Chapter 8: PROFESSIONAL COURTESY
Frank Castle was hunting.
I'd spent three days tracking his patterns, cross-referencing kills with informant reports, building a picture of how he operated. The man was a machine—wake up, plan, execute, sleep, repeat. No hesitation. No mercy. No wasted motion.
The Kitchen Irish were nearly extinct. Finn Cooley's death at the parking garage had broken their leadership, and the survivors were fleeing the city as fast as they could book flights. The Dogs of Hell had retreated to Jersey, unwilling to engage with whatever demon was slaughtering their competition. Even the Mexican Cartel had started pulling back, their reinforcements mysteriously delayed by "equipment failures" and "logistics issues."
Someone's protecting Frank. Not just me.
That was interesting. I filed it away for later investigation.
Tonight, Frank's target was a mid-level Irish operative named Patrick Kiernan. According to my informants, Kiernan was one of the last people who knew where the Irish kept their records—financial documents, contact lists, anything that might lead to the people above the street-level thugs.
The same records that might contain information about Cerberus.
I arrived at Kiernan's safehouse—an apartment building in Chelsea—two hours before Frank's estimated arrival time. The building had fire escapes, a basement service entrance, and a rooftop access point. Standard construction, minimal security, easy infiltration.
I'd brought an intel packet: floor plans, guard rotations, the number and armament of Kiernan's protection detail. Everything Frank would need to make the hit clean and fast.
The question was where to leave it.
Direct contact was still too risky. Frank was paranoid—rightfully so—and approaching him unannounced would probably get me killed. But the dead drop system was working. He'd responded to my note, which meant he was curious. Willing to engage.
Build trust incrementally. Show value. Don't push.
I found a spot behind the dumpster in the alley opposite the building. Taped the intel packet to the wall, positioned so it would be visible only to someone checking the approach angles. Then I climbed to a rooftop across the street and settled in to watch.
The waiting was the hardest part. Two hours of cold darkness, watching the building, fighting the urge to intervene directly. I could take Kiernan myself—walk in, TK the guards into walls, snap his neck before he could scream. But that would defeat the purpose. This wasn't about the kill. It was about the alliance.
Patience.
Frank arrived at 11:47 PM.
He approached from the north, moving through shadows with the practiced ease of a man who'd spent years in combat zones. He checked the alley—and found my packet.
I held my breath.
He read the contents under a streetlight, his face unreadable. Then he looked up, scanning the rooftops with those cold, calculating eyes.
He knows I'm watching.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then Frank folded the packet, tucked it into his jacket, and moved toward the building.
The operation took fourteen minutes.
I watched through a scope I'd purchased from a military surplus store—not to assist, just to observe. Frank moved through the building like a force of nature. Three guards on the first floor, dead in as many seconds. Two more on the stairs, taken with a knife to avoid alerting the targets above. Kiernan and his remaining bodyguard on the fourth floor, killed with surgical precision.
When it was over, Frank emerged from the building's back entrance, cleaned his weapons methodically, and left something on the dumpster where I'd placed my packet.
A bullet casing. A note.
"TOMORROW. 2 AM. ROOF OF ST. PATRICK'S OLD CATHEDRAL. COME ALONE."
I spent the next twenty-four hours preparing.
Not for a fight—if Frank wanted me dead, he'd have shot me already. But for a conversation. The most important conversation of this new life.
I reviewed everything I knew about the Cerberus conspiracy. Agent Orange—William Rawlins—running a black ops heroin operation out of Afghanistan. Billy Russo, Frank's former best friend, complicit in the massacre. The cover-up, the lies, the systematic murder of everyone who knew the truth.
I organized the information into a format Frank could use: names, dates, locations, connections. Not everything—I couldn't reveal that I had future knowledge—but enough to prove my value. Enough to establish trust.
Trust.
The word felt strange in this context. I was offering Frank Castle information that would help him kill people. He was considering whether to shoot me or work with me. This wasn't trust in any normal sense.
But it was something. A foundation.
The night before the meeting, I practiced TK until my nose bled and my hands shook. If things went wrong, I needed to be able to defend myself. Frank was fast, well-armed, and had decades of combat experience. My only advantage was surprise—powers he didn't know about, couldn't anticipate.
Don't show everything. Keep something in reserve.
I also wrote a will. Not because I expected to die, but because I'd learned in my old life that preparation calmed the nerves. The will left my meager possessions to charity and contained a letter explaining nothing—just a request to be cremated and scattered somewhere green.
Morbid. But practical.
At 1:30 AM, I left my apartment and headed for St. Patrick's Old Cathedral.
The church was beautiful in the darkness—Gothic architecture, ancient stones, a sense of weight and history that Hell's Kitchen's modern buildings couldn't match. The roof was accessible through a maintenance ladder on the north side, hidden in shadows.
I climbed.
Frank was already there.
He stood near the central spire, a shadow among shadows, his pistol aimed at my chest. The red dot of a laser sight painted my heart.
"Hands where I can see them."
I raised my hands slowly, keeping my movements non-threatening.
"If you wanted me dead," I said, "you wouldn't have announced yourself."
Frank's expression didn't change. "Maybe I'm curious first."
"Then let's talk."
"No. First you answer questions." He stepped closer, the gun never wavering. "Who are you?"
"Marcus Cole."
"That's a name. Who are you?"
"Someone who's been watching you work. Someone who wants the same people dead."
"Why?"
I met his eyes. Cold, hard, measuring. A predator assessing prey—or maybe an equal.
"Because they deserve it."
Long silence. Frank's finger rested on the trigger, not quite pressing.
"The intel you've been leaving. Good stuff. Professional. Where does it come from?"
"Sources."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you're getting." I kept my voice steady. "I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to use me. I can help you find the people responsible for your family."
Something flickered in Frank's eyes. Pain, rage, loss—all compressed into a moment of vulnerability that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"You know about that."
"Everyone knows about that. What I know that others don't is who ordered it."
The gun lowered slightly. Not much—maybe two inches—but enough.
"Talk."
I talked.
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