Everand Logo

Welcome to Everand!

  • Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

    From $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

    Created, The Destroyer
    Created, The Destroyer
    Created, The Destroyer
    Ebook232 pages3 hours

    Created, The Destroyer

    By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

    3.5/5

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Sentenced to death for a crime he didn't commit, ex-cop Remo Williams is rescued from the electric chair at the eleventh hour and recruited by a secret government organisation named CURE. From this moment, he ceases to officially exist.

    From now on, he will be an assassin, targeting criminals who are beyond the law. Remo's trainer is a grouchy old Korean named Chiun, whose mastery of the terrifyingly powerful martial art of Sinanju makes him the deadliest man alive.

    Together Remo and Chiun set forth on their epic, impossible mission to vanquish every enemy of democracy – every bad guy who thinks they can escape justice.

    This is a new era in man's fight against the forces of evil.

    This is the time of the Destroyer.

    Breathlessly action-packed and boasting a winning combination of thrills, humour and mysticism, the Destroyer is one of the bestselling series of all time.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBloomsbury Publishing
    Release dateSep 14, 2023
    ISBN9780751557978
    Created, The Destroyer
    Author

    Warren Murphy

    Warren Murphy was born in Jersey City, New Jersey. He worked in journalism, editing, and politics. After many of his political colleagues were arrested, Murphy took it as a sign that he needed to find a new career and the Destroyer series was born. Murphy has five children—Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin—and a few grandchildren. He has been an adjunct professor at Moravian College, Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and has also run workshops and lectured at many other schools and universities. His hobbies are golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America and has been a member of the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, the American Crime Writers League, and the Screenwriters Guild. Warren Murphy’s website is www.warrenmurphy.com.

    Read more from Warren Murphy

    Related to Created, The Destroyer

    Titles in the series (100)

    View More
    View More

    Related ebooks

    Thrillers For You

    View More
    View More

    Related podcast episodes

    Related articles

    • UNLIMITED

      Must See, Must Read

      Jan 28, 2020

      Must See, Must Read
      13 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Father And Son

      Feb 22, 2023

      Father And Son
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Power Of Three

      Sep 14, 2023

      The Power Of Three
      14 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Don’t You Want Me, Baby?

      Sep 20, 2022

      Brad Pitt. The haircut (any haircut), the jawline, the body, the effortlessly asseverated charisma, the insistently commanding aura that cemented his being-in-chargeness as the natural order of things. Brad Pitt the brand. Brad Pitt the guy. Brad Pit

      7 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Asleep At The Gap

      May 7, 2019

      Asleep At The Gap
      16 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      When Johnny Met Blondie

      Apr 11, 2022

      When Johnny Met Blondie
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Imminent Collapse

      Mar 9, 2023

      Imminent Collapse
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Call Of The Weird

      Sep 7, 2023

      The Call Of The Weird
      12 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Hit Book That Came From Mars: The Martian started as a self-published blog, and became a major motion picture.

      Jan 8, 2015

      The story of Andy Weir is a strange mix of fact and fiction. There’s the fairy tale success of his book, The Martian, which he self-published on his blog for free, intended for the few thousand fans he’d accumulated over years of hobby writing. Some

      10 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Kinds of Kindness

      Jun 6, 2024

      Kinds of Kindness
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Born To Be Wild

      Oct 10, 2024

      Born To Be Wild
      9 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Call Sheet

      Aug 19, 2022

      @MATTMAYTUM It was a huge pleasure to chat to the big man Dwayne Johnson again for Black Adam – and I’m ready to raise a glass of Teremana to launch this new issue. @JAMIE_GRAHAM9 I’ve wanted to interview Michael Mann for 25 years and, like Hanna sta

      1 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Warhammer 4ok: Rogue Trader

      Feb 21, 2023

      Warhammer 4ok: Rogue Trader
      5 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Man In The Mask

      Dec 1, 2021

      The Man In The Mask
      8 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Goodbye to All That

      Dec 2, 2018

      Goodbye to All That
      10 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Animal News

      Mar 21, 2024

      Animal News
      6 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Bad Gru Rising

      Jun 15, 2022

      Bad Gru Rising
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Dark City The Real Los Angeles Noir

      Jul 15, 2018

      Betty Rowland reclines on a sofa backstage at the Follies, c.1938 Two suspects are kept in check by a police officer in downtown LA A reluctant suspect winces as a police officer takes things into his own hands A cigar-chomping detective examin

      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Boba Fett Rules!

      Dec 16, 2021

      Boba Fett Rules!
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Parasite Lost

      Dec 1, 2021

      Parasite Lost
      3 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Sinking City

      Jul 30, 2019

      The Sinking City
      4 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      The Jester’s Tour

      Nov 29, 2019

      The Jester’s Tour
      20 min read

    • UNLIMITED

      Why So Serious?

      Nov 28, 2021

      Why So Serious?
      10 min read

    Related categories

    Reviews for Created, The Destroyer

    3.5/5

    75 ratings6 reviews

    What did you think?

    Tap to rate

    Review must be at least 10 words

    • 5/5
      Marking the beginning of an adventure series that would spawn over two hundred novels and multiple adaptations into other formats, Created the Destroyer is the introductory volume of the Destroyer series, following the adventures of America’s personal assassins Remo and Chiun.This is the origin story of the series that documents Remo Williams’ “recruitment” into the secret government agency CURE, as well as his introduction to his personal trainer Chiun (Master of Sinanju), and his first impromptu mission to eliminate the criminal elements destroying America from within.Unlike the later part of the series where things tend to get a bit… silly, Created has its criminal elements rooted firmly in the gritty underworld of reality. No invisible suits or sentient robots yet, just street-wise bad hombres and hardened goodfellas.THE BAD GUY: Remo’s nemesis for his first story is your straight-forward rich crime boss hiding in plain site as a legitimate businessman, this time played by the extremely muscular and cold-blood Norman Felton. Felton doesn’t resemble some of the Bond-type villains that pop up later in the series, and his background as a prostitute’s son that inserts himself into the criminal underbelly of society and creates his own empire is extremely plausible. Remo is forced to confront Felton in a desperate attempt to track down a mysterious unknown figure believed to be the head of the New York crime syndicate, known only as “Maxwell.” Felton also indirectly introduces the crime boss Carmine Viaselli, who I believe turns up in later novels as the Destroyer universe slowly builds its menagerie.REMO & CURE: Being the origin story of the Destroyer, time is spent demonstrating how the organization works, including its exceedingly compartmentalized structure that prevents practically everybody involved from knowing what they are actually contributing to. REMO & CHIUN: Chiun has just started training Remo at this point, so we haven’t reached the level of familiarity we’ll be used to later when the “Little Father” stage of their relationship begins. Now they’re (more or less) at a level of mutual respect. REMO’S LADIES: One of the more entertaining aspects of the Destroyer series is how it plays on typical men’s adventure novel standards, and my personal favorite is the Destroyer approach to the male hero sleeping around with various women throughout his adventures. Created gets the ball rolling right away with CURE ruining Remo’s taste for anonymous sex by arranging some unfulfilling part-time call girls from the steno pool for his “entertainment.” While Chiun hasn’t fully ruined sex for Remo yet, he teaches him enough Sinanju pick-up techniques to ruin the thrill of the hunt. The only other woman Remo beds in this novel is college student Cynthia Felton, whom he seduces in order to get closer her father, wealthy crime boss Norman Felton. Instead of your typical Bond girl full of sexual mystery and clever quips, Cynthia is an emotionally unstable and spoiled brat that creates more headaches for Remo than he needs. Total romantic tally this round, two.BODY COUNT: I wasn’t planning on counting dead bodies in the series until I started writing this, but off the top of my head I’d say that Remo racked up a meager tally of six dead bodies in his first mission.
    • 3/5
      Remo Williams - "a man who doesn't exist, for a job that doesn't exist, in an organization that doesn't exist." And he's promised, "terror for breakfast, pressure for lunch, tension for supper and aggravation for sleep." Nice, huh?I loved the movie when I was 15, and I thought it'd be cool to finally read the book where it all began. And it was! You get the background of Remo, how he is recruited by CURE, and how he is trained. And you get to meet Chiun, Master of Sinanju! Though, in a strange omission, Sinanju is not mentioned anywhere in this first volume, unlike later books where it seems to be mentioned relentlessly! (this is pointed out in a very silly foreword in this edition!) A nice, quick, fun read, especially for the 15 year old in all of us!
    • 4/5
      This fast paced adventure takes elements of early 1970s kung-fu chop chop action movies and merges them with the bloody violence of pulp novels. This is the first novel in a very lengthy series of books (more than 150 to date) and while it doesn't feature Remo’s Yoda-like teacher Chuin all that much as I understand it he became a more prominent character in later novels. So this book focuses on Remo almost exclusively; who is as tough as nails, but still fairly likeable bloke. However, saying this he isn't the sharpest tool in the toolbox as while he’s been trained in 'Sinanju', the 'sun source' of all martial arts and therefore has superhuman abilities at times he acts like an overgrown child.

      For me, the most interesting part of the series is Sinanju; according to Chiun, other martial arts are all diluted imitations of Sinanju. He compares the other arts to rays of sunshine with Sinanju being the sun itself. Some of the specific teachings are worth repeating:

      Let your opponent point to you the way to overcome him.
      The most dangerous man is he who does not appear dangerous.
      A man who cannot apologize is no man at all.
      Everything is a weapon in the hands of a man who knows.
      One cannot sew a silk purse from a sow's ear.
      One cannot fit the ocean into a brandy snifter.
      One cannot make a diamond out of river mud; be happy with a brick.

      Overall a fun book: chewing gum for the brain.
    • 3/5
      I picked this up as an ebook from Amazon / Ballybunnion Books, and read it in a Kindle app. There were a few small formatting issues that were easy to work around.I enjoyed this first entry in the Destroyer series. I recently (well, last few years anyway) read a number of the early Executioner series in paperback format, and there are some similarities between this book and the plot of the first 39 "Costra" books of the Executioner.As others have said, it is a quick read. I picked up number 2 as an ebook after completing this one, and will continue reading these as ebooks, so hopefully that conveys enough to encourage others with an interest in the men's adventure genre to read them as well.
    • 4/5
      The series now has over 150 books in it & any one of the books is fun, light read. The early books with Richard Sapir are quite entertaining. Sapir was a political columnist, I think & it shows in the tongue in cheek plots which make fun of everything, but especially pick on one current event or attitude per book. Around the 75th book or so the plots really lost their zest, to me. I quit reading the series on book #104. The Destroyer is a New Jersey cop who is 'killed' & now serves CURE, a secret government organization that works outside the Constitution to protect it. Led by Dr. Smith, an acerbic New Englander & trained by Chiun, a Korean who is the world's best assassin, Remo Williams, the Destroyer & second best assassin in the world, goes around fixing problems that would otherwise topple the US or possibly the world.Remo constantly gets into trouble since he has been trained in 'Sinanju', the 'sun source' of all martial arts. He has superhuman abilities, but is childish & not particularly bright. Chiun is pretty smart, extremely vain & somewhat clueless about western custom. He has crippled two pro football players for calling him 'Chinese' rather than Korean since he is extremely prejudiced. This book was made into a particularly bad movie.
    • 4/5
      Great story. Great characters.

    Book preview

    Created, The Destroyer - Warren Murphy

    CHAPTER ONE

    EVERYONE KNEW WHY Remo Williams was going to die. The chief of the Newark Police Department told his close friends Williams was a sacrifice to the civil rights groups.

    Who ever heard of a cop going to the chair…and for killing a dope-pusher? Maybe a suspension…maybe even dismissal…but the chair? If that punk had been white, Williams wouldn’t get the chair.

    To the press, the chief said: It is a tragic incident. Williams always had a good record as a policeman.

    But the reporters weren’t fooled. They knew why Williams had to die. He was crazy. Christ, you couldn’t let that lunatic out in the streets again. How did he ever get on the force in the first place? Beats a man to a pulp, leaves him to die in an alley, drops his badge for evidence, then expects to get away with it by hollering ‘frame-up.’ Damn fool.

    The defense attorney knew why his client lost. That damned badge. We couldn’t get around that evidence. Why wouldn’t he admit he beat up that bum? Even so, the judge never should have given him the chair.

    The judge was quite certain why he sentenced Williams to die. It was very simple. He was told to.

    Not that he knew why he was told to. In certain circles, you don’t ask questions about verdicts.

    Only one man had no conception of why the sentence was so severe and so swift. And his wondering would stop at 11:35 o’clock that night. It wouldn’t make any difference after that.

    Remo Williams sat on the cot in his cell chain-smoking cigarettes. His light brown hair was shaved close at the temples where the guards would place the electrodes.

    The gray trousers issued to all inmates at the State Prison already had been slit nearly to the knees. The white socks were fresh and clean with the exception of gray spots from ashes he dropped. He had stopped using the ash tray the day before.

    He simply threw the finished cigarette on the gray painted floor each time and watched its life burn out. It wouldn’t even leave a mark, just burn out slowly, hardly noticeable.

    The guards would eventually open the cell door and have an inmate clean up the butts. They would wait outside the cell, Remo between them, while the inmate swept.

    And when Remo was returned, there would be no trace that he had ever smoked in there or that a cigarette had died on the floor.

    He could leave nothing in the death cell that would remain. The cot was steel and had no paint in which to even scratch his initials. The mattress would be replaced if he ripped it.

    He had no laces to tie anything anywhere. He couldn’t even break the one light bulb above his head. It was protected by a steel-enmeshed glass plate.

    He could break the ashtray. That he could do, if he wanted. He could scratch something in the white enameled sink with no stopper and one faucet.

    But what would he inscribe? Advice? A note? To whom? For what? What would he tell them?

    That you do your job, you’re promoted, and one dark night they find a dead dope-pusher in an alley on your beat, and he’s got your badge in his hand, and they don’t give you a medal, they fall for the frame-up, and you get the chair.

    It’s you who winds up in the death house — the place you wanted to send so many men to, so many hoods, punks, killers, the liars, the pushers, the scum that preyed on society. And then the people, the right and the good you sweated for and risked your neck for, rise in their majesty and turn on you.

    What do you do? All of a sudden, they’re sending people to the chair — the judges who won’t give death to the predators, but give it to the protectors.

    You can’t write that in a sink. So you light another cigarette and throw the burning butt on the floor and watch it burn. The smoke curls up and disappears before rising three feet. And then the butt goes out. But by that time, you have another one ready to light and another one ready to throw.

    Remo Williams took the mentholated cigarette from his mouth, held it before his face where he could see the red ember feeding on that hint of mint, then tossed it on the floor.

    He took a fresh cigarette from one of two packs at his side on the brown, scratchy-wool blanket. He looked up at the two guards whose backs were to him. He hadn’t spoken to them since he entered Death Row two days ago.

    They had never walked the morning hours on a beat looking at windows and waiting to be made detective. They had never been framed in an alley with a pusher, who as a corpse, didn’t have the stuff on him.

    They went home at night and they left the prison and the law behind them. They waited for their pensions and the winterized cottage in their fifth year. They were the clerks of law enforcement.

    The law.

    Williams looked at the freshly-lit cigarette in his hand and suddenly hated the mentholated taste that was like eating Vicks. He tore the filter off and tossed it on the floor. Then he put the ragged end of the cigarette between his lips and drew deeply.

    He inhaled on the cigarette and lay back on the cot, blowing the smoke toward the seamless plaster ceiling that was as gray as the floor and the walls and the prospects of those guards out in the corridor.

    He had strong, sharp features and deep-set brown eyes that crinkled at the edges, but not from laughter. Remo rarely laughed.

    His body was hard, his chest deep, his hips perhaps a bit too wide for a man, but not too large for his powerful shoulders.

    He had been the brick of the line in high school and murder on defense. And all of it hadn’t been worth the shower water that carried the sweat down the drain.

    So somebody scored.

    Suddenly, Remo’s facial muscles tightened and he sat up again. His eyes, focussed at no particular range, suddenly detected every line in the floor. He saw the sink and for the first time really saw the solid gray metal of the bars. He crushed out the cigarette with his toe.

    Well, damn it, they didn’t score…not through his slot. They never went through the middle of the line. And if he left only that, he left something.

    Slowly, he leaned forward and reached for the burned-out butts on the floor.

    One of the guards spoke. He was a tall man and his uniform was too tight around the shoulders. Remo vaguely remembered his name as Mike.

    It’ll be cleaned, Mike said.

    No, I’ll do it, Remo said. The words were slow in coming out. How long had it been since he had spoken?

    Do you want something to eat…? the guard’s voice trailed off. He paused and looked down the corridor. It’s late, but we could get you something.

    Remo shook his head. I’ll just finish cleaning up. How much time do I have?

    About a half hour.

    Remo did not answer. He wiped the ashes together with his big, square hands. If he had a mop, it would go better.

    Is there anything we can get you? Mike asked.

    Remo shook his head. No thanks. He decided he liked the guard. Want a cigarette?

    No. I can’t smoke here.

    Oh. Well, would you like the pack? I’ve got two packs.

    Couldn’t take it, but thanks anyway.

    It must be a tough job you have, Remo lied.

    The guard shrugged. It’s a job. You know. Not like pounding a beat. But we have to watch it anyhow.

    Yeah, Remo said and smiled. A job’s a job.

    Yeah, the guard said. There was silence, all the louder for having been broken once.

    Remo tried to think of something to say but couldn’t.

    The guard spoke again. The priest will be here in a while. It was almost a question.

    Remo grimaced. More power to him. I haven’t been to church since I was an altar boy. Hell, every punk I arrest tells me he was an altar boy, even Protestants and Jews. Maybe they know something I don’t. Maybe it helps. Yeah, I’ll see the priest.

    Remo stretched his legs and walked over to the bars where he rested his right hand. It’s a hell of a business, isn’t it?

    The guard nodded, but both men took a step back from the bars.

    The guard said: I can get the priest now if you want.

    Sure, Remo said. But in a minute. Wait.

    The guard lowered his eyes. There isn’t much time.

    We have a few minutes.

    Okay. He’ll be here anyway without us calling.

    It’s routine? The final insult. They would try to save his mortal soul because it was spelled out in the state’s penal code.

    I don’t know, he answered. I’ve only been here two years. We haven’t had anyone in that time. Look, I’ll go see if he’s ready.

    No, don’t.

    I’ll be back. Just to the end of the corridor.

    Sure, go ahead, Remo said. It wasn’t worth arguing. Take your time. I’m sorry.

    CHAPTER TWO

    IT WAS A LEGEND in the state prison that condemned men usually ate a heartier meal on the night of an execution than Warden Matthew Wesley Johnson did. Tonight was no exception.

    The warden tried to concentrate on his evening paper. He propped it against the untouched dinner tray on his office desk. The air conditioner hummed. He would have to be at the electrocution. It was his job. Why the hell didn’t the telephone ring?

    Johnson looked to the window. Night boats moved slowly up the narrow black river toward the hundreds of piers and docks that dotted the nearby sea coast, their lights blinking codes and warnings to receivers who were rarely there.

    He glanced at his watch. Only twenty-five minutes left. He went back to the Newark Evening News. The crime rate was rising, a front-page story warned. So what, he thought. It rises every year. Why keep putting it on the front page to get people worked up? Besides, we’ve got a solution to the crime problem now. We’re going to execute all the cops. He thought of Remo Williams in the cell.

    Long ago, he had decided it was the smell that bothered him. Not from his frozen roast beef dinner, untouched before him, but from the anticipation of the night. Maybe if it were cleaner. But there was the smell. Even with the exhaust fan, there was the smell. Flesh burning.

    How many had it been in seventeen years? Seven men. Tonight would be eight. Johnson remembered every one of them. Why didn’t the phone ring? Why didn’t the governor call with a reprieve? Remo Williams was no thug. He was a cop, damn it, a cop.

    Johnson turned to the inside pages of the paper, looking for crime news. Man charged with murder. He read through the story looking for details. Negro knifing in Jersey City. He would probably get the man. A bar fight. That would be dropped to manslaughter. No death sentence there. Good.

    But here was Williams tonight. Johnson shook his head. What were the courts coming to? Were they panicked by these civil rights groups? Didn’t they know that each sacrifice has to lead to a bigger sacrifice, until you have nothing left? Execute a cop for killing a punk? Was a decade of progress to be followed by a decade of vigilante law?

    It had been three years since the last execution. He had thought things were changing. But the swiftness of Williams’ indictment and trial, the quick rejection of his appeal, and now this poor man waiting in the death house.

    Damn it. What did he need this job for? Johnson looked across his broad oak desk to a framed picture in the corner. Mary and the children. Where else could he get $24,000 a year? Served him right for backing political winners.

    Why didn’t the bastard phone with a pardon? How many men did they expect him to fry for $24,000?

    The button lit up on his ivory telephone’s private line. Relief spread across his broad Swedish features. He snatched the telephone to his ear. Johnson here, he said.

    Good to catch you there, Matt, came the familiar voice over the phone.

    Where the hell did you think I’d be, Johnson thought. He said: Good to hear from you, Governor. You don’t know how good.

    I’m sorry, Matt. There isn’t going to be a pardon. Not even a stay.

    Oh, Johnson said; his free hand crumpled the newspaper.

    I’m calling for a favor, Matt.

    Sure, Governor, sure, Johnson said. He pushed the newspaper from the edge of the desk toward the waste basket.

    In a few minutes, a Capuchin monk and his escort will be at the prison. He may be on his way to your office now. Let him talk to this what’s-his-name, Williams, the one who’s going to die. Let the other man witness the execution from the control panel.

    But there’s very little visibility from the control panel, Johnson said.

    What the hell. Let him stay there anyhow.

    It’s against regulations to allow…

    Matt. C’mon. We’re not kids anymore. Let him stay there. The Governor was no longer asking; he was telling. Johnson’s eyes strayed toward the picture of his wife and children.

    And one more thing. This observer’s from some kind of a private hospital. The State Department of Institutions has given them permission to have this Williams’ body. Some kind of criminal-mind research, Doctor Frankenstein stuff. They’ll have an ambulance there to pick it up. Leave word at the gate. They’ll have written authorization from me.

    Weariness settled over Warden Johnson.

    Okay, Governor. I’ll see that it’s done.

    Good, Matt. How’re Mary and the kids?

    Fine, Governor. Just fine.

    Well, give them my best. I’ll be stopping down one of these days.

    Fine, Governor, fine.

    The Governor hung up. Johnson looked at the phone in his hand. Go to hell, he snarled and slammed it onto the cradle.

    His profanity startled his secretary who had just slithered quietly into the office with the walk she usually reserved for walking past groups of prisoners.

    There’s a priest and another man here, she said. Should I bring them in?

    No, Johnson said. Have the priest taken down to see the prisoner, Williams. Have the other man escorted to the death house. I don’t want to see them.

    What about our chaplain, warden? Isn’t it strange to…?

    Johnson interrupted. This whole damn business of being the state’s executioner is strange, Miss Scanlon. Just do what I say.

    He spun around in his chair to look at the air conditioner pumping cool, fresh, clean air into his office.

    CHAPTER THREE

    REMO WILLIAMS LAY ON HIS BACK, his eyes shut, his fingers drumming silently on his stomach. What was death anyway? Like sleep? He liked to sleep. Most people liked to sleep. Why fear death?

    If he opened his eyes, he would see the cell. But in his personal darkness, he was free for a moment, free from the jail and the men who would kill him, free from the gray bars and the harsh overhead light. Darkness was peaceful.

    He heard the soft rhythm of feet padding along the corridor, louder, louder, louder. Then they stopped. Voices mumbled, clothes rustled, keys tingled and then with a clack, the cell door opened. Remo blinked in the yellow light. A brown-robed monk clutching a black cross with a silver Christ stood inside the cell door waiting. The dark cowl shaded the monk’s eyes. He held the crucifix in his right hand, the left apparently tucked beneath the folds of his robe.

    The guard, stepping back from the cell door, said to Remo: The priest.

    Remo sat up on the cot, bringing his legs in front of him. His back was to the wall.

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1