Time for more research.
Frank decided he needed to make sure before he killed Bolton. Igor could have been lying.
But Frank had a feeling he wasn't. So, he hit the streets with a vengeance. First stop was an old friend of his, a computer guy who had always played it straight with him. He had answers, and they all seemed to back up the Cossack's story.
Bolton was a man of mystery. A hero cop, sure; but he also led a secret life. Secret deals with a white slave ring out of Europe. The Feds suspected him, but they had absolutely no proof. Even when his second-in-command got popped, the mook refused to give Bolton up. In fact, everyone was terrified of Bolton.
Stories were plentiful. One had him nailing the feet of of thug to the floor and then beating him with a aluminum bat until he was exhausted. Another had him taking a circular saw to a rival, taking his arms and legs off, and keeping the guy alive and concious as he did it.
Bolton was scary.
Frank was scarier.
Frank didn't care that he was a cop; he didn't care if he was a medal of valor medal recipient. All Frank cared about was one thing. Punishment.
Frank stopped by his pad. He made a phone call. He replaced the M-60 and picked up some more grenades; no teargas this time. He grabbed extra ammo, and weighed the pros and cons of the flamethrower. The pros won. Fire was the final cleanser.
It was around 3 A.M. when he got to the Meadowlands. The warehouse was lit and open for business. A quick look with the binoculars showed three guards at the entrance, two at the rear. God knows how many around the perimeter.
Frank saw a truck pull up. He focused in on it. It stopped at the gate, and one of the guards talked to the driver, as the others opened the cargo. He saw a woman forced out. The guards were laughing, groping her, making crude gestures. The rage made everything red. The other guard saw this, yelled and they threw the woman back in the cargo hold. The truck was allowed to pass into the warehouse.
Tricky. Frank had to be careful. There were innocents inside. He chewed it over. The distraction would have to be huge. He picked up the grenade launcher and smiled.
Arcing lobs of death, over the warehouse, into the gate's perimeter. The explosions lit up the Jersey sky. As expected, they ran out of the warehouse, and into the M-60' s line of fire.
Blood was thick in the air. Frank ran into the warehouse, a strange sense of deja-vu consuming him. The same crap, just a different place. Rows of cages lined the warehouse walls. Frank was reminded of a kennel, except there were women in these cages, not animals. The crying and shrieking was driving him insane.
He screamed Bolton's name. He killed several soldiers without thinking, the gun simply an extension of his soul and anger. The shrieking grew in his mind; it sounded like his wife and children. Cordite haze and blood stench attacked his senses. He shook it off and walked to the cages.
The women were scared. They recoiled from him and his gun. He cooed. "It's okay. I'm here to rescue you."
A quick kick with the boot and the first few were free. They moved like cautious animals; who knew how long they had been in captivity?
He heard the shot before he felt the pain. He heard the shrieking of the women as he fell, his gun clattering out of his reach. A clean shot in the shoulder, exactly where he had no armor. He rolled over and reached for his sidearm. He got it out of his holster, and another shot to shoulder killed his arm. The 9 milli went flying. The pain was there, and so was the rage. The rage of being so goddam careless.
Bolton walked over and smiled. "I heard you calling me. Here I am. What are you doing here?"
"Igor's dead. But he told me an interesting story before he died."
"Ah." Bolton smiled and stepped on Frank's shoulder. "I figured as much. Oh well. Can't blame a guy for trying."
Frank was dizzy with the pain. "Why..." came out as a rasp.
"Why what? Why I started dealing in slaves? Or why I enjoy it? No answer, really, except it pays well and I get to make my own hours. The American dream, finding a job that pays well and flexible." Bolton giggled. "And the benefits..well, all the poon I could want for free."
The rage was back. Frank looked up at Bolton and smiled. "I called the Feds before I left. Told them to come to a certain warehouse in the Meadowlands, find a certain cop knee-deep in a slavery ring."
Bolton shrugged. "So what. 'Hey, guys. Yeah, I got a tip. I showed up, and saw a shoot-out between some slavers and the freakin' Punisher. I rushed in and tried to help. I couldn't believe they took him down.' You see how easy that is? I lie, you die, and I probably get promoted. I wait a few months, then restart the business. No one will question me, and after word gets out in the underworld that I took you out, no one will cross me, either."
Frank grinned. Bolton wasn't watching the ladies he liberated. He didn't see them pick up the 9...
The gunshots were loud in the warehouse. Bolton hit the ground and gurgled, the top of his head gone. Point blank range wadcutters make one hell of a hole. The woman was crying and screaming. She dropped the gun and turned to Frank and said one word. "Help."
The women were holding him up. They all watched as the warehoused burned. The flames swirled up with the smoke in the night sky. The women were soft and hard, and they would have a long road ahead. Frank Castle led them into the night, sirens in the distance.