo had also murdered some men in his time.but that boy hadn't even reached twenty. Remo quickly reached around the man, grabbing the hand holding the gun. Pulling up, he stuffed both barrels into the mans mouth, and wrapping his own finger around the other mans finger, pulled the trigger.

"Mr Thurgood, Mr Thurgood, we're under attack!" yelled a voice behind Remo. He dropped the body and turned to see a cowboy hat disappear behind a door in the hallway. Another voice that Remo had recognised from the tapes that Upstairs gave him identified it a Thurgood.

"How many?" asked Thurgood in a wide Boston 'A'.

"One, sir. That's why we let him through."

"Dammit, what happened to the help?"

"Dead, sir."

"Come out, come out where ever you are!" sang Remo.

"Who are you?" called out Thurgood.

"Just your standard-issue, government-funded, friendly-neighbour-hood assassin! Called Remo.

"The mans crazy."

Time for action, thought Remo.

He pressed his back up against the left wall of the hallway, and silently made his way down. He saw that the door on his side of the doorway slightly ajar, and he could see the glint of an eye trying to see around the corner. Seeing that this wasn't the door that the cowboy ran into, Remo guessed (correctly) that Thurgood was behind it. Keeping out of Thurgoods sights, he crept slowly to the side of the door, and reaching out with his hand, knocked twice.

"Avon calling!" he yelled.

Two bullets ripped straight through the door, missed Remo completely, and punched two grapefruit sized holes into an expensive Picasso.

"Arlgh!" cried Remo, throwing himself back in a flourish and landing spread- eagled across the lovely embroidered hallway carpet. He stuck his tongue out crazily, and rolled his eyes back so only his whites showed.

He heard the two doors open.

Footsteps. One near his feet, the other by his head.

"Good shot, sir," said the cowboy. He was the one near his head. The smell of cheap shoe leather filled Remos nostrils. One had the remnants of cow dung on it.

"Where'd I get him?" asked Thurgood.

"Can't see any entry or exit wounds, sir." The cowboy put his hand on Remos chest. "He's still breathing, and there's a faint heartbeat. Thurgood moved to where the cowboy was. Remo felt a rifle barrel against his cheek.

"Check his pockets." Said Thurgood.

Remo felt hands going through his jacket pockets, and then check his trouser pockets. He was relieved to have the two bulky packages pried from his trouser pocket. They had hindered his movement. One had torn during the fight.

"It looks like.yep, its horse." Said the cowboy.

"Shit!" exclaimed Thurgood.".Go and flush it."

"But sir.there's around twenty grand right here!" exclaimed the cowboy.

"I'm supposed to be and investment banker you idiot!" Thurgood yelled. "Go and flush it!"

Remo felt the rifle barrel tremble slightly. His right thumb came up and clipped the rifle away from his head. It blasted wildly through the carpet and into the concrete underneath.

Remo was up in a flash, holding the rifle. He whipped the butt into Thurgoods face, launching him into the wall. He tossed the rifle to the floor next to the sobbing Tucson, and then tuned to the cowboy.

The cowboy hadn't even reacted. Remo took care of him, and two seconds later the cowboy was on the ground, his once gravely voice reduced to sounding like he'd sucked on ten helium balloons.

Thurgood was on his feet. To be honest, he was actually on foot off the ground, as Remo lifted him by his throat. "A lot of people have died because of your drug running, " Said Remo grittily. "And you don't even care. Heres to the turned on generation." On 'generation', Remo used two fingers to remove the Tucson's family jewels.

Thomas Michael Thurgood, the man the courts couldn't touch, the man whose drug running had killed and ruined thousands of innocent lives, spend the last two minute of his warped life in extremely agonising pain.

Remo, feeling a mite better, looked around. Where was his heroin? He dropped Thurgood and looked around the hallway. He saw the cowboy lying on the floor, trying to nurse his six broken ribs. Remo picked up the cowboy, who shrieked. There they were. Remo knocked the cowboy into them, then picked them up. He spread the heroin in the open bag around the corridor, then tore the other package open and sprinkled its contents around the living room, remembering to grind it into the carpet with the heels of his shoes.

He went back to the cowboy, and shoved the two empty packages under his nose.

"You'd better clean all this up before you call an ambulance, my friend."

Remo walked away for a perfect building, which, in its perfection, only had one flaw.