REVIEWS OF THIS BOOK:

  "I started reading the Destroyer series back at number 100. I then spent way too much time gathering and collecting the first 100. And the Assassins Handbook. And Inside Sinanju. And the different movie versions (Korean release, American release, etc.) And comics. And lobby cards. And soundtrack. I was hooked. Obviously. I eventually got to know several of the authors via email - Warren Murphy even sent me around 40 autographed books as a surprise present. I was mentioned in I think four book dedications. You'll even find a minor character with my name (one that Remo did not kill off.) So yea, I'm a huge fan. When I say that this novella reminds me of the earlier Destroyers, take my word for it..."

  Rick C. Drew Online Review

  "...permeated with the political satire that made The Destroyer stand out among other adventure books. If anything, not having to toe the line for any publisher, Murphy is actually more unleashed here than before. For those who wonder how Remo Williams, Master Chiun, and CURE could continue to function in the Obama era, "Number Two" will provide those answers..."

  R.J. Carter, the-trades.com

  "The only gripe I have about the cover picture is that it should be of the entire DC beltway. The whole place is a toilet of incompetence and treachery. This book does an excellent job of depicting the actual mindset of the people who have elected to run this country, elected by morons who have the attention span of a mosquito and the memory of an amoeba. Murphy's scathing political satire, which we used to get 3-4 times a year, has been sorely missing. It is fantastic to see him take advantage of the eBook publishing route since conventional publishers were too stupid to handle this series as it should have been..."

  Robert H. Jones, Online Review

  Number Two:

  A Special Edition Destroyer Novella

  by

  Warren Murphy

  and

  Donna Courtois

  © 2012, Warren Murphy/Warren Murphy Media, All Rights Reserved.

  Official series website: www.DestroyerBooks.com

  Published by Warren Murphy Media at Smashwords

  Edited by Devin Murphy and W. Brian Murphy

  Cover artwork by Gerald Welch

  The Destroyer Series is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. Don't flatter yourself.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Copyright © 2012 Destroyer Books/Warren Murphy Media and Warren Murphy

  PO Box 6357

  Virginia Beach, VA 23456

  Requests for reproduction or interviews should be directed to: devinmilesmurphy@gmail.com

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed or your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  “For my Mom, Frances, who encouraged my love of reading.”

  — Donna Courtois

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Prologue

  On many television shows, the official code names for the President, First Lady and Vice President are given as POTUS, FLOTUS AND VPOTUS, abbreviations courtesy of the White House Communications Office which doesn't usually have anything more important to do except send out apologies to countries in which Americans have just been murdered. POTUS, FLOTUS and VPOTUS.

  However these three are also known by other nicknames. It is a well-kept secret, but the Secret Service holds a contest in every administration's second year, after they have gotten to know their charges, to select nicknames for the three big guns. Secret Service agents chip in five bucks apiece for each entry and the winner gets the pot. It isn't the money so much as it is the prestige of having your choice win. Winning names in the past have reflected what the Secret Service men think of the people for whom they work. Some Past Presidents and First Ladies have been called Randy and Screecher, or Redwood and Lady Jane, or Dash and Dot, or Woody and Princess.

  After the first year of the present White House administration, the Secret Service agents submitted their entries and voted. The winning names were chosen. For the rest of their administration, and forever more in the minds and hearts of the Secret Service, the President, First Lady and Vice President would be known as Wuss, Doublewide and Dum Dum.

  CHAPTER ONE:

  Russell Johnson's new shoes squeaked as he hurried down the corridor toward the Vice President's office. They pinched his toes and he had not bothered to break them in by scuffing the soles a little. He had already slipped a few times on the polished floors and everywhere he went his shoes announced him. He tried to ignore the looks and the smiles. But he never could have guessed that this slight inattention to dress would help kill him before the day was over.

  His aunt had bought the shoes the previous morning.

  "Boy," she had said as she helped him unpack last weekend, "you can't go to the White House wearin' these sorry-ass shoes."

  "But they're all I have."

  He had polished them up well. There were a few worn spots but they were hardly noticeable and he had used all his money buying three good suits, some dress shirts and ties. White House interns weren't paid and he needed to save as much as he could for college. He had already been accepted to Brown when he learned he had also been chosen as one of the new batch of White House interns. So he put off the start of college until the winter semester. He would get credits for interning at the White House and his participation would be certain to get him a full scholarship his sophomore year.

  His aunt was dangling his old shoes from two fingers, her nose wrinkled.

  "Russ, a man is known by his dress and his deportment — the way he carries himself. And people notice shoes. We goin' out tomorrow, a good shoe store, not Sears, and we pickin' you up somethin' decent." She saw the look in his eyes and added, "I'm buyin' 'em for you, you pay me back some day when you a president's Chief of Staff. You let your old aunt Lo sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom, okay?"

  Russell hated letting his aunt pay for them. It was good enough she was letting him board for free at her house in Silver Springs. If he had to pay to live somewhere he could not have accepted the internship. But he vowed that he would make up for it. He was gonna — going to — make sure he did all the chores and small repairs around the house that needed doing.

  He had arrived early for orientation this morning. The interns had to watch a video briefing them on protocol and security, then took a tour around the White House. After, they had been given their assignments. Russell was a little disappointed to be assigned to the Vice President's office; he had hoped to get the Chief of Staff or to work with computers in the Office of Digital Strategy. He cheered up quickly though. He might get to see the President and Vice President conferring together one day. He'd settle for working with the number two man in the United States, for now.

  His family were all staunchly behind the President and had been all along. All except his crazy great uncle Bill, who'd switched parties last year. The family shrugged and said he'd taken to listening to talk radio since he retired so what could you expect? But even Uncle Bill was happy for him and he had pulled Russell aside at a party his parents threw when he was accepted to the program, and said to ask the President why he was cutting Medicare. Russell promised he would try but he had no intention of asking the President tough questions. Even the press didn't do that these days.

  And now here he was, rushing down the halls of the West Wing. He had been at the right place at the right time and was closest to the staff member who wanted a memo for the Vice President taken to his Chief of Staff pronto. Russell had grabbed it and took off.

  I wonder if I'll see the Vice President? He thought. I'm gonna — going to, he corrected himself — sooner than later if I'm working here every day. Wouldn't it be rad — awesome — if the president was there too?

  He rapped twice on the heavy door and walked into the outer office. A stern looking man with thin sandy hair looked up impatiently.

  "I have a message for the Vice President, sir," Russell said. He craned his head to the left. The door to the Vice President's office was open. He caught a glimpse of antique sofas and chairs and a rich blue carpet. But he couldn't see anyone inside.

  "Yes?"

  The man sat there with his hand held out, one eyebrow cocked. Russell realized he'd been rubbernecking and flushed. He hurried toward the desk — squeak squeak — and handed it over.

  "Ms. Krashevsky says he's to initial it and send it back to her. I'm supposed to wait and bring it back." Russell got the whole message out in a rush.

  Russ waited a few seconds for the man — Chief of Staff William Benedict, according to the nameplate on the desk — to disappear through the door. He walked over, slowly edging his face around the door jamb, trying to see as much of the room as
he could without being seen.

  Wow. His parents' house would fit in here with room to walk around it. And the furniture. It looked like a museum. He didn't know how anyone could bring themselves to sit down. His mom would have covered everything in plastic.

  "We have a visitor, Willie?"

  Russ drew his head back with a gasp. Visions of turning in his White House security pass and being shown the door ran through his mind.

  "It's okay, kid, c'mon in," called the voice from the other room. Russ took a deep breath , entered and tried to walk casually over to the desk where the Vice President sat. One shoe gave a slight sound; he hoped nobody heard.

  The Vice President's desk was covered with papers. The man was in his shirtsleeves, tie off, a genial smile on his face.

  "Willie here tells me you're an intern. First day on the job?"

  Russ nodded shyly.

  "Speak up, son. We probably have a lot in common. You must be interested in politics? Maybe someday you'll be sitting where I am, huh?"

  "Yes sir. I mean, no, maybe not where you are. I'm going to Brown next semester. Business with a minor in politics. My family's gon — going to love it when I tell them how I met you." Russ realized he was acting like a star-struck kid, but he couldn't help himself. It was all he could do not to ask for the Vice President's autograph.

  "College days! That brings back memories. Football. Parties. Women. More football. Have fun when you can, son, don't study too hard. I sure didn't, and look where it's brought me. If you want to get ahead in politics, it's more who you know, not what you know."

  "Sir. You have a meeting in fifteen minutes."

  "Sure, Willie, plenty of time."

  "I ought to get going, sir. Mr. Vice President. Thank you for talking to me." Russ turned to the door and his shoes let out a screech.

  "Nice seein' you there. Don't worry about the shoes. I know what it's like to be middle class. Off-the-rack suits, un-custom-made shoes. I used to be one of you." The Vice President stood up and looked around.

  "Speaking of clothes, where's my suit jacket, Willie? I left it somewhere." He gazed around, his glance settling on a door across the room, near the exit to his office. "The bathroom, Willie, I hung it up behind the door."

  Russ saw the Vice President's Chief of Staff begin to walk over. Russ was a lot closer to the bathroom than he was.

  "Let me get it, sir," he piped up. He started moving swiftly to the bathroom door, began to break into a slow run. Damn, this room was big.

  He hit the bathroom door running, nudged it open with his shoulder and suddenly he was sliding across the tiled floor. He had a momentary image of playing baseball, sliding into home, when his forward momentum toppled him over and the next thing he remembered, he was lying dazed on the floor, staring up at a sink.

  The Chief of Staff and the Vice President hurried in, the younger man slipping a little. But the Vice President's legs slid out from under him and he sat down hard. He and Russ stared at each other.

  "Sir, are you alright? I'm going to call a doctor."

  "Don't be such a girl, Willie." The Vice President grinned and looked at Russ. "I got a lot worse playing football. Bet you did too?"

  Russ sat up slowly. The side of his head hurt. He must have hit it on the sink.

  "Fine. Yes, I'm fine. Please don't call anyone for me. I just want to get back to work. They'll be wondering why I haven't come back."

  The Chief of Staff helped the Vice President up. Russ stood quickly on his own, his head aching.

  "I'll have to get you another suit, sir. Even if this one dries in time, there seems to be soap on the floor too. It'll dry out with a stain."

  Russ walked to the door with them. He remembered to retrieve the initialed message and return it to Ms. Krashevsky. A spot on his head was throbbing, but he sucked it up and got back to work. He ate his first meal with some of the other interns, though his headache wouldn't let him enjoy it too much.

  About mid-afternoon his head began to feel like it was going to split in two. He sat down, sweating. He noticed people looking at him and tried to tell them that he was all right, but he couldn't seem to control his tongue. His words came out too slurred to be understandable. He tried harder to speak, eyes wide and frightened. Suddenly he pitched forward, retching. His vision began to dim along the periphery and as he was losing consciousness he thought maybe he'd never get to tell his family about meeting the Vice President.

  CHAPTER TWO

  His name was Remo and as a citizen of the U.S.A, he thought that Mexican criminals should buy their own guns and should improve their diet.

  He had been south of the border down Mexico way for only a few hours now and he was already tired of the smells of pork and chicken and peppers and all the things these people stuffed down their gullets.

  His senses told him the real secret: anywhere there are people, there are smells and all of them are terrible. Especially when combined with cooking aromas, liquor, musk from a gaggle of farm critters, in addition to the various stages of digestive process in the people he passed as he headed out of town toward the huge walled estate that had been pointed out to him by a nervous shopkeeper, who got much less nervous when Remo slipped a $5 bill into his hand.

  Remo knew he was different. He was Sinanju, heir to a long tradition that raised man's natural abilities to their fullest. And he was a Master of Sinanju, all of whom believed that everyone else in the world was kind of stinky. Although even Mexico wasn't as bad as the Middle East, all of whose countries bore the unmistakable scent of their national sex objects — goats.

  The estate loomed before him. High thick stone walls, topped with razor wire and surveillance cameras. Motion detectors. An electric gate, reinforced by steel bars to resist ramming. Guard shack outside and to the left of the gate. Remo could see other armed guards patrolling inside, could hear deep rolling nasty growling from a dog kennel toward the back of the compound. The house itself was big, spread out, but only one story high, with thick walls and small windows and shooting ports for rifles and handguns.

  Piece of cake, he thought with a little disgust. Who is going to be scared off by all this nonsense?

  He could teach them a lesson in money management by showing them how much dough they had wasted on this insecurity system. He could climb the smooth wall, vault the razor wire, time it so the security cameras wouldn't catch his image or the motion detectors register him. Then he could have slipped through, past or over all the patrolling guards, moving only when they wouldn't catch him in their peripheral vision. And then he'd be inside and no one would know anything.

  Aaaah, to hell with that. That's a lot of work. And I've got to whack them all anyway. Why waste time?

  Remo walked up to the gate. The guards watched him with close interest. A few cocked their rifles. Remo moved with what was almost a dancer's grace, except that instead of being flashy and ostentatiously skilled, it seemed to be the only way for a fully evolved man to walk. He was around six feet tall, with short brown hair and was wearing chinos, a plain black t shirt and soft Italian loafers. The guards seemed to exhale as they all realized there was no telltale bulge of a gun, no holsters. Perhaps there could be a concealed knife strapped to his calf, but what could one man do with a knife against a small army with loaded guns? Most uncocked their guns. The few who didn't were the ones who noticed his eyes; they were a flat dead black, set deep in his skull- like face.

  Those guards shifted their stance, bringing their AR-15 rifles up slightly, fingers resting lightly on the triggers.

  "Hola," called Remo, waving in what he thought was a friendly manner. "Como esta Usted. Estaban in casa? Please answer in English. That's all the Spanish I know. That and your mother is a fat ugly peasant but I forgot how to say that."