Over a year and a half. Frank couldn't believe how long it'd been since that day. He'd blown enough bastards to hell to know he was getting somewhere. The media had picked up on the Punisher long ago. Kore was now part of a major unit whose mission was to apprehend the Punisher.
Thankfully, not many people were talking. The few who were, weren't much help. By the time police found one safe house, Frank was already gone. And right now, he was at the last place they'd expect him. He looked down at the tombstone, trying to ignore the anguish he felt.
Mario Lorenzo Castiglione
Louisa Castiglione
Frank Castiglione
May God watch over them
Right. Now he'll do that.
He felt something, then. His spine tingled, and he reached into the coat he was wearing. The middle of winter. Maybe it was just the cold.
"Don't try anything, comrade."
Frank turned around. Russians. Police can't find me, so now they send fucking Russians.
"Zimno, co nie?"
"Da," Frank said quietly. "Death usually is."
"We're not alone, Castle. Try anything, and we'll send you to your family early."
Frank sighed and turned around. There were four of them, all wearing trench coats, two armed with rifles. "Not real inconspicuous, boys. How's the dear general? Oh, right. I fucked up his missile shipment, right?"
The men shifted, and Frank eyed their weapons. "I'm surprised Zakharov didn't come himself."
"You think he'd come see you?" One of the men asked, then spit on the ground.
"I was hoping he would," Frank said, pulling out a lighter. The men again shifted, two pulling their guns out. "Relax, you pansies," Frank said, lighting a cigarette. "I'm not gonna kill you here. I'll come quietly."
The Russians escorted him and he looked at the sedans they drove in. "Get in," one said.
"I ain't getting in that shit car."
"Get in now," the one behind him said, shoving him forward.
"Okay, just let me put this out," Frank said, throwing the cigarette behind the car. "I'd take a step back if I were you."
The men looked at Frank a split second before the car exploded, shocking them all. Frank grabbed the nearest man and kneed him in the groin, pulling his left pistol out and shooting the lead thug-a big guy with a hat-right in the head. Frank considered himself lucky. He'd figured someone would think he'd come visit his family, but he hadn't expected the Russians. The guy he'd kicked in the balls got up and grabbed him by the neck. Frank gasped for breath, his hand in his pocket, trying to find his switchblade. Another one got up and tried to kick Frank. Frank pushed back and finally got the blade out. He threw his hand forward, ramming the sharp object into the man's crotch. The guy just doubled over, while his partner loosened his hold just enough for Frank to get out of it. He turned around and his foot shot out, connecting with the man's knee. The instant it struck, Frank twisted around his foot coming up, striking the man in the chin.
"Merry fuckin' Christmas," Frank said, finishing with a spin kick that sent the man into the nearest trash can. "Martial arts since I was six, asshole. And I practiced whenever I could."
Frank quickly walked out of the cemetery, noticing that people were looking. He pulling the coat around himself, hiding his face as best as he could. He crossed the street and got into his Chevelle, which after a year and a half, was still running smoothly, even if she had bullet holes, scratches, and dents in herself. The original red was all gone now. Frank had the car done over. Now it was gray, a truly beat up junker no one would look at. He started the car and drove away, not noticing the van following him.
"All units, we've receiving reports of a possible mugging in Central Park, near the cemetery."
Mugging. People are idiots.
Frank ducked as gunfire suddenly started, the car taking hits on its right. Frank looked out, seeing the gunman aiming an assault rifle at him. Frank twisted the wheel hard, slamming his car into the van. The vehicle drove onto the sidewalk, and Frank hit his brakes, lining up behind it. The doors on the van burst open, and Frank ducked as gunmen opened fire. The Chevelle's front end became mangled and unrecognizable after a few seconds, and Frank was glad the engine hadn't blown itself. He pulled out a Savage/Stevens 311A he'd gotten off a dealer a month ago and fired. The first round blew a chunk of the back door off. He ducked again as bullets flew. He drove off to the side and slowly sped up, waiting, the second round still in the gun. The instant the mangled backdoor swung, Frank fired. He watched as a body fell out of the truck, the right side bloody-and missing an arm. He dropped the shotgun and reached into the glove compartment, pulling out his standard issue Beretta. He fired wildly, scoring hits on the door multiple times. The van began weaving wildly and Frank revved the engine, then floored it. He got ahead of the truck and hit his breaks, turning the wheel to the right. Frank grunted as he smashed headfirst into the steering wheel as the van slammed into the car and drove over the rear of the car. It tipped and fell on its side. Frank pulled the shotgun and calmly emptied the shells, watching the wreckage. He stepped out of the car, smacking the weapon closed. One guy slowly crawled out of the van, face bloody, his legs dragging, bloodied and torn. Frank took aim, but instead of shooting the man, he slowly moved his arm to the right, setting his sights on the fuselage. The man reached into his pocket. Frank fired.
He didn't even flinch as the truck blew up. He just tossed the empty gun into the passenger seat and drove away.
Authors' note: Yes, I know. Been a long while. I apologize. My main story continues to be my gundam fic, but I was running low on inspiration, so I tried my hand at this instead. I hope I didn't disappoint, and to those who have been waiting, thank you for not giving up. I don't know when I will update next, but this fic is not dead yet.