Chapter 52:
[Drake POV]
[CERBERUS, New York City]
I sit across from Zemo in the dimly lit room, the low hum of technology creating an almost suffocating atmosphere. Operation Kingslayer looms over us, and the gravity of the mission is palpable. Zemo's gaze is unwavering, and his voice cuts through the silence with a sense of urgency. A sleek tablet slides across the table, displaying a list of targets. Zemo's expression remains stoic as he explains the significance of each name and the interconnected web of power they represent. I study the profiles, recognizing influential figures whose elimination would send shockwaves through their respective sectors. "These are the individuals we need to eliminate to ensure the smooth progression of our plan. Their connections run deep, and their removal will cripple any opposition," Zemo continues, his eyes never leaving mine. The success of Operation Kingslayer hinges on surgical precision.
As I prepare to leave the room, a nagging thought about another matter crosses my mind. Turning back to Zemo, I decide to address the issue. Zemo's gaze doesn't waver; instead, he leans forward, acknowledging the significance of my inquiry. "It's being handled," he replies, his words concise but revealing little. Zemo's words hang in the air, but I respond with a nonchalant shrug. I really don't care, and the truth of it echoes within the recesses of my thoughts. Loyalty to the cause has little place in the motivations that drive me forward; it's the thrill that fuels my action.
[Bar, New York City]
It takes me a while, the minutes ticking away in sync with the distant beats of the music enveloping the dimly lit bar. The air is thick with a mix of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversations. I'm perched on a worn barstool, nursing a drink that has long lost its chill, my eyes scanning the eclectic crowd. The target, a name on the list that represents a critical link in the web of Operation Kingslayer, has proven to be a slippery subject. Discreetly studying faces and gauging reactions as the patrons weave through the labyrinth of tables. It's a delicate dance of patience and anticipation, the challenge heightened by the dynamic ebb and flow of the bar's activity. Finally, a subtle shift in the crowd catches my attention—a flicker of recognition that sends a jolt of adrenaline through me. There, nestled in a VIP section, is the target engaged in animated conversation. My pulse quickens as I mentally map out the approach. The target, Tobias Zucco, is a crucial player in the underbelly of Fisk's criminal empire, overseeing the prostitution racket.
Tobias Zucco, nearing his 40s, appears to be in the prime position to ascend and assume control of the syndicate once Wilson Fisk decides to retire. However, the realization of this succession is hindered by two formidable obstacles. Firstly, Wilson Fisk is not the sort of individual who willingly relinquishes his power. Known for his ruthless nature and firm grip on the criminal empire, Fisk is unlikely to step aside voluntarily, making any notion of a peaceful transition improbable. Secondly, there's my role in this intricate web of power dynamics. I've been tasked with eliminating Tobias Zucco. Sliding off the barstool, I seamlessly integrate into the dynamic tapestry of patrons, effortlessly blending into the diverse array of personalities populating the bar. Maneuvering through the sea of faces and conversations, the ambient noise acts as a veil, muffling any telltale signs of my approach. Upon reaching the proximity of the target, I seamlessly transition into the role of a silent observer, awaiting the opportune moment to strike the killing blow.
Feeling a flair for the theatrical, I place a bullet on the table in front of Tobias Zucco. The man eyes the bullet, a brow raised, seemingly intrigued by the ominous gesture. The pulsating music continues to cloak my actions as I execute a quick draw of my pistol. In a rapid succession of calculated shots, the suppressed muzzle flash is barely noticeable in the dimly lit ambiance, and each bullet finds its target. The crowded bar, caught in the throes of the rhythmic beats, remains blissfully unaware of the orchestrated act of violence unfolding in their midst. The metallic symphony of gunfire punctuates the air as Tobias Zucco, caught in the lethal choreography, slumps over the table. As the life drains from Tobias's eyes, I observe with a detached intensity. In the aftermath, I slip back into the shadows, melding seamlessly with the oblivious crowd, leaving behind the lingering echoes of a performance that unfolded and concluded with the cold finality of a well-scripted act.
[Griffith's Resident, New York City]
[Car.] Seated in the confined space of the car, I find solace in the art of waiting. It's a reflective practice, one that underscores the importance of patience—a crucial skill in my line of work. The muted hum of the city's constant activity provides a backdrop, a subtle reminder of the rhythm of life beyond the steel confines. Patience, I believe, is more than just a virtue; it's a disciplined art form, a skill honed through countless hours of surveillance and silent observation. In a world where immediacy often takes precedence, mastering the delicate balance of stillness and alertness sets apart the adept from the novice. Not many can truly grasp the intricacies of this skill, the ability to navigate the fine line between anticipation and action. It's the quiet before the storm, the calm preceding a storm of calculated movements. As I sit in the car, I embrace the waiting, understanding that in this seeming stillness lies the preparation for the dynamic tasks that define my profession.
The next target on the list is a man named Jaeger Griffith, a formidable figure in the criminal underworld. Serving as a SWAT commander, he holds a pivotal role as Kingpin's eyes and ears within the NYPD, as well as a commander of a ruthless hit squad. His strategic importance in both law enforcement and the underworld underscores the complexity of the operation ahead. Taking down Griffith will not only sever a crucial connection between the criminal empire and the police force but also dismantle a potent weapon in Kingpin's arsenal. Jaeger Griffith is another name on the list of individuals Zemo wants eliminated.
Curiously, I find myself unfazed by these hit orders. The moral weight that burdens most seems absent in my conscience. It doesn't trouble me. Perhaps it's the lack of morality, a trait that has become an unspoken companion on my journey. A doctor, in a time long past, diagnosed me as a high-functioning psychopath. The revelation didn't startle me; instead, it became a mere footnote in the story of my existence. In the mercenary world, morality often takes a backseat, and the ability to navigate the murky waters of ethical ambiguity becomes a valuable asset. The diagnosis, if anything, serves as an explanation rather than a source of inner conflict. As I embark on the mission to eliminate Jaeger Griffith, I carry the weight of the task with a detached resolve. The lack of moral qualms allows me to execute these orders with clinical precision, further blurring the lines between the righteous and the malevolent. Being labeled a high-functioning psychopath is not a curse but rather a badge of adaptability, a survival mechanism that enables me to navigate the treacherous path.
I exit the car, and a bitter chill pervades the air, seeping into the vehicle's interior. The coldness is palpable, hitting the back of my throat with each breath, creating a sharp contrast to the warmth within the confines of the car. I find a peculiar comfort in this wintry atmosphere; there's something fitting about carrying out tasks of consequence during the cold months. Winter, with its icy grip on the city, becomes a silent accomplice to the missions at hand. The world is quieter, the sounds muffled by the blanket of snow, providing a surreal backdrop to the actions unfolding in the shadows. As I step into the biting cold, the sensation becomes invigorating, heightening my senses and sharpening my focus. There's an inherent rightness in the act of carrying out an assassination during the winter as if the season itself lends a certain clarity to the choices made in the frigid silence.
There's a twinge of excitement coursing through me as I approach Griffith's home, a sizable residence nestled in Queens. The discrepancy is glaring — a house of this magnitude stands in stark contrast to what one could afford on a regular police payroll, even with the perks of a special unit. It's a telltale sign, a breadcrumb in the intricate trail of corruption that often weaves through the tapestry of power. The quiet suburban neighborhood serves as a deceptive backdrop to the illicit dealings hidden within the walls of the seemingly affluent home. The streets lie deserted, devoid of a single soul in sight. Once again, I find gratitude in the winter working in my favor. The biting cold proves to be an ally, creating an environment where normal people would rather avoid venturing out. The frigid temperatures act as a natural deterrent, ensuring the solitude of the streets, a condition that aligns seamlessly with the clandestine nature of my work. The absence of witnesses becomes an unspoken advantage as I navigate the quiet streets, the echoes of my footsteps the only audible sound in the hushed atmosphere. The winter, with its harsh conditions, becomes a silent accomplice, shielding my actions in a shroud of secrecy. In the solitude of the cold, the stage is set for a choreography of calculated moves, where the elements themselves conspire to keep the curious at bay and allow my mission to unfold undisturbed.
Leaping over the gate, I make my way to the corner of the house, blending into the shadows as I lay in wait. The winter night veils my movements, and the stillness of the surroundings lend an eerie quiet to my concealed position. Crouched in the darkness, every muscle poised for action, I become an indiscernible silhouette against the house. Jaeger Griffith arrives half an hour later. I watch as Griffith approaches, his silhouette framed by the faint glow of the porch light. As he reaches the front door, I silently emerge from the shadows, closing the distance with practiced stealth. With a swift and calculated move, I sneak up behind him, my movements as silent as the winter night itself. In a seamless motion, I wrap my arms around his neck, locking him in a sleeper hold. The element of surprise works in my favor, and before Griffith can react, the vice-like grip restricts his airflow. The subdued struggle is muffled by the cold silence, and I maintain a firm, controlled pressure, ensuring his incapacitation. As Griffith succumbs to the sleeper hold, his resistance fades. I glance over my shoulder, ensuring that the cloak of the night remains undisturbed, and with a decisive motion, I step over the body. Gripping Griffith firmly, I commence the task of dragging the unconscious figure into the house.
[Inside.] The first order of business is securing Griffith. I tie him securely to a chair, ensuring his movements are restricted. The cold, dimly lit room becomes a stage for the impending confrontation. Now, I wait. Positioned at a distance, I observe the unconscious figure. The rhythmic ticking of a nearby clock seems to synchronize with the quiet anticipation. As Griffith stirs, the calculated silence of the room is punctuated by the subtle sounds of his awakening. Griffith's eyes flicker open, and a moment of disorientation clouds his gaze as he takes in his surroundings. Blinking in confusion, his eyes eventually land on me, and the realization of his predicament dawns on him. Attempting to move, he quickly discovers the constraints that bind him to the chair. The initial confusion in his eyes morphs into fear. It's a joyful sight that brings a certain satisfaction — the acknowledgment that control has shifted, and the balance of power now rests in my hands. I linger in silence for a moment, savoring the tableau before me. Every nuance of Griffith's expressions is noted as a silent inventory of the myriad emotions playing across his face. The initial fear transforms into a kaleidoscope of sentiments — anger, as the realization of his predicament settles; thoughtfulness, as he weighs the gravity of the situation; disbelief, questioning the unfolding reality; cunning, as he contemplates possible strategies; and finally, resignation, as the inevitability of the circumstances takes hold.
Now, it's time to get down to business. I begin to circle Griffith, a predator assessing its prey. I carefully craft a lie, a narrative woven with strands of truth. I inform him that the Kingpin himself has sent me, expressing suspicion of a traitor within the syndicate's ranks. In this deception, there's a kernel of reality. Whispers circulate, hinting at certain members of the Kingpin's inner circle harboring ambitions to take over the syndicate, perceiving Fisk has grown weak. Griffith's expressions play out a symphony of emotions—distrust, concern, and a hint of urgency. The atmosphere becomes charged with the weight of the fabricated revelation, a calculated ploy to extract information and gauge his reactions. The man swiftly begins to divulge names of individuals loyal to the Kingpin. As each name tumbles from his lips, I make a mental note of those he omits. These unmentioned figures may prove valuable to Zemo. My personal inclination leans towards a more drastic approach. Wiping the entire board clean and starting off fresh seems like a compelling course of action. In the calculated world of power dynamics, eliminating potential threats before they materialize is a strategy that resonates with the cold efficiency required in my line of work. Once Griffith is done talking, I seize him by the hair, pulling his head back. In a movement executed with surgical precision, a knife glides across his neck. The act is clinical, devoid of hesitation, and pain seems an abstract concept, never registering on the canvas.
[Karai POV]
[AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
Finally learning the girl's name, Zoey, she and I, accompanied by Spartan and Wanda, make our way to AVENGERS HQ. I gather the team in a secure meeting room at AVENGERS HQ, and with a composed demeanor, I provide a comprehensive recap of the events that unfolded at the police precinct. Leaving no detail untouched, I narrate the sequence of actions, the individuals involved, and the implications of each moment. The team sits in rapt attention, absorbing every word I share with a profound interest. Cap and the others exchange glances and reflect a silent acknowledgment of the challenges ahead. Cap turns his head to Zoey, his gaze focused. "Are you still in possession of the flash drive?" he asks. The girl nods in response and places the flash drive on top of the table. Cap takes the flash drive from the table with a steady hand, a silent acknowledgment of the weight it carries. His gaze meets Tony's, and without a word, he passes the device to him. Tony accepts the flash drive, his eyes briefly meeting mine before he shifts his focus to the digital treasure now in his possession.
Utilizing the advanced holo-computer at his disposal, Tony Stark takes charge. The room is bathed in the flickering glow of holographic displays as he interfaces with the flash drive, his fingers dancing deftly across the virtual controls. Lines of code scroll rapidly across the holographic screens as Tony's expertise in hacking comes to the forefront. The intricate dance between man and machine unfolds, a symphony of digital prowess that seeks to breach the barriers of encryption, shielding the information stored on the flash drive. We watch with focused intensity as Tony maneuvers through layers of security protocols. As the digital barriers crumble, the encrypted data yields its secrets, projected onto the holographic screens. The encoded info lay bare by Tony's skillful hacking.
"What are we looking at?" Sam questions, his eyes narrowing as he peers at the holographic displays. The room is filled with a sense of urgency, and the Avengers await Tony Stark's explanation. "Combat data," Tony answers, his tone grave and analytical. The revelation hangs in the air, prompting a ripple of exchanged glances among the team. The implications of such information being in the wrong hands are palpable. "Combat data of what?" Clint presses, his gaze fixed on Tony for clarification. "On us," Spartan voices, breaking the silence and taking charge of decoding the complex information. The realization hits, and a collective murmur echoes in the room. The data, now laid bare, unveils a comprehensive compilation of combat tactics, weaknesses, and strategies tailored specifically to the Avengers. The data within the flash drive unfolds a trove of detailed information on the AVENGERS' battles. As the holographic screens project the wealth of compromised data, a memory stirs within Captain America. In a moment of realization, Cap's gaze sharpens, and he addresses Spartan and Daredevil, "On one of the ops, you mentioned a drone spying on you two?" Spartan and Daredevil exchange knowing glances and nods in confirmation. "You think it's connected?" I ask, seeking Cap's insight into the potential link. The room holds its breath as the Avengers collectively await his response. "Yeah, I do," Cap asserts, his expression hardening with the gravity of the disclosure. The connection between the past surveillance and the present mysterious flash drive becomes a pivotal point in the unfolding narrative.
Abruptly, a torrent of curses escapes Tony's lips. "Shit, the data is erasing itself!" he exclaims, his voice carrying an urgency that reverberates through the high-tech meeting room. In a sudden scramble, Tony attempts to salvage the rapidly disappearing information, his fingers moving with a sense of desperation across the holographic controls. The flickering glow of the holographic displays takes on an erratic quality as Tony battles against time and digital obfuscation. Despite Tony's unparalleled proficiency, the encryption proves to be a formidable adversary. Locked out, he grapples with the frustrating realization that his attempts to save the data are futile.
Compounding the chaos, a new threat emerges as Tony Stark's frenzied efforts to salvage the data are further complicated. In a grim turn of events, a malicious virus begins infiltrating the Avengers' systems. Tony, realizing the magnitude of the situation, issues a command to his AI, "Friday, lockdown all our systems now! Omega-Delta-616!" The atmosphere in the room shifts as the AI, Friday, responds to the emergency protocol. The holographic displays, once vibrant with decrypted data, now become a battleground of conflicting codes as Friday initiates the lockdown sequence. Lines of code scroll rapidly, the room now bathed in an ominous glow as the AI engages in a virtual tug-of-war with the invading virus. The urgency of the situation intensifies as the Avengers collectively brace for the impact of this unforeseen cyber onslaught.
With the malicious virus threatening to compromise their entire digital infrastructure, Tony Stark is forced to make a difficult decision. Recognizing the immediate danger posed by the cyber intrusion, he reluctantly concedes to the erasure of the valuable data they had fought so hard to decrypt. The cyber warfare intensifies, with Tony engaging in a protracted battle against the insidious virus. The holographic displays flicker wildly as lines of code collide and cascade in a digital battlefield. We watch in suspense, our collective focus trained on the outcome of this unseen conflict. After a prolonged struggle, Tony emerges victorious. The virus is eradicated, and a palpable sigh of relief echoes through the room. Natasha, breaking the silence, seeks clarification on the unexpected turn of events. "What just happened?" she questions, her gaze shifting between Tony and the remnants of the holographic displays. "I triggered a trap," Tony confesses, his voice tinged with frustration. The erasure of the data, the sudden onslaught of the virus – it was all part of a meticulously laid trap. The gravity of the situation deepens as the team comes to terms with the fact that the enemy is not only aware of our investigative efforts but has the means to counter us.
[Drake POV]
[1 Day later, 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.
