The Story so far:
Casting.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26270
I.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26463
II.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26790
III.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=27092
IV.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=27483
V.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=28144
VI.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=28880
VII.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=29356
VIII.
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=30348
SCENE THIRTY-TWO:
Linus Lieberman stands atop a decrepit warehouse on the western end of Coffey Street in Red Hook, Brooklyn. His mouth hangs agape as he peers through binoculars at the carnage that he has just witnessed. At the Atlantic Basin, only four blocks northwest of his position, a plume of smoke and concrete dust rises ever higher into the mid winter sky, back lit by the lights of Manhattan. Small pieces of wood and concrete begin to rain down around him snapping him out of his daze. The voice of Frank Castle comes faintly from the large brick-style cell phone at his feet. Micro glances down, realizing he dropped the phone and scoops up the device.
Micro:
Here, Frank. I’m here. Jesus Christ. The whole [frick]in’ pier just went in the water.
Frank:
What about the freighter?
Micro:
She’s rolled over on her side and bottomed out in the channel, I can see her hull split open from here.
Frank:
Any sign of civilian injuries?
Micro:
None that I can tell from here. The docks were evacuated when the hazardous materials bay was blown, the firemen and NYPD were still clearing the neighborhoods around the docks, they hadn’t moved any containment teams in yet. We did good, Frank.
Frank:
I’m moving to option two. Get moving to the rendezvous point, I’m gonna need you to be Johnny-On-The-Spot to pull my ass out of the fire. Get me?
Micro:
I’ll be there Frank.
In the dark forests of a heavily wooded peninsula jutting into the waters of The Kenisco Reservoir and Rye Lake, forty miles from Red Hook, Frank Castle disconnects the call and takes off at a run through the woods on the inland side of a service road linking New York State Road 22 to the boathouse of a palatial estate in eastern Westchester County. The air is cold, the night is overcast adding to the darkness. The leaf covered ground is damp with melting snow, aiding Castle’s approach with the gift of silence. Frank’s lungs burn with the each intake of frigid air as he runs, his left arm aches with each step. Torn muscles in his forearm pushed to the point of agony by two days of labored scuba remind him of his mortality. His senses piqued, he hears voices on the road ahead the smell of tobacco hangs in the air. He slows to a creep picking his way the darkness. Two sentries wander listlessly down the slip road; they converse in hushed tones oblivious to the shadowy figure stalking them from the nearby trees. He crouches low behind the base of an ancient oak and takes careful aim with his XM177-E1 rifle, the gun based on the CAR-15 5.56mm carbine is equipped with an integrated sound suppressor permanently affixed to the end of the ten inch barrel. He waits patiently as the men come to a place level to his position. The taller of the two is nearest him on the inside edge of the road the shorter man is looking to his partner, chatting casually. Frank smiles as he realizes the coming shot will present him with a rare opportunity due to his elevated position. He sets his iron sights on the tall man, just above and in front of his left ear. With this down angle he just may…. He flips the selector switch to semiautomatic and exhales as he squeezes the trigger. The gun makes a muted “thup” the report quieter than the metallic clack of the action of the bolt. The round flies true striking the man above the ear putting a pencil sized hole in the left side of his head while the high velocity round bursts the right side like a melon. The round’s momentum barely spent, it pushes through the first target and into the forehead of the smaller man with much the same results. The men collapse in a heap.
Frank:
Buy on get one free.
Frank waits a moment in silence, unmoving. He listens for voices or footsteps from anyone who may have heard the muffled shot or seen the men fall. There is nothing. He dashes out and quickly rolls the bodies off the road and down the embankment toward the water’s edge and out of sight. He then crosses back over, gun up on his shoulder aiming down the road for any possible threats. Once in the woods he continues at a fair clip towards his objective.
Back in Red Hook Micro is quickly packing his equipment in the open loading bay of the warehouse when he hears the low thump of helicopter rotors tight over the roof tops. He looks up quickly seeing a Bell 222 flash overhead in the direction of the docks.
Micro:
That’s not a police chopper.
He dashes through the warehouse for the iron stairs leading to the roof, he snatches a 10X power pair of binoculars off his work table as he passes. Once on the roof he watches as the chopper comes in for a landing on the remains of Pier 12 and two figures dash from cover and into the open door of the passenger bay. He increases magnification enough to see that one figure has a head full of heavy dreadlocks dancing in the downdraft. The chopper, once loaded, takes off and makes a speed run to the northeast.
Micro:
No, no, no, no.
(He hits send on his brick, back at the Estate the handset on Frank’s unit blinks uselessly.)
SHIT!
Aboard the chopper Shotgun and Ramirez pull on their headsets.
Shotgun:
Patch me through to the house, now goddamn it.
In the study of the main house at the estate a radio set crackles to life.
Shotgun:
Base, this is Audible, over.
Conejo:
(He casually picks up the set and responds.)
Audible, this is Base. There is good news? We have seen the reports on the state of the objective. Most impressive.
Shotgun:
Negative. Negative. Objective Point destroyed by Principle. Principle was not in play. Repeat, not in play.
Conejo:
What? Then where the hell is he, you [frick]ing idiot?
Shotgun:
Principle is likely at your location. Repeat, Principle is at Base. Suggest immediate evac. Get the hell out of there now.
Conejo drops the handset. Toomey is already running out of the room and up the main staircase toward his family. Conejo pulls his weapon and looks to a guard.
Conejo:
Spin up the helicopter get me the [frick] out of here now.
Outside, we see a low angel shot from the docks up the grassy hill to the main house. Suddenly a body falls into our view, its throat slashed. We pull up to see Frank Castle as he gently rolls the body into the water. The lights are coming on all over the estate. Voices are raising and men are dashing about the grounds. Castle hunkers down behind the boat house watching the commotion. The helicopter begins its start up, its turbine engines slowly revving in a constant whine.
Frank’s voice over narration in the form of his Punisher War Journal [PWJ]:
No way that [frick]ing thing leaves the ground. Can’t fire from here, bad position with my back to the water. Gotta head for the wood line and then take the garage. Take out the means of escape.
Castle opens his pack and pulls three small radio controlled explosives tossing them under the seats in the passenger compartment of each boat. He waits a beat before taking off for the trees again at a stooped run his weapon aimed in the general direction of the estate grounds. Once several yards into the wood line he takes a clear line of sight firing position at the Bell helicopter.
PWJ:
Not an ideal position always tricky firing one of these bitches at an up angled target. Can’t be helped.
He pulls the LAW antitank rocket launcher from his back and extends the launch tube. He flips up the sites and levels the weapon atop his shoulder.
PWJ:
Just need to stay concealed until they reach the copter. Shit.
A large group emerges from the house, including the entire Toomey family.
PWJ:
Dumb son of a bitch brought his kids along.
He takes careful aim at the engine just below the rotor assembly and then depresses the top mounted trigger. A massive flash bursts from the rear of the launcher and the rocket streaks across the open ground. The Toomeys and Conejo are just reaching the high stone veranda at the rear of the estate a full hundred yards from the helipad when they hear the shriek of the rocket and look up just in time to see it streaking toward their means of escape.
Conejo:
No.
The rocket flies true striking the engines and blowing the aircraft in two. Shrapnel flies in all directions a guard to Mrs. Toomey’s immediate right is struck down by a chunk of broken tail rotor. John James Toomey throws himself over the top of his family shielding them from harm. He whispers to his wife.
Toomey:
Baby, take the kids back in the house and hide in plain sight on the first floor. He won’t hurt you if he sees you. Don’t do anything to stop him. Nothing, you hear me? If you’re no threat to him he will let you go. Please, baby. Get my babies out of her alive.
Shonda Toomey:
John James…
Toomey:
Go. Go!
She hurries the children back into the estate as gunfire erupts all over the grounds. A massive wave of gunmen descends upon the patch of trees from which the rocket originated.
Conejo:
Fall back into the house! Now!
Toomey follows as we see Frank easing along the stone retaining wall at the foot of the veranda. He is unspooling a long length of cord behind him, once he judges that a suitable number of men have entered the trees he readies his clacker detonator. We see that he has left several claymores and antipersonnel mines spiked at oblique angles from his discarded launcher. He holds steady watching the muzzle flashes in the tree line as the guards within it fire at his supposed position or possibly one another in the confusion. After a moment he detonates the claymores. There is a cacophony of brilliant flashes as they explode in a staggered sequence, each claymore releasing a glut of 400 small ball bearings. The group is decimated. Men fall in clusters and singles, dead and wounded alike, some whole and perforated by the shrapnel, some who were closer to the mines are ripped apart and mutilated by the blasts. Several small trees are actually blown apart by the shock and projectiles; they crash down among the wounded and dying men hidden in the darkness.
Frank shoulders his weapon and moves at a trot toward the estate’s large ten vehicle garage. The entrance is on a long enclosed breezeway leading to the main house. He tests the handle on the door, locked, he wheels his XM around and fires a long burst into the lock and deadbolt. It swings open limply. He clears the hall and eases down a corridor lined with pictures of Sandoval at Monaco and many other Formula One racing events around the world, a guard emerges from a door at the end of the hall. Frank does not hesitate he fires a burst into the man, center mass. He falls as a pink cloud bursts from his chest.
Frank holds position for a moment forgoing the spare magazine attached “jungle style” to the depleted one opting instead to once again reach into his pack and produce the large one hundred round Beta-C double drum magazine he had prepared for his close quarters battle. He attaches the magazine and works the bolt and forward assist priming the first round in the chamber before entering the cavernous structure of the garage.
Four men are hustling about trying to prep a small convoy of vehicles to get their superiors to safety. Castle wastes no time, he rushes right down the open center lane of the garage picking them off at will. Only the final gunman has time to pull his micro Uzi to attempt to return fire. He is too slow on the trigger and is struck with a burst to the face and slides down the blood spattered and bullet pocked door of the Lincoln.
Finding no more targets Frank hastens to the garage’s gas pumps. He pulls the dispenser and locks its trigger into position before tossing it to the floor and activating the pump. Gas flows across the concrete toward a nearby drain.
Frank:
Can’t have that.
He rushes over grabbing a large black trashcan and tipping its contents to the floor before jerking its bag free and then pulling up the heavy cast iron drain plate and wrapping it in the trash bag before dropping it back into its position. The effect is immediate. The weight of the cast iron on the plastic forms a waterproof seal and the gas begins to pool over top of it. Frank dashes back for the hall entrance pulling a zip flare from his leg pocket he aims down the main isle and pulls the release string. The tiny phosphorous projectile flies out bouncing across the floor before landing in the puddle. The entire end of the garage bursts into flame, the heat is so intense Frank must shield his face from it. He quickly pulls an M-67 grenade from his web gear and rolls it under the line of cars to his right. He takes cover in the hall as the grenade explodes beneath a Ferrari 308 GTS, rupturing its gas tank and spreading the blaze to the nearer side of the garage.
Just as Frank can compose himself the door at the far end of the breezeway opens. Three guards lead Conejo and John James Toomey toward the garage. Frank tightens his jaw and brings the weapon to bear. The tight confines leave little room for cover or movement. The guards are armed with Uzi submachine guns; they spray and pray unleashing a hail of 9 millimeter bullets down range. Frank is struck by five rounds in his ballistic vest. The small pistol rounds topple the big man as they strike his ceramic and steel reinforced shock plate. Jets of pulverized ceramic fly from the holes in his vest’s thinner outer layer of Kevlar. Frank goes down hard, by sheer luck two guards run empty having unloaded their full magazines in a panic; the third is smarter firing controlled bursts as Frank rolls for cover behind a heavy planter and fern.
Frank:
Hate to do this in tight quarters.
Frank plops the XM177 on its side across the planter and angles it down the hall and toward the outer wall before blindly reaching over the top disengaging the safety on the underslung M203 grenade launcher and pulling the trigger. He covers his ear with his free hand while shoving the other into his shoulder. The 40 millimeter grenade launches with a characteristic thump and slams into the wall immediately to the gunmen’s right. The blast obliterates a small section of wall showering the men in debris and shrapnel. They are slammed into the opposite wall with enough force that one of them actually embeds himself, back first, into the drywall. Frank peers around the planter, sticking a finger in his ears to adjust the pressure built up there by the blast’s focused shockwave in the tight space. He hefts the XM and reloads a fresh 40 millimeter into the M203, before advancing.
Toomey and Conejo flee across the great hall and toward the kitchen’s service entrance when the door frame erupts into splinters; they dive for cover behind a settee. Castle is advancing toward their position firing bursts as he walks, the rounds easily cut through the hundred and fifty year old antique. Conejo fires over the top with his Jatimatic Submachine gun. One of the nine millimeter rounds catches the outside of Castle’s extreme upper right thigh about two inches below his hip actually severing the strap of his tactical holster. The sudden spasm of pain causes Frank’s leg to jerk rigidly knocking him off balance and tumble to his left. He quickly collects himself and comes up into a one knee firing position as several more of the cartel’s men rush down the grand staircase opening fire. Frank opens up with a long sustained burst utilizing the increased firepower granted by the massive double drum Beta-C Mag.
Frank unleashes a torrent of 5.56 rounds on the stairs four men are chewed to pieces in a matter of two seconds two others are forced to withdraw back onto the landing. Frank withdraws to a nearby doorway just as the Beta runs dry, he fires off another round from the M203 blasting the landing and killing the two remaining men. He reloads the assault rifle with a standard magazine then Castle rotates it back on its sling and draws forth one of his MAC-10s to pursue Toomey and Conejo who have bolted in the confusion. Castle runs across the open ground for the doorway his targets had disappeared through. He finds himself easing down a tight rounded staircase and exiting in the rather massive servant’s kitchen. He eases into the room; MAC held out and taught on its sling at mid chest level, the stock still folded to allow maximum leverage to alter angles of fire. He continues his cautious stalk through the kitchen.
Suddenly, two men swing around the side of the massive industrial refrigerator and open fire. Frank returns fire in kind hitting the fatter of the two in the neck with a devastating round of .45 ACP. He and the second man exchange a couple more bursts before exhausting their ammunition. To Franks surprise the younger man rushes his position before he can draw his second MAC. The man grabs a large butcher knife from the countertop and slashes wildly at The Punisher. Frank wheels back on his heels pulling his K-Bar. The men thrust and parry, neither making contact. Finally the thug manages to drop below Frank’s guard and deliver a well placed uppercut to Castle’s jaw with his free hand. The blow stuns him long enough for the boy to shunt Castle’s knife hand out of the way and jam his blade into the larger man’s side. The Punisher lets out a howl of agony as the man fights to shove the knife deeper through the rigid ballistic material. Frank stabs the man in the side of the pelvis and then grabs his belt loop with the other hand. He jerks upward pulling the smaller man into a modified suplex and flinging him over his right shoulder onto the kitchen’s main island. Frank elbows the man in the solar plexus repeatedly before jerking the knife from the man’s hip and burying it in his face. Frank stubbles back onto the counter, breathing heavily. He grips the handle of the knife in this side and tugs, there is an audible scraping sound as his pulls harder, then comes a harsh metallic “plink” freeing the blade.
Frank:
[frick]!
He drops to his hands and knees. Looking to the kitchen knife in his hand he sees the last inch or so of the blade has snapped off.
Frank:
[frick]er planted that in my [frick]in’ rib.
After a moment Frank stands. He reloads his weapons and proceeds on the hunt, a bit less enthusiastically than before.
Toomey and Conejo reach the study and meet up with another group of cartel soldiers.
Conejo:
How many of you are left?
Soldier:
The eleven here and perhaps another half dozen scattered about the house and grounds.
Toomey:
Have you seen my family?
Shonda:
We’re here!
She rises from behind the bar at the far side of the room.
Toomey:
Baby, you can’t be here.
Conejo:
Nobody leaves! You sit the [frick] down and you shut the [frick] up!
Toomey:
We’re not going to use my family as a [frick]ing shield!
Conejo:
You don’t get tell us what to do, pendejo! You would lick my ass if I told you.
Conejo’s quiet demeanor has evaporated and in its place is a savage little creature; he snarls the final statement as he puts his Jatimatic under Toomey’s chin. Toomey does not back down.
Toomey:
You let my family go.
Conejo:
Or what? You don’t deal with us? You shoot me? How about this; you give me your gun and then you go sit the [frick] down with perra y sus palos de golf. You don’t; I gut you in front of your kids and [frick] your wife before I let the boys use them as target practice. You don’t hold anything on me, little maricone. You live, you die, we replace you anytime! Chico!
The guard nearest the Toomey family aims his AKM at the huddled group. Toomey glances over, tears fill his eyes as he hands his H&K P7 over to Conejo butt first. The smaller man takes it with a smile.
Conejo:
See. We can be reasonable.
He lashes out and pistol whips Toomey with his own gun, smacking him senseless with a half dozen blows. He has one of his men drag Toomey to his family who rush to their injured patriarch.
Suddenly all heads snap to attention as the sound of rotor blades rumble overhead.
SCENE THIRTY-THREE:
Frank pears out of a first floor window as another Bell222 helicopter lands on the lawn not far from the remains of its twin. Frank strains to see through the smoke now building in the house. His eyes narrow upon seeing J.R. Walker dismount the chopper.
Frank:
Sonovabitch. It’s like Christmas morning.
Frank shatters the window and flips up the iron sights for his M203, he sets them for 165 yards and angles the weapon accordingly. He fires the 40 millimeter grenade just as Ramirez steps off the bird, the round flies just far of the target. The men react quickly; they dash toward the main house laying down suppressing fire. Frank reloads the 203 and takes aim again. The pilot tries to take off again causing Frank to forego the grenade and open fire with his XM177 emptying a full magazine into the crew compartment of the Bell. The pilot jerks as four rounds stitch across his chest. The dying man violently pitches the helicopter to the left at only twelve feet off the deck. The main rotor makes contact with the ground and the chopper noses into the dirt. Ramirez and Shotgun run with all their might to escape the cascade of parts flying their way as the helicopter tears itself to pieces its rotors plowing the earth as they shatter and its engines exploding from the torque and resistance. Finally, the heat in the engine is too much and the fuel within it ignites leaving the crippled craft to come to rest on its side its engine burning.
Shotgun and Ramirez plant their backs against the great stone retaining wall at the foot of the veranda and look at each other as if to say “What the [frick]?” before breaking into laughter at their second close call of the night. After a moment the men compose themselves.
Ramirez:
Is that him?
Shotgun:
Oh yeah, that’s Castle.
Ramirez:
(He looks to the wreckage of the Bell.)
Looks like we’re here for the duration.
Shotgun:
No way out ‘cept through Castle.
The two men ease up the stairs to the veranda. As soon as they present a target Frank opens up from deep inside a darkened room. The rounds force the men back down behind cover.
Ramirez:
Grenade.
Walker hands over an M67 Ramirez gives it a two count and then hurls it the sixty feet over the stone landing and into the shattered window. Inside Frank does not hesitate, rather than run for cover he dashes the ten feet to the explosive and scoops it up, bowling it like a cricket ball, running and hurling it overhand to bounce off the stone and fly at waist level at the two exposed men. The blast goes off in mid air a full ten meters in front of the pair, to Frank’s surprise they run through the white cloud unharmed and firing on him.
Frank falls back against the wall as bullets strike all around him. He braces his heel against the wall and then heaves off with all his might turning his XM sideways, griped tightly in both hands running like a bull at the shattered window just as the gunmen rush through it. Charging like a raging bull, his momentum is so great the weapon breaks at both ends as it impacts across Shotgun and Ramirez’s upper bodies. Shotgun is nearly knocked unconscious as he slams backward into the window frame the broken extendable butt stock crashing to the floor alongside him. Frank wheels on Ramirez who suffered a massive gash from the weapon’s now bent barrel. Ramirez pulls a Beretta only to be clubbed unmercifully with Frank’s broken rifle. The pistol goes off striking the wall only a few inches from Shotgun’s head waking him from his stupor. Ramirez rolls with the blow, but Frank presses the attack; grabbing Ramirez’s wrist and tugging him off balance toward him exposing his head to a vicious elbow from Frank. Still Ramirez will not go out. Shotgun fires his 500 Bullpup from his position on the floor. The burst strikes Frank in the small of the back, nearly lifting off his feet. Frank twists hard as Shotgun pumps a fresh shell into the chamber, Shotgun shoots just as Frank wheels Ramirez into the line of fire. The burst hits him in the in the upper back and exposed left side of his neck. He sputters to the floor spraying blood. Frank lunges at Shotgun knocking him backward and wrapping his hands around his throat.
Frank:
Hi’ya, J.R..
The two old enemies begin a frantic grapple across the floor. Frank loosens his grip on Walker’s neck in the scuffle and takes a knee to the balls. Frank refuses to release his grip on Walker’s web gear and retaliates with a headbutt breaking the hitman’s nose. Frank staggers to his feet and draws his K-Bar. Shotgun again kicks Castle in the balls with a vicious boot from the floor. Castle grabs his leg and rams home the K-Bar. Shotgun lets out a roar of pain.
Shotgun:
Whaddaya wear a [frick]in’ cup?!
Frank:
Always, Johnny.
Frank twists the blade. Using Shotgun’s momentary blinding pain, he steps forward planting a boot on Walker’s neck, winching his legs upward using the embedded blade for leverage. Just as Frank begins to press his heel into Walker’s larynx the fading Ramirez opens fire with his pistol, firing two rounds that catch Frank in his left shoulder and knock him off balance. He takes three more rounds to the breast plate as a fourth nicks his scalp. Frank throws the K-Bar into Ramirez’s chest. The hitman coughs out a lung full of blood before slumping to the floor. Shotgun rebounds on Frank drawing an Ithaca 37 “Steakout” model 12 gauge from a thigh mounted holster. He blasts away at Castle causing him to retreat from the room.
Walker sits against the wall for a moment catching his breath. He rasps exhaustedly.
Shotgun:
Mother[frick]er.
SCENE THIRTY-FOUR:
Micro drives north on the Hutchinson River Parkway sirens screaming in a fake New York State Police Cruiser. Inside the car we see Linus nervously tapping the wheel as the radio plays Barry Manilow’s “Mandy.” (I’m not putting up a link for that one – Nero)
Inside the study Conejo paces scraping his stainless steel Bren Ten across the teak tabletops leaving a gouge in his wake. He cuts his eyes to the men peaking timidly around the heavy drapes.
Conejo:
What the [frick] is happening out there?
Henchman:
I can’t see a thing. The chopper went down, and Shotgun and Ramirez did make it into the building, but I ain’t seen nothing since. The boathouse is still open out there; we could make a run from there. The airport is just on the other side of the lake.
Conejo:
[frick] the boats. Bastard has already booby trapped them by now. Still… Rico!
Rico:
Si, Conejo.
Conejo:
Miguel and the others will cover you. Make a run for the boat house. Take a radio with you. Search the boats for explosives. If you can get rid of them or find nothing radio the all clear and then cover our approach.
Rico:
Si, jefe.
Frank has found a secluded corner in an upstairs bedroom to tend to his wounds. He spots Rico moving cautiously along the grounds outside toward the boathouse.
PWJ:
I had hoped to leave that door open and catch a large group on the boats. Take them out mid lake, but with the wife and kids in the mix that option’s out. Well, at least this dickhead will go out with a bang.
Rico makes a mad dash the last thirty yards over open ground bounding the stone steps and literally kicking the door open as he leaps inside sweeping the room and finding nothing. He breathes a sigh of relief at the prospect of surviving for a few more moments. He leans against the wall and makes the sign of the cross over his chest and then looks to the heavens.
Rico:
Gracias, Maria.
(There is a beep from the boats. In an instant his face goes blank.)
Mierda puta.
The view leaps to Frank’s as he holds the detonator. The boat house explodes outward, smoke and water blast out the boat doors overlooking the water, as the slate roof blows upwards into a thousand pieces that rain down on the grounds like so much confetti.
Shotgun looks out the shattered window of the now ransacked office as slate rains down onto the veranda outside. He snorts watching the wreckage slowly ignite as the gas tanks empty onto the surface of the water forming a swath of flame floating atop the rippling waters of Rye Lake. He looks over to the moaning form of Ramirez lying on his side; Frank’s K-Bar still protrudes from his left breast. The blade pulsates in rhythm with the hitman’s fading heartbeat. Ramirez begins to speak weakly.
Ramirez:
There was a man, in… [frick], I can’t remember. I killed him in front of his son… I choked….
Shotgun:
Oh, just shut the [frick] up and die will ya? I don’t give a shit about it, we ain’t partners an’ we ain’t friends, an’ I ain’t gonna coddle you while you drag this shit out. I’m gonna kill Castle and get my two million bucks. And you “my friend…” (He strains, pulling himself up and hobbling past the dying man) are [frick]in’ done.
He kicks the hilt of the K-Bar limply with his bad leg. It is enough. Ramirez lurches in pain; blood spurts more heavily as the knife blade finally tears his heart open. We see a view from the floor as Ramirez bleeds out in the foreground we see Walker limping through the doorway into the main hall his Ithaca out and ready. Smoke begins to roll in and the glow of fire illuminates Ramirez’s now lifeless form, no more blood pumps from his chest.
In the study Conejo’s jaw is agape at the destruction before him. Toomey laughs weakly from the floor, his wife holding a wad of cocktail napkins to his bleeding head.
Toomey:
You thought it was so easy to kill him. Thought I must’a been so incompetent to need Sandoval to get involved. Now you see. He cuts you off and then he cuts you to pieces. Once Castle locks onto you, he digs in, and he won’t stop until he drags you down. He wants us dead, Rabbit. He ain’t leavin’ here ‘till we are.
Conejo’s face says volumes. The severity of the situation is setting in. Smoke is beginning to waft under the doors; the fire has leapt from the garage to the main house. They are trapped now. Trapped with Frank Castle.
Miguel:
Jefe, you need to see this!
Conejo:
What the [frick] is it?!
The guard points to the televisions he has patched into the estate security camera at the main gate. A swarm of New York State troopers and Westchester County Sheriff’s deputies are amassing.
Conejo:
[frick].
Upstairs from a large window in the master suite upstairs Frank also watches the commotion at the front gate, nearly a mile away. A fresh body lies on the floor behind him.
PWJ:
More complications. This could work in my favor.
He walks over to the intercom system and presses the button.
Frank:
Looks like we have some company out there. Kind of puts you on the clock doesn’t it? Once they start running IDs; how many of you have files with the DEA? Be smart, you’ve got the option now to walk out to the cops or stay in here with me and die. What’s it gonna be?
Conejo’s voice crackles over the com.
Conejo:
You listen to me; we have the Toomey family here. You move on us and they die, do you understand?
Frank:
Understand this, asshole. You touch anyone not tied up in this world of shit you’ve pulled them into and you are going to die in ways that are hitherto undreamt of in your worst imaginings. Send them out to the cops and we’ll finish this. Holding them only means I kill you slow. Either way you leave here in a bag, your only choice is whether you leave in one bag or several.
Conejo:
[frick] you! Do you know who I am?! Do you know what I can have done to you with a word?
Frank:
Apparently not [frick]ing much. Last count you’re down near sixty guys, a multimillion dollar freighter, and a couple very pricy helos. If I had to guess who you are I’m thinking Enrique Mosquera, also called “Conejo” whether that is interpreted as “Rabbit” or “[foo foo]” is entirely dependent on who you talk to. You’re Sandoval’s underboss; his number one errand boy.
Conejo:
I am no one’s errand boy.
Frank:
I don’t know; I bet you hopped your midget ass pretty [frick]in’ high off the couch when he told you to head up to New York. Sounds like you’re more his prison yard bitch, you ask me. So do you think he means “Rabbit” or “[foo foo]” when he calls you “Conejo?” Does he ever say it real fast, comes out like “coño?” If he does then there you go.
In the study one of Conejo’s men chuckles. Without hesitation Conejo shots him in the face from across the room. His eyes scan the faces of the remaining men as if to question their resolve, all back down.
Frank:
You want me? Come and get me.
PWJ:
You want to push a short man, make his dick look small in front of his boys. This guy has gotten where he is by being a mad dog when needed. Nobody talks to him like that and comes away without his dick stuffed in his mouth, if everything Micro gave me to read on him is true he’s cowardly and hot headed enough to waste his toys, but not harm his insurance policy.
Frank scoops up a Galil SAR and four magazines from one of the dead men at the top of the stairs. Next he takes an UZI off the second body and more ammo. He then removes the man’s radio and earpiece and affixes it to his web gear. He listens in on the chatter as Conejo sends several of his remaining men out to search and destroy.
PWJ:
That’ll thin the herd nicely.
Shotgun checks his radio and finds that it has been mangled in the fight with Castle, he tosses it aside. He slides into a quiet position and tends to his still bleeding leg.
Frank slides around a bookcase in the library listening to the footsteps of men round him. He pulls out his silenced MAC and his second knife from his boot before easing into the shadows. Two men enter the library and scan the room they stay in close proximity as they put their back to the bookshelves and scan the room slowly. As the men pass his position Frank grips the double edged knife in a stabbing posture bringing the blade up near his cheek. As the men reach either side of his position he steps out quickly from the gap between the shelves and points the MAC at the back of the head of the man on his right and then lashes out with the knife ramming it into the other man’s throat. He depresses the trigger on the MAC simultaneously as the blade rams home. One man falls through a pink puff and spatter of brain as the second falls spurting blood from his severed jugular. Frank wheels quickly on the stabbed man firing a suppressed burst into his chest.
Shotgun hears the muted clack of the MAC and begins to edge around towards the library in the darkness. He keeps his Ithaca ahead of him as he comes around into the darkened room. He sees the two bodies laid out in the moonlight and sees Franks shadow as it heads down the hallway. He brings the Ithaca up approximating Frank’s position. He waits a beat and then fires several 12 gauge slugs through the wall. Castle dives to avoid the splintering wood and plaster. He lets the MAC loose on its sling and brings the .556 Galil up going full auto and peppering rounds back through the wall. Shotgun takes a round to the right shoulder and then pulls a Wildey Survivor in .475 Wildey Magnum firing off an entire clip through the wall. Drawn by the noise several more gunmen come running down the corridor, Frank rolls drawing one of his Colts and fires; two men are tagged in the chest with double taps before the others can dive for cover. Frank frees two M67 grenades and tosses one down the hall to the junction and the second through the library door as he runs passed. Shotgun knocks over a massive oak desk for cover jumping behind it just before the frag goes off. Down the hall gunmen scatter trying to get out of lethal range of the explosive hurled at them; four succeed, two do not and are peppered with shrapnel falling dead to the floor their backs smoking and perforated in many places.
Frank rounds another corner and runs head long into a gunman as he enters the main hall, he bowls the man over and fires two rounds into him with the Colt as he falls. Blood splashes the floor and Frank runs through it inadvertently leaving a trail of footprints behind him. Three men follow the trail in hot pursuit.
Castle reloads the Galil on the run before dropping behind a desk in the office he had encountered Shotgun and Ramirez. He fires from behind cover the rounds tear through the first two men, the third opens fire with a Winchester Model 1300, buckshot ricochets everywhere as the man unloads the weapon in quick succession. Finally, it clicks: empty. Frank looks up bleeding from scratches to his face from the splintered wood and glass; bloodcurdling rage in his eyes. The gunman looks up fervently holding his shotgun out to the side and one hand extended pleadingly.
Man:
Espera, espera… por favor!
Frank gets up and determinedly walks right up to the man and clasps both hands about his face and snaps his neck. He stands there a second before a glint in the darkness catches his eye; his K-Bar sticking out of Ramirez’s chest. He coolly walks over and jerks it out of the dead man’s body and wipes the blood on Ramirez’s shoulder before sheathing the blade.
In the study Conejo paces again watching the monitor as SWAT teams arrive at the gate.
Toomey:
Looks like they’re coming in soon. How you going to explain all this, Senior Mosquera?
Conejo only stares hatefully at the injured man.
Conejo:
Chico, get the family up. We’re moving. Tie them together; use the wire from the piano. That’ll keep them tight or slit their [frick]ing wrists. Miguel, you and Hernando take point. We’ve got to get off the grounds before the policia storm the place.
Shotgun has slipped into the room unseen; he speaks to the sudden surprise of those gathered.
Shotgun:
Better hurry, if we leave now we may have enough time to circle the lake and make a break for the airstrip.
Conejo:
Good to see at least one of you made it, Mister Walker, though somewhat the worse for wear I see.
SCENE THIRTY-FIVE
A moment later the remaining men have bound the Toomey family together. Conejo walks once more to the intercom and presses the talk button. His voice echoes throughout the home. Frank looks up from his stalk.
Conejo:
Castle, we are leaving. If you follow the family will die one at a time. I suggest we consider this a draw for now. You don’t want innocent blood on your hands and I am sure you would prefer not to leave in the company of the police gathered at the gates. I can’t believe you would be treated as kindly here as you would in the city.
The group waits for a moment for a reply. None comes.
Conejo:
Coward.
Shotgun:
He’s not done yet; not Castle.
The group emerges cautiously from the main house. Shotgun pushes Miguel ahead of the group with the business end of his Striker. He walks forward after thirty feet without finding himself dead, the younger man motions for the group to follow. The vantage point changes to the view of the rear of the home through the trees as Frank’s back rises slowly into view in the foreground. He reaches down into the cold damp earth and comes up with a handful of mud. He wipes this over his face followed by a second glob over the death’s head on his chest.
Frank:
Not going to be that easy you arrogant prick.
We next see Frank rushing through the trees, eyes always scanning.
PWJ:
If I’m going to do this I have to do it quick. I need the right place for the ambush, somewhere that will give me the time I need to kill the hired guns and keep them from pulling the trigger on Toomey and his brood. Somewhere like this…
Frank arrives at a sharp curve in the trail. The space is tight, allowing for no real room to move; a choke point. To the left a sharp bank drops to the river, to the right an embankment raises to neck level as the path cuts through the wood. Facing them an outcrop of granite causes the trail to turn sharply.
PWJ:
Just enough room here to let the group expand out a bit from the tight trail behind and enough elevation to allow me to pick my shots in quick succession and put them over the heads of the hostages. This is going to be close, fast, and messy.
Frank eases up the bank on the right. He lays his Galil down and pulls his Colt, screwing a silencer onto its barrel extension and placing a spare clip in his free hand. He crouches behind brush and waits.
Conejo and the others huddle around their insurance policies, they are fearful of the trees about them. The Toomey children weep their voices muffled by gags. John James Toomey stares with a white hot hatred at Conejo as he walks just ahead and to the left; clearly using Shonda Toomey as a potential shield should Castle continue his pursuit. His daughter stumbles behind him. The wire connecting them, his neck to her wrists, jerks taught and brings him to his knees, cutting into his throat. He helps her to her feet as Chico levels his weapon at Toomey’s face.
Chico:
Up.
Shotgun follows the group limping badly; he remains back half a dozen paces, covering the group in case Castle should suddenly engage. He now brandishes the two Protecta twelve gauge automatics, the venerable “Street Sweeper,” that have up to this point been strapped to his back.
Micro drives recklessly down a twisting off ramp, skidding his mock cruiser onto the gravel shoulder. He is flushed and sweating his knuckles white on the wheel, his sweaty hands creak as they release from the steering wheel. He looks to his wrist watch and then through the passenger window to the lake. We see the Westchester County Airport.
Micro:
C’mon Frank. Where the [frick] are you?
In his blind Frank listens to the sounds of the group approaching his position. He breathes deeply. He closes his eyes.
PWJ:
Now.
He stands and the world goes into slow motion. Conejo grabs Mrs. Toomey, pulling her to him as a shield. Chico pivots his weapon, an AKM at Castle; Frank fires two rounds into his head. Miguel moves toward Toomey’s son. Frank shifts his aim and fires. Two rounds impact on the side of his face tearing the opposite side away. Miguel jerks violently and his weapon, a FAMAS, fires the rounds stitch across the ground at the boys feet causing him to tumble backward dragging his sisters and father with him. As the family tumbles we see a stray round snap a link of piano wire. Hernando freezes in panic and is hit center mass by a stray round fired off by Miguel’s assault rifle; he grasps his chest before falling flat on his back wailing.
Conejo fires his Bren Ten at Castle. The rounds strike the stone at his side. Frank levels his weapon, and prepares to fire when he is struck by a burst of buckshot into his left side pitching him over violently. Frank rolls and fires at the charging figure of J.R. Walker who is blasting away with his two Protectas held akimbo. The ground around Frank fills with debris as hundreds of pellets of double aught buckshot rain down about him. Castle squints through the storm and fires. The rounds find their mark blowing out Walker’s right knee. He screams as he falls.
Frank twists aiming straight above his head bringing the gun again to Conejo who stands there gun tight to the head of Mrs. Toomey. There is no clear shot now. Conejo’s small stature is equal to Shonda Toomey. All that is exposed is his left eye peaking around her ear. He stares at Castle; two eyes filled with rage connect across the gap, waiting for the space between them to turn into tigers. Conejo’s finger begins to tighten on the trigger. We hear a scream of guttural rage. John James Toomey lunges forward tears and fury in his eyes, the bonds about his neck severed by Miguel’s dying shots. He loops the piano wire still around his wrists over Conejo’s head. He draws the wire tight across Conejo’s neck cutting deep into his throat as he is jerked backward with all the strength Toomey can muster slitting his own wrists in the process. The gun discharges mere inches over Shonda Toomey’s head. The smaller man fights hard to stay on his feet all the while Toomey cinches harder. Conejo jams his Bren under his armpit firing wildly. Three rounds find their mark hitting John James in the abdomen. As Toomey goes limp his dead weight is finally enough to rupture the smaller man’s carotid. A jet of blood sprays as Conejo ducks and wheels toward Toomey clasping one hand to his severed artery and aiming his pistol at his fallen foe with the other. Toomey grabs his gut and grits his teeth waiting for death to come, but before he can pull the trigger the right side of Conejo’s head bursts. He falls in a lifeless heap, gently sliding down the embankment on the loose leaf litter. Toomey glances to Castle who now has the gun aimed squarely at him.
Without warning Frank is snatched upward.
(((SOUNDTRACK – The opening riff of Led Zeppelin’s “Red Dog” begins on the handfall. An edited, mostly sans lyrics version will play during the fight. ***Went 70’s over 80’s song for these two to denote the age of the rivalry)))
Walker’s massive hands clasped about the Y strap on his back. He begins viciously donkey punching Castle in the back of the head. Frank shoves the silencer under Walker’s chin and pulls the trigger. Both men freeze in a moment of fear and victory. Frank pulls the trigger. Click. The slide has locked back on the empty chamber.
Shotgun’s face slips from frozen in fear to a sly smile before proceeding to beat the shit out of Castle. Frank finally breaks Shotgun’s hold on him by drawing his K-Bar and shoving it upward into Walker’s armpit and out through the top of his shoulder. Walker staggers and releases his grip on Frank’s web gear. The two men fall to the ground in unison, the Punisher face down Shotgun face up. Both lie there for a moment.
Shotgun:
You know, I always wanted to kill your ass. I dreamed of that shit.
Frank:
Is that how you spent your time in prison?
Shotgun:
Prison? Mother[frick]er I never spent a day behind bars stateside. I got off the plane heading for my court marshal and some dudes from the Agency was waitin’ on me. They took me, said “I showed great promise,” and I spent ten years doin’ what I do best. Did some damn fine work for Ol’ Uncle Sam. You didn’t do shit to me but make me a very happy rich mother[frick]er. [frick], I ought’a thank yer sorry ass. “Punisher?” heh.
Frank:
That’s why I stopped paying taxes.
The two wounded men stagger to their feet squaring off like bleary eyed fighters in the tenth round. Frank draws his two four inch push knives from his belt. Shotgun withdraws the K-Bar from his arm with a groan of pain. Frank is the first to move jabbing with his right hook, catching Walker across his cheek. Walker slashes down gashing Frank’s right shoulder. Frank pivots elbowing Shotgun with his left elbow, backhand. Walker steps back on his bad knee and crumbles allowing Frank to connect with a vicious knee to the face. Shot gun wheels on his knees slashing through the side of Castle’s calf. Both men separate, rethinking their next move. Shotgun parries Frank loops his right arm under Walker’s, locking down on it as he unleashes a barrage of knife tipped punches into the bigger man’s exposed right side. Shotgun pushes off hard with his good leg using the uneven slope and leaf litter to shove Castle off balance. The two fighters tumble down the slope to the water’s edge. The water causes Frank’s mud caked face to run leaving a strange tiger stripe pattern on his face. Walker again goes on the offensive catching the inside of Frank’s left wrist with the razor edge of the K-Bar. Frank instantly drops his knife into the shallow water, but rebounds with his remaining blade shoving a fist directly into Walkers gut and then brutally jerking the blade across his abdomen. Walker staggers back, his hand on his stomach.
Shotgun:
Wha- ugh?
Walker moves his hand away slowly, his diaphragm has been opened. The wound quickly fills with his innards as they fight to slip their confines.
Frank:
Fight’s over.
Walker takes a moment to look himself over standing knee deep in the frigid water. He realizes the truth. Castle has been systematically taking him apart the whole fight; the stab to the arm pit has severed his axillary artery causing a torrent of blood loss, the flurry of punches to his right side succeeded in perforating his liver, lung and kidney. The final strike had merely been a coup de grâce. It was a final violent flourish to let him see that he had already been killed thrice over.
Shotgun:
You always were good with the edged shit.
Frank:
You were better on the gun. We all play to our strengths, Johnny. Your problem was you never knew your limitations. You never knew when to stop. A man that goes too far will turn rabid, just like you did in ’70. Rabid man is no better than a rabid dog; got to be put down. My only mistake was not killing you back then.
Shotgun cannot speak, he can barely breathe. Rage and indignation fill his eyes, the furry of a man long gone into his own savagery. He lunges one last time, the speed and ferocity of the attack takes Frank off guard, all he can do is throw his left arm up to block the blade and plunge his right fist into Walker’s chest. The two men stand there for a moment stark still in the darkness appearing almost as statues of warring heroes locked in combat.
Frank leans in close to Walkers ear. Walker emits the faintest whisper, the best he can manage.
Shotgun:
Man wipes out one gook village cause he just can’t stand to sit there no more and let them lie to us, to see the little bastards hide no more weapons for the mother[frick]ers that hit us every other day and kill our friends and he’s a mad dog. What’sat make you?
Frank:
Limitations, Johnny. You reached yours that day. If I ever went rabid, I’d burn down the whole [frick]in’ world and every single [frick]ing person in it.
Shotgun:
(A half smile and muted laugh.)
U-Rah. Heh.
Frank moves first revealing the K-Bar has impaled his left forearm. Walker drops to his knees, water up to his waist, steam rising off him as he bleeds into the cold air.
Frank stands for a moment, triumphant. Walker’s head rolls back to look up at him one last time. Frank grabs the K-Bar’s hilt and pulls it from his arm. He lashes out with the blade thrusting it into Walker’s heart, and twisting it. After a moment he backs away leaving Shotgun to fall backward into the water, Frank’s knife still buried in his chest.
SCENE THIRTY-SIX:
Frank walks up the bank weakly holding onto saplings for support to pull himself the ten feet up to the pathway. On his way he passes the body of Conejo, sprawled out amongst the brush. His dead eyes stare up at his killer in placid resignation. Hernando moans softly as Frank nears. The Punisher puts a boot on his throat and twists hard snapping the wounded man’s neck beneath his heel. As Frank reaches the top he sees the Toomey’s gathered around their fallen patriarch. Shonda Toomey cradles John James head in her lap. Frank approaches slowly. She looks at him with a white hot fire in her eyes.
Shonda:
You stay the [frick] away from him!!!
The children huddle about their father. Toomey can barely move, so weak from his wounds he merely looks through Castle as he approaches. Mrs. Toomey picks up Conejo’s Bren Ten aiming it at Frank.
Frank:
You don’t want to do that.
Shonda:
You don’t think I could kill you?
Frank:
You don’t want to die in front of your children.
Shonda:
You can’t have him!
Frank:
He’s already done. It'll be an hour before the cops sweep this far onto the property, he’ll be long dead by then. Gut shot like that all he’s doing is suffering. He did his good deed for his lifetime. Now let him go. You can walk, take the kids head back to the estate the cops will be looking for anyone to explain this mess. He stays with me.
Shonda:
No!
The children begin wailing.
Toomey:
(weakly) Baby… I ain’t leavin’ here. I… I ain’t. Don’t matter now. Whether… he does it, don’t matter.
Shonda:
(Openly weeping) No baby. Please, please, please.
Toomey reaches up and touches her face, and then strokes his children’s hair and faces.
Shonda:
He did this for us. Everything: he did it for his children.
Frank:
And everything he did he did to other people’s children. A decade of pushing poison and all the deaths that came of it. He wasn’t just killing the junkies too stupid to lay the shit he sold down, but all the innocent people that died by their hands to feed the itch. A lot of good people’s blood is on his hands. He is responsible for all of it. They why doesn’t matter. He owes a death.
Toomey:
I love you, baby. Go, baby. Go. I can’t… I’m hurtin’ baby. Please, I love you.
After a moment Frank stands watching the Toomey family walk down the trail holding one another tightly. He turns back to John James Toomey still lying prostrate on the ground. Frank limps over and kneels with a painful grunt.
Toomey:
Get this shit over with.
Frank:
You took the words right out of my mouth.
Frank picks up the Bren Ten and does a brass check before placing the gun firmly under Toomey’s chin. John James closes his eyes.
His wife and children jump as the gunshot echoes through the wood. Shonda Toomey weeps and clutches her children tighter. Her face is grief stricken, but a vengeful fury burns within her eyes. She does not look back.
It is near dawn as Micro waits beside the NYSP cruiser, he feigns clocking speeders while his eyes dart nervously to the tree line beside Rye Lake. Upon seeing a disheveled and bloody black clad figure emerge he runs to him. Frank looks like hell; he has broken into a soaking sweat and has shed most of his gear along the way. His side is wrapped in a hastily applied field dressing as is his arm and leg. He can barely stand and nearly collapses as Micro reaches him.
Micro:
Jesus, Frank! I’ve been listening to the scanner all night. The Staties held up their breach until the FBI got their HRT team up here from Quantico, they just got in there an hour ago. I was about to give up on you.
Frank:
Thanks.
Micro:
Well you were supposed to be here three hours ago.
Frank:
Had to hump out.
Micro:
You look like shit.
Frank:
The other guy’s [frick]in’ dead, so anything you can walk away from.
Frank climbs into the trunk of the car and the two drive south on I-684.
Epilogue: THREE MONTHS LATER
Monitors beep in rhythm with Soap’s heart and breathing. The only illumination in the small space is the light cascading through the window blinds. A tall man in a doctor’s coat stands beside the bed. Soap sleeps snoring soundly. In the pale blue light we see his face has been badly scared, while the right side is normal enough the left is badly pitted and his hairline is now uneven due to the plates that have been affixed to his shattered skull. His left ear is mangled and his eyelid is misshapen.
As Frank looks down at his wounded partner the door opens slowly behind him allowing the green halogen of the hallway to spill across the room. Another figure steps into the doorway: Lenny. Frank’s eyes shift over his shoulder to the door, his unseen hand eases toward his belt and the Colt tucked there.
Lenny:
I was wondering if you’d show. The docs say he’ll pull through, the shrinks say he hasn’t lost too much of his cognitive function. With a year or so of physical therapy he may be able to walk and talk good enough to hold down a desk job. Hard sleeper, itn’t he?
Frank:
He’s a good kid.
Lenny:
Yeah. He is. Now tell me why I shouldn’t run your ass in.
Frank:
You don’t want to wind up in the bed in the next room.
Lenny:
This is your fault somehow, isn’t it? Was Soap on the take? Your payrole?
Frank:
He never took a dime before and I never offered it.
Lenny:
And the money I found on him, the account, the fake ID?
Frank:
I pissed off the wrong people; they came after anyone that I knew. Soap and I have had run-ins over the years. He’s a good cop, he didn’t need to be in harm’s way because of me so I arranged for him to run, and he may still need to. You going to make a problem?
Lenny:
Why? You gonna shoot me?
Frank:
I don’t kill cops.
Lenny:
Yeah. How long will that last?
Frank turns and walks out brushing passed Lenny.
Frank:
Let’s not find out.
Lenny:
Where you going, Killer?
Frank:
(As he’s walking away, never looking back)
Going on a little vacation, something I gotta do. Tell the kid I stopped by.
He walks down the hall tossing his lab coat in a laundry bin before heading down the stairs. Lenny watches him go.
Night in Colombia; the palatial hillside estate of Emilio Sandoval, all is quiet as a steady rain falls. Sandoval stands in his office at the massive window watching the rain dropsl on the trees outside. The large door leading to the anteroom opens silently. A figure steps forward, it is Frank Castle clothed in dark Vietnam era tiger stripe camo and face paint which incorporates a pale green death’s head. His customary black body armor and pale grey death’s head is splashed with blood. He tosses a severed head across the floor; it slides to a stop a few feet behind Sandoval. The drug lord hardly reacts.
Sandoval:
I had wondered if you would come. You are a man of great resilience and determination, I admire that. I see you met my personal bodyguard, Mateo. (He glances back at the severed head.) I had always suspected I paid him too much.
Frank:
I think you paid too much for all of them.
Frank begins a slow cautious walk toward Sandoval, growing ever closer as the man speaks.
Sandoval:
You are a fascinating man, Mister Castle. You have seen into the darkness, yes? Yes. I can tell. You know what lives there. Did it speak to you as well? I heard it once. The quiet voice; so cold in its manner and frightful in its offerings. I heard it many years ago. Men came to my father’s farm, we lived high in the mountains, they told him he would grow coca. He did not want to do this, you see we survived only on what he could grow and hunt. They… insisted. They took us hostage; my sister and I. Tortured us. Raped her again and again, I watched it all tied to my little corner post. Still the old man would not give in no matter how long they held us. One night as I lay near death the voice came to me. You know what it offered I’m sure. Strength. Life. Vengeance. As my sister finally succumbed, breathed her last, I found within me a rage I had never felt. I leapt onto these grown men. Biting and fighting. I don’t know what happened there is only a red haze after that. When I came to it looked as if a jaguar had been unleashed; the men, they were barely human in appearance. I had a most of one man’s nose still clutched in my teeth, flesh beneath my nails, my face awash in their blood. I rose and covered in gore I walked home, fifteen kilometers through the jungle. When I got there I did not speak, I walked up to my father, who embraced me, and I beat him to death with a large piece of firewood. His pride was my suffering; my torment. His self-righteousness cost my sister her purity and her life. When it was over, when he lay dead at my feet as my mother cried out for forgiveness from the Virgin, I felt… Nothing. After that I knew I was destined to be one who would bring death, it was my vocation. I have never turned from it. Did it speak to you, Castle? What did you say when it asked you?
Castle stands behind him a machete in hand. His face blank, but a frightening darkness lurks behind his eyes.
Frank:
I said “Yes.”
We see by his reflection in the rain streaked window pane that Sandoval smiles at this. He will die by the hand of a true kindred.
With that Frank lashes out the blade cuts a third of the way into Sandoval’s neck. He never screams, never turns to see his killer, he merely clutches at the ragged gash as a torrent of blood splashes the sheer curtains as they blow lackadaisically in the light winds of the storm. Sandoval falls out of frame. We hear his body thud to the ground and begin thrashing. Frank leans over and hoists the bloody blade over his head before bringing it crashing down again and again spraying the walls with blood. When he is finished Frank unclasps a large satchel from his back and tosses Sandoval’s severed head atop it before he climbs out the window.
On a nearby hillside he stands in a clearing on the opposite side of the valley from the hacienda. A helicopter rotors down from the moonlit sky to pick him up. Micro greets him as he climbs aboard then taps the pilot on the back.
Micro:
(To pilot)
Arriba, Cesar. Hasta.
(Back to Frank)
See! It is possible to take a target without going all blitzkrieg and killing everybody. You got your man and didn’t have to wipe out a hundred guards to do it.
Frank:
Yeah, didn’t "have to."
With that Frank produces a detonator from a pouch on his web gear, flips open the safety and depresses the trigger. Micro’s face goes pale as he looks back to the estate as the roof blows off the main house and flaming debris rain down onto the mountainside.
Frank:
We gage success by body count, Micro. Get used to it or jump off now.
(He motions to the open air outside the Huey and the valley hundreds of feet below.)
There is no room for mercy. Kill as many as you can before they kill you.
Micro:
How can… how can you live with this?
Frank:
This is my war.
The chopper sweeps low over the fires before arching over the mountains and into the night.
FRANK CASTLE WILL RETURN IN PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL: BOOK ONE.
- From the devastated hilltop of Fire Base Valley Forge to the first donning of the Death's Head. Witness one man's decent and rise and final fall into the darkness as we follow Frank Castle from US Marine to loyal father to ruthless killer unleashed. It is the untold story of the birth of The Punisher.