Chapter 57:
[Spartan POV]
[Murdock's apartment, New York City]
Acting alone, I manage to get Daredevil into his apartment. The weight of his body feels heavier with each step. His mask, now removed, reveals the face of a man who has endured countless battles, both physical and emotional. Beads of sweat dot his forehead, evidence of the strain he's been under, yet his features remain stoic, betraying little of the pain he must be feeling. Inside his dimly lit apartment, I lay Daredevil down on the couch with care, ensuring he's as comfortable as possible given the circumstances. The room is a reflection of the man who inhabits it - sparse yet functional, with few personal touches to hint at the life he leads outside of vigilantism. The scent of antiseptic hangs faintly in the air, a reminder of the makeshift infirmary he's turned his home into countless times before. As I examine Daredevil's injuries more closely, I'm struck by the resilience of the man before me. Despite the brutality of the attack he endured, there's no indication of any severe damage from the blunt force trauma to the head. His pulse, though slightly elevated, is steady beneath my fingertips, a reassuring sign that he's not in immediate danger. Yet, I can't shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. The line between life and death is often blurred in this line of work, and I know all too well that even the strongest among us are not immune to its capricious whims. With practiced efficiency, I clean and dress Daredevil's wound, careful not to disturb him as he rests. The gentle hum of the city outside provides a soothing backdrop to my ministration. In the quiet of the apartment, I find myself reflecting on the nature of heroism and sacrifice, the sacrifices we make for the greater good, and the toll it takes on those who bear the burden of protecting others. Time passes, I keep a vigilant watch over Daredevil, monitoring his condition.
Daredevil's phone rings for the 100th time. The phone's display shows there have been multiple missed calls from Foggy Nelson and Jessica Jones. With each incessant ring, the tension in the room seems to mount, echoing the urgency of the messages left unattended. I glance at Daredevil's phone, its screen illuminated by the harsh glow of the notifications. The calls from Foggy and Jessica serve as a stark reminder of the responsibilities that weigh heavily on Daredevil's shoulders, even in his moments of vulnerability. Reaching for the phone, a sense of unease washes over me. Each missed call represents a missed opportunity to connect to offer reassurance and support to those who care deeply for Murdock's well-being. I decide to spare them the anguish of waiting in limbo. With a sigh, I silence the ringing phone. It's better to hear from Murdock himself than a stranger.
After a long wait, Murdock starts to wake up. The transition from unconsciousness to awareness is gradual, his movements slow and deliberate as he gradually emerges from the depths of sleep. As consciousness returns, his mind is shrouded in a haze of confusion, his thoughts disjointed and fragmented. For a moment, panic threatens to consume him, a primal instinct born of the uncertainty that surrounds him. But then, slowly but surely, clarity begins to dawn. With a sharp intake of breath, Murdock's senses come alive, his heightened perception painting a vivid picture of the world around him. The texture of the couch beneath him is rough against his skin, each thread of fabric a tactile reminder of his physical presence in this moment. Taking in his surroundings, Murdock's panic begins to ebb, replaced by a sense of calm born of familiarity. His enhanced senses serve as a compass, guiding him through the labyrinth of sensations that define his reality. With each passing moment, Murdock's awareness deepens, his mind sharpening like a blade honed to perfection. He becomes acutely aware of the injuries he sustained during the night's events; the dull ache of bruised ribs and the throbbing pain of a headache lingers. But even as discomfort gnaws at him, he remains steadfast.
"Are you a coffee guy or tea guy?" I inquire from Murdock's kitchen, the question hanging in the air as I prepare to tend to his needs. His response is measured, a reflection of his stoic demeanor. "Tea and Aspirin should be good," he replies, his voice tinged with a hint of gratitude for my assistance. With a sense of purpose, I retrieve the necessary items. Making my way back to where Murdock rests, I set the tea gently on the table, the warmth from the cup radiating comfort. "Aspirin is a no-go. I already gave you some painkillers via IV," I inform him, a note of reassurance underlying my words. It's important to ensure he receives the appropriate treatment. As I speak, I observe his reaction, searching for any signs of discomfort or distress that may indicate a deeper concern. Murdock nods in understanding, a silent acknowledgment of my efforts to provide him with the care he requires. Pouring a cup of tea, I offer it to Murdock. Gulping a few sips, Murdock's eyes go wide in realization; the sudden panic washes over him like a wave. "Jessica!" he exclaims, the urgency in his voice echoing the concern etched on his features. Reacting swiftly, I hold up a hand, a gesture meant to quell his rising panic before it can spiral out of control. "She's fine," I assure him, "Her and Grotto made it to the police precinct." Murdock processes the information; a flood of emotions washes over him, relief mingling with gratitude in equal measure. With a sigh of relief, he leans back against the couch, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his exhaustion. Murdock takes another sip of tea; I can see the tension slowly melting away from his body.
I grab the Daredevil mask and study it over, focusing on the bullet impact that cracked the mask. The fracture lines spread out like intricate veins, a visual testament to the danger that Daredevil faces every time he dons the guise of the devil of Hell's Kitchen. As I run my fingers over the damaged surface, I can't help but marvel at the resilience of the material, the sturdy construction that has spared Daredevil from the full force of the bullet. As I scrutinize the damage, Murdock's voice cuts through the silence, his words tinged with a hint of self-reproach. "I should've clocked the hidden pistol," he remarks, his tone laced with regret for the oversight that nearly cost him his life. It's a moment of introspection for him, a chance to reflect on his mistakes and learn from them.
"Five feet," I note, still gazing at the mask, my voice carrying a weight of concern as I assess the gravity of the situation, "A shot like that could've killed you. One inch in any other direction and your brain would've been nothing but slop." The words hang in the air, stark reminders of the razor-thin margin between life and death that Daredevil navigates with each passing moment. "I got lucky," Murdock voices, his tone humble yet tinged with a hint of disbelief at his own survival. But as he speaks, I can sense the underlying resolve in his words, a determination to continue his mission despite the dangers. I shake my head, a frown creasing my brow as I contemplate the events of the night. "There's no such thing as luck," I reply firmly, my voice leaving no room for doubt. "The rogue vigilante is a pro. He knows what he's doing." It's a sobering realization, the knowledge that we're up against an adversary who's as skilled and ruthless. Sighing, Murdock reaches out to retrieve the mask, his fingers tracing the contours of the damaged surface with a sense of reverence.
[1 Day Later, Police Precinct, New York City]
[Rooftop.] Due to the fact that Grotto is the rogue vigilante's target, Murdock and I opted to stay close to the man. Following the occurrences of last night, the peril now appears more daunting than before, especially with the rogue vigilante's unpredictable nature. While I wait, stationed on a rooftop across the police precinct, Murdock, donning civilian clothing, makes his way into the precinct. The lawyer persona is fully on display. With each passing moment, the tension in the air seems to thicken, a palpable reminder of the danger that lurks just beyond the horizon. Via the onboard computer within my combat-suit, I hack the precinct's internal security network, navigating through layers of encryption and security protocols with practiced ease. Inside the precinct, the atmosphere crackles with energy. Officers bustle about, their voices a constant murmur against the backdrop of ringing phones and clicking keyboards. It's not long before I locate Jones and Grotto in one of the private rooms, their presence highlighted by the flickering glow of the computer screens. Jones occupies herself filling out documents. Grotto, sitting on the opposite end of the table, visibly shakes, his nerves betraying the gravity of the situation. "Is that window bulletproof?" he asks nervously, his gaze darting around the room in search of potential threats. Jones raises her head, peers at the window, and then back at Grotto, her expression calm yet resolute. "There's 30 cops outside the room. You're safe," she reassures him, her voice steady despite the underlying tension. Grotto huffs, the memory of past events weighing heavily on his mind. "It wasn't that long ago an entire precinct got wiped out by a small gang of psychos. One of them was a meta," he recalls, his voice tinged with a mixture of fear and frustration. Jones winces slightly at the last statement, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability amidst her usual stoicism.
Grotto glances around the room, still jumpy, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. "You don't seem rattled by all of this? A guy almost blows your head and you barely flinch," he observes, his voice tinged with disbelief. Jones meets his gaze head-on, her eyes steady and unwavering. "In my line of work, dangerous situations come with the job," she replies, her tone firm yet empathetic. At that moment, Murdock and Foggy Nelson enter the room. Before doing anything else, Murdock approaches Jones with genuine concern etched on his features. "Are you okay?" he asks softly, his voice laced with sincerity. Jones offers him a small smile, her eyes reflecting a sense of gratitude for his concern. "I'm still breathing, Murdock," she replies, her words a testament to her resilience in the face of danger.
Nelson sits down next to Grotto. "You told us your crew was attacked by a whole gang. Specifically used the word army. Want to tell us why we're now learning all this is being done by one man?" he inquires, his tone measured yet probing. Grotto shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting between Nelson and Murdock as he struggles to find the right words. "The whole fiasco was chaotic! I couldn't tell what was going on! Bullets were raining down everywhere!" Grotto snaps, his voice tinged with frustration. He takes a moment to collect himself, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "There were rumors about a one-man army gunning after major players. I thought it was ridiculous. Rambo BS. Guy talking up ghost stories," he explains, his voice trailing off as he recalls the events of that fateful night. Murdock listens intently to Grotto's account, his brow furrowed in thought. "Unfortunately, the man is very real," he comments, his tone somber, "And he has his sights set on specific targets." His words hang heavy in the air. As the conversation continues, the weight of the situation becomes increasingly apparent. Nelson and Murdock exchange knowing glances, their minds already racing with potential courses of action. Grotto, meanwhile, struggles to come to terms with the reality of his situation, his gaze distant as he grapples with the implications of being targeted by a ruthless individual.
Murdock, Nelson, and Jones gather in the lobby to plan their next move. As they speak among each other, Jones spots an approaching woman, her presence casting a shadow over their conversation. "Damn. It's the DA. Not an assistant," Nelson exclaims in a low-swipered voice, a note of concern creeping into his tone. Murdock's jaw tightens slightly as he registers the significance of the woman's presence. "Samantha Reyes," he states quietly, his voice tinged with a mixture of respect and wariness, recognizing the person by reputation. Reyes stops right in front of the three, her gaze sweeping over them with a cool detachment that sends a shiver down their spines. Her demeanor exudes authority and confidence, her every movement calculated and deliberate. Without a word, she turns to her assistant and two officers behind her, issuing brisk orders with the efficiency of someone accustomed to command. The trio stands silently, acutely aware of the power she wields and the weight of her scrutiny. Ever the professional, Nelson reaches out a hand for a shake, a gesture meant to convey civility and respect. Reyes peers down at the man's hand but never takes it. She regards it as if it's something distasteful, causing Nelson to slowly draw back his hand, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features. "Ms. Reyes, I'm Foggy Nelson. And these are my colleagues. Matt Murdock and Jessica Jones," he introduces, his voice steady despite the awkwardness of the encounter.
Reyes shifts her eyes at the two flanking Nelson's side, her gaze lingering on Jessica Jones for a moment longer than necessary, a subtle indication of her interest. "Jones," she acknowledges, her tone neutral yet tinged with a hint of curiosity. Jones meets her gaze head-on, her expression guarded yet unyielding. "Reyes," she replies coolly, her voice betraying nothing of the underlying tension between them. Murdock, sensing the tension in the air, interjects with a question, his voice measured yet probing. "You two know each other?" he inquires, his brow furrowing in curiosity. Jones nods in confirmation, her gaze never leaving Reyes's face. "We crossed paths a few times when I worked for Jeri Hogarth," she explains.
Going back to ignoring the three, Reyes tells the officers to ready Grotto for transport. The atmosphere in the lobby becomes tense, the weight of the impending decision hanging heavy in the air. Murdock, Nelson, and Jones exchange glances. Finally getting annoyed with the blatant disrespect, Murdock cuts Reyes off, his voice firm. "Excuse me. My client has already given us a list of his conditions," he interjects, his tone tinged with a hint of frustration at being sidelined in the discussion. Reyes, slightly taken aback by the blind man's boldness, turns to face him fully, her expression a mixture of annoyance and grudging respect. "Mr. Murdock, have you ever negotiated a witness protection agreement?" Reyes asks, her voice laced with skepticism as she challenges his authority. Murdock meets her gaze head-on, his confidence unwavering despite the tension in the air. "A few," he replies calmly. As their exchange continues, the lobby seems to shrink around them, the other occupants fading into the background as Murdock and Reyes lock horns in a battle of wills. Each word spoken carries weight, each gesture laden with unspoken implications as they jockey for control of the situation. Coming out on top in the argument, Murdock and his team follow Reyes back to the private room, much to Reyes's disappointment. As they walk the hall, Reyes's discontent is plain to see. She knows she's been outmaneuvered by Murdock's legal prowess, and it rankles her to admit it, even to herself.
Inside the room, Murdock and Reyes prepare to negotiate the terms of Grotto's witness protection agreement. Murdock wastes no time in asserting his client's rights, his voice steady and unwavering as he lays out his demands with precision and clarity. "I'll keep it simple. Make me a deal and I'll tell you everything about the Costello Crime Family. Names, dates, and operations," Grotto tells Reyes, his voice edged with a hint of desperation. Reyes rolls her eyes dismissively at Grotto's offer. "That's not good enough," she declares, her tone dripping with skepticism. Murdock and Nelson exchange incredulous glances, struggling to comprehend Reyes's reluctance to accept such valuable information. "What do you mean it isn't good enough? Grotto is handing you a treasure trove of information on a major crime family," Nelson retorts disbelievingly. "Most of the Costello Crime Family are dead or fleeing the country," Reyes states plainly, "If Grotto wants the DA's office endorsement, he has to give us something better." Murdock furrows his brow in thought, considering their options carefully. "Okay, so how does my client manage that?" he questions.
The assistant, speaking on Reyes's behalf, lays out their proposal. "We would like Grotto to wear a wire and meet one of his old associates. Our files show the Costello Crime Family had dealings with Edgar Brass," he explains, his tone businesslike and to the point. Grotto's eyes widen in fear at the mention of Brass's name. "Brass?! You're out of your damn mind. The man's a freaking butcher. If you guys send me after him, I'm as good as dead," Grotto protests, his voice trembling with genuine fear. "Why Grotto?" Murdock presses. Reyes stares at all four individuals at the other end of the table. "Because your client used to work for him," she reveals, her words carrying a weight of finality. Grotto's eyes widen in disbelief at the revelation, his mind racing with the implications of what Reyes's words mean for his future. "What if I say no?" Grotto inquires, his voice barely above a whisper. Reyes shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. "You're free to walk away. But I doubt you'll get very far," she replies, her tone ominously neutral. With a swift motion, she gestures to her assistant, who produces a large file from his briefcase. Jones, unable to contain her curiosity, flips through the file, her eyes widening in shock at its contents. "What is this?" she asks. "All of the rogue vigilante's victims," Reyes tells them, her voice tinged with grim determination. "These are not random hits. The man knows exactly who he's targeting and eliminating them with military precision. My office dubs him the Punisher. If you help us take down Brass, we will place you in witness protection. New identity, new life. The choice is yours," she concludes, her words hanging heavy in the air as they grapple with the weight of their decision.
I arch a brow, my suspicions rising like a dark cloud over the conversation. This whole thing feels off, too orchestrated to be a mere coincidence. Brass is undoubtedly a menace, but he's still a small fry compared to the other major players in the criminal underworld. Why is the DA wasting time and resources on him? It doesn't add up. It's a setup, plain and simple. Reyes doesn't care about Brass; that much is clear. Her focus isn't on apprehending a low-level criminal; she's after something bigger, something more elusive. And Grotto is nothing more than a pawn in her dangerous game. She's using him as bait, a sacrificial lamb to lure the Punisher into a trap.
[Hours Later, Shipping Yard, New York City]
[Rooftop.] By rooftop, I shadow Nelson, Jones, and Reyes as they navigate the labyrinthine streets of the city, heading towards a makeshift command center tucked away in a warehouse. Murdock isn't with them. My best guess is he's handling another matter, likely getting his mask fixed. After a few minutes of waiting, Grotto emerges from the command center, nearly tripping himself. Forcing himself to calm his nerves, he strides to a shipping yard. He enters the property. Eyes alert, the man calls out Brass, but there is no response. The night air crackles with tension as Grotto cautiously makes his way through the shadows of the shipping containers, his heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of impending doom. Every creak and rustle of the night echoes like a warning sign. The man knows he's playing a dangerous game, but what choice does he have? It's either make this deal work or take his chances on the run with a bloodthirsty vigilante hunting him. Suddenly, a figure emerges from around one of the shipping containers, sending a jolt of fear coursing through Grotto's veins. He can't tell if the man is Brass or one of his goons. Grotto puts on a brave face, "Good one, asshole. Let's get this done. I got places to be." He walks towards the stranger. Once in grabbing distance, the stranger catches hold of Grotto and pushes him into the container. Via HUD, I see Grotto yelling into the radio mic under his shirt. The stranger, who turns out to be a SWAT officer, tells him to shut up and to stay low. Grotto freezes, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events. The SWAT officer tosses him a bulletproof vest; Grotto's hands move on autopilot, mechanically fastening the straps around his chest while his thoughts whirl in a dizzying blur.
At that moment, a truck speeds down the street, heading right toward the shipping yard. The sound of screeching tires fills the air as the vehicle barrels towards its destination with reckless abandon. The SWAT team on the scene springs into action, their training kicking in as they assess the imminent threat. With weapons drawn, they prepare to neutralize the threat. Orders are shouted over the din of gunfire, but amidst the flurry of activity, one voice rises above the rest. "Open fire! Take out the driver!" The SWAT team unleashes a volley of bullets at the oncoming truck. The air is filled with the staccato rhythm of gunfire, each shot echoing like a thunderclap in the night. But even as the officers unleash a hail of bullets, the truck continues its relentless advance, its momentum unchecked by the onslaught of firepower. Panic grips the scene as the realization dawns that their efforts may not be enough to stop the impending disaster. Then, with a deafening crash, the truck slams into a shipping container, its metal frame buckling under the force of the impact. For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the hiss of steam escaping from the crumpled wreckage. Then, with a sense of grim determination, a SWAT officer strides forward, his weapon trained on the driver's side door of the truck. He reaches for the handle, steeling himself for whatever lies beyond. The door swings open, and the scene inside reveals a dead, tied-up, and gagged figure slumped behind the wheel. It's Brass. "Not the target! Punisher is still in the wind!" the officer declares. And as the realization sinks in, the officers exchange worried glances, knowing that their work is far from over.
My head snaps up straight as the HUD tags a figure perched on top of the water tower, aiming a sniper rifle. It's the Punisher. From my vantage point, I watch as the Punisher adjusts his aim. There's a predatory focus in his gaze, a steely determination that speaks volumes of the relentless force he embodies. The rogue vigilante takes aim, his finger hovering over the trigger with deadly intent.
Out of the blue, a smoke grenade drops by the Punisher's feet, catching the vigilante by surprise as it goes off. Thick plumes of smoke billow around him, obscuring his vision and disorienting his senses. The acrid smell fills the air as he struggles to make sense of the sudden assault. In the midst of the swirling haze, a figure emerges with the grace and agility of a predator stalking its prey. Daredevil materializes from within the smoke, his crimson-clad form a stark contrast against the murky backdrop. In a breathtaking display of skill, Daredevil executes a double-drop-kick, his feet connecting with the Punisher's chest. The Punisher staggers backward, his balance compromised by the unexpected attack. With a desperate lunge, he reaches out to steady himself, but it's too late. The force of Daredevil's kick sends him hurtling over the edge of the water tower, his body plummeting towards the ground below. He hits the surface hard but is still in the fight. Despite the impact, the Punisher refuses to yield, his resolve unbroken even as pain courses through his body. Gritting his teeth, he pushes himself to his feet, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he prepares to face the defender of Hell's Kitchen once more. Daredevil, undeterred by the Punisher's resilience, follows suit, leaping down from the water tower. As the two clash amidst the chaos of the shipping yard, their movements are a blur of speed and skill, each blow exchanged with the ferocity of combatants locked in a deadly dance.
Meanwhile, high above the fray, the SWAT team springs into action, their weapons trained on the combatants below. Through the comlink, I overhear Reyes issuing the order to shoot, her voice cold and commanding. Realizing the gravity of the situation, I quickly dash towards the SWAT team, holding out my SHIELD badge and yelling for them to stop shooting. My call for a ceasefire falls on deaf ears. The air crackles with tension as the standoff between the vigilantes and the SWAT team escalates. One of the SWAT officers spots me and, without hesitation, takes a shot at me. The bullet ricochets off my armor, sending a jolt of impact through my body before clattering to the ground. I glare at the SWAT officer. "Fine. Hard way it is," I mutter under my breath, knowing that negotiation is no longer an option.
Flanking the unit of five, I take down the first guy by executing a hip-throw that sends him crashing to the ground with a resounding thud. His comrades react with alarm, but their hesitation proves to be their downfall. As SWAT-2 raises his weapon, his movements sluggish compared to my own, I seize the opportunity to disarm him. The weapon clatters to the ground, momentarily forgotten amidst the chaos of the confrontation. Using SWAT-2 as a shield, I maneuver strategically, positioning myself to gain the upper hand in the escalating conflict. Drawing my pistol, I swiftly adjust its settings to stun mode, a calculated decision born of a desire to neutralize the threat without resorting to lethal force. With a steady hand, I take aim and unleash a series of precise shots, each one finding its mark. The three SWAT officers fall in rapid succession and are out of the fight.
I sprint to the other side of the roof, my footsteps echoing against the concrete as I rush towards the ongoing skirmish between the squad of SWAT officers and Daredevil and Punisher. As I close in on the unsuspecting SWAT-6, I channel all my momentum into a powerful jump, launching myself through the air. With a resounding impact, I collide with SWAT-6, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap. But there is no time to dwell on the victory as I roll to my feet, ready to face the next challenge head-on. I deploy a grapple-line, its metallic cord whistling through the air as it snakes toward SWAT-7's weapon. Jerking back, the weapon is entangled from SWAT-7's grasp before he even has a chance to react. He lunges towards me in a desperate attempt to regain control, but I hold my ground. Holding SWAT-7 at bay, I bash a devastating knee strike to his face. He crumples to the ground unconscious. SWAT-8 grabs hold of me in a full-nelson. Acting on instinct, I shift my weight and leverage, then reach over and flip the man onto his back. SWAT-8 hits the ground, stunned by the reversal. Gun aimed, I double-tap him with stun rounds. The crackle of electricity fills the air as the rounds connect with SWAT-8's body.
Switching my attention back to Daredevil and Punisher, I catch the two hurling themselves through a skyline window, the glass shattering into a cascade of shards as they crash through with reckless abandon. The sound of their impact reverberates through the air. Peeking through the broken window, I observe the aftermath of their collision, my eyes scanning the dimly lit interior for any sign of movement. Daredevil is the first to emerge from the wreckage, his crimson-clad form battered and bruised. With a determined grimace, he begins to rise to his feet, his movements slow and unsteady as he shakes off the effects of the brutal encounter. Every muscle in his body tenses with the effort. But as I scan the room for any sign of the Punisher, I find myself coming up empty-handed. The notorious vigilante is nowhere to be seen; his presence is a haunting absence.