A hundred yards away, half a dozen men stood guard at the entrance to the pier. Though it was public property, the pier today was off limits to all but invited guests.

  Remo shook his head. Guards never turned around. Told to watch a road, they watched a road. Told to look up, they looked up. But they never turned around to check if anything was sneaking up on them from some other direction.

  Remo strolled over to the low building with the red neon beer signs in the window. A small enclosed porch shielded the door from the cold and the wind. Two more guards huddled together inside the porch, trying to keep warm.

  When they saw Remo, they jumped apart, and their hands reached toward their pockets, fingers curling around their guns.

  “Hi, guys,” Remo said with a smile.

  “If you don’t have a reason to be here, you’re dead,” one of them growled.

  “Bye, guys,” Remo said. Still smiling, he leaped lightly up the two steps, between the two men. Their hands, wrapped around big, heavy automatics, were out of their pockets now, but they couldn’t fire without hitting each other. Each had the same brilliant idea. They raised their automatics overhead, planning to slam them down on Remo’s skull. Remo immediately shot his two hands upward, catching each man in the armpit. Like twin Lake Erie versions of the Statue of Liberty, the guards’ arms froze in position over their heads. Before their arms came down, Remo’s did. And he buried them quickly and deeply into the guards’ sternums. Their bones cracked inward, and the two men began to tumble forward. Remo caught each man and lightly pushed him back into place, so that both were leaning against the wall—but on either side of the door. They looked like a matched set of bookends, Remo thought, as he slipped inside the building and walked toward the bar.

  The room was crowded wall to wall with people.

  As he approached the bar, Remo waved to get the bartender’s attention, but two oversized men blocked his way. They dwarfed him. Remo was not truly large, perhaps six feet tall, perhaps not, and lean, weighing less than 160 pounds. He had a dark, ordinarily good looking face and dark, tranquil eyes that women found captivating. The only sign that Remo might have been more than he seemed were his wrists, which were extraordinarily thick.

  Remo faced the men who blocked his way to the bar. “Excuse me,” he said to the bigger of the two.

  The man turned and belched in Remo’s face.

  Remo shook his head. “I was afraid you’d do something like that.”

  “What’s that?” the big man asked, and belched again. The smell of bourbon and half-cooked red meat poured from his mouth.

  “Never mind,” Remo sighed, and touched the middle of the man’s chest with his index finger. The man fell to the floor, screaming. “Help me, help me. It’s my heart; it’s my heart.”

  The second big man bent over to tend to him, and Remo moved to the bar.

  “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

  “Make mine sarsaparilla, pardner,” Remo drawled. When the bartender went to get it, Remo realized the man was the type to take everything literally. No sense of humor. “Never mind,” he called out. “Just make it ice water.”

  Behind Remo, a crowd started to form around the dead man on the floor; Remo heard their ugly muttering. The second large man pointed to Remo’s back, and an arm reached over and grabbed Remo by the shoulder. Then the arm dropped with a loud thump. The owner of the arm still stood, until he looked down to the floor and saw his arm lying there, then he, too, fell to the floor.

  “Don’t anybody else bother me while I drink my water,” Remo said. “All this exercise makes me thirsty.”

  The bartender placed the water in front of Remo, gingerly, as if ready to bolt away as soon as glass touched countertop.

  “Hold it,” said Remo. “This water’s not from that cesspool out there, is it?” He nodded toward the front of the building and Lake Erie.

  “No, sir. Bottled water. Poland. Best there is, sir.”

  “Okay,” Remo said. He took a sip. A woman behind him screamed. Remo stepped out of reach of another man’s arm. To watch him, it did not look as if he had moved at all, but suddenly the other man was sliding along the length of the bar, knocking over drinks, and upsetting patrons as he went.

  Remo finished his water to the accompaniment of eight guns being drawn and their safeties being clicked off. He asked the bartender for some matches.

  “Yes, sir,” the bartender said, tossing a pack of matches onto the bar.

  “How do you like me so far?” Remo asked.

  “Fine, sir. Fine,” said the bartender.

  “Well, if you like all that, you’ll love what’s next,” Remo said.

  But for all his offhand manner, Remo was not happy with himself. This should have been very simple: Walk in, get rid of them all, one by one, and then leave. But the bad walk across the lake had upset him, and now he was going to dispose of this whole building full of people at once. He knew he was going to hear about that.

  Remo walked toward the door and stopped alongside some faded white linen curtains. Four men of various ages, but all the same mastodon size, charged at him, and the noise level in the room doubled.

  Remo moved slightly and fluttered his left hand at two of them and they fell, forming a natural barricade in front of him and the door. Remo struck a match and set fire to two sets of curtains.

  He started to blow the match out and drop it into an ashtray, then hesitated, and instead lit the ties of the two men who were still straining to reach him past the bodies of the two burly men.

  While these two began to pay attention to their shirt fronts, Remo walked to the other side of the door and lit two more sets of curtains. Then he walked out the door. Outside, he stacked the bodies of the two guards against the door so it could not be forced open.

  The fire was already coursing through the building.

  Remo watched with a calculating eye. Every few seconds someone would try to crawl through one of the four small windows, and Remo would walk over to them, smile politely, then push a head, arm, or leg back inside.

  Screams started coming from within the building as the people inside realized they were trapped. When they heard the commotion, the guards at the gate to the pier finally turned around. Four of them came running down the hundred yards or so from their posts.

  A big, overweight, red-faced man with terror in his eyes was the first to reach Remo.

  “Holy jumping Jesus,” he said.

  Remo was quiet.

  “Holy jumping Jesus.”

  “You said that,” Remo said, and picked him up and threw him through a window.

  The second and third guards arrived, panting.

  “Okay, buddy,” one of them growled at Remo. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  Remo looked at the two of them, then back at the building.

  “Looks like a fire to me,” he replied.

  “Don’t be a wiseass,” the man said.

  “Okay,” Remo said, then picked both of them up and threw them into the building. Then he turned to see about the remaining guards.

  The fourth guard had almost caught up with his three colleagues as Remo disposed of the last of them. When he saw Remo look in his direction, he turned toward the pier and made a swan dive into the frigid waters of Lake Erie.

  Remo started walking toward the street that fronted the pier. As he approached the gate, the last two guards ran off in opposite directions.

  · · ·

  In the gloomy, chilly darkness, Remo walked up East Ninth Street, wondering why he felt so bad. It couldn’t be just because there were so many people out there who deserved removal; there were always a lot of people who deserved removal. There had to be another answer, and it came to him as he neared Euclid Avenue. What disturbed him was that what he did made no difference at all. Today, sixty-three gang goons died. Tomorrow, there would be sixty-three new gang goons to take their places. Remo was just spitting into the wind, and no matter how hard he spat, the saliva didn’t settle anywhere.

  What he needed to pep himself up was a job that produced some provable public good, something to make him feel as if he and his work were worthwhile.

  By the time he reached Euclid, the streets were filled with ambulances, police cars, fire trucks, and TV camera crews. The spinning emergency lights on top of the vehicles threw swirling splashes of red light across the faces of the nearby buildings. Remo turned right and kept walking, heading for the Terminal Tower and the Rapid Transit trains to the airport.

  He had almost reached Public Square when he heard hoofbeats behind him. He turned to confront two mounted policemen, their guns drawn, who were galloping toward him.

  “They went thataway,” Remo said.

  “Stand where you are, mister,” the policeman on the lead horse said, reining his steed to a stop. Nobody in Cleveland had a sense of humor.

  “Why?”

  “Shut up your face. Stand where you are and raise your hands.”

  Later, neither of the mounted patrolmen could remember exactly what had happened. One moment, the suspect was raising his hands. The next, he was standing between their horses. And the moment after that, the horses were tearing and bucking, galloping hell-bent along the lakeshore highway half a mile away.

  Watching them careen off didn’t make Remo feel any better. So he had decided not to remove two nasty policemen. Big deal. What he needed was to do something good, really good, the kind of thing that would score him some points in heaven.

  Remo crossed the street and entered the old, bronzed glass doors at the entrance to the Terminal Tower. He crossed the lobby and walked down the long, sloping pink-granite-lined ramp to the main concourse.

  The concourse was a man-made granite cavern, the size of half a dozen football fields, and broken up here and there into little clumps of shops, most of which were now closed. The brightly lit center of the concourse was filled with people in evening dress and policemen.

  Remo stopped at the bottom of the ramp and looked around. To his right were the stairs leading down another flight to the waiting platforms for the trains going to the airport. In front of the doors were two uniformed policemen, carefully eyeing everyone who went through. To his left were stairs leading to the trains destined for the eastern suburbs. Their entrance, too, was patrolled by a pair of cops.

  Remo turned to go back up the ramp. Before he could take a step, he was stopped by the sight of two more cops at the top, checking out anyone who was trying to enter the concourse. He didn’t want any policeman’s blood on his hands; that would be all he needed to cap a lousy day. He turned away from the policemen and walked straight ahead, joining a crowd that was walking toward one of the darker corners of the concourse. Remo listened to the buzz of their conversation, trying to figure out what all these people in evening dress were talking about. But none of the words made sense.

  “…cume potential…”

  “…costs per mil…”

  “…he’s such a darling…”

  “…then we zoomed in on all this water sloshing around in the toilet bowl and…”

  “…we call it maize…I call it profit…units up eighteen percent…”

  The crowd slowed down almost to a stop, and Remo moved to the front as quickly and as easily as he could. The crowd had stopped at a gateway. Beyond it, part of the concourse had been roped off and converted into a banquet hall with a long main table and a hundred smaller round tables, all covered with white tablecloths and set with china and silver. Candles glowed at each table, and eight giant television screens hung from the ceiling at strategic spots around the dining area. Strung across the middle of the room was a giant banner that read:

  WELCOME TO THE FIRST ANNUAL CONVENTION OF THE NATIONAL ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF ARTISTRY IN TELEVISION COMMERCIALS.

  Remo paused at the ticket stand and looked around. There were dozens of faces he could recognize. Someone asked him for his ticket.

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “The fellow in the back’s got them,” he said. He walked past the ticket table and wandered around the room.

  They were all here, all the faces that had forced themselves into his consciousness by their ubiquitous presence on America’s television screens.

  There was a fat woman who thought the way to kill cockroaches was to hit them with a broom. There was another one with a flat face like a tanned pancake, who shilled for margarine. There was the Neaty-Bowl man who proved toilet bowls were clean by doing the back stroke in the toilet tank.

  There was a British actor who had been out of work for 40 years and had been resuscitated to hawk records.

  There was a man who sold stereos at the top of his voice, proving that mental illness was no barrier to finding work.

  Remo looked at them all with the shock of recognition. They were all here, the greatest assortment of pests that America had ever had, all collected in one room, acting almost like normal human beings. But tomorrow, Remo knew, they would be back at their evil work. A pleasant thought came to his mind.

  And all day long he had been grousing that he never did anything good—really good—for the United States.

  He found the light switches in the back of the room. Rather than try to figure them out, he pulled them all. The entire hall was plunged into darkness. There were a few screams before the master of ceremonies told everyone to sit calmly, that power would be restored in just a few minutes.

  A few minutes was all Remo needed. He wended his way through the tables, seeing clearly in the darkness. Every time he found one of the more odious television pitchmen, he leaned over the person and, using his right thumb and index finger, broke his or her nose.

  It would be a long time before they posed for the cameras again. God Bless America.

  Remo left the banquet hall whistling.

  About the Authors

  WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, where he worked in journalism and politics until launching the Destroyer series with Richard Sapir in 1971. A screenwriter (Lethal Weapon II, The Eiger Sanction) as well as a novelist, Murphy’s work has won a dozen national awards, including multiple Edgars and Shamuses. He has lectured at many colleges and universities, and is currently offering writing lessons at his website, warrenmurphy.com. A Korean War veteran, some of Murphy’s hobbies include golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America, and has been a member of the Screenwriters Guild, the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, and the American Crime Writers League. He has five children: Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin.

  RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations before creating The Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely death in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest, and The Body, the last of which was made into a film. The book review section of the New York Times called him “a brilliant professional.”

  Also by Warren Murphy

  The Destroyer Series (#1-50)

  Created, The Destroyer

  Death Check

  Chinese Puzzle

  Mafia Fix

  Dr. Quake

  Death Therapy

  Union Bust

  Summit Chase

  Murder’s Shield

  Terror Squad

  Kill or Cure

  Slave Safari

  Acid Rock

  Judgment Day

  Murder Ward

  Oil Slick

  Last War Dance

  Funny Money

  Holy Terror

  Assassin’s Playoff

  Deadly Seeds

  Brain Drain

  Child’s Play

  King’s Curse

  Sweet Dreams

  In Enemy Hands

  The Last Temple

  Ship of Death

  The Final Death

  Mugger Blood

  The Head Men

  Killer Chromosomes

  Voodoo Die

  Chained Reaction

  Last Call

  Power Play

  Bottom Line

  Bay City Blast

  Missing Link

  Dangerous Games

  Firing Line

  Timber Line

  Midnight Man

  Balance of Power

  Spoils of War

  Next of Kin

  Profit Motive

  Skin Deep

  Killing Time

  The Trace Series

  Trace

  And 47 Miles of Rope

  When Elephants Forget

  Pigs Get Fat

  Once a Mutt

  Too Old a Cat

  Getting up with Fleas

  Copyright

  This digital edition was published in 2023 by Head of Zeus, Ltd.

  If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. Your author thanks you.

  Copyright © 2023 by Warren Murphy

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Errata

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