The Marvel Knights Group presents: Punisher War Journal #4

Entry 070216a

War takes its toll on more than just the soldiers.

There are always the civilians you have to worry about, from the little kid standing in the rice fields to the old lady trying to sleep under a newspaper. It’s rare that there’s a conflict where the only people who are changed are the ones firing the guns.

It’s ironic then that the war is usually fought in the name of the ones who can’t defend themselves. The silent inhabitants of the chosen battlefield have their names invoked more than the Almighty. Even more ironic is that when the dust clears the civilians are the ones who have to clean up the mess.

You might call me a hypocrite when I say things like this, and you’d be right. My own personal war has spilled over into the innocent’s house, and there isn’t a day that passes that I hate myself for it. To pull myself back from that precarious edge I have to find a focus. Something specific to aim at before I turn into a loose cannon.

I walked head first into a trap tonight and I’d be kidding myself if I didn’t admit to being saved by a lithe spy named Natasha. Just before she pulled down the dirt bag that was about to plug me, he had named the man I could target my angst at.

Jigsaw.

“It ain’t that bad.”

Frank Castle winced as a small piece of gauze was pressed to the cut on his cheek. The pure alcohol that Natasha Romanova used to clean out the wound was anything but gentle, its sting doing little to relax the man that the underworld feared as the Punisher.

“Yes, it is,” the redheaded Natasha replied. She was still dressed in a sleek black number that hugged her admired figure. Her Russian accent only accentuated her appearance. “The fact that you haven’t appeared to have showered in several days begs the question of infection. You are probably lucky that you are not covered in, how you say, gangrene.”

She continued to dab at the cuts as Phil, a stocky information broker, walked into the main room of his apartment. Paranoid by nature, he had almost climbed out the window when he heard Natasha’s voice come over his intercom, demanding entrance. Only when he saw her supporting Frank on her arm did he open the thick reinforced door.

“Barely slept in the last few days,” Frank replied as he winced again. “No time for luxuries.”

“Yes, being a wanted man does that to you.”

“Yeah, how’s that working out?” Phil asked between bites of his sandwich. The pair looked at him, staring daggers. “Right. Sorry I asked. Anyway, thought you might want to know, Frank: I tracked down that Cayman account that’s been throwing tons of cash at that Samuel Carter guy.”

Frank batted Natasha’s hand away as he stood up to move closer to where Phil was sitting. He looked at the computer screen in front of the overweight man, expecting to see the answer waiting for him.

“I’ve already got an idea,” the Punisher said. “Bastard always pops up when I’m not paying attention. I just need a location.”

“Well, for most people that would be something of a challenge—”

Frank Castle shot the techie a look that stifled his train of thought.

“—but for someone like me it’s really not a problem. Ahem.”

Phil quickly dropped his sandwich and grabbed the computer’s mouse, cycling through windows on the screen. “I don’t have much on the guy’s identity,” Phil explained, “as is the case with most overseas bank accounts. But location; that I can provide. The thing is that this guy was making transactions like clockwork. Even though the bank’s systems were operating on what we call a ‘stand alone’ network, I was able to anticipate when he would log in next. While you were out doing…whatever it is you do when you aren’t here, I tracked his IP address to a single satellite uplink right here in NYC.”

“Where.” Frank stated.

Phil double-clicked an icon and swung around in his chair to reach for the printer. “Already ahead of you. Here’s a…yuck, hardcopy.”

Frank snatched the paper and made a mental note of the address to where Phil had tracked the account owner, whom he knew had to be Jigsaw. The whole setup, from being made the star of the nightly news to the ambush at Carter’s house, reeked of the former mob hitman. He didn’t know how, but Jigsaw was at the heart of his problems.

“And where are you going?” Natasha demanded. “You’re in no condition to take someone on, I think. Nyet.” She slipped the printout out from between Frank’s fingers and looked it over. Her eyes skimmed the information quickly as her eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Your methods have never been well received, Castle. You cannot downplay your involvement with the police this time around if you go in with guns blazing like some primitive cowboy.”

Frank ripped the page back out of the spy’s slender hands. “I don’t give two shits about the police,” he replied. “They can sort through the bodies when I’m done if they want. You expect me to just sit still?”

“Again you believe that sheer force will solve everything. You know better, Castle. You’ve worn yourself down over the years and lost sight of how to make the prey most vulnerable. You are little more than a battering ram as opposed to the stalking hunter I first met years ago. I speak of subterfuge, Castle.”

They stared each other down, neither of them shirking away from the other’s gaze. If the implication had come from nearly anyone else Frank would have thrown his fist, but the simple fact was he respected the Black Widow. She had something that he respected even more than insight: experience. She had lived in the same world as him, the one that was beneath the sugarcoating in which most people dwelled.

He didn’t know what he hated more, the way she looked at him or the way he was beginning to look at himself. His passion was still there, but the direction seemed wrong. For a split second he noticed the grit in his fingernails and saw himself as she must have seen him then.

He broke the stare first, gritting his teeth. “Fine,” Frank finally said. “I assume you’ve got something in mind.”

The Black Widow smiled devilishly as she pulled the paper back out of Frank’s grasp again. “Of course. Allow me to make a phone call and then we will do our best to clear what you call a name.”

Bam! Bam! Bam!

The pounding on the door would have continued if it wasn’t for the soft touch of the woman’s hand atop the rasping fist. “I think they heard you,” she said.

The fat man shook her hand away and huffed in annoyance. He wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from anyone, let alone a woman. As provocative as she looked in her low-cut black cocktail dress, contrasting against her blazing red hair, he knew better than to give her a smart reply. The three men behind them stood silently, shrouded in sunglasses and trenchcoats.

A slot three-quarters of the way up the door suddenly slipped open, complete with a set of eyes on the other side. “What do you want?” the eyes demanded.

“Mikhail Chekova,” the fat man identified himself, his Russian accent anything but subtle. “I have business.”

The eyes looked the small group over before settling on the woman. “And her?”

“She is business,” Chekova answered.

An eyebrow over one of the eyes rose slightly just before the slot slammed shut. A few seconds later they heard several locks being undone on the other side of the door. It opened to reveal a tall man whose eyes were still looking over the sleek woman. He motioned for them to enter and relocked the door behind the group after they had passed through the threshold.

On the outside the Sherman Building looked like a desolate office building that may or may not have been condemned. On the inside, however, the main lobby looked like something out of an action film. A dozen men were sifting through packages, with several different styles of machine gun slung around their shoulders.

“Check ‘em,” the doorman ordered.

A pair of men stalked over and started to frisk the visitors, taking care to search them thoroughly. Chekova objected at first, but a quick look from the woman silenced him. The guards disarmed a handgun from each of the men, including Chekova, but left the woman untouched.

“What about her?” the doorman told the guards. “You want to risk a security breach? Get out of the way. I’ll handle this.”

He eagerly pushed the guards aside and spun the woman around so her back was to his. His own HK94, an American import model of the MP5, fell loosely to his hip as he groped the woman’s sides. Instead of the protest that Mikhail expected she instead cutely squirmed slightly from his touch.

“Where would she even put anything?” one of the guards joked.

“I’d like to find out,” the doorman replied, but his attention quickly moved from the woman to someone else across the room. He slipped back and stood up straighter from the sight of his employer watching him.

“Chekova,” he said as he stepped into the light. A couple of the cloaked visitors behind the Russian mobster took a half-step back at the sight of the man’s cracked face. Deep scars ran crookedly all over his features, masking him in a face of broken horror. “I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight. What brings you here?”

“Business,” the Russian replied. “It is no secret, comrade Jigsaw, that my allegiances are never for sale…my loyalty, however, is another matter entirely. The two are often confused for one another. I seek your aid in a matter.”

Mikhail moved passed the guards, gripping the woman’s arm as he walked. He practically dragged her with him although she picked her feet up quickly, smiling as they got closer to the former mob hitman now known as Jigsaw. “Eddie Martoni has sought my loyalty against my own father, as you may know, my friend. He plans a coup. Your soldiers are some of the best money can buy in the city. I would like to replenish my own troops with yours if I may. I shall pay, of course, and I have brought a down payment with me.” He motioned to the redhead who continued to smile like a mannequin. “Is good, yes?”

Jigsaw’s eyes moved around the room carefully. He looked each of the men that Chekova had brought with him over, then looked at the woman before finally settling back onto the fat Russian. “Come into my office,” Jigsaw said, his voice sounding like rolling gravel.

Chekova half-dragged the woman after Jigsaw, who led them into a side room and closed the door. The scarred man moved behind a desk and sat down, leaving the two of them to stand. “Your offer interests me,” Jigsaw said. “We’ve done business before and never had a problem. From what I understand the Martoni family is a pack of wild dogs who think their heritage can protect them. You’re wise in coming to me for support. There’s just one thing, though, Mikhail.”

“Da?” the Russian responded.

“What brings you here?”

Mikhail looked confused. “Perhaps my English is still a bit rusty. I thought I just explained—”

“No. You told me why you’re here, but not what actually brought you here. You’ve never been to this facility before. None of my business partners have. It’s not on the books and it sure as hell ain’t common knowledge.”

Jigsaw slipped a Desert Eagle handgun out from under his desk and pointed it at the pair. “You better fuckin’ hope I like your answer.”

A handful of gunshots erupted from the lobby, catching their attention. A whimpered scream followed up the noise. Several more bursts of peppering gunfire sounded, complete with muzzle flash through the frosted glass of the office window.

The redhead suddenly sprung into action, catching Jigsaw off his guard. He had expected the Russian prodigal son to make a move, even if it was a hesitant one. He had no cause to suspect the sultry woman who leapt atop the desk easily in her high heels and kicked the gun out of his hand. He swore as he looked up at her to see her other foot swinging for his scarred face. He kicked back from the desk, rolling in the chair until he hit the back wall. She hopped off the desk and stepped closer to him, angling another kick at him, which he blocked and returned with a punch across her chin.

She fell back from the stronger hit and shot a look at Mikhail, who was opening the door to make his escape. Jigsaw screamed as he came at her, his pile driver fists crashing down against the edge of the desk where she had just been. She was fast, faster than him.

Her foot caught him just under the back of his knee and forced him to kneel. She slapped the heel of her hand into his temple, which caused stars to swim across his vision. Instead of pressing the fight, however, the woman backflipped over the desk and slipped out of the office.

“Kill them!” Jigsaw screamed as he collected his Desert Eagle and ran out of the room.

He was stunned at what he saw. Not only were his own guards taken down in what looked like a silent massacre, but the three men that Chekova had brought with him were aiming their guns at him. He started to raise his own weapon but decided against it, still shocked by what he saw. Behind the men stood the fat Russian and the redhead, who was smiling.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jigsaw demanded.

“Me?” the redhead asked innocently. “No one of consequence. But my friend here…”

The center gunman stepped forward, pulling off his sunglasses and letting the trenchcoat fall off his shoulders. He pointed the nozzle of the HK94 he had liberated from the doorman at Jigsaw’s chest, his gaze steady.

“Hello, Billy,” the Punisher said.

“Castle…” Jigsaw said through gritted teeth. “How the hell—”

“Your men aren’t as well trained as I’ve been told,” the Punisher said, cutting him off. “Divide and conquer, Billy. You’ve never been much on your own. I thought our business was over years ago, and now I find out you’re still pulling strings to get me into trouble. Very naughty, Billy.”

“It’s not over until you’re six feet under! You’re my only assignment that’s still open, Castle. And after what you did to my face, you better believe that I ain’t never gonna stop until I’ve—”

Blam!

Jigsaw stumbled back, clutching his shoulder. He dropped his weapon as the Punisher took a few steps forward, the machine gun in his hands unwavering, now apparently switched to single fire. Smoke still billowed out from the nozzle of the weapon. Blood oozed out of Jigsaw’s shoulder and spilled on the floor.

“It ends now,” the Punisher said. “This vendetta shit is for the spandex crowd. I’m a different breed.”

Finally breaking his aim, the Punisher leaned forward and crashed the butt of the assault rifle into Jigsaw’s face. The assassin fell back onto the cold floor, spitting out a tooth as he touched down. The blood from his shoulder continued to ooze onto his otherwise immaculate suit.

“I don’t know if it was strange luck or divine intervention that brought us together again,” Frank said as he slung the rifle over his shoulder. “Either way it’s—”

“Frank,” the woman, Natasha, said. “Sirens. Police. Let’s go. Now.”

The Punisher pulled out a 9mm from the small of his back and pointed it at Jigsaw’s forehead. “Say g’night, Gracie,” he said.

The single shot rang out clean, reverberating off the walls of the hollow building. Billy “The Beaut” Russo, forever known as Jigsaw, slumped back down to the floor as his eyes rolled into of his head. The back of his skull had exploded behind him, creating a splatter pattern that the police would later photograph for analysis.

The Punisher gently tucked his weapon back into the small of his back and turned to leave. He followed Natasha and Chekova out the side door, heading away from the sirens. They collectively bolted down the alley and spilled out onto the adjoining street, heading straight for Frank’s waiting van.

“Natasha,” Frank said as they opened the van’s side door. “You know what you said about sheer force not getting the job done?”

The Black Widow paused as she moved to enter the van, looking at him curiously.

“Call me a sucker for the classics.”

The Punisher depressed a small button on a remote he was holding. The Sherman Building on the other side of the block suddenly erupted in flames as an explosion rocked its foundations. The napalm charges weren’t enough to topple the building but it would ensure the incineration of whatever was inside, bodies included.

The Punisher smirked as he slammed the side door shut on the passengers and hopped up into the driver’s seat.

The television flicked through several news channels, its manipulator unsatisfied with the reports he saw. All of the local channels and even the majority of the major networks were flashing through images taken by helicopters, all of them displaying the same thing: a smoldering building that fire crews had taken fire crews several hours to get under control.

{{Authorities tell us that there were several bodies found in the first two floors of the Sherman Building,}} one reporter said after Frank paused in his channel surfing. {{No identities have been released as of this time, but it has been verified that this incident is gang related. The heated dispute between rival factions of the underworld may actually be the result of—}}

Back in Phil’s lackluster apartment, Frank switched channels again, irritated by the lack of facts the news seemed to cherish. Like little guppies they swarmed to the story, each trying to bite off a bigger piece than the next fish. It didn’t matter if the details were sketchy; as long as there was some trivia piece of information on the air it counted.

“Don’t worry, Frank,” Phil said from his seat at the desk behind the vigilante. “I’m sure they’ll find his body. Before you know it Jigsaw will be declared a corpse.”

The Punisher ignored the techie’s comments, intent on flipping through the news channels until he found something of interest. He landed on one that had a graphic in the corner of a white skull that crudely resembled the one he was known for.

{{—muel L. Carter stepped forward today to reveal more about his daunting ordeal with the urban myth referred to as the Punisher. Known for capturing this footage of the murderous vigilante just a few days ago, Carter has told police that he was under pressure from known crime bosses to distort the details of his encounter with the Punisher. Police are still looking for the vigilante for questioning on the matter. Carter had this to say—}}

Frank turned the television off and sighed. It was the first time in the last several days that he felt like he could relax, at least just a little. The heat was off for now, even though the world at large now knew about him. Thankfully the video didn’t have a clear shot of his face, although he wouldn’t be putting that to the test anytime soon. He still needed to lie low, but at least the whole NYPD wasn’t appointed as a task force to bring him down.

Natasha had disappeared after the blast. He assumed she had made good on her promise to “convince” Carter to give the police the true story.

In the end Natasha had been right. The constant war he fought, usually alone, had changed him. He knew he could never be the same man he was when his family was still alive, but he didn’t realize how lost he had become. Wandering the country, moving from city to city in an endless vendetta against no one in particular…it all seemed so trite now. His return to New York had apparently been the right move. Maybe he should stay while his life sorted itself out.

The Punisher stood up, dropping the remote back onto the worn couch. “Phil,” he said as he threw his coat on and walked to the door, “keep your nose clean. I’ll be around.”

“Um…Frank?”

The vigilante paused and half turned. He felt like thanking the stout computer whiz for his help, but showing appreciation had never really been his forte. “What is it?”

“I…I don’t really know how to tell you this. That Natasha lady left something for you while you were out this morning. Here.”

Phil grabbed a metal lockbox, the kind people buy to keep things like birth certificates and social security cards safe, off of his desk and handed it over. It was a dark shade of gray, absorbing all the light ominously. It wasn’t very large or heavy, but Frank heard its contents slide a little when Phil passed it to him. He looked it over and found that the lid was locked.

“What’s this?”

“Got me,” Phil answered as he returned to his seat. “She didn’t leave a key. I can bust it open for ya, but I’m sure you can take care of that yourself.”

Frank balanced the lockbox on this hip while he swung the large metal door open and left the apartment, leaving his silence as a goodbye. The rotten stench of the mostly abandoned building hit him instantly, but left him unharmed as he exited. His van patiently waited for him at the curb. He climbed in and dropped the lockbox on the passenger seat, but paused when he saw what was taped to the steering wheel: a white envelope.

He looked through the side window even though he knew it was useless. Whoever had the guts to break into his van wouldn’t dare stick around to watch. He ripped the envelope open and pulled out a small piece of paper, along with a copper colored key.

Frank-

Made a withdrawal for you. Hope you don’t mind.

-Natasha

He gripped the key tightly as he realized what the note meant. In the adrenaline rush of the last couple of days, he had completely forgotten how everything had started. Maria’s safety deposit box. He looked at the lockbox sitting on the passenger seat, almost scared to stare at it too intently, as if it might evaporate in a puff of smoke.

Natasha must have slipped in to the Rushmore Summit Bank and withdrawn the contents of the safety deposit box, transferring whatever was there into the lockbox. Whether she posed as his dead wife or she was just that good of a spy, he didn’t know or even care. Maybe Phil had mentioned the box to her or maybe she had found it on her own. It didn’t really matter. He silently thanked her. There was no way that he would have been able to get the box himself, not without drawing unwanted attention.

The copper key slid into the lockbox easily, clicking the mechanism open. He lifted the lid, unsure of what to expect. Phil had told him that Maria had gone to the bank a week before her death and accessed the account. Questions ran unabashed through his mind as he leaned over to see what was inside.

All he saw was a small red leather book with the word “Memories” stamped near the top of the front cover.

He was confused. Was this all there was? He hadn’t known what to expect but it wasn’t what he saw sitting there. He gently picked up the book. The red leather felt cool to the touch. He flipped it over but the back didn’t reveal any more clues as to the book’s meaning. He took in a breath and opened the book, staring at the first page.

His eyes intently read the words that were boldly written in black ink. He recognized the handwriting as Maria’s. There was no doubt in his mind that this was her book, but he was still confused as to its meaning. He read the first paragraph over again and again, written by his dead wife’s hand. It looked like a dated entry that went into detail about a night he had taken her to one of her favorite restaurants, The Lamplighter.

He stared at the words, dumbstruck. It was a diary. It was Maria’s diary.

A tear formed in the corner of one eye, splashing onto the page and discoloring the paper. His hands started to shake slightly but he didn’t dare let the diary fall out of his grasp. He continued reading, drinking in every word that he skimmed over.

For the first time since his family’s death he felt like he wasn’t alone anymore.