Max Chilton is on his feet and moving toward the new gaping hole in the wall before the smoke even begins to settle, his gold platted Thompson raised in front of him. The middle aged Mafia Don, Lex Moxon, is not as fast to move. The woman who had been sitting on his desk moments early had thrown herself to the floor behind the desk, and he had already forgotten she had even been there. The lucky strike he had been smoking fell to his lap and was burning a hole through the slacks of his black and white 30's style zoot suit before he slaps it and jumps to his feet.
"What are you standing around for!" he screams as he slams his palms down onto the top of his beloved desk, his face flushed beat red. "Do something!" he hollers as he reaches into the center desk drawer for the pearl handled 8 3/4''barreled .357 Smith & Wesson model 27 that he always kept stored there. The blast had blown his all white designer Tando from his head, and he only then turned to reach around and retrieve it from the floor behind the desk, and just as he bends down and grasps it, something slices through the air just missing the top of his head by inches and sticks to the frame of his arm chair.
He hits the floor and cranes his neck for a better observation of the object. It appears to be some sort of a throwing star... but what is different about it than the ones he had seen over seas? Oh well, no time to ponder such trivial things, arms fire is erupting at the opposite end of the huge office. He hears the unmistakable sound of Max's Tommy gun as it unleashes wave after wave of a .45 caliber rounds into where the heavy reinforced doors once stood. The smoke has not yet cleared, but it is now quickly thinning.
Only one of the four sandwich eating goons has survived the initial blast, the rest had been taken out by the explosively propelled heavy doors and shrapnel from the iron bands. the remaining thugs eyes are wide as he fumbles around on the floor for a weapon. He comes up off of his knees shakily wielding a B.A.R, trying to bring the big guns' barrel to bare down on the shadow that is appearing before him through the fading smoke and settling rubble, but before he can get the sites lined up on the elusive figure, he sees flame sprouting at him and it is too late. His brains are added to the pile of carnage that was only moments ago a table of card playing tough guys for hire.
Max watches the mans head explode from one of the Remington .12 gauges' slugs, and unbeknownst to himself pees in his pants more than just a little bit, as he slams a new clip into his Thompson and slams the receiver back and begins firing away into the direction of the masked intruder who has just now become visible from his standpoint of the wreckage. The man is moving so fast it doesn't even seem like it should be possible. And what is he wearing? Max Isn't sure if his head has been affected by the blast or if this guy is actually dressed like Zorro.
The intruder quickly cartwheels to the left and then drops to a knee and rolls to the right while unloading the remaining slugs in the .12 gauge auto loading Remington 11 before dropping the weapon and flinging his bullet proof cape in front of him momentarily, barely reflecting a close grouping of .45 caliber bullets aimed at his chest, before launching himself into the air and back out the way he had entered. But not before he had flung something hand size into the middle of the room. Something that was steadily ticking away.