Chapter 1

Dex

Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter crouched behind a reeking dumpster in Hell's Kitchen, waiting. Midnight was hours ago, but he was prepared to wait as long as necessary. The grueling months of rehabilitation and physical therapy had taught him patience. The hours of waiting would be worth it if they brought him the perfect bait to reel in his target: Daredevil.

His patience was rewarded twenty minutes later, when he spotted a young couple approaching. The sidewalk around them was empty. Dex sprinted toward the mouth of the alley, pulling down the bill of his baseball cap and securing a scarf around the lower half of his face. Every cop in the city would be looking for him. He couldn't risk being identified. Wrapped up in each other, the man and woman didn't see or hear him coming. He grabbed the woman and dragged her back into the alley. The man followed, yelling at him to let her go. Dex stopped when he judged they were far enough into the alley to be invisible from the sidewalk. He pulled out a knife and pressed it against the woman's throat. "Scream," he ordered.

"What?" she gasped.

"You heard me. Do it."

The woman began screaming, and her companion continued to yell at Dex to let her go. Now all he had to do was wait. It was only a minute or two before he heard a low voice, coming from above them. "Let her go," the voice ordered. Perfect, Dex thought. Right on cue. He released the woman, who fled, followed by the man.

A figure dressed in all black, with a black mask covering the top half of his face, jumped down from a fire escape and landed lightly a few feet from him. The man in black inclined his head in that odd way of his and said, "Poindexter."

"Daredevil," Dex replied. As he spoke, he reached into his pocket for a length of metal pipe, one of several projectiles he had brought with him. He launched the pipe at Daredevil and charged. Daredevil evaded it with a back flip. The flip brought Daredevil in close to Dex. He landed punches to Dex's jaw and midsection before Dex connected with an uppercut to Daredevil's jaw. The blow pushed Daredevil back a step and allowed Dex to break away. Dex spotted a chunk of concrete on the broken pavement. He picked it up and hurled it at Daredevil, who twisted out of its way but couldn't dodge it completely. The ragged edge of the concrete ripped through the fabric of Daredevil's shirt and opened a gash in his upper arm, near his right shoulder. While Daredevil's back was turned, Dex charged him, but Daredevil lashed out with his right foot, landing a kick on Dex's knee. Dex howled in pain and grabbed his knee, but he didn't go down. As Daredevil turned to face him, Dex took hold of the other man's arms. They grappled as Dex pushed Daredevil back toward the side of one of the buildings bordering the alley. With a final push, Dex slammed Daredevil into the wall, and he slid to the ground. Dex tried to catch his breath while Daredevil struggled to get up. Damn him, Dex thought. That was one of the many things he hated about Daredevil. He wouldn't stay down. Daredevil finally managed to get to his feet. He charged, yelling, and began throwing punches. Dex dodged most of them, then retreated several steps, almost stumbling over a brick on the ground. He picked it up and threw it at Daredevil, who leaned back in an unsuccessful attempt to avoid it. The brick struck Daredevil on the right side of his forehead, and he went down. He stayed down this time. Dex approached him and kicked him in the ribs. There was no reaction.

A voice was shouting at the mouth of the alley. Someone had spotted him. Damn. He pulled out another projectile, a piece of a two by four, and threw it at the sound. Enraged at the interruption, he ran out of the alley, toward the person who had yelled at him. The sidewalk was empty. He turned to go back down the alley and finish off Daredevil, but that was no longer an option. Sirens were approaching. He shrugged. From the look of him, Daredevil was in no condition to interfere with his primary mission: killing Karen Page. Satisfied he'd accomplished his purpose, Dex slipped away into the darkness.

Foggy

In the morning, Foggy was awakened by an alert on his phone. He stared at it blearily, muttering, "No, no, no, no, no." That was enough to wake Marci.

"What is it, Foggy Bear?" she asked sleepily.

"It's Poindexter. He's escaped," he replied grimly.

"Oh. My. God," she said. "What're you going to do?"

"Karen," he said. "She's the one he's after. We have to make sure she's safe." He pulled up her number on his phone and tapped it. "C'mon, c'mon, pick up" he muttered, listening to the rings.

Karen answered on the fourth ring. "Hey, Foggy," she said, adding before he could ask, "Yes, I heard."

"He's gonna come after you. We need to get you somewhere safe."

"I know. But is anywhere safe from that psycho?"

Foggy frowned. "I dunno. We'll figure something out. Is Matt with you?"

"Uh, no. I had to go out to Queens last night to interview that witness in the O'Neill case. The only time she would meet me was after her shift ended at 11. Matt's not answering?"

"I don't know. You were my first call. I'll call him now. You should get to the office as soon as you can. I'll meet you there."

"OK," Karen said, and ended the call.

"You sure that's a good idea," Marci asked, "telling her to go to the office?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Foggy admitted. "But every cop in the city has got to be looking for Poindexter. I'm thinking he needs to stay out of sight during the day. And the office is more secure than our apartments. So it's the safest place for now, until we can come up with something better."

"It's the getting-to-the-office part I'm worried about," Marci told him.

Shit, Foggy thought. Marci was right. As usual. Karen wouldn't be safe, going to the office on her own. "You're right. I'll call Brett, see if he can send someone to escort her. Can you call Karen and tell her there's been a change of plans and to stay put?"

Marci nodded. She and Foggy picked up their phones at the same time.

Brett Mahoney answered his phone on the first ring. "15th Squad, Detective Sergeant Mahoney."

"Brett, it's Foggy Nelson."

"Hey, Foggy."

"You know Poindexter's out, right?" Not waiting for an answer, Foggy continued, the words spilling out of him. "And he's gonna go after Karen, you know he is. We have to get her to a safe place."

"Slow down and take a deep breath," Mahoney said firmly. "We've got every cop in the city looking for him. He won't be out there long."

"It won't make any difference if he's out there long enough to find Karen."

Mahoney sighed. "OK. Point taken. What d'you want me to do?"

"Karen's at her apartment. Can you send someone to escort her to our office?"

"Your office? She'd be safer at the precinct."

"Probably," Foggy admitted. "But we need to talk about, uh, things we shouldn't be discussing at the precinct."

"Oh. Right," Brett said. "But I'm not sending someone. I'll go myself."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. I'll see you at your office."

Foggy ended the call and told Marci the plan. She told Karen, "It's all set. Brett Mahoney is coming to pick you up and bring you to the office. Just sit tight until then . . . OK, 'bye."

After Marci put down her phone, Foggy looked over at her and thought for a moment. "You need to get dressed while I call Matt. You're coming with me."

"Me?" Marci raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, you," Foggy replied firmly. "Poindexter might try to use you as leverage, to get to Karen. I'm not letting that happen. Go, go." He waved his hand.

Marci groaned but complied. As she rummaged in the closet, Foggy called Matt's cell. No answer. Same for the landline at his apartment. With each ring, the knot in Foggy's stomach grew tighter. Then he tried the burner phone he and Karen insisted that Matt carry when he went out to do his night work as Daredevil. After two rings, a strange voice answered, "Yeah?"

"Who is this? Where's Matt?" Foggy demanded.

"Fuck you," the voice answered, and ended the call.

Foggy's heart pounded. His phone slipped from his hand and fell to the floor. His mind raced. Why would a stranger have Matt's burner phone? Where was he? Oh, God, something had happened to Matt. He couldn't lose his best friend again. It might be for real, this time. He ran through the possibilities – none of them good – with a growing sense of dread.

"He's not answering?" Marci asked, buttoning her shirt.

"No."

"Look, I know you're worried," she said, "but the guy's like a cat. He's got at least nine lives."

"I don't think that matters if Poindexter is after him," Foggy pointed out. "We have to go – now." He grabbed some clothes at random and threw them on. Once he was dressed, he and Marci picked up their briefcases and left.

Brett was sitting on the steps of the Hell's Kitchen brownstone that housed the offices of Nelson & Murdock, along with Page Investigations, when Foggy and Marci arrived.

"Karen's here, she's safe," Mahoney informed them.

Foggy let out his breath. Until that moment, he hadn't realized he was holding it. Brett stood up and went inside, followed by Foggy and Marci. Once the door closed behind them, Foggy went straight to Karen and enveloped her in a hug. "You're safe," he assured her, "and we're gonna make sure you stay that way."

Brett looked around, then asked, "Where's Murdock?"

Foggy released Karen from the hug and turned toward the detective. "We don't know. He's not answering any of his phones. And when I called his burner phone, someone else answered."

"You didn't think to mention this before?" Brett demanded. He shook his head. "Jesus."

"I didn't know when I talked to you," Foggy explained.

"Well, what was he doing last night? I mean, was he – " Brett broke off, glancing at Marci, then looking a question at Foggy.

"It's OK," Foggy told him. "She knows. No way I was going to ask her to marry me without telling her."

Karen answered Brett's question. "I don't know what Matt was doing last night. I was out late, over in Queens, interviewing a witness. So I didn't see him."

"You said someone else answered his burner phone. What's that about?"

"He carries a burner phone when he . . . goes out. When I called it, some guy answered. When I asked him where Matt was, he swore at me and hung up."

"Well, we can track the phone," Brett thought out loud, "but it will take some time to get a warrant."

"You don't need one," Foggy told him. "Officially, I'm the owner of the phone. You have my consent to track it."

"Good. Now, has anyone checked Matt's apartment?" Brett asked.

"No, we came straight here," Foggy replied. "I should have thought of that."

"Yes, you should have," Brett told him, exasperated. "So we're doing it now. You come with me. Ladies, you should be safe here until we get back. I've got two uniforms watching the place. I also borrowed two guys from the ESU commander. They're on the roofs of the buildings next door and across the street. Just keep the door locked and the alarm set, and don't let anyone in except us, no matter who they say they are."

Karen nodded. "You got it."

Foggy headed for the front door, but Brett stopped him. "Not that way. We're going out the back." The two men went downstairs to the basement and out the back door. A uniformed officer nodded to them as they passed. They made their way along the narrow passage between buildings that led to the next street. On foot, they quickly covered the five blocks to Matt's building. As they climbed the five flights to the sixth-floor apartment, Foggy's heart was pounding, and not only from the exertions of the climb. He couldn't shake off a mental image of his friend lying injured, or worse, on the hardwood floor. Finally they were standing outside the door marked "6A." He used his key, and they entered the apartment. Somehow Foggy knew right away that Matt wasn't there. The apartment had the same empty feeling it had when he went there after Midland Circle, hoping against hope that Matt would be there. He told himself Matt wasn't dead then, and he wasn't dead now. He didn't want to entertain the possibility that his friend had finally used up all of his lives, or his luck, or whatever it was.

Brett pushed by Foggy. He went down the entry hall and into the apartment's main room. To his left were the closet and trunk where Matt kept his Daredevil gear. The closet stood open. The trunk was open, too, and the tray holding Battlin' Jack's boxing robe was on the floor, to the right of the trunk. The trunk itself was empty. Foggy caught up to Brett. "Damn," he muttered when he saw the empty trunk. Brett checked the bedroom and bathroom. No Matt.

They headed back to the office. Karen's face fell when she saw only two men walk in. "Matt wasn't there?" she asked.

Foggy shook his head. "No." He turned to Brett. "Now what?"

"It's a missing person case."

"No," Karen protested, "you can't – "

Brett interrupted her. "Did I say I was going to open an official case? I'll handle it myself, off the books. But we need to do the things that we'd normally do in a missing person case, like checking the hospitals and . . . the morgue." He looked away when he saw the expression on Karen's face. "And I can do them more easily and faster than you can. I'll also make sure I get reports of any Daredevil sightings, in case he's going after Poindexter himself."

"That's what he's doing, isn't it?" Karen muttered in a low voice. She stood up and walked around her desk, toward Foggy and Brett. "God damn it. I swear to God, if that's what he's doing, I'll kill him myself. Poindexter will have to get in line behind me."

"Now, Karen," Foggy began placatingly.

Karen turned her back to him and walked away. "Don't 'now, Karen' me," she said fiercely, turning to face him. "I'm sick of his 'I have to save everyone by myself' bullshit. Don't try to tell me you aren't sick of it, too."

Foggy held out his hands in defeat. "No way. Not even thinking it."

Brett gave him a knowing glance, then said, "I'll head back to the precinct now and get to work. You should be safe enough here."

"No." Foggy replied firmly. "This is the first or second place Poindexter will look for Karen. We can't stay here."

"Where, then?"

Foggy thought for a moment. "Fogwell's."

Brett considered this. "OK," he said. "But you're not just strollin' out the front door. Give me some time after I get back to the precinct, and I'll text you with a plan to get you there safely."

Foggy nodded his agreement. Forty minutes later, Brett's text landed on his phone. As he and Brett had done earlier, he went downstairs and out the back door, followed by Marci and Karen. When they emerged from the passage onto the sidewalk, they walked quickly to the end of the block, then headed west for two blocks. The van was waiting for them, exactly where Brett said it would be. They climbed in the back. Foggy knocked on the wall behind the driver's seat, and they drove away.

Matt

Semi-conscious, Daredevil managed to get to his feet after Dex left him in the alley. He staggered farther into the depths of the alley, where he lost consciousness completely and collapsed, hidden from view behind a row of trash cans.

Matt regained consciousness slowly. The first thing he was aware of was a smell, a horrible smell, something rancid and rotting. He slipped back into unconsciousness. Sometime later, there were sounds, too many sounds, too loud. People talking, babies crying, dogs barking, cats meowing, electronic chirps and beeps, music, horns honking and underneath it all, a pervasive hum. The din gave him a headache. Maybe he already had one, the worst headache he'd ever had in his life. Or so he thought. He couldn't really remember. Funny thing, though, focusing on the pain in his head seemed to block out some of the intrusive sounds. Finally, he opened his eyes. Nothing. Fear knotted his stomach. He raised his hands to his eyes and felt . . . cloth. Something was covering his eyes. A blindfold. He pulled it off and tossed it on the ground. He still saw nothing. He rubbed his eyes and turned his head from side to side. Nothing. He couldn't see anything. His heart raced, and his head pounded. "No," he whispered, terrified and confused. Was he blind, or simply in a dark place?

He concentrated, trying to make sense of what was happening. Suddenly, he was aware of something strange. Very strange. There were objects in front of him, a row of them, cylindrical in shape. By the smell of them, they must be trash cans. He wasn't seeing them. There was no light, no color, no fine details. They were just . . . there. He could sense them occupying the space in front of him and feel their size and shape, solid and real. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew they were there. He reached out tentatively and touched hard plastic, exactly where he knew it would be. His hand was there, too. He knew when he moved it, and not only because it was his own hand, and he was moving it. What the hell?

Using one of the trash cans for leverage, Matt pulled himself to his feet. He took only a few steps before he was overcome by nausea and vertigo. He held on to one of the cans to steady himself as he vomited. There wasn't much in his stomach, but what was there came back up. His head was hurting even worse than before. He hadn't thought that was possible. He sank back down to the ground, his back against a wall, and gave in to his misery. He buried his face in his hands and rubbed his temples. It didn't help the pain, but his mind felt a little clearer.

He tried to take stock of his situation. He didn't know where he was, but he sensed there was a wall in front of him, about 20 feet away, parallel to the one behind him. There was a large oblong shape in front of it – probably a dumpster. So he was in an alley, most likely. The sounds of footsteps and traffic seemed to come from both directions. It must be open at both ends. He couldn't see, but he still wasn't sure if he was blind, or simply in a dark place. But even at night, an alley in the city wouldn't be totally dark. If he could see, he should be able to see something. Then he remembered the cloth that had covered his eyes. If he couldn't see, it wasn't a blindfold. Maybe he didn't use his eyes, and the cloth was there for some other reason. That would mean he was blind. He felt another stab of fear. But it would also mean being blind wasn't something new. He was already blind, before he woke up here. If that was the case, he must know how to be blind. The thought was oddly reassuring.

Then something else occurred to him. Maybe his eyes were covered because of the way they looked. Or maybe he didn't have any eyes. He reached up and felt them. His eyes were definitely there. He could feel them moving from side to side. He couldn't feel any scars, but maybe his eyes just looked weird. There was no way for him to know.

He tried, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the whole "vision-without-seeing" thing he was experiencing. Was this something blind people could just do? He didn't think so. If they could, they wouldn't need guide dogs or white canes.

He raised his head. Someone was coming, from his left. He heard footsteps and a heartbeat – a heartbeat. The shape was human, not too large, walking toward him. "Hey, mister," a voice said. It was high-pitched and sounded young. A teenage girl, maybe. "You need help?"

"Yes," he croaked.