Chapter Eight

Frank stayed completely motionless atop his perch. Patience was all part of the training, and the longest he'd gone without moving an inch was three days. At night when they got especially bored waiting for their target, he and Billy would often argue in a whisper about the most mundane things. Boxers or briefs. Which way to rack toilet paper. Playing fuck marry kill using the rest of the guys in their unit as the only options. How badly they wanted to get laid.

He remembered it fondly. Snipers always came in pairs, after all, and the company kept him from going insane. Now, being on his own, Frank missed the fun they managed to have in the desolate areas they were placed. Camaraderie. Brotherhood. Deep and abiding love. The safety of knowing someone always had his back, no questions asked, no conditions.

Now he only felt that with Curt, and even Curt was slowly pushing Frank away ever since he settled down with his girlfriend. Apparently helping Frank out a year ago nearly ended the relationship before it began, but Curt was determined to get this girl.

Although…there was one other.

Karen.

Frank clenched his jaw, trying to focus on quadruple-checking the range on his rifle. If there was ever a way to describe how he felt about her, it would still fall utterly short. Words would always fall utterly short. Then again, they never needed words to understand one another. That's what terrified him.

And now that Micro pointed out that he would save Karen on command, he was even more scared of what could happen to her. Frank grew up in the last years of the analog era. The internet was a foreign beast to him. But he did understand that there were creeps on the internet, and it made his trigger finger itch.

Considering he had underestimated what a person behind a keyboard was capable of accomplishing last time with Lewis, Frank all the more wanted to find a way to keep Karen safe. But the more he thought about intervening, the more helpless he felt. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. Involving himself in her world permanently would paint a target on her back, if there weren't already one. And removing himself from her life entirely would mean it was open season for pervs who wanted to provoke him by kidnapping her, or worse.

But then the hairs on the back of his neck rose and a sharp awareness of his surroundings shocked him into a heightened state. In the same moment, men burst into the building from the back door, two by two, clearing the place with precision. Within a few seconds, the breachers began to choke and gasp, grasping their throats and frantically searching for the exit.

Frank pulled a wire and the back door slammed shut. Two men in the rear started choking and grabbed the handle, but it fell off. The total of ten men began banging on the back door, some of them firing sporadically, as if hoping to shoot the unseen sniper in the rafters. Slowly, they gagged, collapsed, and convulsed.

Within 30 seconds, all lay still.

Frank remained for another 15 minutes before descending. He began looting their bodies for weapons, ammunition, and gear for any form of identification. As he suspected, none of them had IDs on them. Unmasking one by one, he didn't recognize them either. Inspecting them further, he noted that a few had personalized Kabar knives, deducing they were likely Marines once.

Suddenly, the backdoor was kicked open wide enough for a live grenade to tumble to his feet. Reflexively, Frank grabbed it.

He wouldn't make it outside in time to throw it out. The only other option was to fling it as far away from him as the inside of the shop would allow. Problem was, everything in here was flammable. Dirty oil parts, tanks of oil changes that needed to be transported out, the Chevy truck that was still running.

Frank ran to the Chevy and flung the grenade inside the car and slammed the door shut. It was made of steel and would take the brunt of the explosion and shrapnel. Trying to get out once the truck and everything else was set on fire was step two. Sprinting across the room, he crashed through the windowed office of his boss and covered his vitals behind the wall.

The explosions were deafening. First the grenade blew, then the car blew its top off and the engine block straight through the corrugated steel sliding door to the garage. Other car parts and oil instantly caught fire, and the flames quickly raced across the floor to the office. Frank crawled behind the thick oak desk and glanced out through the shattered window. A barrage of shots were fired in response.

Five more men closed in on him, covering a few more men with suppressive fire as they all formed into position. From the back panel of the desk, there was enough room for Frank to see their approach. Reaching for his handgun, he poked the barrel through the gap between the back panel and the floor and began shooting at their feet.

Three screamed out in pain and stumbled back. The rest retreated to the hallway, unable to shoot through the solid oak desk fast enough. Frank took one last deep breath and ripped off his mask and oxygen tank. He threw them into the hallway and lifted himself up, firing straight into the tank. The hallway erupted into an explosion, and the remaining men were killed by the blast radius and percussion wave.

Winded, Frank drew in a ragged breath and began choking. The garage was now becoming a firestorm, and all of the air inside was fueling the fire. He would suffocate if he didn't move fast. Using every ounce of remaining adrenaline, he charged out of the garage through the front where the engine block had torn a large hole and ran for the cover across the street, half expecting to hear more shots fired behind him in pursuit. But nothing followed him. The fire was so blinding and growing so quickly that it would be dangerous to try and follow one man when anyone who survived would want to regroup first.

He ducked into an alley and crouched for a moment, leaning a hand on the wall as he coughed some more and caught his breath. Somehow, Frank just knew this wasn't all of them. This would no doubt cause a stir for whoever was hiring people to kill him. More would definitely come, especially now that they knew where he worked, and likely his alias, Pete Castiglione.

The smart thing to do would be to disappear. Burn all bridges, go underground, and smoke his enemies out. But just as before, worry crept into his mind for the people he cared about. Shit didn't exactly go according to plan the last few times, so this time he had to do things right. There had to be a way to warn them without physically implicating himself. He was being tracked, after all, and there was no way in hell Frank would let them trace anything back to the only family he had left. But he still needed to warn them of what was coming, because chances were it was coming for all of them.

Whatever the fuck this was.


A distinct vibration noise startled David into a wakened state. Groping for the nightstand, he picked up his phone and brought it to his face. The bright light blinded him. Grunting, he rubbed the sleep off his eyes and focused on the number. He didn't recognize it.

"Ugh," he rolled out of bed.

Sarah mumbled something incoherent in her sleep but then roused when she felt the bed shift. "Honey?"

"It's nothing, just Frank calling," he waved at her to go back to bed.

She groaned. "Why are you taking his calls? Do you want to bring his shit to our doorstep again?"

David chuckled. "Actually, I brought my shit to his doorstep first, so I guess it's only fair."

She resigned herself to the bed and flung the covers over her head.

He turned back to his phone and answered, "Yeah, what is it?"

"David Lieberman?" a woman's voice answered.

He blinked. "Who is this?"

"My name is Karen Page. I was-"

David's eyes shot open. "Karen. Karen Page? Shit, what happened to Frank? I told him to be careful."

"What?" her voice sounded bewildered. "I haven't heard from Frank in over a year. That's not why I'm…wait. Frank called you?"

David mouthed a curse and smacked his forehead. "Nope, I haven't heard from him either. You know, other than the one time he called asking for information."

To his surprise, she didn't ask what that was. Her lengthy pause did indicate she struggled not to, however.

"I didn't call to talk about Frank," she stated firmly. "He may have been what connected me to find you in the beginning, but it ends there. I'm calling about another matter entirely."

"Alright," he found his way to a chair in the living room. "But let me make this clear. I am a happily married man who is actively returning his life back to normal. You have only one favor to ask, and only because I owe Frank, not you." He reconsidered. "Well, that and I'm pretty sure Frank would actually kill me if I didn't help you."

Another long pause. She started to speak several times, but didn't make it past the first word. Then, finally, she managed to say something.

"There's a man I would like you to track."

"I'm shocked."

"Look, I can send you my information on him. I have his picture and the last place he was employed. It was Anvil, and I have a sneaking suspicion that his disappearance was Billy Russo's doing."

David straightened in his chair, feeling an all too familiar sensation of dread. "Karen...this sounds an awful lot like you're getting into something dangerous. If it has anything to do with Billy Russo, I would steer clear. The man is a year dead, but that doesn't change the fact that his network is still alive and thriving in other areas of the world. The power vacuum of his incapacitation in a psych ward only lasted 6 months before someone big made the operation close ranks and organize once more. Suffice it to say, the torch has already been passed to the next leader."

"I don't care about any of that. All I want to know is what happened to Edward Drogan!" she insisted.

"You'd be a fool not to realize that this is all connected. Tug on one string and several more are revealed. And if you keep following the bread crumbs, you'll get killed. Karen, please don't-" he cut himself off. "Wait. What was the man's name?"

"Edward Drogan," Karen replied in a rushed tone. "I just need to know if you can track his whereabouts the night of August 15, 2015. That was the last night anyone saw him." She hesitated. "There is one other thing…I found out that he worked in the same unit as-"

"Frank Castle," David answered, looking down at his phone. Another person was calling him, and this one was clearly a burner number. David's heart began to pound.

"...Yes, how did you-"

"Karen, I gotta put you on hold," he then answered the other line, half in a state of panic. "Hello?"

"David, it's me," a gravelly tone answered.

"Frank," he inhaled sharply, relieved Frank's voice sounded normal. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Someone is after me, though, and you were right. They tracked me down. Blew up the auto shop I work in. I took care of it, but there will be more. I'm calling because I wanted to give you a fair warning in case they suspect you're helping me. And to make sure you don't help again, this is goodbye. I…" he hesitated, "Well…stay safe."

"Wait!" David shouted - a reflex. He closed his eyes.

Too late.

It was his for the taking: the bland suburban husband lifestyle, a doting wife, two kids, a white picket fence house, and an upper middle class existence. All he needed to do was recede back into a life of normalcy. The life he desperately and decisively worked to gain back for the better part of a year, now turned to dust. He tried to ignore how a small piece of him was invigorated by that.

"What?"

David sighed.

To hell with it.

"I'm on the other line with Karen."

"...WHAT."