2: The Punisher - Part

Frank walked toward him slowly, the EBR now slung across his back. He drew a .45 from his thigh holster.

Frank stood there for a moment, breathing the cold air. Then he knelt, picked up the flash drive, and tucked it into his vest. The names on it would take him six months to work through. Six months of blood and gunpowder and sleepless nights.

He raised the .45.

One.

Frank ascended the service stairwell in full gear: the skull stark white against matte black body armor. His boots made no sound on the concrete. He carried a suppressed Mk 14 EBR—precision, not spray-and-pray. Tonight was surgical.

“No,” Frank said. “I’d leave her without a monster.”

And tonight, the Punisher was going to rip out his stitches. The Punisher - Part 2

He believed in the work.

Vaccaro backed up until he hit the parapet. Twelve stories down, the rain-slick street glittered like a vein of lead. “You’ll never get them all without me. I’m the key, Castle. I’m the lock and the key.”

Volkov’s head snapped toward the door. “Who else is here?” Frank walked toward him slowly, the EBR now

He fired once. Vaccaro’s body jerked backward, over the parapet, and fell without a sound into the rain.

Two down. A thousand to go.