The pavement in front of him was painted in blood.

Frank Castle rolled over and felt the heat from the burning car not more than fifty feet away. He spat out blood. The bodies that littered the alleyway were members of Bobby "The Salami" Salerno's crew. "The Salami." What is it with these goombahs and their nicknames?

Frank could hear the sirens in the distance: New York's finest. He knew he should have waited until he was farther away before targeting the Caddy, but it was such a great shot. Three of Salerno's boys were in the front seat, three in the back. The rocket launcher in his arms was screaming to be used.

Frank got up slowly. The pain was great, but he had felt worse. He looked at the RPG on the ground and decided to leave it. It would be hard enough getting out of the area without that extra weight. He staggered down the alley, leaving a stream of blood in his wake..

This was just a typical Saturday night.

The morning was harsh. Frank woke up sweating and in pain. The makeshift bandage he had applied before he passed out had failed, and he was soaked in blood. He examined his wound. A piece of shrapnel had lodged in his forearm, and he knew it was bad. The antibiotics he liberated from a mob doctor would help, but it was going to be touch and go.

He sat up, and fought through the haze. The bathroom was only a few feet away. He could make it. He steeled himself. He thought of his family, dead and gone, blood-covered and shrieking and he stood up and strolled into the bathroom.

A shower and a shave. He felt better. He cleaned his arm and bandaged it again, this time taking care. He was still a little woozy, but he knew that was from the blood-loss. He had felt better, but he had felt worse.

Morning paper at his front door told the tale. Mob hit in Chinatown. Frank read the story as he waited for his bagel to toast, sipping his coffee, black, of course.

The knock on his door surprised him. He had no friends, and the front desk had more than enough sense not to bother him.

Couldn't be mob; they would have just busted in and started shooting. Frank grabbed his .357 and walked carefully to the door. The peephole was dirty and grimy; all he could make out was a shape.

He swung the door open, keeping the gun by his side, out of sight. A average looking man stood at the door. Frank knew he was a cop. He didn't dress like a cop; he was wearing jeans and a pull-over wool sweater. But his eyes were like beacons. The cop knew it. He pulled his badge out of his pocket.

"Yeah, I am police. Detective Jim Bolton, 4th street. And you can put the gun away. I know you won't shoot me, and it is just plain rude to leave me out here in the hall."

Frank poked his head into the hallway and looked up and down.

The cop laughed. "Oh, yeah. There's a swat team downstairs. Come on, if this was a sting, don't you think you would be knee-deep in a tactical unit by now?"

Frank grabbed the cop by his wool sweater and pulled him in. He pointed at the ratty chair near the bed. "Have a seat."

Bolton sat and crossed his legs. He nodded at the paper on the table. "Nice work, by the way. We have been trying to nail Salerno for a couple of years now. You just saved us a lot of headache."

Frank sat down and sipped his coffee. "Someone else will take his place."

"And I'm sure you will take care of him. Look, to be honest, a lot of the cops like you. You make our jobs easier. You get to do things we wish we could."

"What about you?"

Bolton looked uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat. "Honestly? Up until last week I thought you were the worst society had to offer. Everyone knows what happened to your family, and why you do what you do. It's tragic, and I feel for you, but I always thought you basically became what you hunt. A murderer."

Frank sipped his coffee. "You're not telling anything I haven't heard a thousand times before."

Bolton stared him straight in the eyes; a real steel gaze. Frank was mildly impressed. "I want you to kill the son of a bitch who raped and murdered my daughter."