MANHATTAN

0802 HOURS

After about five hours of his usual nightmare filled sleep, a shower and some breakfast, Castle was putting on his gear.

"I'm heading out, Widow." He said, putting a chin length raincoat over it all.

"We are wired into every database and are monitoring radio frequencies and cellular phone lines," the former KGB spy said. "And we have operatives set up at certain potential targets. If anything happens, we'll hear about it first."

"Sometimes, nothing beats a good street snitch."

"I agree. I intend to check on my own informants as well." Widow said.

"Besides, plenty on scum out there to keep me busy until these guys show up on radar. Might be a while."

"You never stop, do you?"

"No."

"Fanaticism consists in redoubling your effort when you have forgotten your aim. George Santayana." Widow said.

"He who doesn't punish evil commands it to be done. Leonard De Vinci." Castle answered. "Look, I've had this argument with your boyfriend in the red tights-"

"I'm not arguing your methods, mine are not that different. It's just…In many ways, you remind me of a white shark, killing on instinct. "

"I know what I am. I know what I'm doing. And why. In thirty years, I've never lost my focus. I never will."

"And you don't allow time for anything else."

"There is nothing else. I am what I do. I am my war."

Widow and Castle locked stares for a while.

"I got work to do." Castle said. "Call me on the radio if anything comes up."

"Of course. I'll be posted in Hell's Kitchen."

And The Punisher left.

BROOKLYN

1024 HOURS

Castle heard the call came in on the scanner on the way to rousting some snitches.

A murder in an apartment. The owners of a mom and pop pizzeria. An elderly Italian couple shot dead. For a fistful of dollars, nothing more. Typical robbery/homicide. It happened sometime during the night. In light of the Staten Island thing-which was getting serious media coverage but nothing on the Russian mercs-and in these post-9/11 times, Castle knew that not a whole lot of manpower would be put on this small case.

This was not the work of crime kingpins, but no crime was too small to escape Punishment. He thought of Maria and the kids. And this elderly couple that reminded Castle of a past life. His own family. His parents.

He thought of the mobsters' families.

Time to call in some favors. And investigate.

BROOKLYN

1643 HOURS

Castle was in a motel with a hooker. He was to pay her for her services. Information services.

Castle put two hundreds on the night table.

She went by the name Tiffany. Young, in her 20s, red-haired. Prettty, but showing signs of being used up already.

"So…you're the Punisher, huh?" She asked.

"Lucy told me you may have something for me."

Lucy was a street walker Castle once rescued from some drunken frat boys beating her up for thrills. Castle helped her get patched up and since then, she'd been feeding him info, every now and then. Lucy told Castle about Tiffany.

"Right." Tiffany said. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Your lungs."

"Right." Tiffany lit her cigarette.

"Okay." Tiffany started. "So these two guys pick me up around noon time today. They take me to a run down tenement building. They wanted a three way thing…They were drunk. Loud. When they finished, one of the guys hands me a necklace. He tells me he got it from some old bitch he killed in her sleep last night."

Castle's jaw tightened.

"Go on." He said.

"I didn't make nothing of it. Then I heard of the killings on the news later. I knew it had to be them."

"Could you describe them?"

"A couple big, white guys. In shape. They looked dangerous."

"Anything else?"

"I know where they might be."

"Excuse me?"

"They kept talking about meeting some guys somewhere. One guy asked the other if he still had the address. The guy said 'yeah, yeah' . They paid me. Triple my rate. Didn't even threaten me. Like they knew I wasn't gonna talk. But…those old people were nice…Of course, I didn't know if the cops would believe some junkie street whore…Anyway, one of them dropped this."

She handed Castle a small scrap of paper.

"That's where they said they were going. "She said. "It was like…I didn't matter…Like I wasn't even there."

"Thanks." Castle put two more hundreds and walked towards the door.

"Hey." Tiffany said.

Castle stopped.

"You gonna kill those motherfuckers, right?"

Castle looked her in the eye. "Yeah."

"Good." Tiffany said blowing out a cloud of smoke.

HELL'S KITCHEN

2347 HOURS

FLANAGHAN'S PUB

Natasha Romanov had no problem fitting with the Irish crowd in the bar. She was a dark blouse on top and a hip length leather jacket over hew Black Widow outfit. She looked like a babe in leather pants, sipping on drinks at the bar.

This bar was owned by one of the few crime bosses left in Hell's Kitchen. Thomas Flanaghan. Ruthless reputation. Dealt in drugs, extortion, prostitution. The usual. A good chance this outfit would be hit by Tatamovich and Rastovillich's forces.

She had a partner to watch the back door. She covered the front doors, in case Rastovillich's men were ruthless enough to cut down a few patrons, just to make a point. Flanaghan had several of his boys with him, in the back, but a lot of them having drinks with the patrons in the bar. Someposted as bouncers.

She was in Daredevil's home turf. The Man Without Fear. To Natasha, he was just Matt, possibly the most idealistic man she'd ever met. She was so used to the world of spies and killers, to meet a man so noble, so strong, who had firm values, who believed in the sanctity of all life…He was different. Despite adversity, despite losing everything at one point, and almost losing his mind, despite watching several of his women die one after the other, he always managed to go back to the man he truly was.

Then, there was Frank Castle.

In many ways, Matt's polar opposite. Bloodied by war before even becoming a vigilante. Cold. Emotionless. Ruthless. Castle was the kind of man she was used to. Children of the Cold War. Killers. Living in the shadows, gladly leaping into the abyss and becoming what they hunted.

But, there was something that both Matt and Castle shared: pain. Pain from their losses, pain from the guilt that had to come when you bore the crosses of man' evil like they did. In many ways, they were more alike than either cared to admit.

And Widow saw some of that in Castle's eyes, earlier, in HQ, when he almost let his armor down for a second or two. He almost allowed himself to be human for a short moment. Then he shut down and reverted back to killing machine mode. She wondered if-

Then she saw them walking in.

Two grim looking men in very long coats. Their features were East-European. Their eyes were cold. Romanov noticed Flanaghan's boys tensing up, their hands going under jackets. The bouncers started towards them.

It was going to happen.

ABANDONNED GARAGE

BROOKLYN

2347 hours

Castle had been sitting for several hours on this old garage. Sitting in the back of his non-descript van. Sometimes walking around the block, dressed as a vagrant, complete with fake beard and wig and some raggedy clothes.

Then. Contact.

He saw activity.

A bunch of guys laughing, carrying sports bags walking towards the abandoned

garage. He saw the bulges under their jackets. Guns.

Had to be them.

He checked his gear. A couple flash bangs. Twin Colt 45s and a SPAS Automatic shotgun. A couple of knives. A hideaway .44 Charters Arms Bulldog on his ankle.

He would pack light on this job. He stepped out of his van, crossed the street with his disguise and a pronounced limp, most of his hardware underneath a long, ugly, grey wool coat.

Time to go to work.

The Punisher palmed a flash bang and-

He heard a gunshot, it came from a rooftop. A sniper?

Someone came out of the garage, holding a silenced M-4 carbine with laser sights. Castle went down and sideways as the rounds sliced the air he occupied seconds before. He rose and aimed the SPAS and squeezed the trigger. The big weapon roared and spat fire and metal as 00-buckshot shattered the punk's kneecaps. The man screamed and Castle blew his head off with a rifled slug. The head exploded like a ripe tomato. More men came out, armed with serious military firepower.

The Punisher tossed them a flash-bang grenade. They yelled warnings in a language that Castle recognized instantly.

Russian.

Castle stayed down and covered his ears as the stun bomb went off. He went back to his feet and started blasting away at his opposition. One of them had his chest exploded by a shredder round. A couple of the others went back inside for cover, as the last two spread out and fired, catching Castle in a crossfire. His chest armor but held. Castle almost lost his footing as the wind was knocked out him.

He began to retreat towards his van across the street. He would be able to get-

A truck, a big cube blocked his way, and more men came out. They were wearing fatigues and goggles. A good half dozen of them. Castle squeezed and held the trigger at the new arrivals. One of them went down.

The Punisher was trapped between the guys in the garage and those in the truck.

Never losing his calm, he pulled out his twin .45s.

A trap. This was all a set-up from Rastovilich and Tatamovich to nail him. An elaborate set up.

And it looked like it might work.