Mark collapsed into a couch. Five days ago, the Enforcers had taken them to an apartment that they said was "paid for," and had enough food in the kitchen to last for a few weeks. Robert had told him that he was spotted at the courthouse by a man in a dark suit after he was trying to contest Mark's imprisonment who apparently was too unremarkable for him to remember. The man had introduced him to a mysterious benefactor who had agreed to help Robert break Mark out of prison in exchange for also freeing the Enforcers.

Robert hadn't known who the benefactor was, but he had known about Robert's anti-gravity experiments which had been the source of his equipment. It was only after receiving an email that morning about a "job" they would have to do in the future in exchange for their freedom and a large payment that they were able to figure out who was the man behind the breakout. The email was signed "Big Man", which Mark had recognized as a moniker frequently used by the Green Goblin when he was being blackmailed by him. Robert reminded Mark that the Goblin had died in a battle with Spider-man, and they figured that "Big Man" was referring to a successor of some sort. After doing some research into the "Big Man", however, Robert found an article from the Daily Bugle about a philanthropist named Lonnie Thompson Lincoln being placed under house arrest for accusations of being the crime lord Tombstone, who called himself the Big Man of Crime.

"Tombstone," he finally said, as Robert went into the kitchen to get a drink. "We're indebted to a guy named Tombstone. That certainly gives me confidence."

"Oh, relax," Robert said reassuringly. "Worrying about it isn't gonna do us any good."

"How can you be so calm?" Mark asked, throwing his hands in the air. "We have a guy who calls himself the "Big Man of Crime" who wants to give us a "job." I mean, it's not like we're going to be helping a guy move, you know."

"You think I don't know that?" Robert replied. He entered the living room with two cups of iced tea. "I just don't know what you think we should do about it. We're a couple of felons with no money and no chance of employment." He handed a glass to Mark and sat down in an armchair across from him. "Besides, if we don't help Tombstone, he'd come after us. But once we finish this job, we'll have our freedom and enough money to leave the city and start over somewhere else, far away from the cops and Tombstone and Spider-man."

"Making a lot of assumptions, aren't we?" Mark responded doubtfully. Robert shrugged and sipped his iced tea. "I mean," he added, annoyed that his friend was being so blasé, "this job could get us arrested all over again, and that's the best case result. We could both end up really hurt. Or dead!"

"No, the best case result is what I said," Robert answered. "And, unless you have a better idea, all we can do is wait for these instructions and take it from there." He picked up a remote control. "So, you wanna watch a movie?"

I have felt fear in my time as Spider-man. Who wouldn't? I've been nearly drowned, electrocuted, exploded, stabbed, crushed, suffocated, killed by gravity, and shot more times than anybody ever ought to be. Even worse, I've watched people I love be put in those situations. I even get worried when Flash gets into trouble, believe it or not. I certainly don't. But nothing, NOTHING, ever will scare me more than seeing Mary Jane at school the Monday after I stood her up on a Friday.

But that came later, and I'm getting a bit ahead of myself in my reminiscing. First, I had the weekend to deal with, and my first business on Saturday morning was to hit the Bugle and pick up my hard earned paycheck. Second order of business was to blow it on some nachos or whatever! The Daily Bugle never closed for weekends (in fact, the only times it closed were on federal holidays), and, like always, it was packed with people. Reporters, photographers, and editors were running back and forth, typing furiously at their desks, or just plain freaking out. There was just one major difference.

"Hey, Betty," I said as I sauntered over to the desk of one Betty Brant, secretary to Mr. J Jonah Jameson Jr. and, more importantly, the handler of my paychecks. "Where's the Jolly Graying Publisher?"

Betty giggled and jerked her head over her shoulder, indicating Jameson's office. "In a private meeting," she said, opening a desk drawer. She rifled around in it before fishing out my check and handing it to me. "Some private investigator named Gargan, said it was about Spider-man."

"Really?" I asked in surprise, leaning on her desk. "He tried to ask me questions, too. A few weeks ago. He wants to find out who the webhead is."

"Did you help him out?" she asked curiously.

"And risk losing my meal ticket?" I scoffed. "No way. As long as Spidey's still a good guy, I'm gonna milk him for all he's worth!"

Betty smiled at that, knowing that I was joking. Soon afterward, I walked back to the elevator frowning. Gargan was still looking for Spider-man, and he was asking around. It only made sense that he'd ask Jameson. He'd probably ask Robbie or Betty or Foswell, too. The Bugle was the best source for all things Spidey. Everyone knew that. But would they help him or would they brush him off like I did? Actually, does it even matter? They don't know that I'm Spider-man. If anything, they'll just tell him a few stories about how I saved their life – or nearly killed them, in JJ's case – and that's it. Gargan would want details about how I fight or how I talk, though. That could be a problem. Jameson might overstate my violent nature or my so-called incompetence, but Robbie and Foswell wouldn't miss a single detail. I still don't know how that'd help him learn who I am, but I just didn't want him to make any progress. He just made me nervous.

Five minutes later, I was swinging through the air, pushing all my thoughts about Gargan out of my head. I wanted to get over to Luigi's and see if I could learn anything about Sable or Black Cloak or Dagger Lady or Skully. Man, I miss when the bad guys told me their names.

Frank wasn't sure how, but somehow he had ended up miles away from the restaurant. He briefly saw the man in the dark cloak vanish before he heard a loud honk behind him. Without hesitation, he rolled out of the car's way and hurried to the sidewalk.

"Frank! Where are you?" a desperate voice said in his earpiece. Unusually, he was muffled by a lot of static. Frank tapped his earpiece a few times.

"Withdraw, Microchip," Frank responded. "It seems I've been ejected from Luigi's."

"The hell?" Microchip asked, the static gradually clearing up. "Your GPS says that you're at-"

"Withdraw," Frank repeated. "We've already achieved our objective, haven't we?"

Microchip hesitated for a second, but then said, "Affirmative. Sending Battle Van to pick you up." A few hours later, Frank had returned to base, a minimalist basement hidden underneath an apartment complex that Microchip owned. The Battle Van had entered through an unused subway tunnel that Microchip had discovered in the early days of Frank's crusade, and the base had facilities for training, weapon maintenance, and Microchip's gadgets. Microchip was bandaging Frank's wounds, saying, "I tell you, Frank, this city's getting weirder and weirder. Spider-man's one thing, but who are those other two nutcases?"

"Enemies," Frank answered, standing up. He walked over to a laptop sitting on Microchip's workbench and started inputting commands. "And one of them looked familiar." He finished his web-search and showed Microchip the top result. It was an article from one of the celebrity tabloids his wife liked to read about a famous supermodel hosting a party. The accompanying photograph featured the smiling model posing with her wealthy husband and their teenaged daughter. "Look familiar?" he asked Microchip.

"I don't believe it," Microchip gasped. He was older than Frank by at least twenty years, his gray hair balding. He was overweight and out of shape, and he needed to wear thin glasses over his brown eyes. "That girl can't be the one that took Sable, she's too young."

"The article's from five years ago," Frank explained. "And this Tandy Bowen caused quite a stir when she ran away from home soon afterward. Her parents tried to track her down, but she had been secretly putting her trust fund into a private account under a fake name for months before she ran off."

"Do any of those tabloids say where she likes to take mafia princesses for slumber parties?" Microchip asked sarcastically.

"Of course not," Frank answered irritably. Then he smiled, and opened a new program on the laptop. "But the tracker I placed on her might." He typed at the keyboard and then frowned. "No signal," he muttered bemusedly. "You said these were supposed to work anywhere in the city."

"They are," Microchip insisted as he gently pushed Frank aside and looked at the blank screen. "Maybe it was destroyed."

"That quickly?" Frank mused. "Doubtful. Hmm...somehow, Bowen's partner teleported me away from the restaurant. The teleportation somehow interfered with our comms on my end. Maybe the same thing's happened to the tracker."

"So what now?" Microchip asked.

Frank typed a new command into the tracker program, and a dot appeared on the screen. "Spider-man never noticed that micro-drone you deployed during the battle," he explained. "And it succeeded in placing a tracker on him, too. And if there's one thing I know about Spider-man, it's that he wants Sable just as much as we do."

Luigi's was in ruins. One of the walls had completely collapsed from where Skully's van had driven through it, and part of the roof had even caved in above it. Police cars were everywhere as cops were working to keep away curious onlookers and canvas witnesses. One woman who was examining the crime scene was not in uniform, and I approached her, assuming she was a detective.

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" I asked as I dropped down behind her. "Must be difficult to figure out what happened without a handy eyewitness, like myself."

"Don't patronize me, webhead," she said, bending her knees and examining a piece of rubble. "I already have twenty eyewitnesses that you helped put away, plus intact security footage and plenty of forensic evidence. So, we know what happened. The real questions are: who kidnapped Sable Manfredi, where they took her, and why." She stood up and turned around. She had black skin and was taller than me. Her black hair was tied back in a practical ponytail, and she wore a red jacket over a white shirt and black skirt. "I don't need your help on this case, either, so you can move along."

"No way," I said, walking past her and glancing at the overturned tables. "These crooks have powers, and they probably want to kill her!"

"Don't be too sure," the detective answered, crossing her arms and looking irritable. "If they only wanted Sable dead, they wouldn't have stepped in and stopped Castle in the first place. No, our abductors want her alive for some reason."

"Castle?" I asked, raising an eyebrow under my mask. "Who's that?"

The detective sighed and picked up a folder from the only table that wasn't knocked over. "I'm only showing you this because Captain Stacy told me to keep you informed about him. That vigilante you fought has been on our most wanted list for the past three years." She handed me the folder, which I opened. It was a complete dossier on Skully. "His name is Frank Castle," she continued as I read the file. "He was a decorated ex-Special Forces soldier who served three consecutive terms in Afghanistan. After his wife and son were murdered in a turf struggle between Silvermane and Tombstone, he went crazy and started killing the city's criminals left and right. I've been after him for years, but he's good at covering his tracks. And we think he has an accomplice."

"So that's his name," I muttered, handing the file back to the detective. "Okay, so we've got some time to find Sable, but she's still in danger. We need to find her soon."

"That's your problem," she scoffed, walking away from me. "I'm after Castle."

I shot a web and swung over her head, landing in front of her. "Yeah? Well, my money says he's still going after Sable. Help me find her, and we might find him waiting for us there." She stopped and seemed to consider what I said. "Very well," she sighed. "I'll work with you for now, Spider-man."

"Great!" I said enthusiastically, holding out my hand. "Glad to be working with you, Detective..."

"Lee." she answered, gripping my hand briefly and quickly dropping it. "And don't get any ideas. We're not friends." What a charmer. She took a notebook out from her jacket pocket and opened it. "Forensics is still looking through the security data and blood samples, and I'm waiting on results of a background check on the kidnappers. Other than that, we don't have much of anything to go on."

I glanced down as she was talking and saw a bit of pink under her foot. "Move over," I said, interrupting her train of thought and pushing her aside. She glared at me, as I picked up a small matchbook. It featured a picture of a rose and had the words "Mantlo and Hannigan's Bar" written on it. "You know anything about this?" I asked her.

"Mantlo and Hannigan's is a dive bar in the slums," Lee answered. "Or, it was, I guess I should say. It went out of business five years ago after Mantlo was killed by a burglar. Right now, it's an empty building."

"You've been there before?" I asked. She gave me an annoyed look and didn't answer. I shrugged and looked down at the matchbook. "You think it means anything?"

"Maybe," Lee shrugged. "But it could just as easily mean nothing. It might belong to one of the customers."

"An old dive bar like this?" I asked incredulously. "The people who eat here are too rich for that. It's gotta belong to the kidnappers. Or maybe Castle."

Lee tugged her chin thoughtfully. "It could just belong to one of Sable's men. Mantlo and Hannigan's was part of Silvermane's territory after all." She paused and closed her eyes thoughtfully. "But it's still a lead," she added after a minute of thought. "I gotta return to the precint, check on forensics. You check out the bar."

"Is this trust, Detective Lee?" I asked sarcastically.

"Of course not," she scoffed. "I'm sending you over with Carter and DeWolff. I can't be too sure you're not working with Castle or the kidnappers, and I'd like to have you under supervision as long as you're working on my case."

"No problem," I smirked. "Just as long as they can keep up."

"Wake up," a sharp female voice said. Sable stirred sluggishly and her vision slowly returned to her. She was tied tightly to a wooden chair and she saw the woman with the daggers standing in front of her. The room was dark, though, and she wasn't entirely sure where she was. Before she could figure anything out about her surroundings, the woman stepped closer to her and leaned in close to her face.

"Glad to see you're awake," she said coolly. "You and me are going to have a nice little chat. See, I have questions, and you're just the girl to answer them."

Sable couldn't help it. She laughed. "Do you think you are intimidating?" she asked the woman. "You sound about as intimidating as a schoolgirl. You know who I am, don't you? I am Sable Manfredi. The people on my Christmas card list are ten times more intimidating than you will ever be, honey."

This time, the woman stepped back and laughed. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said in a sarcastically sweet voice, "you're still confused from the fight. I'm not the bad cop here, just the angry one. Ty? Would you show our dear, sweet Sable a taste of what is in store for her if she doesn't cooperate?" A hand gripped her shoulder. She looked, and saw the man in the dark cloak, staring down at her. His face was stoic, and his cloak seemed to envelop them. Just as darkness took over her vision, she screamed. It was complete agony. She saw memories. Every battle she ever fought, every person she ever hurt was flashing before her eyes. Only this time, she felt every blow she ever inflicted on her enemies. She soon lost count of how many times she died.

And just like that, it was over. She was back in the dark room, and the woman in white was looking at her with a satisfied smile. "Now then, sweetie," she said in that irritatingly sweet voice of hers. "Why don't we start again? Tell me, now, where is Jonas Harrow?"

Author's Note: You know that outline I said I had? I basically had to throw it out and start over. It no longer works with what I've got going in terms of pacing and character. And, what with me being unemployed for the moment, I've got plenty of time to start reworking the plot. Hopefully for the better. That being said, there should only be one or two more chapters left in this arc, and then I'll have one or two fewer plot threads to worry about.

Incidentally, Mantlo and Hannigan's is a reference to Bill Mantlo and Edward Hannigan, the writer and artist forPeter Parker, the Spectacular Spider-man who created Cloak and Dagger, and Terri Lee is a character who debuted in the 1990's animated series, though she was a bit nicer in that incarnation.