THE PUNISHER: WRATH OF JIGSAW
Prologue
Hoppe's No. 9 was one of those scents that never failed to bring back memories. It was so much more pleasant than clouds of burning gunpowder, so much less intrusive than the scent of blood. It was an odor that was inexorably linked to every shooter's workbench.
He hadn't hunted in almost six months, but the old habits died hard.
He still shot and cleaned the guns he had, though less often these days.
He still worked out like a fanatic, hitting the weights with a vengeance as though they had replaced the heads of his usual quarry. Ever time he gripped a dumbbell he felt the soft throat of some murdering scumbag collapsing between his fingers.
He still zeroed his scopes and sharpened his blades and mixed his napalm. For what reasons, he did not know. All the hatred remained, but something inside just didn't burn as brightly as it once did.
And now, sitting as his workbench and running a solvent soaked cloth through the barrel of a Sig 552 carbine, he looked back and reminded himself that he still had a job to do.
The last of the punks that jumped him the other night was just coming around to consciousness. Castle had used razor wire to strap him to a heavy metal chair. He would have simply broken the guy's neck and left him dead with the rest of his friends if it hadn't been for one small occurrence. While he was pummeling the bastard's face, a single white business card tumbled out of his jacket.
Castle wouldn't have given it a second thought except that this particular card was very intriguing. It was entirely blank except for a black skull on one side.
The Punisher had never made such a thing.
The skull had been hand painted, and had little white lines running through it as if it had been pieced together like a puzzle.
It had piqued his interest, and instantly Castle wondered if it was linked to the recent murders of two allegedly corrupt cops and two city officials. The faces had been mutilated beyond recognition.
Castle knew instinctively the pricks that tried to snuff him out were not the murderers, but it was a good bet they were involved somehow, so he decided it would be a prudent move to investigate the matter further. And who better to learn from than someone with a first hand account.
After he finished reassembling the rifle and putting it away, Castle poured himself a piping hot cup of coffee.
He walked over to his prisoner and said, "Wake up," before tossing the coffee in his face.
The man came to life screaming in pain.
"I know," Castle told him. "I'm no good without caffeine, either."
"You prick! You miserable—"
The words were cut off by Castle's right fist. The man's head snapped to the left and two teeth flew across the room.
"Enough sweet talk. I'm running a little low on patience these days, so let's get to it."
Castle grabbed the back of the heavy chair and began pulling it towards a walk in closet he had soundproofed and fitted with a large metal door.
"And there in lies the problem." He said as he drug his hostage inside and stood in the entrance. "You know the only problem with having so many people to kill?"
The man said nothing.
Deep in Castle's eyes, something still glistened. "Not enough time for torture."
Castle hadn't even touched him yet and his victim was screaming before he even pulled the door shut.
It took almost twenty minutes to wash all of the blood off of himself. He got into the shower turned the water as hot as it could go and he still barely felt the sweet sting as it washed over his battle worn body.
Damn it, Frank. You lost control.
He hadn't meant to cut the punk so deep, to hit him so hard. He knew he should have stuck to waterboarding or just plain old shock therapy, but Castle couldn't deny the truth.
He liked the violence. He reveled in the feel of bone crunching beneath his knuckles, of warm blood on his face.
And from what he'd gotten out of the kid, there was to be more. Much more.
Jigsaw.
Castle knew the name well. Russo was tough, for that much he deserved credit, but he was also an example. The Punisher had killed hundreds if not thousands of murderous criminals over the years. There were always a few fortunate enough to escape his wrath, but had he truly wished the lowly mob assassin dead, he would have made it so. He scarred Billy the Beaut for life to send a message.
Apparently, criminals these days were hard of hearing.
But now forces were amassing to ensure Castle's dissolution permanently. It was coming up on the end game, and now was the time to clean out there ears for good. Clean them out in a hail of hot lead.
It was time to get back to basics, and the Punisher was ready for war.
Castle now had a better idea of what was going on. He had a starting point. It was time to prepare.
During the course of armoring up, as was nearly always the case, Frank Castle's psyche had once again been swallowed completely by that of the Punisher, and now nothing of the ex-Marine remained except memories of his family—and the undying wrath that fueled his quest to punish the wicked.
He carried two .9-millimeter Glock 17 pistols in a dual shoulder holster rig. The Austrian designed polymer handguns were light, accurate, and deadly with seventeen round magazines. On his belt he carried extra magazines for the Glocks, a fixed-blade combat knife, four pouches containing various grenades, and a row of twelve shotgun shells. On his left thigh he had pouches holding three extra thirty-round magazines for his M-4 carbine and loops holding four extra 40mm grenades for the launcher. On his right thigh he had a Desert Eagle chambered for the .50-caliber Action Express and an extra clip in a Blackhawk drop-leg holster.
It was safe to say he was Death on two feet.