The story so far:
Nero's PUNISHER: DEAD MAN'S PARTY casting and preview
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26270
Nero's PUNISHER: DEAD MAN'S PARTY vol. one
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26463
Nero's PUNISHER: DEAD MAN'S PARTY vol. two
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=26790
Nero’s PUNISHER: DEAD MAN’S PARTY vol. three
http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fan_fic/news/?a=27092
SCENE TEN:
A small private airfield in Connecticut the following Tuesday; John James Toomey stands with his brother Elvin both dressed to the nines in sharp business suits and long over coats. Toomey wears a pair of dark, almost mirrored aviator shades. The sun is bright and a fresh deep snow covers the large open space as wisps fresh powder blow in the winds whipping about the air strip. The pair watch as a private jet touches down and taxis to a stop. As the door drops a group of serious looking men emerge. They survey the area and turn a keen eye to Toomey and Elvin, but keep their distance. A moment later a second Gulf Stream comes in for a landing. As the door opens three men emerge onto the tarmac. The last to exit is a haughty man, his black hair is slicked back in a loose style, he too wears shades and a light overcoat. He strides over to Toomey as his entourage falls in behind him.
Herrera:
It is a pleasure to see you again John James, my friend.
Toomey:
Long time Mister Herrera.
Herrera:
Please, you may call me Ernesto. There should be no formalities between us. You have been very helpful to Mister Sandoval.
Toomey:
Thank you. This is my brother Elvin, he handles the day to day running of our business.
The camera pans over the two men’s shoulders to the snow drifts which have been pushed off the runway only thirty yards away. As the camera pans in we see that there, half buried amongst the snow, Frank lies covered in a snowy white ghillie suit, looking down a spotter’s scope a camouflaged parabolic microphone hidden beside him.
PWJ: (Frank's narration)
Punisher War Journal: January 22, 1985
It wasn’t hard finding out where the Colombians were coming in; just three dozen phone calls to local air fields in New England before I hit upon the one that was closed for maintenance on Tuesday the 22nd. I popped in two days ago and paid off the baggage handlers to plant a few gifts for me.
(Frank watches as the men in blue jumpers place small tracking devices on the inside of the trunk lids of the cars already on the tarmac and luggage coming off the second plane.)Amazing what service some cash and threat of violence will get you. Taking them out now would be easy enough. With the right preset explosives and fields of fire I could lay most of them out with a 60 at one hundred and fifty meters, or just the Toomeys and Herrera at four fifty from the end of the runway and get away clean before the bodyguards could even get me zeroed. I drop them now and it still doesn't answer one of the larger questions; how are they getting the drugs into the country. After seeing Toomey's supply it has to be beyond the conventional smugglers flights or highway mules from down south. He's getting a shitload and he's getting it direct. Once I get an answer to that and when the next shipment is coming in, then these [frick]ers are burger.
After some small talk Toomey and Herrera get into a limo and pull off the field followed by the small convoy of black Mercedes and BMWs. After the last car cleared the field Frank rises up stretching his back before gathering his pack and making for the tree line. Once there he climbs into a moderately customized slate gray 1980 Ford Bronco.
We next see him following the proximity beacon of the locators on the cars. Eventually we see him in the city slowly driving by a luxurious Manhattan Hotel Exeter on Fifth Avenue overlooking Central Park.
PWJ:
Now I know where you are mother[frick]ers.
Frank walks along a path in Central Park the air is frigid and a sharp wind is blowing. The park is nearly deserted, save for a few children playing in the thin blanket of snow covering the Sheep Meadow. Frank walks to a lone vendor bundled up against the cold; Soap is in line at the hot dog stand, Frank wanders up behind him in line the men casually walk after getting their meals and sit on separate benches, never fully looking at one another as they speak.
Soap:
Got him?
Frank:
I snapped some photos at the airstrip. See what you can get on him. Name’s Ernesto Herrera.
Soap:
Deal.
(Gets Up.)
And Frank, be sure this is what you want.
Frank:
This is war, its time I started taking out the officer corps.
Soap:
(Lighting a cigarett and looking at the meadow standing ten feet in front of Frank, his back to him as he speaks.)
You know this won’t stop anything, right. You wipe them out and more will just fill their shoes.
Frank:
I have no illusions, Soap. I just want them dead. The world is what it is, there’s no changing that. I just do what I need to do to feel sane in it.
Soap wanders off without speaking. Frank watches for a moment as children play in the snow covered Sheep Meadow, his eyes linger on a small grove of trees on the far eastern side and for the briefest of moments there is a flutter of humanity in his eyes, a small twinge of emotion, perhaps sadness and shame, lasting no longer than a twitch as he looks to the place where his wife and children were gunned down before his very eyes. After a moment he too rises and walks away, bound for the subway.
SCENE ELEVEN:
The next night in the overhead crawl spaces and stairwells of the Exeter Hotel, Frank is hard at work.
PWJ:
January 23, 1985
Toomey allowed Herrera the first night to settle in, relax. Tonight they hit the town. Their meet is set here at his penthouse suite at the Exeter Hotel off Fifth Avenue. I take advantage of Herrera’s absence to set up my kill zone. Vanity to treat his bodyguards to a night on the town without leaving so much as a sentry here. He truly believes he is beyond challenge. A claymore in the stair well mounted behind the emergency lights, trip wire set to the emergency exit point on Herrera’s floor. Homemade funnel bombs for the ceiling set behind the recessed lighting to give it easier access through the ceiling. All of them rigged to a CB receiver/detonator. I filled the funnels with nails; gives you a nice claymore equivalent that won’t blow through the floor and into some salesman from Poughkeepsie’s hotel room on the 27th floor. Never a smart move to put all your eggs in one basket; isolating himself on the top floor was a mistake born of over confidence too. This isn’t Colombia. He may be the king’s untouchable messenger there, here he is very touchable.
Soap filled me in on Herrera after running the name with the DEA yesterday after our meet. He left the files at the dead drop three blocks from his precinct. Ernesto Herrera born Cuba 1935, former Colombian Army colonel turned deal maker and enforcer for Alfonso Sandoval. He’s a man with a fearsome reputation who finally allowed himself to be bought off when the Colombians decided death squads weren’t winning over the populace.
Emillio Sandoval, the head honcho, born Colombia 1942, the current overlord of the Medellin cartel, started off as nothing more than a farm boy who hooked up with the cartels in ’61. He worked his way up through sheer brutality, finally becoming body guard and confidant for his boss in ’73. By ’79, once he’d learned all he felt he needed, he killed the old man and took his place. There are almost a thousand bodies moldering in the mountains of Colombia's Cordillera Central Range from police chiefs, soldiers, cops, judges, and reporters, down to the average farmer on orders from Sandoval. Most were planted there by Herrera and his goon squad. He's a good starting point.
Once finished with his preparations Frank settles into a private maintenance shed on the roof above the VIP elevator that exits directly into Herrera’s penthouse. There he preps his gear. He dawns a more military turnout than his normal street kit. He suits up in a black jumpsuit, his trademark death's head vest, and web gear, loading it down with smoke grenades, frags, his K-Bar, shoulder holsted Colt. He puts on a belt of 12 gauge shot gun shells, a thigh holstered Colt. The final layer is a satchel on his lower back containing several magazines of 7.62mm for his AK, and a bandolier of 9mm mags for an Uzi. He clips his walkie-talkie to the shoulder of his web gear after tuning it to the frequency needed to detonate his improvised explosives in the crawl space in the ceiling. Once geared up he can only wait for the elevator to rise to the penthouse.
Frank checks his watch, it is just before two when the elevator rattles to a stop just beneath him. He hears voices chattering back and forth in Spanish. He exits the service shack, waiting in the shadows. After a moment, two of Herrera’s men emerge. Frank slinks into the roof's shadows as they sweep the area, overlooking him as he eases under a grate near the helipad. He waits under cover until they radio the all clear, Frank holds his breath hoping they are not using the same frequency as the explosives, they are not. One man stays stationary near the sky light while the other begins a roving patrol. Frank waits in the shadows until he draws near.
In one smooth motion Frank reaches out as the man passes clasping his right hand over his mouth while dropping to one knee pulling the man backward so that his lower back lands across his right thigh. Before the sentry can thrash Frank plunges the K-Bar into his diaphragm and pulls hard toward his sternum. Without the use of that muscle the man can no longer force air out of his lungs to scream and the massive trauma sends him instantly into shock. Frank withdraws the blade and then runs it across the man’s throat in a clean motion. He stares into the guard’s eyes as they widen and then go blank. He pulls the body into the area under the grate.
The final guard is still stationed by the skylight providing a visual proof to those in the penthouse below that all is well above. Frank approaches cautiously. Making no sound as he moves across the gravel coated roof. As he draws near, careful not to fall in eyesight of the skylight, he pulls a small silenced .22 caliber automatic from his satchel. Bringing it to aim in a weaver stance he continues his advance at a forty-five degree angle from behind the man’s right rear, just beyond his peripheral vision. When he is within ten feet Frank makes a small whistle the man looks directly at him as Frank fires two rounds into his forehead above his left eye. Frank slides quickly to keep the man from dropping to the floor. He covers the small gap between them on his knees. He grabs the lapels on the guard's overcoat and lowers him gently down to a sitting position on the edge of the concrete lip of the skylight. He turns the dead man’s head snapping a couple vertebrae in the process to lock his head into a position mimicking him looking to his right, allowing the people below to get a view of the man’s unblemished face on the right side as blood seeps down in a torrent over his left eye. Frank peers over the lip of the skylight beside the body to see who is below.
Sitting in the living area of the 80’s dead tech style suite on a large circular recessed couch Frank is pleased to see Herrera and the Toomey brothers. Herrera’s body guards mill around preparing drinks for their boss and his guests.
PWJ:
One more surprise to rig and this is a go.
SCENE TWELVE:
Soap sits in his apartment in his boxers and wife beater watching a Jane Fonda workout video on his VCR. He lays down his half eaten slice of pizza and eyes the screen with a peculiar smirk as he reaches for a box of cleanex and pulls a few tissues out.
Soap:
Barbarella, Barbarella, you still have the tightest ass…
(The phone rings… Soap looks over then back to the screen trying to ignore it… after the fifth ring brakes his concentration he finally picks up.)
Goddamnit.
What is it?!
Micro:
Listen to me very closely, whatever Frank is planning you tell him to call it off, got it?
Soap:
(His face goes white)
Who is this?
Micro:
You know me as Agent Jameson, detective. I saw that you had DEA access the file on Ernesto Hererra. Tell Frank not to move on the cartels. He’s not ready.
Soap:
Look I don’t know who you are, but I have no association with The Punisher.
Micro:
Do I sound like an asshole to you, Soap? I watched you two in the park yesterday afternoon and in the dinner last week. I know where you live. I know the location Frank’s new safe house in the South Bronx and a dozen others. Now can you contact him or not?
Soap:
I… No, he’s already there. Why can’t you tell him?
Micro:
Sure, “Hi Frank, guess what…” He’d gut me in two seconds.
Soap:
Kind’a the idea.
Micro:
Stay by your phone. You may be hearing from me again soon. Keep a bag packed.
The line goes dead and Soap leans back on his couch. Tossing his tissues aside he goes to the window and looks through the blinds. Then back at Jane.
Soap:
Sorry honey, I’m not in the mood anymore.
SCENE THIRTEEN:
Frank lowers himself into the VIP elevator through the shaft access door in the roof of the car. He glances at the control panel, as he’d hoped Herrera’s men left the key in the lock keeping the VIP elevator locked in position at the penthouse level. He leans against the door listening to the conversation on the other side.
Herrera:
So tell me more about this Punisher.
Toomey:
He’s been killing people in our line of business for nearly ten years. He was a soldier named Frank Castle, war hero, his family got caught up in a mob hit. The guineas didn’t want any witnesses so they shot them all. He lived, they didn’t. Ever since then he’s been killing every mobster and drug dealer he can get his hands on. He was the one that wiped out the Cesare Family and half the dons in New York a few years back. Now he’s turned his sights on us.
Elvin:
The man’s a machine, dismantling whole organizations from the ground up. Now that he’s set his iron on us he won’t stop until he kills us all.
Toomey:
And since we are your primary distributors in the tri-state we had hoped…
Herrera:
That Mister Sandoval could provide a solution to your dilemma?
Toomey:
Yes.
Herrera:
Arrangements can be made on your behalf, don’t worry Senior Toomey. Of course there will have to be some renegotiation of our contract, you understand.
Elvin:
Now wai…
Toomey:
Of course, I’m sure we can work out a fair redistribution of profits.
Herrera:
Very good. Your next shipment will arrive in five days time at Pier 12. If you don’t mind I will report back to Senior Sandoval.
The phone rings in the suite. All heads turn at the sudden interruption. One of the bodyguards picks up.
Bodyguard:
**In Spanish with English subtitles**
Hello. Who is this? How… When? (Drops the phone) We have to move the Punisher is here now!
[[SOUNDTRACK: Opening notes and solo begin of Iron Maiden's "The Trooper" time edited version of song plays through shootout. Final note plays at BOOM.]]]
In the elevator Frank reacts, depressing the mic on his walkie-talkie. With that the ceiling in the room explodes downward in a violent spray of gray smoke and debris as guards fall shredded to the floor in sync with the blasts. Herrera is peppered with nails in left side of his face and back; he falls to the floor screaming. Toomey and Elvin who had shot up at the name Punisher are both hit with only a few nails as they are half way to the emergency stairs. At that moment Frank hits the open button on the elevator and dashes into the room AK raised and ready. He begins firing through the smoke at movement, knocking down three guards as they rise in agony covered I nails. Elvin leads the way as he and his brother reach the stairwell door; he has no warning as the swinging door pulls the tripwire connected to the claymore. It explodes releasing a dense burst of 400 steel ball bearings. John James Toomey is splattered with gore as his brother takes the full brunt of the shrapnel. The concussion blows Toomey on his ass, he looks to the place where half a second earlier his brother was and instead there is only a body from the mid thorax down, intestines lay sprawled on the floor in ribbons leading back to the remains whose legs are twitching slightly.
Toomey:
Elvin!
Frank turns his attention to the noise and opens fire with a burst of fully automatic fire. The wall inches above Toomey’s head erupts in a shower of plaster and bullet fragments. He crawls in a mad dash through his brother’s offal and runs screaming down the stairs. In the confusion Frank’s AK runs dry and a guard fresh to the fight emerges from the bathroom unscathed wielding a sawed off shotgun.The man fires a burst hitting Frank in his chest tagging his left arm with two pellets of double aught buck. Frank goes down hard. The bodyguard without losing a step scoops up his injured and screaming boss and hustles him blindly into the elevator before Frank can compose himself. Frank draws his Uzi and releases a burst obliquely at the closing elevator door managing to strike the guard several times as he leans out to fire a parting shot.
In the closed and moving elevator Herrera is wailing as he pulls a bent nail from the corner of his left eye. He looks around through the pain and shock, realizing he is safe he swears in Spanish. We cut back to Frank now switching frequencies on his walkie-talkie he depresses the com button. In the elevator shaft a series of small charges blow severing the emergency brake and cables. Inside Herrera rockets upward weightless suspended in mid air as the elevator plummets at the whims of gravity. In the lobby the fire alarm is blaring as guests bustle about trying to leave, suddenly there is a thunderous racket from the private elevator in an out of the way corner of the lobby. Suddenly there is a tremendous crash of twisting metal and rush of air which rends the doors from the shaft. Several patrons are knocked to the ground by the force of the blast. One well-to-do woman screams as she looks up to see her Bichon Frise lapping at an expanding puddle of blood coming from the body of Herrera who lies crumpled amongst the wreckage of the elevator car. He stares blankly at the woman, his head twisted backwards and upside down on his body. A death rattle escapes his mouth shuttering his twisted form as his brain falls out of his burst skull, landing on the floor with a sickening audible plop. The woman screams and then faints.
Upstairs Frank finds himself pinned down as more guards are pressing the attack coming from rooms unaffected by the booby trap. The men are pouring the fire on with assault rifles, the rounds of which are powerful enough to cut through walls and furniture. Frank exchanges rounds bringing two more down. Finally, he pops smoke as cover, tossing a canister over the couch followed by a canister of tear gas; he hurriedly puts on a gas mask. The gas is already causing him to retch and his eyes to water. He can hear the guards gagging on the fumes. Frank pulls a frag from his web gear and tosses the grenade in their general direction through the blinding plume of smoke. The explosive lands just behind the wet bar beside the hallway blasting it into fragments that tear into some of the armed men. Finally the sprinkler system activates as some of the booze catches fire. After a brief moment a quick thinking guard shoots out the windows which amazingly have not been broken by the conflagration.
As the smoke begins to clear the survivors see that the Punisher has fled the scene. Two of the men simply sit down in total disbelief of what has just occurred. One checks the room and peaks carefully into the stairwell. A fourth notices Frank has left behind his AK and web gear complete with satchel in the middle of the recessed sitting area. He walks over and inspects it. Deeming it safe he looks up at his fellows.
Bodyguard:
***What the [frick] just happened here?!***
(He reaches down and grabs the web gear holding it up and shaking it as he speaks)
***Look at this shit they came at us with! It’s like a [frick]ing war…***
(At that a small transparent fishing line tied to the AK pulls taught sliding a cotter pin out of a detonator on a three pound wad of C-4 wedged tight in the bottom of the pack)
Frank is half way down the stairs when he hears the unmistakable thump made by his final gift. He reaches a fire ax compartment on the fifteenth floor landing he opens it withdrawing a small bundle of clothes. Below he hears the panicked voices of police and firemen rushing up the stairs. He dashes into the hallway and kicks open a room door. He opens the bundle and disrobes hastily dressing in the uniform of a Hotel Exeter security officer. He walks out of the room stuffing his .45’s into his waist band and holding a flashlight as two firemen come from the stairwell.
Frank:
This floor’s clear. Head up to sixteen.
The men nod and continue upward. Castle gathers his remaining gear and weapons and tosses them down the trash shute. Frank composes himself and heads down the stairs. He emerges on the street blending into the confussion of guests and staff, firemen and police. He drops the maroon security blazer into a trash bin after dashing across the street and into the subway.
SCENE FOURTEEN:
We cut now to a brightly lit and opulent room a figure stands in a light tan linen suit barefooted in front of a bank of a dozen televisions. The linked screens form one large image of the CNN coverage of the events in New York. The reporter jabbers away in the background stating that at least ten bodies have been pulled from the penthouse and that explosions and gunfire were heard for several minutes. Authorities believe it to be the work of the vigilante, Frank Castle also known as The Punisher. The phone rings on a small table beside the man and he calmly picks it up.
Sandoval:
*** I see it. Inform the handlers that I will pay two million dollars to the man that brings me this vigilante’s head. One hundred thousand for anyone that helps him or for any family he may have. See that men of quality hear of this. Thank you. ***
Soap sits alone in his apartment watching the same broadcast, the screen shows the top floor of the Exeter Hotel bellowing smoke.
Soap:
Shit.
Somewhere in a dark room lit with the glare of three TV screens and five computer screens a lone figure sits before them in a rolling office chair. He puts his head in his hands as New York One reports from the massacre on Fifth Avenue.
Suddenly a curser on one of the computer screens begins to blink and move. It types out: “Las Hermanas de Colón se desea conservar parte de un hombre muerto en honor de las personas afectadas por los acontecimientos en Nueva York esta noche. Las donaciones en la suma de dos millones de dólares EE.UU. para el benefactor de estos eventos y doscientos cincuenta mil de sus asociados se recogerá a su llegada.”
Micro:
A Dead Man’s Party… God damn it. You stupid bastard. You stupid, single minded bastard. You have no idea the shit you just started.