Chapter 29:
[Karai POV]
[Motel, New York City]
I drive to a motel in Brooklyn to meet an acquaintance. Telltales sign this the type of place that doesn't ask questions and keep to their own business. Type of place a person goes to if they want to stay anonymous. A man named Jerome Murphy contacted me last night. Said he's an investigative reporter. Said he uncovered a conspiracy. Something big. Something that will shake all of NYC to its core. Halfway to the room door, the smell hits me. A very familiar and instinctive smell. Blood. Drawing my weapon, I kick open the door and storm in. The place was ransacked. Like a tornado ran through it. Pistol at the aim, I search through the motel until I reach the back room. Tied to a chair sits the dead body of Jerome Murphy. Scan shows he has been dead for two hours, but evidence suggests he has been worked over for far longer.
In a flash, two police cruisers speed toward the motel and crunch to a full stop, lights and sirens blaring. The side doors burst open with cops climbing out, weapons ready. Heavy stuff. ARs. The point man advances to the motel room. He has a good view of me from the door. I stay in position, hands above my head, fingers spread. "Don't move a damn muscle, or I'll put a bullet in you," one of the police officers yells. Without protest, I allowed the NYPD to take me in.
[13th Police Precinct, New York City]
[Interrogation room.] The police officers who arrested me cuff me to the metal table, a little rough for my liking. The fat one spent a good minute reading me my rights using a card. "Do you understand these rights?" he finishes. I don't respond. "Do you understand your rights?" he says again. Again I don't respond. Long experience has taught me that absolute silence is the best way. Say something, and it can be misheard. Misunderstood. Misinterpreted. It can get you convicted. It can get you killed. Silence upsets the officer. He has to tell you silence is your right, but he hates it if you exercise that right.
A real asshole. Lack of professionalism. It's obvious from the start he's one of those cops. A power rider, bully. Type of individual that has no business with a gun or badge. A waste of space. Man doesn't look halfway competent. Baker, the name tag reads, looks like he wanted to bash my head over the table. Sure, he would have if his partner wasn't in the room. The man doesn't like being challenged, and I was very much challenging him. He glanced at his fellow officer, "Okay, make a note; she's said nothing. Let's go.' The two leave. After a short wait, the detective working the case swings in. An Asian woman. Her ID tag reads Detective Yuriko Watanabe.
The woman in front of me looks like she has been around the block. There's an air I actually like. From her back pocket, the woman pulls out her phone, taps the recorder icon, and places the device on top of the metal table while taking a seat on the opposite end. For a moment, there's silence. Just a faint hum. "Let's get started. I have a lot of questions that need answers. My name is Detective Yuriko Watanabe. Rank sergeant. I'll be the one questioning the suspect in the interview," the woman states, more to the recorder than me. Not a Brooklyn person. Doesn't carry herself like one. Her mannerism yells Chelsea. "Where's your lawyer?" she asks. I remain silent. Watanabe raises a brow, "You're being charged with murder. A lawyer should be present. We can provide one. Free of charge."
Again, I don't say a word. The woman stares at me over her cupped hands for a long moment, debating with herself if I'm going to be a problem, "Okay. For the record, state your name." There's silence again. I peer at Watanabe. Stubborn gal. Probably in her late 20s. Don't get to be a detective sergeant in Brooklyn jurisdiction unless they're Stubborn. No percentage in jerking her around. I drew a breath, "Samus. No middle name or last name." She writes in her notepad. Not much to Write. "Okay, Samus," Watanabe starts off, "Who was the dead guy in the motel? Tell me what happened," I have no idea what had happened, no idea at all. Didn't have a chance to run an ECHO. The fact is Murphy got tangled up with something bad, and it got him killed. I open my mouth to speak, "I'm entitled to a phone call. Beyond that, I will not answer any questions without a lawyer present." Watanabe shoots me an irritated gaze, "Things can go a lot easier if you just cooperate." I shrug my shoulders, "Noted but no. Cops have a tendency to lie to get what they want regardless of innocence or guilt, and I hate liars."
[Spartan POV]
[Bunker, New York City]
Via the comlink, Karai informs me about the op she's working on, the situation she got wrapped up in, and her arrest by the local LEOs. I volunteered to bail her out, but she turned down the offer. Instead, Karai asked me to do her a favor, go to the motel and run an ECHO. No doubt the police will conduct their own investigations, but they don't have SHIELD tech or resources. Plus, I don't trust their work to be competent or thorough. The NYPD cuts corners at best and ignores evanescence at worst. Just as I disconnect the call, Wanda's naked form stirs awake. "What's the matter," she asks, concerned. I give her a fast rundown while throwing on clothes. She does the same. "What are you doing?" I ask Wanda. "Karai is my friend as well so I'm tagging along," she says. I smile while shaking my head.
[Motel, New York City]
Wanda and I make our way to the motel by car. Dismounting the vehicle, the two of us walk toward the room marked by yellow tape. The men and women blues had come and gone. Those who were supposed to stay behind and secure the scene were smart enough to get out of dodge. Police are targets of opportunity in this part of the city. And some of the more extreme gangs have no qualms about hanging cops in the middle of the street. [Inside.] We start to search the motel room for any clues that can tell us what's going on. I make my way to the back room. The body is gone, but blood stains are still present. It's obvious the cops have already pinned Karai as the perpetrator, even with the lack of evidence. I start an ECHO. The scene shows the vic has been dead for a little over 2 hours. Long before Karai was on location.
Peer over to Wanda, "Might be pushing it but think you pull that voodoo magic stuff and talk to the dearly departed?" She shakes her head, "No. It just randomly happened last time. And Auron never taught me how to actively use it on command." I shrug my shoulders and then gaze back at the blood. The ECHO stitches together all the information it gathered from the surrounding environment and plays out the scene from the last 24 hours.
The man's digital silhouette spoke on the phone, likely Karai, revealing that he had uncovered a conspiracy. Something big. Something that will shake all of NYC to its core. Karai pressed for more info, but Jerome expressed it wasn't safe to speak on the phone and told her where they could meet face to face, mistakenly using the motel phone. A slip-up that will cost him a heavy price.
Fast forwarding a bit, the motel door was kicked open by an intruder. It caught Jerome by surprise. The man tried running for the window in the back room to escape but wasn't quick enough. He tossed back inside the main room floor. "Do I look like I want to run a marathon chasing after you?" the man barked at Jerome, driving a solid kick to his gut. From his jacket, the assailant drew a pistol, turned Jerome over onto his back, and jammed the gun at his temple, "We're going to play a game of questions. And I only got one. Who else knows?" Jerome puts up a brave act despite the fear, "You're just going to kill me anyways. Big man's orders. Can't allow any loose ends." The assailant went to work on Jerome, torturing the man for information. His aim was to get Jerome to spill out the other contacts, if any. Jerome never broke under pressure. His silence was a way of fighting back. The ECHO switches off.
Wanda stares into the kitchen area, head tilted, a confused expression displayed on her face. "What?" I question. "The microwave is on and Counting down," she says. Straighten up, I peer into the kitchen to see for myself. My eyes go wide when HUD does an automatic scan on the device. It isn't a microwave but a bomb. "BOMB!" I yell, grabbing hold of Wanda, then charge out the door. A second later, the whole motel goes up in a thundering blast. The two of us recover to our feet, watching the motel burn.
[Karai POV]
[13th Police Precinct, New York City]
[Interrogation room.] A solid hour has gone by since Watanabe left me in the interrogation room to sweat in complete silence. Maybe she thought isolation would break me enough to speak. Humans are social creatures, after all. A decent psychological tactic. Used effectively, an experienced interrogator can get a lot out of it. Unfortunately for her, SHIELD operators are trained to handle virtually any form of interrogation.
Watanabe returns to the room, this time holding an empty folder with my name stamped on it. "We ran your prints through the system and wanna know what we found. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No evidence that Samus exists anywhere," she says. I shrug my shoulders in response. It only irritated the detective more, "Okay, fine. Putting the identity mystery aside for a moment. Let's go back to the homicide. I got two officers who caught you in the act, standing over the victim's laid-out body." "Sitting," I interject. "What?" she asks, surprised that I spoke. "Sitting. The victim was tied to a chair. So he was sitting. Not laid out. Detail matters," I state.
Watanabe binks, stupefied and very much offended. A vein pulses at her forehead. The woman slams her hands on the table, about to snap off at me but stops when the door swings open. A man wearing red-tinted sunglasses barges in, a white cane in hand. Both the detective and me shoot the man a raised-brow gaze. Watanabe opens her mouth to speak, likely to ask who the man is and why he's within a restricted area for police staff only, but the man cuts her off short. "My name is Mathew Murdock. I'm Samus's lawyer." Watanabe scowls. I just shift my eyes between the two.
Murdock requests to have a moment alone with me. Watanabe reluctantly obliges. I stare at the lawyer, studying him up and down as he sits at the table. "I understand you're in some trouble. Maybe I can help. Can you tell me what happened," he voices. Silence fills the room. Arms folded, I weigh the pros and cons of putting my trust in this man. Oddly there's an aura about the man. Anger and control. Warrior and protector. "Okay, let's start with what I know based on the report. You were found in a motel standing over the body of a homicide victim. The victim being Jerome Murphy," Murdock recaps, "Currently you're the only prime suspect."
I let out a frustrated sigh, "That report is full of shit. The vic, Jerome Murphy, was long dead before I arrived at the motel. Two hours at most. Here's the facts. Jerome Murphy contacted me last night. Said he's an investigative reporter. Said he uncovered a conspiracy." Murdock cocks his head slightly, "Why? Why come to you? Why not the police?" It's obvious Jerome didn't trust the cops. A lot of people within the city don't trust or like LEOs. Only begrudgingly tolerate the blues. Lean back in the chair and tell him my callsign, rank, and number. "You're a federal agent?" Murdock asks, surprised. I shake my head, "Not an agent. An operator. Big difference." The blind lawyer goes on to explain the police don't have any evidence to hold me, so they'll be obliged to cut me loose. Once cleared, I easily break free from the cuffs that bound my hands, place them on the table, and make my way out.
[Spartan POV]
[Bunker, New York City]
[Mission-room.] "The motel was bombed?!" Karai exclaims after Wanda, and I briefed her on what ensued at the motel she asked us to survey. I overlap my arms on top of my chest, "Yeah. Whatever Jerome Murphy was mixed up in. He was in deep." Wanda lifts herself off the desk. "Do we have any idea what the man was investigating? Maybe backtracking Jerome's step will give us a clue." I shrugged at Wanda's suggestion, "Not a bad idea." Karai activates the holo-computer and starts typing away. According to Jerome Murphy's personal notes. The man was investigating a criminal syndicate aiming to expose the major players. The pieces of the puzzle are starting to fall into place. Jerome got wind of the syndicate's operation, and he was going to expose it all. To stop the reporter, the syndicate gone to extreme lengths to eliminate Jerome and erase all evidence. "What do we do now?" Wanda questions, peering between Karai and me. "Pursue where Jerome Murphy left off," I say.
[Drake POV]
[1 day later, Construction site, New York City]
The car pulls up in front of a building still under construction. Dismounting the vehicle, we make our way to the top floor under stealth-camo. Security's tight, filled to the brim with PMCs. Five individuals are already present on the top floor. "It's freezing this high up. Next time we meet at Per-Se," a middle-aged man complains. The Russians roll their eyes in retort. My eyes lock-on the tall Japanese man standing by the old woman. Out of the five, he's the only one who gives off a killer aura out of the five. Not just the will to kill but knows how to kill. Hell, he's probably the only one who would put up a decent fight. At that moment, the elevator opens with two men stepping off the platform. One is an average man with glasses, a hint of dangerousness behind his eyes. The other is a behemoth. Tall, bald, and a wall of muscle. Wilson Fisk. Kingpin. Leader of this criminal enterprise. The walking colossus fixes his cold focus on the entire gang. Intimidated, Vladimir swallows a lump in his throat but stands tall, trying desperately not to show any signs of weakness. "The problematic reporter?" Fisk inquires, towering over the five individuals.
Zemo claps out a laugh, making our presence known. The youngest of the brothers goes for his pistol on his belt strap but stops when an energy blade appears an inch away from his throat. "Go on, brewski. Try your luck," Skeith threatens. Zemo waves a hand to signal for her to ease off.
Everyone goes into a defensive stance. Mainly the Russians, the Japanese man, and the guy with glasses. It's dead quiet. Not a single sound. Honestly, I'm itching for them to get froggy. Fisk orders the gang to stand down. "Who are you people?" he demands. Zemo's eyes sharpen and lock on Fisk, "CERBERUS. We're the shadows that have been ensuring your mark on this city. Whipping the board clean of rowdy competitions." "Why? What do you gain in aiding us?" Fisk questions, suspicious of Zemo's motive. "Mutual benefits. Nothing more," he tells the man, "Oh, do not concern yourself. Last night's fiasco will not be tied back to you in any way. Consider it an audition for a partnership." Fisk considers the proposal with great thought. He reaches out a hand to seal the deal. Zemo takes it, and another pawn is added to the game board.
[Matt Murdock POV]
[New York City]
A fire burns in Hell's Kitchen, and I'm not pleased. This is my home, and it has suffered far too much as of late. A casualty of an ongoing gang war. This is the 3rd arson this week. I flow across the rooftops, following the smell of smoke in the night air. It's colder than expected, and I allowed a quick selfish thought. 'Should've worn the heavier suit.' Been hunting the arsonist for two sleepless days and nights, always a step behind. "This was no accident," a firefighter voices to one of his comrades as I reach the scene. The man snaps his head toward my direction, eyes wide, "Daredevil." "What's the story, chief?" I ask. The title was thrown out as a figure of speech. The firefighter won't ever guess that the masked vigilante in front of him is blind. "Lieutenant, actually," the man corrects the title of his rank, "It's an Union Allied corporate building. We're just trying to contain the flames so it can burn itself out."
I don't question the lieutenant. The heat of the flames alone is enough to state the building is beyond salvage. My heart goes out to those who have lost their jobs and livelihoods. Union Allied is one of the leading assets spearheading the effort to restore NYC. "Any ideas who might have set it?" I ask. The firefighter shakes his head, "No. But it was a professional job for sure. Whoever set off this fire knew what he was doing. Maximum damage." My radar sense picks up a situation in the distance, a few blocks out.
[Junkyard.] [Rooftop.] An unconscious fat man is dragged in his underwear through an empty junkyard. One of the thugs tosses the man against a nearby car, waking him up from the impact. "Do you know who you fucks are screwing with?!" the man yells to the two thugs. "Yeah, Hinkaid. Silvermane's best dealers," thug-1 says. The thug-1's partner pulls a Molotov from his inner jack and prepares to light it, "And work for the man who's going to make this city his. Unfortunately, at the expense of your very wide butt. A message to your boss."
Despite being a low life, I can't allow Hinkaid to be murdered, so I intervene by flinging my baton. It strikes at thug-2's head, knocking him out cold. [Ground-level.] I jump down onto the car's roof, glaring. Thug-1 starts to run off. "You interfere with our affair for the last time, fool," a voice calls out. It takes me by surprise that I don't detect the person. Completely invisible to my radar. A pinch of panic sets in. I hear feet hitting the ground. Eight in all. Four individuals. Their heart is barely audible. Breaths are slow and steady. One of them draws a sword. I hear the faint hum of the blade hitting the air. They charge forward, and I ready myself for the hardest fight in my life.