The Marvel Knights Group presents: Punisher War Journal #3

Entry 070215a

A lot of the “heroes” I share the city with tend to take the public spotlight eventually in their careers. Sometimes they do it on purpose. Sometimes they even get paid for it. I know that nut Spider-Man had a TV show for awhile before the newspapers started harping on him.

Suffice it to say I’m not exactly the kind of guy who tries to impress the mayor so he can get the keys to the city. I have enough keys.

I’m what you might call an urban legend. The assholes that crawl under the mattress when you turn the light on? They know about me. Hell, some of them are even on a first name basis with me. But the general populace? Fuckin’ clueless. That includes everyone from your little brother to the librarian. The cops have a few tips, and people that regularly take visits to the underworld could probably pick me out of a line-up…but other than that I’m a ghost.

Kind of hard to maintain that image when a video of you plugging two gangsters ends up on the six o’clock news. They had it coming, trust me, but the tape doesn’t make it look that way.

Now I’m heading down South Street in a van I’m sure has an APB out on it, with no sleep, sore ribs, and a whole mess of frustration. I’ve got a slim lead, but no idea if it will pan out. Throw in the fact I wanted to check out a supposed safety deposit box in Maria’s name and you’ll start to understand where the frustration stems from.

At least the guns strapped to my sides are loaded.

The night had passed and dawn had surfaced hours ago, but for the stumpy ex-con named Philip it was all just one, big blur. Time had seemed to slow down, twisting and contorting until it had lost all meaning outside of its relation to space. Phil, too scared and worried to have gotten any sleep, lounged groggily in his reclining chair. The adrenaline rush from the Punisher’s initial visit had dropped off hours ago, but he was still wired enough to stay barely awake. What the caffeine couldn’t provide his general paranoia more than made up for.

Phil hit the rewind button on his remote control, bringing the digitally captured footage back to its starting point. He watched the scene play out for the umpteenth time, wishing the censors had forgotten to blur out the faces of the two mobsters that he was sure were members of the Italian family that wanted his head on a silver platter. Again the muzzle of the Punisher’s handgun exploded in a stab of light, and again Phil rewound the recording.

It wasn’t often he had a front row seat to one of Frank Castle’s nightly endeavors. The crazed vigilante was already a hair away from putting one of those bullets into his own skull. It was by good fortune that he stayed on the Punisher’s good side. Now the police would be after him but thankfully Castle had left and probably wouldn’t be coming back, not to a place he had previously visited. He was smarter than that, or at least Phil hoped so.

{{Philly,}} a static-filled voice said from the wall mounted intercom. {{Open the damn door.}}

Phil nearly jumped out of his skin from hearing the voice resonating throughout his studio apartment. Maybe he hadn’t really heard it. Maybe Frank Castle hadn’t come back for whatever reason. Maybe his lack of sleep combined with his excess of paranoia had finally caught up with him. Maybe his mind wanted to keep itself entertained by playing tricks on him.

{{I’m not leaving, Phil,}} the voice said. {{Open the fucking door or I’ll shove enough C4 under it to turn your computers back into silicon.}}

Never one to stand up to enough intimidation, Phil steadily wobbled over to his work desk and pressed the button to open the large, reinforced door that was the only entrance into his apartment. The mammoth door slid back to reveal Frank Castle, a look of pure disdain on his face.

“Hiya, Frank…” Phil managed to mutter. “Do something for you?”

Instead of replying, the Punisher walked over to the minifridge on the far side of the apartment. He bent down, pulled the door open, and began to root through the contents, his stomach already growling at him in anticipation.

“Help yourself,” Phil said in slight disbelief.

“Haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Frank finally replied through bites of an old sub. “Ain’t going to get much of a chance to go grocery shopping now that the cops are looking for me.”

“Yeah, I heard the APB on my scanner. There’s a video of you all over the web, Frank. What the hell happened?”

“What always happens to me,” he replied. “Bad luck.”

Phil watched as the Punisher, a vicious killer with little to no remorse, sat in his apartment and ate his food without asking. He figured as long as his visitor was preoccupied with something other than him that things would be alright. Unfortunately, he realized that whatever time they had was quickly running out. The NYPD were a lot smarter than television made them out to be, and since Frank Castle was a wanted man that meant that one of the city’s many other protectors may come looking for him. Phil had to move things along or risk being found out himself.

“So...uh, Frank—”

“Shut up, Phil, and give me whatever you find about who released that footage of me.”

Phil promptly closed his lips and swung around to sit at his desk. The computer was already on, downloading its daily allotment of feeds from around the country. The technological genius’ hands flew across the keyboard, calling up the requested information. Given his nature, Phil was used to working under pressure.

Windows opened and closed rapidly as he searched for key words, finally giving up on his own search engines. When that didn’t immediately call up the information, he knew he would have to risk hacking into several secure databases. He hoped that the person who had released the video would want to take credit, but apparently he or she didn’t want to be known. Phil couldn’t blame them, given what Castle probably intended to do to them.

The online news feeds were the easiest to access so he went to those first. Filtering through various levels of security, Phil finally entered their “secure” networks and found the name of the man that the Punisher wanted to have a few words with.

“Samuel L. Carter,” Phil shouted over his shoulder. “Some loser movie producer. Used to make quality documentaries but apparently pushes porn now. Shit, you should see this guy’s credits on IMDB.”

“That’s the guy,” Frank said from behind Phil, startling the stout technician. “He was the man that a couple of punks from the Martoni crew were shaking down. Figures he was the one that filmed it. He must have had a camera running for some reason and caught the whole thing on tape. From smut peddler to news source in sixty seconds.”

“They were shaking him down?” Phil asked, curious about anything that the Italians were up to. “So, he’s dirty then? Nice, reliable source they got there.”

“He’s in bed with the mob, there’s no doubt about it. Get me more names. Contacts, family, friends…all of it.”

“Way ahead of you,” Phil replied as he called up more information to the screen. “He’s in bed with more than just the Martoni crime family. Hell, it’s a gangbang at his place.”

The Punisher shot Phil a look through his reflection on the computer screen, a silent reminder that jokes were not welcome in relation to the situation. “Ahem,” Phil continued. “I mean, he’s, uh, connected to more than just the Italians.”

“Who?”

“Well, first off the investors for his little movies aren’t the cleanest of clients, but they aren’t the ones I’m talking about. If you look at his bank statements for the last six months here, you’ll see some interesting deposits from an account in the Caymans. All his other investors paid from accounts within the states.”

“Can you find out who owns that account?”

“I could…” Phil began to say. “But that would mean hacking into some pretty heavy security. I mean, if the feds aren’t on their way here already they will be once I start chomping into international accounts. Then you’ll have Interpol involved, plus you have to take into consider—”

“Phil, do I really have to persuade you.”

The statement was not a question, merely an observation on the vigilante’s part. Without bothering to look at the Punisher’s reflection again, Phil began typing in the commands to proceed with the illegal investigation. If he wasn’t on Interpol’s wanted list already he would be soon.

“I’m going to crash on your sofa,” Frank said as he turned away. “Keep me updated. And Phil?”

“Yeah?”

“I sleep with my eyes open, so don’t try anything.”

Salty sweat beaded on Samuel’s forehead, wetting the strands of thinning hair that lazily hung over his eyes. He had once been a man of integrity, a man of perseverance that loved his work. Now, reduced to nothing more than a pornographer, Samuel had a final decision to make.

“Are you in or are you out?”

To the old Samuel the answer would have been obvious. Then life happened while he was busy making other plans. He had been relying too much on dirty money and those that pushed it. Selling the tape of that Punisher nutcase hadn’t been his idea but now he was in deeper then ever. The credit had gone to his benefactor, the man who stood before him and asked a yes or no question in the middle of a situation that was anything but simple.

“Sam,” the man stated. “If you’re in then we’re friends again and I can forgive the money you owe me. If you’re out…well, you don’t really want to think about that, do you, Samuel?”

“What…what do I have to do?” Samuel managed to blurt out.

The man remained in the shadows of the warehouse they occupied as he always did. He had never actually seen the man’s face, but his voice was enough to intimidate him. It was like his words were dragged over gravel before reaching his ears. He had been grabbed while walking down the street, thrown into the back of an unmarked black sedan, and brought somewhere on the outskirts of town. He never knew when the man would demand a meeting, but when he did, Samuel knew better than to avoid it. Not that he had a choice in the matter.

“The police are looking for Castle,” the man explained, “thanks to the video you provided them with. I appreciate you coming to me with that tape, Sam, I really do. You did the right thing and you’ll be rewarded for it. But first, you’ll need to go to the police and act as a witness to Castle’s killings.”

“No way,” Samuel said, summoning the courage to speak louder than before. “That Punisher guy is fucking crazy. If he knows who I am he’ll come after me. I’ve heard the rumors about what he does to people. He’s like a force of nature the way he tears into guys. I can’t do this, this is too much for me, I—”

“Samuel. Relax. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Samuel’s shoulder noticeably slouched as he exhaled a held in breath. The sweat was still beading down his face but for an entirely different reason now. He knew that things were never as they seemed and that he really should learn to just keep his mouth shut.

“I’m not asking, Sam,” the shrouded man continued, “I’m telling you. You’ll fucking do whatever the fuck I say, you got that?”

Splitting pain suddenly burst through the back of Samuel’s legs as he crumbled to the floor. He looked behind him to see one of the stooges that had thrown him into the back of the car earlier standing over him, a solid piece of wood in hand. There was a small, rounded dent in the soft wood where it had struck his calves to go along with the ear-to-ear grin on the crook’s face. Samuel had been in this position before and knew that any further defiance would result in much more than a simple tap on the leg.

“Good,” the man said as he finally stepped closer to Samuel, allowing a tinge of light to blanket him. “Now, get your ass out of here before I quit being generous. Go to the police and don’t you ever act up on me again or I’ll break your fucking face. And believe me, Sam, I know all about that.”

Samuel tried to stand and found himself pulled back by the two guards behind him. They dragged him toward the exit, but not in time to stop Samuel from catching a glimpse of the man who basically owned his life. The site of the man’s face made him instantly wish he hadn’t eaten a large lunch, as it was more horrifying than any character from one of his low-budget horror films.

The pair of hired thugs finished dragging Samuel out of the warehouse, where they promptly dumped him on the sidewalk. “Have fun walking home, asshole,” one of them said. The other simply laughed as they both turned back to reenter the warehouse, leaving Samuel alone in a puddle of filthy rainwater.

“Sweet Lord in Heaven,” Samuel muttered.

The pleasantly suburbanite home that belonged to Sam Carter had all the trimmings of a standard American home. A white picket fence closed in the tiny front yard, the shudders covering the windows were all painted a deep shade of blue, and the doormat even had the phrase, “Welcome, Friend!” emblazoned on it. Apparently even pornographers wanted to live in a clean neighborhood.

Frank Castle stepped out of his van, confidently striding right up to the front door of the Queens home. Phil had done his job in collecting all the information the Punisher needed on his prey nicely, handing over a folder of printed material that summed up Carter’s entire life. Frank had planned to go out tracking Carter down more tactfully, more subtly, but an hour ago the news had interviewed Carter as he was walking out of a police station. Apparently Carter had spoken up as a witness to the Punisher’s actions, making Frank’s need for swift retribution all the more dire.

He was running out of time. The police were stacking a case a mile high, and the only man that could have vouched for his actions had just spoken against him.

Frank checked the load in his .357 Magnum, making sure all six rounds were ready to go. It was a big gun with lots of kick back, and the silencer made it stand out even more. For once, that was a good thing. One look at the giant handgun and Carter would know that the Punisher meant business. With a little luck he would have this whole affair wrapped up in under an hour.

The door bell ran twice, resonating throughout the house. Frank took a step back and leveled his weapon at the peephole, waiting for the sound of scurrying feet from the other side of the door. Intimidation games were some of his favorite to play.

He heard a soft click, the sound of a door latch being undone. He held his aim steady at the upper portion of the door, so that when Samuel opened it wide the muzzle of the Magnum would be pointed straight at his head.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank some a subtle movement. Another soft click sounded from the other side of the door, drawing his attention back, but his peripheral vision remained fixed on something moving just off to his right.

The drawn curtains on the window, resting comfortably behind the pleasant shutters, suddenly ruffled open. A sleek, black rifle shattered the glass as it stuck itself out into the open air and pointed directly at Frank. Simultaneously, the door swung open to reveal a man that was not Samuel Carter.

It was a trap.

Frank threw himself to the left toward a patch of shrubs, managing to squeeze off a shot at the man standing in the doorway before he hit the ground. The large caliber shells in his Magnum did more than just intimidate the assassin standing in Carter’s doorway, as the large man dressed in black was sent flying back from the gunshot. Both of them landed with a thud, the only difference being that Frank still had enough breath in him to roll over and find cover.

The rifle sticking out of the broken window began coughing out bullets, tearing into the immaculate yard with all the grace of a lightning storm. Chunks of grass and dirt exploded beside Frank, showering him with crumbly debris.

“I never catch a break,” the Punisher muttered to himself.

Hefting the large handgun up to aim inside the house, Frank let out three more shots that burrowed through the siding. From where he sat, the open doorway was visible by a few inches, allowing him to just barely see into the darkened house. He couldn’t make out anything specific as all he saw were blurs and shades of darkness shifting around. Chances were that anyone inside that he could hit would be a positive thing for the night.

A few screams erupted from inside, muffled by the rifle’s gunfire. Frank emptied the rest of his load from the Magnum, dropping it on the ground once it was empty. Even with the silencer it was still fairly loud, and with the added volume of the rifle and screams, keeping a low profile wasn’t an option anymore.

The Punisher’s hands dove inside his trenchcoat, fishing for another weapon to use against whoever was trying to kill him. They emerged a split-second later with a pair of Springfield Armory's Micro-Compact .45 ACP handguns. He had stumbled across them after taking down a drug dealer, and thought that liberating the instruments would be better than having them locked up in an evidence room. Their stopping power was better than a regular 9mm, and the bullets had a tendency to shatter bones on impact, especially close range.

He traded off firing each of them, going back and forth between the two. The constant barrage of gunfire left the inside of the house mostly quiet. Hot lead spit out of the handguns almost faster than Frank could account for, but he made sure not to lose control. It was easy to just slide into a mental state, ignoring whatever it was you were shooting at. He had a goal tonight, and being reckless wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

He emptied both magazines and paused, waiting for something to happen from inside. He was sure he had taken down the man with the rifle, since its muzzle was now drooping lazily out of the window. He half stood up and leaned forward, anxious to know who was still standing. Had he gotten Carter somehow?

The window just above the shrubs he had been crouched beside suddenly exploded outward, showering him with bits of jagged glass. A lone figure had propelled himself out of the window, managing to tackle Frank around the waste. Caught off guard, the Punisher tried his best to roll with the hit but found himself taken down with ease.

His weapons fell to the perforated lawn just as he did, a tangle of arms and legs. His assailant didn’t fair much better, his momentum now used up and his bearings just as lost as Frank’s. Still, he had the advantage of the Punisher as he was on top.

Frank arched his back and drove an elbow into the back of the man’s skull. He thought he heard the man expel a breath of surprise, but if the hit fazed him he didn’t let on. The mobster assassin drove his knee into Frank’s crouch, blinding the vigilante with sudden pain. Spots swam in front of his field of vision, blocking out the sight of the man standing up over him with a sick smile on his face.

“You ain’t so tough,” the man said as he rubbed the back of his head. “Shit, Jigsaw don’t got nothing to worry about with a pussy like you.”

Any pain receptors still firing instantly shut off at the sound of the name Jigsaw. Frank Castle’s vision started to clear up as past memories quickly raced through his mind. He shook his head, trying desperately to keep his attention rooted in the present. He had to stay focused.

The man’s boot plowed into the Punisher’s head. Spittle shot out of Frank’s mouth as his face was driven into the cold ground, dripping slightly from between his lips into the soil. He felt like his teeth were still rattling even though the man was only standing over him, gloating.

“You supposed to be some kind of badass I thought. You ain’t nothing, punk.”

The sole of his boot pressed into the back of Frank’s head, shoving his face deeper into the soft dirt. It was becoming harder to breath and he was starting to get lightheaded.

“Wonder how much dough I’ll get if I bring your ass in dead. Ha!”

The pressure on the back of Frank’s head let up for a moment, a sign that the man was shifting his weight to stomp his foot down once more. The Punisher, groggy and worn, waited for the harsh touch of the mobster assassin to pound him back into the ground…but nothing happened. He rolled over onto his back, expecting to see the man garbed in black toying with him, but instead saw a welcomed sight.

A redheaded woman with the figure of a supermodel standing over the unconscious body of the man that was trying to kill him.

“You spies love that silent creeping shit,” Frank said after spitting out a mouthful of blood.

“It’s how I pay the bills,” the Black Widow replied. “Come on, Frank. We need to move before the police arrive and arrest both of us.”

With her help he got to his feet. They both stumbled back across the yard, after making sure to collect his dropped weapons, and entered his waiting van. Natasha hopped into the driver’s seat while Frank plopped down in the back, eyeing the ceiling from lying on his back. He slid the side door shut with his foot just as his unwelcome savior ignited the car’s engine. As darkness once more crept into the Punisher’s eyes, he felt the gentle bumps from potholes in the road as they drove off down the street. Sirens roared passed them, but kept going.

Just before he passed out, Frank’s tired mind tried to piece the puzzle together and figure out how one of his longtime enemies had gotten involved with Sam Carter. Jigsaw was a name he thought he would never hear again, but like a stroke of bad luck, there it was.

Russians, Italians, and now an archenemy. Fucking perfect.