PUNISHER WAR JOURNAL

ISSUE #2 written by D. Golightly

"Relics of the Past" - Part One


Entry 070214b

It's gonna be one of those nights.

The rain is pelting down just hard enough to make it annoying. Usually under these circumstances I just chalk the weather up to being part of God's acrimony. Nine times out of ten I'm right.

Tonight, however, is night number ten.

Phil isn't the kind of guy to leave things to chance. Neither am I. I guess that's one thing we have in common. After grabbing the hard copies of recent activity within the Martoni crime family, I needed to push out Phil's other information before it ate me alive. He somehow found out that my dead wife, Maria, had a safety deposit box still sitting in a bank downtown. It was a little after three in the morning and there wasn't any legal way for me to look into the box right now. I'd have to wait until the bank opened later on this morning.

That left the Martoni stuff. Like I said, Phil didn't leave anything to chance. The Italian Mafia in New York City wanted Philly dead so he made sure that he was never on their radar by keeping electronic surveillance on the whole outfit. My guess is that if his name ever popped up, even remotely, he would have done whatever it took to make sure his name was never spoken again. He's a little on the paranoid side, but I can't blame him.

I can't help but think that the rain is like a cold, wet blanket that is trying to snuff out whatever thoughts I have of my wife, keeping me on track for my life's mission. I was supposed to have buried my past when I buried my family. Things like this weren't supposed to come up.

As the rain runs down the front of my windshield, I'm reminded of a time when water clung to Maria as she stepped out of the shower.

Running down Phil's intell on the Martoni family is the only thing that will get me through the night. Dawn can't come fast enough, for both me and the poor assholes I'm about to ambush.

It's gonna be one of those nights.


Passing clouds from the dripping rain silently stalked across the city's horizon, etching the black towers of the economy in dark outlines. If a metropolis such as this one could talk, it would only whisper during settings such as this. Ominous moonlight, while plentiful earlier in the evening, now only rarely punctured its way through onto the buildings.

Most of the millions that inhabited the city used this time to sleep and rest. But there were others, those that not only embraced the late hours and the budding darkness, but thrived in it. Costumed vigilantes, ladies of the night, officers of peace…

And the Punisher.

Frank Castle was a man of strong conviction, although he found himself driven not by the need to seek redemption, but to distract his wandering mind from shadows of his own past. In truth, those that trespassed against his path and thus became targeted deserved whatever punishment he dished out, but that was not to say that he took pleasure in his work. Tonight, unlike the nights that preceded this one, had become personal. Whatever transpired tonight would be a result of the displacement of his own anger.

He sat in his bulky, unmarked van waiting for the right moment. The minutes ticked by as they always did. Frank smirked gently as he realized that time was the one thing that could never be stopped, no matter how hard he tried. Out of the hundreds of disgusting lowlifes he had dealt with over the years, he knew that it would be the passage of time that would ultimately stop his crusade. Not some punk who got lucky, not a drug czar hopped up on his own product…time.

Every time he took down some reckless thug with a knife, or each gangster he knocked down in his own home, he felt just a little slower, just a little older. He had come a long way from the harsh sands of the Middle East and the humid jungles of South Asia.

The late hour had nothing to do with the fact that he was tired.

His mind snapped back into focus as something caught his eye. A single car slowly drove down the street toward him, its tires gliding over the loose asphalt. The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the alley Frank had been watching so intently, its black exterior mimicking the darkness it subtly moved within.

One of the rear doors popped open and a tall, hardened looking man stepped out. Even though ambient light was hard to come by he still wore sunglasses, hiding most of his features. Despite the lack of distinguishing marks, the Punisher knew who this was: Eddie Martoni, the prodigal son and heir to the crime family's business.

Frank shifted forward in his seat even though it wouldn't do much to give him a better look at what was transpiring. He was a silent stalker, but the calm before the storm was always more harsh than the actual tornado. He adjusted the directional microphone he had angled at the car, making sure it would pick up even the smallest audible.

"Move your ass," Eddie swore, aiming his words at the inside of the SUV. "I didn't come all the way down to this slum to watch you pop pills and slush back my booze."

The SUV rocked slightly as a man twice as wide and half as tall as Eddie slid out of the same door. Frank, for once, was slightly surprised. He knew who the fat man was and couldn't help but be confused by his presence. Things apparently weren't as they seemed.

"Chill out, Eddie, my lanky friend" the bulbous man replied as he planted both stout feet firmly on the pavement. "What are you afraid of, eh? One of those ridiculous spandex lunatics I hear about so often?" He snorted, shooting back the last of a sparkling liquid in the glass he held before tossing it back into the car. "In m'country we have no need for silly things such as that. You Americans worry too much."

The fat man's accent was thick, reeking of slurred Russian. His name was Mikhail Chekova and was the son of an infamous Russian mobster, plus he was on Interpol's top ten list of scumbags. Frank had bumped into a squad of his father's hitmen a few years back but as far as he knew the Chekova family had been laying low. Phil had mentioned something about the Russians getting antsy along with the Martoni crew. Things just got more interesting.

"I was born and raised in Sicily," Eddie shot back. "Now, keep your trap shut and get inside so we can get his over with."

Mikhail waved a hand to dismiss the argument and stepped into the alley, the shadows eagerly swallowing him up as best they could. Eddie paused and looked up and down the street before following the Russian into the darkness. A pair of finely dressed men quickly hopped out of the SUV and stood just inside the mouth of the alleyway, the bulges in the jackets anything but subtle.

Frank switched off the microphone and leaned back in his seat. He had to admit that he didn't have much information on the Chekova family but he did know one thing: they hated the Italians. With a passion. With two sons of opposing armies getting together in a quiet place, it could only mean a handful of things. The top two realizations that occurred to Frank were a truce and a double-cross. Maybe even both at once.

The Punisher checked the small arsenal he weighted himself down with and cracked open the back of the van. Whatever was going on, he had to be involved. Two of the biggest junior kingpins wanted in the country were sitting in the same place. Sitting ducks don't come along as often as they should.

The blazing white skull that was splashed across his chest fell victim to the same darkness as the rest of the block. His trenchcoat clung to his sides, further adding to the shroud that enabled him to move between the shadows. As a former special forces soldier, the Punisher had learned to move without his enemy knowing it. The two guards never noticed him crossing the street from a block down, and they definitely didn't notice the covered shade that slipped into the alley on the other side of the building they were guarding.

The Punisher slapped three small shaped charges onto the brick wall as he steadily trekked down the vacant alley. He didn't figure on using the silver cylinders but he had learned a long time ago that insurance was necessary in his line of work. Never walk into a place you don't expect to walk out of.

At the end of the alley he hopped onto the fire escape from some stacked pallets and made his way to the roof. The metal steps clanged from his steel-toed boots clomping against them, albeit barely loud enough for his own ears to hear. Once on the roof he paused, taking in the open space and making sure there were no spotters on the adjoining building.

It was barely a six foot drop to the next roof. If he had read the building plans correctly, and he knew that he did, then the only doorway in the alley he had watched Eddie and Mikhail enter into would be directly below him. The back of the alley was blocked off by a hotel on the opposite side of the block and there were no other doors.

He withdrew his twin 9mm handguns and gently pulled open the roof entrance. In this neighborhood the landlords didn't care enough about their properties to purchase deadbolts. The Punisher led the way into the building with the barrels of his weapons, allowing them a grace period before moving the entire way into the stairwell. He wasn't five steps in before he heard voices.

"…say you know the kind of shit we're pulling here," he heard a distinctly Italian voice say. "These fuckers know it, too. Hell, it's how they survive in the friggin' motherland. Or whatever they call it."

"Just shut up and do what you're told," a second accented voice replied.

The stairwell let out onto a catwalk, at the bottom of which the pair of men were at. Frank slowly moved down the stairs, reaching the last step within a moment, his guns both eager to find the men before his own eyes.

Fighting the small urge to simply spin around the corner and light the catwalk up with muzzle flash, Frank holstered one weapon and replaced it with a small mirror. Crouching down with his back against the wall, the Punisher angled the mirror around the corner to reflect back the images of two men, each dressed in black fatigues, slapping magazines into MP-5 assault rifles to match the soft clicks he heard.

"My point is, how do we know these guys ain't doing the same thing to us?" the first one asked as he slid back the shoulder brace on the weapon.

"You think them damn Russkies are—"

Something small and barely visible suddenly stuck itself into the second man's neck. Frank peered into the mirror to try and see what had happened, but the only thing he could make out was the Italian man slumping to the catwalk, his companion soon joining him in silent unconsciousness.

Four letter words accented with question marks skipped through the Punisher's mind. He pocketed the mirror and slid up to his full height, screwing a silencer onto the end of his handgun. He hadn't planned on trying to stay out of sight for very long, but now that a third party had made a move that James Bond would have been proud of, Frank had to play by the same rules. It was irritating, but he would rather err on the side of caution.

He grasped the 9mm with both hands and leaned around the corner toward the catwalk. Aside from the two sleeping Italians, there was nothing. He stalked forward, carefully stepping over the bodies and sweeping his line of sight with the silenced gun barrel.

The end of the catwalk abruptly dropped down to another set of stairs, leading directly to the first floor. Raised voices he recognized as belonging to Eddie and Mikhail were arguing back and forth, although he couldn't make out what they were saying. He caught sight of scattered shadows moving across the floor, their arms flailing to add emphasis to the mobsters' words.

He didn't so much hear what came next as he did feel it. There was no breeze against his skin, but at the same time he sensed that someone was moving behind him. He whirled around just in time to see a hand gloved in slick, black material dart at his face. He managed to raise his arm up to deflect the shot but left himself open to a swift kick in his midsection.

Breath expelled from his lungs from the force of the blow, but it was barely strong enough to bruise his muscle. He stepped to the side just in time to dodge another punch aimed between his eyes, pressing up against the railing on the catwalk. He ducked under another high kick and rolled further to the side, raising his weapon at his attacker as he fell into a crouch.

The woman paused, her breathing slightly heavier than normal from the small exertion of her attempt to take down the Punisher. She was clad completely in black, even more so than Frank. The only color on her was a shock of red hair that hung out from the front of her hood. Her face, mostly covered by the same head covering, seemed delicate and soft behind the silky material.

"Hold it right there," the Punisher grumbled quietly. He aimed his gun at one of her legs, just above the kneecap. He needed answers before he needed a corpse. "Who are you?"

"Ah," she said just as quietly. Her voice had a tinge to it, just like Mikhail's. There were traces of some Russian dialect in her voice but at the same time her voice almost seemed smooth and silky. "Comrade Castle. I apologize; I did not recognize you in the dark. However, your methods are not welcome here tonight. Please, exit the way you came in before—"

Sprinkled gunfire cut off her sentence, decorating the catwalk in blue and yellow sparks. The two guards from outside had apparently come in to check on something and immediately spotted the woman, Frank, and the two downed Italians. Their own MP-5s blanketed the stairwell and catwalk with bullets, miraculously missing them.

The woman jumped onto the railing, delicately balancing her lithe form on the slender metal bar. She pushed off and gripped another railing from a nearby catwalk, pulling herself up to safety. Frank heard her footsteps along the metal structure as she fled.

The Punisher pushed her from his mind as he attended to more pressing matters. One of the guards quickly reloaded while the other laid down suppression fire. The grating that comprised the catwalk was too tightly meshed for a stray bullet to plunge through, but that didn't mean a ricochet wouldn't somehow get to him. He had to move and he had to do it fast.

As he took careful aim just over the edge of the catwalk, he saw both Eddie and Mikhail stumbling to get out of the room with one of the guards anxiously running behind them to provide cover. Frank squeezed off two shots but it only took a chunk out of the wall they were running beside. As they ducked out of view, Frank cursed as another volley of suppression fire peppered the bottom of the catwalk from the remaining guard.

Sometimes in the heat of the moment you do something rash, something completely unnecessary. Something like using two shell grenades to take out just one guy in a closed in space. The word "overkill" isn't one that the Punisher uses often.

The dual explosions rocked the catwalk. As soon as the dust cleared away, Frank stood up to see what was left of the armed guard. Surprisingly, most of his torso was intact but the lower half of his body had been torn to shreds from shrapnel. His weapon lay beside his motionless body, now useless in comparison to its previously intended function.

"Damn it all," the Punisher swore while taking in the scene. His main targets were getting away and instead of getting answers he had only gotten more questions. The aggravation from the women alone was enough to set him off on a rampage.

He flipped open a small trigger switch and pressed the red button. Several more explosions sounded, this time from outside. The shaped charges he had placed in the alley on the other side of the adjoining building were undoubtedly tearing the alleyway to pieces, while simultaneously making it difficult for Eddie and Mikhail on the nearby street to make their getaway.

He only had a few moments to get back on to the roof and grab the fleeting opportunity to nail the pair of young mobsters. He paused, however, on his way back down the catwalk to put two bullets in each of the unconscious Italian assassins' heads. Blood and brain matter leaked through the metal grating as the Punisher ran back up the stairs and on to the roof.

It was one of those nights.


A night of gunfire, explosions, mysterious women, and mobsters…and Frank Castle had nothing to show for it.

The bulky van that served as his mobile headquarters tore down the highway with Frank at the helm. He struggled to keep his eyes open and fought against the urge to punch the dashboard. His anger had gotten the best of him before and he tried so hard to keep it in check. The last thing he needed was to lose it behind the wheel.

The junior crime lords had gotten away. As soon as Frank had gotten on the roof he saw the SUV peel off back the way it had originally approached from, leaving two damaged condemned buildings behind them. The whole night had been a waste. Not only did his prey elude him, but also Eddie Martoni and Mikhail Chekova would now be more careful since they were aware of his presence.

And then there was the woman. Her covered face and red hair swam through Frank's mind as he pondered what he was about to do. After slamming his fist down on the roof's edge, he had made his way back down the fire escape and into his van where he found a nice little surprise: a note left under the windshield wiper written in a woman's handwriting. It simply said to meet her at a diner uptown.

Taking the right exit off the highway, Frank wondered if he was making a mistake in going. The woman had told him to leave and he was of the mind to do just that. The sun would be up in another two hours, which meant the bank would open up shortly thereafter. He had better things to do than meet up with crazed wannabe ninjas. He hated it when his path crossed with that of someone who preferred to hide behind masks.

The diner came up quickly so he pulled the van over and parked it two blocks from his destination, only after circling once to scope the area out. It looked clean enough, meaning there weren't any snipers or gunmen spread around the general area to take him down as soon as he stepped up to the entrance.

There were a few patrons inside, grabbing coffee-to-go on their way to work. Scattered construction workers, a pair of women in business suits blabbing into their cell phones, a police officer, and in a single booth sitting against the back wall was a lone female with bright, red hair. Frank pulled in a quick breath and tried to hold in his surprise. He hadn't worked with the woman very much but they had run into each other a few times over the years.

Natasha Romanova, the Black Widow.

"Good morning, Frank," she said as he slid into the booth across from her.

"Your accent and hair should have tipped me off," he replied, not bothering to hide the slight irritation in his voice. "I must be losing my touch."

She took a tiny sip from her steaming cup and smiled. "You would not be the first man to underestimate me. But down to business, I think. We need to talk."

"So I gathered."

Natasha, one of the world's deadliest assassins, smirked again. "What were you doing tailing Mikhail Chekova?"

"I could ask you the same."

"I asked first."

Frank shifted in his seat but never let his eyes leave Natasha. She was as fast as a viper and just as deadly. He had witnessed firsthand just how fast barely an hour ago. "Killing time, if you can believe it. I was actually there looking for Eddie Martoni. Word is that his family is having a few troubles, same with Chekova. Your turn."

"Chekova is under my protection, Frank," the Widow replied coolly. She took another sip of her hot beverage, clasping it delicately between her fingers with the same hand that had nearly broke the Punisher's jaw. "You would be wise to walk away from this."

"What the hell are you doing protecting a dirt bag like that?" Frank demanded. He was tired, irritated, and just plain pissed off. He wasn't ready to just lie down for anyone who batted their eyes at him. "You should be taking him down yourself. Instead you're slugging it out with me and playing grab-ass in the dark."

Her eyebrows raised at his statement. "This is bigger than you and your…tactics can handle. If you do not—"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The smile was completely gone from her face as she pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She kept her own gaze leveled at him, almost searching his eyes for something.

"Mikhail is providing me with trade secrets in exchange for protection," she said. "The meeting with Eddie Martoni tonight was to rally support for a coup. Eddie is making a power play for his father's operations and wanted Mikhail, the son of his father's enemy, to be on his side for the coming war. This is a job that requires finesse, not recklessness."

"Oh, this is horse shit," Frank exclaimed, drawing the attention of one of the construction workers nearby.

"As much as it may smell, Castle, the way you handle things is not welcome in my operation."

"The way you handle things is pointless," Frank retorted. He pointed a finger at Natasha, holding it steady while aiming directly at her nose. "If you protect killers like Chekova then I might as well—"

"Frank…"

Her eyes had finally turned away from him, a motion that was in and of itself was important enough to catch Frank's attention. He tilted back in the booth and followed her eyes to a television screen that was hanging over the front counter. A woman sitting behind a news desk was mumbling something he couldn't understand since the volume was turned off, but it was the images playing behind her that disturbed him.

It was footage of Frank busting through a door and fighting with a large man that was almost a foot taller than he was. His name was Bruiser and Frank had murdered him along with two of his companions. There was no mistaking where the footage had come from; he recognized the scenario. He had gone through those very acts not even twelve hours ago when he had been looking for information.

"Jesus," a man at the counter said while watching the same screen. "Hey, Mandy. Turn it up, will ya?"

Frank watched as the woman behind the counter reached to turn the volume up. It was like things had slowed down and his life was playing as if in a movie.

"What a crazy son of a…" The man paused. He carefully set his fork down onto his nearly empty plate and tossed a glance over his shoulder directly at Frank.

The Punisher swore silently for the umpteenth time, wishing that his features were more discreet. He ignored Natasha's request to stay seated, jumped up, and ran passed the cop who had recognized him.

It had been one of those nights.


TO BE CONTINUED NEXT MONTH IN PART TWO