"24 Hours"
by Alan Strauss
The door to my office swung open. It took exactly three strides to get from the hallway to my desk. I could tell by that that my guest was a woman. The sound of her shoes--three inch heels--on the carpeting gave it away.
She paused in front of me, her heartbeat slightly irregular. New. Didn't know whether I knew she was there or not, and unwilling to risk offense. So she stood and waited patiently.
I shifted in my chair, stopped staring at the ceiling, and faced her general direction. I put on a smile.
I said: "Yes?"
"I finalized those briefs from earlier, sir, as well as that thank-you letter to Dr. Philips. I thought you might want to go over it."
I nodded. "Alright." She had left the office door cracked; I could hear the TV on in my partner's office.
"Do you, ah, want me to read it?"
I smiled again. "Thank you. Please."
A news program was playing. Something in the broadcaster's voice caught my attention. Touch of anxiety, excitement. It was always there when they felt the story was worth reporting. I perked my ears, listening over the recitation of my paralegal.
"New Yorkers…on guard…this morning…ties to terrorist…Arabic…transportation…"
"I'm sorry," I said to Stacy, cutting her off. "Would you excuse me for a moment? That letter sounds perfect from I've heard. You're doing good work."
I couldn't register a response from her, moving too quickly. She mumbled something as I stood up and headed into the hall. I turned into Foggy's office.
"Hey, Matt," he said. "You heard yet? Some kind of bomb threat going on."
"Yeah?"
He turned up the volume and the broadcasters repeated the same details, as they would for the next few hours, until they had new ones to repeat. The gist of it was that a terrorist group had issued a bomb threat to the New York City public transportation system set to go off within the next twenty-four hours. The group was credible--I recognized the name, one of Saracen's outfits. The threat itself was vague, meant to cause maximum fear. Public transportation was vast---subway, trains, airports, bridges, buses, so forth. Impossible to monitor or shut them all down.
"Surprised the authorities let it slip," I said. "It's bound to cause a panic."
"No kidding," Foggy said.
"Fucking Arabs," someone said from the hallway, "need to deport the lot of 'em."
I raised an eyebrow and Foggy brushed past me, brusquely ordering the speaker to quit loitering and get back to work. He shut the door.
"Who was that?"
Foggy sighed. "New guy, maintenance. Want I should…" He made a gack" sound and drew a finger across his throat.
Always amazing to me how often people use physical gestures, even when speaking with the blind. It's literally second nature. Some are embarrassed afterwards, some don't even realize.
"No, no," I said. "Free speech applies to the foolish as well as the rest of us. Maybe more so."
"Sure, sure. I know. Only kidding. I'll pull him aside when we're finished and remind him about our policy on that kind of talk though."
I nodded. Already, I was growing distracted. Twenty-four hours. When was the threat released? How long did I really have?
"Go ahead and let everyone off early," I told Foggy. "Maybe they can beat the stampede."
"Right. Work's pretty much wrapped up today anyhow. What about you?"
"What about me?"
"You want I should give you a ride home? I'd rather you didn't take the subway. Just to be cautious, you know?"
"Thanks," I said appreciatively, "but I can't. I'll be working quite late tonight."
"Hum. Okay then." He understood what I meant.
"Try to be careful, huh, Matt?"
I smiled.
"Always."
ooo
Daredevil. The Man Without Fear. That's what I call myself, or at least that's what they call me in the papers. I have not gone to any great length to correct them.
It is pure myth of course. I fear plenty. Every day is a tightrope in and out of costume. There is the law and there is justice. They are not always the same thing and yet I serve both. It is a dilemma that haunts me.
Inevitably those few friends I have cultivated, those few who know the truth, always ask the obvious question: which do I prioritize? The lawyer or the vigilante? It is my belief that one cannot be a good lawyer without a passionate belief in the law, and all that it entails. Ultimately it is that much maligned combination of musty documents and legalese that make us more then animals, that give us rights otherwise unrecognized in nature.
Nature is Darwin. Always survival of the fittest, guaranteeing rights only to what you can hold onto or demand from others. Law is what makes us different.
And yet…
Nearly every night I stand here, on the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen, in a gaudy red costume. The vigilante, a lawbreaker, meeting out my own sentences with a billy club in hand.
The worst kind of Nazi, really. No excusing that for most.
But sometimes the law does not work. Sometimes the guilty go free. Sometimes justice is mocked to its face.
It is a dilemma. It is a tightrope.
Law. Justice.
I cannot choose.
ooo
Street crime has always been the focus of my vigilante hours. Right and wrong is obvious there. The rapist, the murderer, the armed robber, the gangster--these are evil men and when I see their crimes committed with my own eyes, there can be no doubt that stopping them is right.
Street crime is easy for me.
I feel the same way about terrorism. I do not subscribe to politics. There is no time for it in my lifestyle. Politics cast right and wrong through the prisms of ideology. There are inevitable distortions. I can bear no more confusion in my life.
So I am apolitical. Terrorism then, to me, is not politics. It is mass murder and I treat it as such. Which is my way of saying, in the role of Daredevil, I do my part to prevent it, to fight it, as I would any other crime.
When I heard the newscasts I knew Daredevil would have to help. Especially since I had leads. I had been monitoring the traffic of suspicious materials through one of Wilson Fisk's black market operations for the last week. Materials that could easily be used to manufacture explosives.
Unfortunately, this is not rare. I monitor a lot of similar traffic, rooting out buyers when I can--mostly criminals, sometimes civilians, rarely anything bigger--and destroying materials when I get my hands on them.
As it happened, I believed that I had discovered the buyer for this most recent shipment. His name was Ali al Zuhair. Second generation, no siblings, working in a butcher shop in Hell's Kitchen. My investigations also suggest possible terrorist ties. Nothing conclusive.
I would be paying him a visit tonight all the same.
ooo
His apartment was my first stop but it came up empty. No sign of life. He probably hadn't been there since this morning at least.
This was bad. Was he already gone? Had I waited too long?
It is difficult to know with these things. You have to discipline yourself, make certain the evidence is there before you act. A thoroughness every bit as professional as the actual police is required, likely more so. This I firmly believe.
Every time you break in on someone, every time you apprehend a suspect, there is the possibility of violence. Not just for you and the suspect but for friends, family, neighbors, civilians. No one can predict what will happen, only surmise.
People get hurt. People die. And frightening the guiltless helps no one.
I must be as certain as possible.
My next stop was the butcher shop. It would be closed at this late hour, so it was unlikely the suspect would still be there. I was surprised then to discover his car parked in the back lot. It was not alone. Another vehicle, a van judging by the sonic image, sat on the curb. The smell of exhaust fresh in the air.
The hairs prickled along the back of my neck. Something wrong, I felt. A sixth sense warning--sometimes the most important one in this work.
The backdoor was unlocked and I made my way cautiously inside. The scent of raw meat and blood was strong, a bit disorienting. Something wet on my boot. I caught the sound of heavy breathing over the building's fans.
I pursued it through the backrooms and to a refrigeration unit, the walk-in type, meant to store larger cuts. The door was ajar and I inched quietly forward. The cold jarred my senses for a second time.
Then this--the sonic imaging of two men. One was sitting in a chair, breathing hard through his nostrils, mouth obstructed by duct tape and his arms and legs secured together. I could smell sweat, fear. A second man standing nearby, largely built, his body tense but his heartbeat calm and steady as a clock.
I knew them both. The first was Ali al Zuhair--the man I was looking for, the man who might stop the bombs from going off. The second?
Frank Castle. The Punisher.
ooo
"Damn it," said Castle, his voice confirming what I already knew, "what are you doing here?"
This was not our first encounter. We had met before, many times in fact. He was a vigilante but of a different stripe then myself. Outwardly we were the same, both in peak physical condition, both dedicated to fighting street crime, both with a penchant for wearing costumes. (His black with a skull emblazoned on the shirt, so I am told).
The difference lay in methods. Castle was a killer. Criminals--big time, small time, convicted, released, suspected, or otherwise--were all the same to him. He killed each with the same ruthless abandon, holding no respect for right or law.
"The question," I replied, surveying the chaotic scene, "is what you're doing here?"
"Easy. Getting answers."
"What sort of answers?"
"I think you know," he said. "And you're here for the same ones I bet. This filth has ties to Saracen's people. Just found it out this morning."
I could imagine how. Castle's investigations were rarely subtle. They were also rarely wrong. He had a reach into the underworld even I could not match.
"My guess is he may know something about the bomb threat."
"I see. So what has he told you?"
"Nothing," he answered with grunt. "Not yet. Figures to be obstinate, which we don't have time for. Meaning I needed to find a way to be more persuasive."
His voice was cold, humorless save for a hint of mocking. This directed at me.
"And so you brought him here?"
"Yes. Clean, quiet," he replied, rapping the side of the heavy metal walls with his fist, "and well stocked with the right sort of implements. Seemed appropriate somehow."
Ali al Zuhair struggled with his bindings, rattling the sturdy wooden chair with his efforts. His nostrils flared with each labored breath. Suddenly, Castle backhanded him, knocking him on his back. He then kneeled down and peeled the tape away from the man's lips.
"Change your mind yet?"
"Help me!" Ali screamed wildly, "Allah, God, please! Help me!"
Castle slapped the tape back in place.
"Guess not," he said coolly, reaching for something from the table behind him. It had the general outline of a large knife, a cleaver perhaps. He laid the blade against the back of the man's right thumb.
"Castle! Wait!"
He tensed, pausing, blade still leveled.
"This is wrong," I told him firmly. "Not this way."
"Now's not the time for boy scout grandstanding. If that bomb's out there, people are going to die," he snarled through clenched teeth.. "Lots of them. Innocents. If you can't handle what needs done, get out and leave it to me!"
"I'm not leaving, Castle. And you're not doing this. It's against the law."
He laughed. It was harsh, brutal, not really a laugh at all. "Right. And you follow the law to the letter, do you? God damn hypocrites all of you long underwear types, and you're the worst of all."
I looked from Castle to Ali, seeing only their outlines. Hundreds maybe thousands of lives could hinge on what this man might say. Was I right to stop Castle?
What if he's innocent?
What if he's not?
No. That's not what matters, I reminded myself, not how you judge. There is law and there is justice. I knew what the law said--what about justice? What was right?
"And what's your plan? Ask him nicely? Deliver him over to the authorities? Where they can ship him overseas, get the information anyhow, except too late to save anyone."
"He has rights Castle," I said dumbly, my fists clenching, adrenaline hitting me. "There's a line."
"A line," he repeated. "You realize how ridiculous you sound?"
"Only thing that separates us from the animals…"
Castle paused like that, knife in the air, for a moment longer. Then something almost feral escaped his mouth. "Speak for yourself," he growled and brought his knife hand down.
There came a scream from underneath the tape.
But no blood.
The blade clattered noisily against the far wall. I gave the rope of my billy club a jerk and the top half returned deftly to my hand.
Flexing his bruised fingers, Castle rose up to his full height and faced me. "Fine," he said. "We do this the hard way then. I've beaten you before. I can do it again."
I nodded.
"You can try."
ooo
We were more evenly matched then I cared to admit. My heightened senses gave me an edge in speed and response, and I was more agile in general. In turn, Castle had brute strength, low cunning, and shear brutality on his side.
He usually didn't attempt to kill when we fought, but would not hesitate to break limbs or cripple. It was hard to guarantee even that much restraint given the circumstance.
Castle grabbed another knife from the table and threw it. As I dodged, he rushed forward, hoping to end things quickly. I side-stepped him with ease, the palm of my hand connecting with his nose in a crunch of cartilage.
He turned, wiped the flow of blood from his face with a glove, and we were at it again.
We traded a series of blows--weaving, blocking, sometimes connecting. Hits that would be staggering to others, merely excruciating to us.
Finally Castle overextended on a right jab and I grabbed his arm, pulling him into my knee. The blow should have knocked the breath from his lungs, but I had forgotten just how much Kevlar and padding he wore.
Barely winded, he gouged an elbow into my ribs, close to breaking them. The blow separated us and he followed it up with a shot under my chin.
My head thundered pain. I lost my footing, hit the floor hard.
We were both breathing hard by now. This happening in a matter of only one or two minutes, all it typically takes. Whatever the media pretends, these sorts of fights never last that long, physically impossible.
"You finished?" Castle panted.
"No," I said, planting the tip of boot just behind his knee with the force of a baseball bat. You could hear the bone give and Castle tumbled back into another table, sending cutlery and frozen meat spinning across the floor.
By the time he struggled back to his feet, I was already up. There was a narrow shiver clutched his hand--another knife--and I kicked it from his grasp. Another blow sent him back to the floor.
"Leave," I told him, sensing it was over now. I could have tried to subdue him, leave him for the authorities, but I didn't have the heart for it.
"You dumb bastard," he said between gritted teeth. "If that bomb goes off because of this, I won't forget…"
"I'm sure you won't." Castle's opinion meant less then nothing to me of course.
It was my own conscience that I was worried about.
ooo
I waited until I was certain Castle had limped out of the butcher shop. He wasn't one to give up easy, might just be catching his breath. But no, I heard his van pulling out of the lot. He understood a lost cause.
Nursing my own injuries--another fractured rib?--I walked over to Ali. I peeled the tape back.
"Thank you, thank you…!"
"Don't," I interrupted harshly. "Just tell me what you can about the bomb, before we run out of time."
He shook his head: "Nothing, nothing, you must believe me! I know nothing!"
The voice, the heartbeat--wrong, all wrong. I could recognize a lie. He knew something and wasn't about to give it up, at least not without me crossing that line. Castle had been right about that much.
Scowling, I pressed the tape back in place. His eyes went wide and he began to struggle again, no doubt fearing the man in the devil suit was the same as the death's head.
I left him like that, shutting the freezer door behind me. Stepping back outside, I could feel the change in the atmosphere telling me the night was almost over. Too little time left anyhow.
What have I done? I wondered. What cause have I served?
The right one?
Or the wrong?
ooo
Morning. The TV was on again in Foggy's office.
"…in a daring raid conducted late last night, the New York police department arrested five men believed to be connected with a bomb threat issued yesterday. Materials involved in the creation of explosives were confiscated from their apartments as well as detailed plans as to the bombs eventual whereabouts. All five men remain in custody.
A sixth man, by the name of Ali al Zuhair was apprehended this morning when his employer found him tied in the shop's freezer. This is believed to be the work of masked vigilantes, although credit has not yet been taken. Fingered as an accomplice of the terrorist cell, he is also being held in custody, pending further investigation.
Meanwhile a…"
I tuned out the rest and leaned back in my office chair, my mind running through the possibilities. Things had worked out well this time. But what about next time? Had I made the right choices?
The door to my office swung open and Stacy entered, another stack of briefs in her arms. I smiled good morning.
Law. Justice.
My dilemma.