Chapter 32:
[Matt Murdock POV]
[Months earlier, New York City]
Still can't believe I'm back in Hell's Kitchen after all this time, but now I'm back. Never abandoning Hell's Kitchen again. I'm surprised how much it has changed during my time away. Not in the normal sense, like remembering a childhood through a filter of innocence. Graffiti covers every available surface. Bumps and junkies loitering everywhere. Nervous eyes looking for the next target to roll over. A civilian in the wrong place. Then again, the whole world has changed since the Battle Of NYC, not just Hell's Kitchen. As I walk the street, I can feel gazes on me. I'm not worried; I can handle myself. In fact, no matter how bad things have become, I actually feel safer in Hell's Kitchen than anywhere else. This place is my home; the bricks and street are built into my DNA. I feel the city's pulse beating in time with my own heart.
[Fogwell's Gym, New York City]
I find myself standing in front of the old gym. The same gym my father trained in. The same gym I would hide away in when everything became too much to bear. In a way, this gym was also the birthplace of DAREDEVIL. When I first let the Devil out to beat Slade to an inch of his life for murdering my father. The one place I can freely be my true self. Before I know it, my feet are already moving toward the building. It's boarded up now. The whole street is empty. A couple of homeless people stagger along the sidewalk. I move to the back of the building and pull the boards off the window that leads to the locker room, Just like I did when I was a kid. The wood, filled with rot and termites, disintegrates at my touch. 'How long has the gym been abandoned?' I ask myself. Dust clogs at my nostrils as I climb inside, but beneath the dust, beneath the sense of emptiness, I can still smell sawdust and sweat, or maybe it's just my imagination.
[Inside.] Whatever it is, the gym calms my racing heart. Brings me back to myself. I can almost hear the echoes of my younger self hitting the punching bag. My fists pummeled the leather like machine gun fire as I tried to work off the frustrations of my life, but all that is buried in the past now, like my father. Move through the locker room and out into the gym area. I sense the space around me as I trek to the ring and reach for the ropes. It's that very moment I realize I'm not alone at the gym. Another heartbeat. Rabid. Frightened. Young. A girl. I straighten slowly and turn toward the sound. "You can come out. I won't hurt you." I can hear a creek of wood and a rubber stretching. The kid has a slingshot. She fires a small pellet. I snap up a hand, catching the ball inches from my face. "How the hell do you do that?" the girl voices out, impressed. I'm right; the stranger is a girl. 15, maybe 16.
The girl moves out into the open. I feel her stare. "Why are you wearing shades? It's pretty sad wearing shades at night. It doesn't make you look cool. Makes you look like an old man trying too hard," she remarks. "I'm blind," I cut her off. The girl blinks, "Seriously? My bad. Sorry." I'm amused to hear there's no embarrassment, "It's fine." "So do you still have your eyes," she asks curiously. That had to be the oddest question I've ever heard. "Yeah, I still have my eyes," I answer. "What happened? Were you born that blind?" she presses on. "You asked a lot of questions," I say. She huffs, "I'm young it's what I do," she remarks back, "So were you born that blind?" I shake my head, "No. It was an accident. The kind of accident I don't want to talk about. What's your name?" The girl crosses her arms, "Mickey." I arch a brow, "Mickey? Like Mickey Mouse?" She rolls her eyes, "Gee that's such an original joke. I've literally never heard that before in my life. What's yours?"
"Matt Murdock," I tell her, "What are you doing here, Mickey?" "This is my place," Mickey says. I blink in surprise, "You own the gym?" Mickey exaggeratedly holds up her hands, "Well, own is a strong word, but it's just the rats and me so I reckon I can lay claim. Anyway, an old blind guy wandering around Hell's Kitchen in the middle of the night?" "Will you stop calling me old? I'm only in my late 20s," I bark, annoyed. Mickey laughs, "Anyone older than 19 is old to me. Sorry, man, it's all downhill for you. So what are you doing here?" I gesture around the gym, "I used to train here when I was a kid, and my dad too." Point to the west wall, "There used to be a couple posters over there." Mickey follows where I'm pointing. "Are you pointing at the guy in the red getup? Jack the Devil Murdock. Why are they dressed like the devil?"
For a moment, I allow myself to smile at the memory, "Because of how he fights in the ring. People say he fights like a man possessed by the devil. It's a nice gimmick." "Cool," Mickey says, eyeing the poster. I stand there a moment longer, watching the memories run by in my mind. Shaking it off, I double back to my question, "What are you doing here anyway? Last I checked, it's not the safest neighborhood for a kid." Mickey keeps her eyes on the poster, "It's better than being on the streets." "Don't you have a family or guardians?" I ask. She rocks her head, her voice cracked, "No. I'm an orphan. My mom was killed in the incident." "Oh… I'm sorry," I say. Mickey takes a sad breath, "Yeah, me too." And besides, this place is a million times better than the shelter. No pervs or creepers." She turns to face me, "Unless you're one. In which case, you should know I got a knife." I hold up my hands, "You're good." "Anyway, back at ya, why are you here?" she asks. I shrug my shoulders, "I honestly don't know. Just felt the need to. Now that I'm here, I'm in the mood to train. You in?" Mickey blinks, "Me?" I nod, "Sure. Unless you think a blind dude will show you up." Mickey laughs, "In your dreams, old man. Okay, I'm in."
[Spartan POV]
[Present time, Warehouse District, New York City]
The police stationed a perimeter around the crime scene. They aren't going to find anything I haven't already discovered. Assuming these aren't the lazy types. One detective strides toward the crime scene investigator in charge. "What do we got, Victor?" the detective asks. The CSI investigator glances up over his shoulder at the detective, "An aftermath of a major clusterfuck, Ms. Knight. My guess is a back alley buy gone terribly wrong." The woman peers around grimly, brow creased, "That's an understatement. Who called it in?" The CSI guy points in my direction. "Who the hell is he?" Detective Knight questions. He shrugs his shoulders, "Don't know. I thought he was one of your people."
The woman strides over to my spot, "Excuse me. Can I help you?" I make a show of sizing her up, then wheel back to the crime scene, "No." The woman scowls and switches her voice to a firmer tone, "I don't think you understand. This is an active crime scene. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Now I'm getting annoyed. She eases off once I flash her my SHIELD badge. Knight shoots me a raised brow look, "Care tell me why a SHIELD agent is out here in a warehouse?" "Operator. Not an agent," I corrected her. Again another raised brow gaze, "What's the difference?" I smirk at the question, "Operators get bloody. Agents wear nice suits. To answer your first inquiry for why I'm out here. It's because I was investigating a disturbance."
Knight clocks her head, "Disturbance? We never got any report of a disturbance." It's my turn to give the woman a paradoxical stare while crossing my arms, "You wouldn't. Definitely not in this neighborhood. Talking to the cops is a surefire way to end your life in a very painful way. And depending on the folks you pissed off your friends and family will likely share the same fate just to insure the message gets across." "Sounds like you're speaking from experience," Knight says, eyeing me. I heft my shoulders, "Seen it happened. So yeah, I do have experience."
Knight eyes the scene, analyzing everything, committing it to memory, "I haven't seen this much carnage since Viceroy's heyday." At the mention of the Viceroy, I tense up. A wave of controlled anger sparks. "This was an orchestrated hit. Multiple gang bosses converting in one location. A golden opportunity to take out the competition with a stone. Unfortunately for the stone, they also got hit by another player," I state, bringing the topic back to the crime. "What brought you to that conclusion?" Knight asks. I exhibit the shell casing, "High-quality military-grade Nato round. Player is packing some serious firepower." With a gloved hand, she takes the bullet casing, holds it up, examining it, "Guessing you can't buy these types of bullets in a civilian firearm market." I shake my head, "Nope." Knight sighs, frustrated, "This is way out of the NYPD's league."
The woman has no idea how much of an understatement that is. This is far beyond the capabilities of local law enforcement. If the Battle of New York taught us anything, there is always a more dangerous threat out there, and we are ridiculously outmatched. I stroll to one of the dead gangbangers and pull back the sheet. Knight flinches a sorrowful expression from seeing the body, "Shit. Gregory," "You know him?" I ask. She inclines her head, "I know his mama." As I leave, I analyze the strange pill capsule I found at the crime scene.
[Excalibur, New York City]
Experience has taught me if a person wants information, they have to know where to find it. The modern era has a diverse stream of information. Each originates from a different source. The problem is separating the bullshit from the facts. Especially information involving the shadier elements. In this case, a bar or club would be the best place to gather some intel. Hell, done right, I don't even have to press hard on anyone. Dunk folks tend to be loose lips on their own. Just need to ask the right question at the right time or a handful of greens with printed images of presidents. But there are times people will trade information for a favor.
Entering the bar/club, I cross right to the main office. The owner of the establishment doesn't look away from her work, "Business, pleasure, or both." Right to the point. Got to admire a woman who doesn't waste time. "Business," I say to her. She raises her head and points her attention to me, then tilts her head as if recalling something. "Wait, I remember you from before. You came in here with that Sokovian woman asking about my friend. Forgive me, I don't recall your name." "Never gave it out. Callsign Spartan," I tell, "Just in case you're wondering. The man who murdered Jericho is dead." Bayek nods, pleased with the news. "As grateful as I am, I'm sure this is not the business you are referring to," she says. I shake my head, "No. It's information. You notice the ongoing gang war. I found something odd that might be connected."
As I reach into my pocket to extract the strange pill, Bayek holds up a hand to stop me. "Wait," she says, "If you want my service I will provide it in exchange for a quid pro quo first." 'A favor?' "Fair. What's the favor?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest. The woman shoots me an intense gaze, "Days ago one of my employees was viciously attacked by a man named Lundgren. Bratva affiliate. Beat the poor girl to near death for saying no. I do not tolerate anyone harming my people. Despite our profession it does not make us any less human."
I nod agreeingly and wait patiently until she tells me what she wants me to do as a favor. "There's a Bratva owned club in Hell's Kitchen. I want it cleared out of all of its players. Do this favor and I will provide you the information you want." "Deal," I say, moving to the door. I stop halfway in my stride, "What do you get out of this, Bayek?" The woman claps her hands together, "Payback and to get a clear message across, 'Harm my people in any way and you will suffer the consequences'." I bow my head to the woman respectfully and walk out.
[The Red Circle Club, New York City]
[Rooftop.] The Red Circle is both a sleazy hotel and a club. At the entrance, an expensive gray sports car pulls up. A exits the vehicle from the driver's side and orders a valet to park his prize. HUD runs an ID scan. It reads a positive ID of Lundgren. I leap off the edge of the roof and infiltrate the nightclub. [Inside.] Opening the door to the ground-level dance club is like bashing my head into a wall of sound. Flashing lights stab my eyes, and the air is perfumed with cheap alcohol and engine grease. Everything in here is cranked up to 11. A playground of numbness.
The bouncer working the door has to be the biggest person on the club level, a bodybuilder by every stretch of the word. Despite the pounding music and writhing bodies, his face is buried in a comic book. Smoothly, I wrap my arms around his neck from behind, putting him in a back-choke-hold. No one notices a thing. Once he goes limp, I drag him off to a secluded area.
The music out here on the floor is way too loud for comfort. The scene at the bar is even louder. Dealer-on-duty stands impassively behind the bar. A desperate-looking woman is pleading with him, apparently to little effect. "All right, Silke. I'm going to explain how this works to you one last time. I get cash, and you can get the product. No cash, no product. Period," the man says with a patronizing tone. "But I need it, Kroner! Come on!" the woman's words come out in a desperate whine. Pale skin, sunken eyes, and trembling lips all point to the early symptoms of withdrawal. "I gave you the money already!" she yells. Kroner rolls his eyes, "Not enough."
"But… But that was all I had," Silke says, dropping her shoulders, "I have to get right. Soon." The dealer eyes her up and down, consideringly, "Well, maybe we can work out a trade. Fix for services." "Services?" the woman questions, then understanding quickly shows on her face, eyes wide, "No! I'm not one of your hookers." Kroner shrugs his shoulders, "I give it about a half hour before the shake sets in. When it happens, you know where to find me." He turns to another customer, leaving Silke crumpled against the bar.
I place myself on the stool next to Silke. She glances up at me, a look of abject misery plastered on her face. Honestly, I don't feel much sympathy for the girl. Got little to no patience for junkies, but if what I gathered is correct, she spent a lot of time here, so she might provide some useful intel. "Sounds like you're in a bind. Answer some questions, and I'll help you get your fix," I lie. The woman practically jumps on the offer without a second thought. In truth, I have no intention of feeding her habit, but she doesn't need to know that. I ask about security, the number of gang members, innocent civilians, and the boss's location. Once ready, I make my move.
[Floor 4.] The Elevator seems mechanically sound. That's about all it has going for it. Small garbage and syringes litter the floor, and the handrails are extremely sticky. Cleanliness is not a high priority. Under stealth, I traverse to the 4th floor. All the real action is run above the club. The 1st level is a front. Pistol set, I make a beeline to the security room first and bash the door open. The guy barely has time to react before I drop him with a stun bolt. Interfacing with one of the computers, I discover the hotel uses remote locks, and the rooms are soundproof. A surefire way to ensure the assets don't make an escape or call out for help. Studying the surveillance monitors, twenty girls in total wait in each room. Not wanting to risk a dragged-out firefight or get any innocent caught in the mess, I locked the girls in the rooms for their safety. Once that's done, I go straight to the boss's office. Eliminating the boss first will cause a domino effect. The lower-ranking goons will likely cut their losses. I cut off communication and locked down the 4th level. No one gets in or out.
I prowl toward the main office on the other end of the hallway. The HUD marks seven targets inside. All of them are armed. I go in, practically breaking the door open. All seven men snap their heads in my direction. "Who the fuck are you?!" one of the seven yells. I ignore the man's question while ambling to Lundgren's desk, "Some time ago you beat a woman to near death. Why? Because she dared to say no. Bayek doesn't take kindly to acts of violence on her people." Lundgren rolls his eyes. My jaw tightens. Sweats drip from the man's brow, but he plays an act of bravado, "Bayek? Ah, the whore who operates the club Excalibur." Lundgren's goons start to laugh. My eyes spark with controlled fury, "Don't call her that word."
"I will address the whore however I want," Lundgren snaps. Gritting my teeth, "Call Bayek that word again, and you'll regret it." Challengingly, Lundgren opens his mouth to utter the phrase; I cut him off by kicking the deck back, pinning the man between the wall and the table. The guy on my left goes to attack me with a knife. I easily disarm the goon via CQC and drop him on his ass with an arm-throw. With the knife still in my hand, I fling it toward the guy aiming a gun, catching him in the hand that's gripping the gun. Quick-drawing the pistol from my holster, I drop all the perks in one sweep. Turn my attention to Lundgren, who's bleeding to death from the gunshot wound to the neck I inflicted on him. "I told you you'll regret it," I say, strolling over to the man. For a long moment, I stand there watching the man die. Suffocating, drowning in his own blood. Once everything is over, I call it in and head back to the Excalibur.
[Excalibur, New York City]
[Office.] I B-line straight to Bayek's office. "It's done," I say, walking in. The woman peers up at me and then shoots an approving nod. Bayek holds out her hand, "The item you were going to show me earlier." I pull out the pill and place it in the woman's hand. She carefully inspects it, then places it on the table, "Rumor has it there's a new type of drug out on the market. A type of weaponized enhancement pill. For one whole hour it gives its user superhuman abilities." A sensation of dread and uneasiness creeps down my spine, 'This gang war just escalated.'