Chapter 59:
[Drake POV]
[Warehouse, New York City]
Moving on to the next step of operation, Kingslayer, Skeith, and I enter a large warehouse, its imposing structure casting long shadows across the dimly lit interior. The air is thick with the scent of dust and old machinery, a tangible reminder of the secrecy that shrouds this place. This is where Kingpin hides his assets – a labyrinthine vault of wealth and power, concealed from the prying eyes of both law enforcement and rival syndicates. Skeith moves with silent grace beside me. Her eyes scan the surroundings. The weight of our mission presses upon us. The faint glow of distant streetlights filters through the cracks in the warehouse walls, casting fragmented patterns of light and shadow on the crates and boxes around us. Every step we take reverberates through the empty space. We come upon a stockpile of money, neatly stacked and bound with tight, secure bands. The sight of the vast wealth before us is awe-inspiring. This is not just money; it's power, influence, and control amassed in tangible form. The sheer magnitude of Kingpin's fortune laid out in front of us is a testament to the depth of his reach and the extent of his empire. It represents not only Kingpin's wealth but also the lifeblood of his criminal operations. Under Zemo's orders, Skeith and I are here to dismantle Kingpin's empire, one carefully calculated move at a time.
Skeith's gloved fingers delicately grip a stack of cash, her eyes narrowing as she studies the bills meticulously. "Real cold hard cash," she mutters. "Real but dirty," I remark, my gaze fixed on the money in her hands. The bills feel crisp, but their origin is tainted, a reminder of the illicit activities that have spawned this immense wealth. Each note tells a story of corruption, crime, and deceit, and the weight of that knowledge hangs heavy in the air. At first glance, the stockpile of money appears to be in the billions, an educated estimate based on the sheer volume of cash neatly arranged before us. The sight is staggering, almost incomprehensible. It's a testament to Kingpin's cunning and ruthlessness, his ability to amass such a fortune even in the midst of a gang war that has disrupted his usual channels for laundering assets. The once seamless process of laundering money has become a tangled web of challenges, forcing him to resort to stockpiling cash in hidden locations like this warehouse. As we stand amidst this colossal sum, we observe the consequences of Kingpin's desperation and struggle to maintain control and keep his criminal empire afloat amidst the turmoil of the ongoing gang war. Each bill in Skeith's hands symbolizes the cracks in his once impenetrable facade, a tangible representation of his vulnerability in the face of relentless opposition.
"So how do you want to play this, Drake?" Skeith asks, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. A grin flashes across my face as I consider our options. "The only way to hurt Fisk is to hit the money," I say, my voice steady and determined. "So we take it for ourselves?" Skeith states, misunderstanding my intention. I rock my head slowly, my mind processing the magnitude of the decision. "No," I say, my voice resolute, "We burn it. All of it." Skeith's eyes widen in surprise, clearly taken aback by the boldness of my statement. It's not just about seizing assets; it's about eradicating Kingpin's criminal network entirely, leaving nothing behind that he can use to rebuild his empire. "By burning it," I start to explain, my tone unwavering, "We eliminate every trace of his financial power. We turn his fortune into ashes, making sure he has nothing left to fuel his criminal operations. It's not just a blow to his wealth; it's a statement. Sooner or later a king always falls." Skeith nods slowly, comprehension dawning in her eyes. It's a daring act that will send shockwaves through Kingpin's organization. By reducing his wealth to ashes, we strip him of his resources, leaving him vulnerable and defenseless.
From my utility belt, I draw out a flare and pop it open. The sharp sound of the mechanism echoes in the quiet surroundings, and a burst of light emanates from the ignited flare, casting an intense glow across the immediate area. The vibrant illumination reveals the contours of the warehouse, its vast space now bathed in a warm, flickering light; its vivid glow dances on the crates and boxes, creating dynamic patterns of light and shadow. Skeith adjusts her stance, her features briefly illuminated by the fiery glow. After a breath, I toss the flare into the stockpile of money. The illuminated arc of the flare traces through the air, leaving a trail of light before it lands amidst the neatly stacked bills. For a moment, the flare seems suspended in midair, a mesmerizing display against the backdrop of the warehouse's shadows. As the flare makes contact with the stockpile, a burst of flames erupts, engulfing the money in a fiery embrace. The billowing fire consumes the crisp bills, transforming them into a swirling vortex of orange and red. The intensity of the heat radiates, creating a palpable warmth in the once cool and shadowed space. Skeith and I watch in silence as the flames dance, their crackling sounds echoing through the vast warehouse. With the warehouse now illuminated by the glow of the flames, we turn away, our next steps guided by the newfound clarity of purpose. The burning of money behind us symbolizes not just the destruction of wealth but the dismantling of a criminal legacy. It's a turning point in our mission.
[Karai POV]
[Bar, New York City]
I step into the local bar, the familiar scent of aged wood and aged spirits enveloping me. It's been a while since the last time I graced this establishment, and a fleeting sense of nostalgia washes over me. The low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses provide a backdrop to the atmosphere. As I traverse the dimly lit space, I can't help but wonder if there will be any lingering awkwardness between the bartender and me. Our history, like the layers of dust on the bottles lining the shelves, hangs in the air. The memories of shared laughter and private embrace echo in the corners of the bar, a testament to the one-night stand we shared. Approaching the counter, I catch the bartender's eye. There's a brief pause. The air crackles with anticipation as I prepare myself for whatever reaction awaits. The bartender glances my way, and for a moment, our eyes lock. There's a flicker of recognition, a subtle shift in demeanor. The air thickens with unspoken history, and I brace myself for the potential awkwardness that might unfold in this reunion.
I take a seat at the bar, my posture composed, and order a drink. As the bartender prepares my order, I steal a glance around the familiar surroundings. The clink of my drink hitting the counter breaks the silence, and I raise the glass in a silent toast to the unknown. Whether this visit will rekindle old connections or unravel into awkward encounters remains to be seen. For now, I immerse myself in the atmosphere of the bar, where the past and the present converge in a delicate dance of memories and possibilities.
"It's been a while, stranger," the bartender voices, a hint of familiarity in the tone as the woman expertly fills my glass. "Yeah, it has," I reply, my gaze slowly lifting to meet Chanel's eyes. The air between us holds a mixture of shared history and unspoken questions. There's a subtle tension, like the pause before a storm, as we acknowledge the passage of time and the uncharted territory that lies ahead. Chanel's eyes reflect a blend of recognition and curiosity. The lines etched in the corners hint at stories untold, memories shared, and perhaps, the evolution of our individual journeys since the last time we crossed paths in this dimly lit haven. I take a sip of my drink, the liquid warmth providing a momentary distraction.
On the bright side, Chanel doesn't seem angry with me. It's a small, welcome victory in the delicate dance of reconnection. Her expression, though guarded, doesn't carry the weight of resentment or reproach. In the subtle nuances of her demeanor, I discern a glimmer of understanding or, at the very least, a willingness to let bygones be bygones. As I take another sip of my drink, I find a sense of relief settling in. The absence of tension, the absence of a reproachful gaze, is a reassuring sign. Chanel, in her role as a bartender, moves with practiced efficiency, attending to the various patrons scattered throughout the bar. Our exchanged glances are brief, but in that fleeting connection, I sense a mutual acknowledgment of the complexities we share. I decided to break the silence. "How's business been?" I ask, choosing a neutral topic. Chanel meets my gaze, and a subtle smile plays on her lips. It's a subtle reassurance, a tacit agreement that, for now, we can focus on the present and the shared space of the bar, leaving the past where it belongs.
All of a sudden, the girl from before walks into the bar, carrying a bag over her shoulders. My attention is immediately drawn to the scared expression on her face. Without a second thought, she makes her way to a table at the far back, seeking refuge in the relative anonymity of the dimly lit space. A short while later, a mean gang of tough-looking people walks in. The way they carry themselves screams mercenaries. Having tangled with enough of them in the past, I can spot their type on sight. The air in the bar shifts as the mercenaries survey the room, their eyes scanning the patrons with a predatory intensity. It's clear that something is amiss, and the tension in the atmosphere rises as the mercenaries close in on the girl at the back table. The low hum of conversations falters, replaced by a palpable unease. Seeing them moving in, the girl rushes to the restroom, a sense of urgency in her movements. It's clear she's trying to evade the ominous figures closing in on her. Without a moment's hesitation, three of the mercenaries follow right behind her, their purpose unmistakable.
Striding down the hallway, I spot one of the mercenaries standing guard at the entrance to the women's restroom. A plan begins to form in my mind, and I decide to approach discreetly, adopting the guise of someone who's had a bit too much to drink. I start to sway slightly, affecting a drunken stagger as I approach the restroom. The dim lighting in the hallway plays to my advantage, casting shadows that obscure my intentions. The mercenary glances my way, likely dismissing me as just another patron who's had a few too many. As I get closer, I let out a slurred greeting, my words deliberately muddled. "Hey there, buddy," I slur, feigning a drunken grin. The mercenary eyes me warily, but his guard remains somewhat lowered. It's a precarious act, and I tread carefully, keeping my true intentions veiled beneath the facade of inebriation. Taking a step closer, I lean against the wall for support.
Purposely, I fake a trip, stumbling forward. The mercenary, quick to react, reaches out to try and stop my fall. Seizing the moment, I use all my forward momentum, and instead of steadying myself, I redirect my energy into a calculated move. With a swift and unexpected motion, I bring my head forward, aiming to bash my forehead onto his nose. The element of surprise works in my favor as my head connects with the mercenary's nose. A muffled curse escapes him, and I feel the impact reverberate through my skull. The sudden turn of events catches him off guard, momentarily disorienting him.
[Restroom.] The man falls back into the women's restroom, his hand clutching his injured nose. Seizing the opportunity, I cross the threshold, entering the dimly lit space. As my eyes adjust to the change in lighting, I spot the other two mercenaries. One merc has the girl pinned to the wall, a knife menacingly pressed against her throat. The leader, distinguishable by the air of authority that surrounds the person, appears to be in the process of interrogating another girl. They all turn their eyes to me, jaws gaped. The first merc rises to his feet and goes for the pistol inside his jacket. Before he can complete the draw, I bash his face with a solid right-hook punch, knocking him out. The leader pulls out a blade and charges at me. Using CQC, I quickly take control of the arm holding the knife. I slam the merc to the wall and deliver a series of fast elbow-strikes to her face. The dimly lit restroom echoes with the sounds of the scuffle, the swift and controlled movements creating a chaotic rhythm. The leader, momentarily disoriented, struggles to regain control as I assert dominance in the close-quarters confrontation. The urgency of the situation propels me forward, each calculated move aimed at subduing the threat and ensuring the safety of the girls caught in the crossfire.
The last merc pushes the girl to the ground and rushes to aid the leader. The guy is good, big, and strong, clearly adept at handling himself in close-range fights. The problem is he seems to think he's dealing with a normal person, unaware that he's facing a bio-enhanced super soldier. As he goes to slash me with his blade, I react with perfect timing, grabbing hold of his arm and executing a judo throw that sends him crashing to the ground, the impact resonating throughout the dimly lit restroom. Seeing all the threats neutralized, I move to check on the girl. The restroom is now a tense calm. I approach the girl, who is busy gathering herself from the traumatic encounter. Visibly shaken, the girl meets my gaze, her eyes reflecting a mix of fear and gratitude. I extend a hand to help her up, silently communicating a sense of safety in the wake of the chaos.
"Who were those assholes, and why were they after you?" I question, my voice firm. The weight of the recent ordeal lingers in the air, and the urgency to understand the motives behind the attack becomes palpable. The girl takes a deep breath, slowly making her way toward the exit door. She begins to speak, weaving a narrative about how the mercenaries were trying to convince her to join in on their 'good time party.' However, I sense the deception in her words. The dimly lit space becomes a stage for a different kind of performance, one where truth and lies dance in the shadows. Off the bat, I know she's lying. These mercenaries are professional killers, and her attempt to downplay the severity of the situation raises more questions than answers.
"There are six more mercs out there waiting for you," I say once the girl reaches the door. The revelation hangs in the air, a stark reminder that the danger is not confined to this one space. The urgency of the situation escalates, and the need for swift and strategic action becomes evident. As the information sinks in, the girl glances at me, a silent plea for guidance evident in her eyes. "If you want to make it out of whatever this mess is, stay close to me and don't do anything stupid," I say in an authoritative tone. The girl, still visibly shaken, meets my gaze with a mix of uncertainty and reliance. As we prepare to face the external threat of the remaining mercenaries, the need for trust and cooperation becomes paramount. "How do I know you're not with the mercs?" the girl asks, her voice tinged with suspicion. It's a valid question, considering the layers of deception surrounding the recent encounter. "Easy. I wouldn't have wasted my time saving you," I remark, a subtle edge of sarcasm in my response. The urgency to navigate the impending danger together forms a tenuous alliance.
[Outside.] Together, the girl and I manage to sneak our way out of the bar. The dimly lit surroundings, once a stage for conflict, now become a shadowy labyrinth that we navigate with caution. Stepping out into the open, the cool night air embraces us, and we move toward my waiting car. We settle into the car, the engine hums to life, and the familiar vibrations underscore the departure from the immediate danger. The dimly lit bar fades into the rearview mirror, and the open road ahead becomes a path to uncertainty.
[Motel, New York City]
I pull up in front of a motel on the edge of Queens, a temporary safe house until we figure out our next move. The dimly lit exterior of the motel hints at anonymity, providing a sheltered space away from the prying eyes that may still be on our trail. The car engine rumbles to a stop, and the night air carries a sense of both relief and uncertainty. The motel, with its nondescript facade, becomes a haven. As we step out of the car, the glow of the motel's sign casts a faint light on our surroundings. Together, we make our way to the motel's entrance, the night holding the promise of temporary safety within its walls. The journey, fraught with unexpected twists and dangers, has led us to this moment of reprieve.
[Room.] The girl takes a seat on the bed. That's when I catch sight of a nasty-looking gash across her inner forearm. It's a grim discovery, and I can't help but feel a surge of concern. Little surprise, she's not wincing in pain yet; it must be the adrenaline coursing through her veins. The dim light in the motel room accentuates the severity of the injury. I move closer, my focus shifting from the external threats to the immediate need for medical attention. "Let me take a look at that," I say. The girl peers down at the wound. "I'm fine. It's just a scratch," she says, downplaying her injury. Her attempt to minimize the severity of the gash contrasts with the visible evidence of the deep cut across her forearm. I take a moment to gauge her resilience, recognizing the bravado often spurred by adrenaline and the desire to maintain composure in the face of danger. "It's not a scratch," I voice, rolling my eyes, "The gash is deep enough that you're going to need stitches, and I would rather not have you pass out due to blood loss." The motel room becomes a makeshift clinic. I retrieve a first aid kit from a nearby cabinet, preparing to tend to the girl's wound. The atmosphere in the room shifts from evasion to a more pragmatic focus on the immediate task at hand. Ten stitches in, I'm finally done closing the girl's wound. The girl winces sharply as I secure the last stitch. "Alright, all done," I say, putting the finishing touches on the bandage.
The moment I turn away, the girl makes a dash to the door. Reacting swiftly, I grab hold of her and pull her back into the room, careful not to hurt her. "Where do you think you're going?" I ask my voice firm but not unkind. The girl holds up her hands in surrender. I pull up a chair and take a seat. "We're going to play a quick game of questions. I ask the question, and you give me answers," I say, my tone measured. The atmosphere becomes charged with the weight of unspoken truths as we embark on this impromptu interrogation, navigating the delicate balance between trust and the need to unravel the mysteries that brought us together in the first place. "Who were those mercs after you?" I start off. The girl scoffs, "I already told you. Creeps who were trying to convince me to join in on their 'good time party." Her response maintains the facade of evasion, and the dimly lit setting becomes a stage for a verbal dance between truth and deception. "Let's try again," I say, my tone unwavering. "Who are you, and why are professional mercenaries targeting you? 'Good time party' doesn't cut it." The light casts shadows on the tension in the room as I press for answers, determined to unravel the layers of secrecy surrounding the girl's involvement in a dangerous game.
The girl stays silent. My patience is starting to wear thin. "Fine, the hard way it is," I state. The girl raises a brow, perplexed. Getting up from the chair, I pat the girl down, emptying out her pockets. From one of her pockets, I dig out a flash drive. The flash drive, a tangible piece of the puzzle, represents a potential key to understanding the motives behind the mercenaries' pursuit.
"What's this?" I inquire, giving the girl a chance to explain while holding up the flash drive. "I don't know," she replies, her voice tinged with uncertainty. The air becomes charged with tension. "Don't lie," I state firmly, pressing for the truth. "I don't know, damn it! I wasn't told what I was delivering," the girl snaps out of frustration, her admission revealing a sense of vulnerability. The mysterious flash drive has become the focal point in the unfolding drama, its enigmatic contents holding the potential to unravel the secrets that have thrust us into this perilous game. "This was not how it was supposed to go. This job was supposed to be a simple milk run," the girl murmurs to herself. I insert myself into the girl's own private conversation, "Simple milk run? Girl, I don't think you understand the shit you're in right now. Those mercs gunning for you are professional killers. As of right now, you're on the top of someone's kill list." The girl's realization of the severity of the situation becomes evident. In the hushed atmosphere, the weight of the words lingers, underscoring the dangerous turn of events that have unfolded. The girl's initial assessment of a simple task has unraveled into a complex web of danger.
Once the girl has fallen asleep, I call Spartan, my footsteps leading me to a more secluded area of the motel. The dim glow of a flickering overhead light creates a makeshift workspace as I settle into a worn chair, the worn-out upholstery creaking beneath my weight. Retrieving my phone, I dial Spartan's number, the soft hum of the motel's air conditioning providing an inconspicuous backdrop to the clandestine conversation about to unfold. The rhythmic ringtone on the other end is a prelude to the familiar voice of Spartan. With the phone pressed to my ear, I embark on a detailed recollection of the night's events. I convey the tense encounter with the mercenaries, the revelation of the girl's mysterious connection to the unfolding drama, and the acquisition of a cryptic flash drive that holds the promise of unraveling the complexities at play.
The conversation unfolds like a strategic chess match, each move analyzed and dissected by Spartan's discerning mind. His questions cut through the layers of ambiguity, probing for key details that might have been overlooked in the heat of the moment. The intermittent pauses in our dialogue are filled with the distant sounds of the night – a passing car, the murmur of the wind – as if nature itself is eavesdropping on our exchange. When I'm done with my recap, Spartan absorbs the information in thoughtful silence. The ambient noise of the motel room and the distant hum of the city outside create a momentary pause before he finally speaks. "Karai, do you need backup on this op?" Spartan questions. I take a moment to consider his offer, acknowledging the potential advantages of additional support. However, a calculated assessment of the current situation leads me to a different decision. "Not at the moment," I reply, my tone firm but appreciative. "I'll handle it for now, but I'll let you know if things take a turn." Spartan understands the unspoken nuances in my response, the delicate balance between autonomy and the recognition that circumstances may evolve. There's a mutual understanding forged through countless missions where timing and adaptability are crucial. "Stay vigilant, and keep me updated," Spartan advises, his words a parting reassurance. We exchange brief farewells, and the line goes silent.
[1 Day Later]
Walking into the room, I toss a sandwich wrap over to the girl. The crinkling sound of the wrapper fills the air as it spirals through the space between us. She catches it with a mix of surprise and amusement, her eyes meeting mine. "My hero," she says with a touch of sarcasm, a wry smile playing on her lips as she starts unwrapping the meal. I respond with a half-smile, "Eat up. You'll need your strength." As she takes a bite of the sandwich, the room seems to relax, if only momentarily. The hairs on the back of my neck straighten up. Years of experience have taught me never to ignore the sensation. With a measured sense of caution, I make my way to the window and discreetly peek through the slats of the blinds. At the end of the street, an unmarked car sits inconspicuously. A silent harbinger of potential threats. The low hum of the city outside becomes an eerie backdrop to the realization that our temporary haven might not be as secure as we thought.
The gravity of the situation settles in, and I take a moment to assess the options. On the bright side, I'm almost sure the mercs won't attack us in broad daylight. They'll wait until night to make their move, giving us plenty of time to prepare. The realization tempers the immediate tension in the room, offering a strategic advantage in the face of impending danger. Daylight becomes a shield of sorts, providing a temporary reprieve from the imminent threats lurking in the shadows. I turn my attention back to the girl, handing her my spare pistol. "Know how to use a gun?" The girl stares at the weapon like it's a venomous snake. "No, and I don't want to." "Don't have a choice in the matter," I say and point a thumb toward the window, "Those mercs tracked us here, and they're aiming to kill us both." Her reluctance is palpable, but the urgency of the situation leaves no room for debate. The girl tentatively takes the pistol. I take a moment to give her a crash course in basic firearm handling, guiding her through the fundamentals. As we prepare for the approaching confrontation, the daylight, once a comfort, now becomes a ticking clock, counting down to the moment when the mercs will make their move.
As soon as the sun begins to set, I can see the mercs exit their vehicle via HUD, providing a digital overlay of the surroundings. The muted glow of the city at dusk sets the stage for the impending fight. I turn to the girl, my expression serious. "Stay behind me," I instruct a sense of protectiveness in my voice. The motel room door is kicked wide open. The merc on point charges into the room and is the first one I drop with a single shot to the head. The deafening gunshot reverberates through the confined space. The remaining mercenaries fall back, a reaction to the unexpected resistance.
Grabbing the girl, I push/lead her to a small hole in the wall I made earlier. "Go! I'll catch up." The urgency in my voice is met with a quick nod from the girl. She swiftly climbs through the hole, disappearing into the concealed passage. As she moves to safety, I turn my attention back to the room just as two other mercenaries breach it. Without hesitation, I reach for a smoke grenade at my side and pull the pin. The room is instantly filled with a thick, disorienting smoke. The acrid plumes billow, obscuring visibility and creating a temporary barrier between us and the approaching threats. Moving around the mercs, I double-tap each of them.
[Outside.] Rejoining the girl, we continue our way to the car. Just as we're about to mount the vehicle, the police hit the scene, surrounding us on all sides. The flashing lights and blare of sirens create a chaotic tableau, a sudden twist in the narrative that adds a layer of complexity to our already precarious situation. I raise my hands in a gesture of surrender, acknowledging the unforeseen complication. The girl beside me looks bewildered, caught in the crossfire of conflicting dangers. The police officers, guns drawn, approach cautiously, their expressions a mix of suspicion and readiness. "Hands where we can see them!" one of the officers commands, his voice cutting through the tense atmosphere. The girl and I comply.