Frank ascended the service stairwell in full gear: the skull stark white against matte black body armor. His boots made no sound on the concrete. He carried a suppressed Mk 14 EBR—precision, not spray-and-pray. Tonight was surgical.
“Castle,” Vaccaro whispered. His voice was high, reedy. “We can make a deal. I have files. Names. Everyone I’ve ever worked for. Judges. Cops. Senators. You want justice? I’ll give you the whole rotten system on a platter.” The Punisher - Part 2
The roof access door was wired. Frank bypassed it with a magnetic shunt he’d built himself—old habits from Valley Forge. He pushed the door open a crack. Frank ascended the service stairwell in full gear:
Frank’s jaw tightened. For one heartbeat—one single, agonizing heartbeat—he saw Lisa’s face. His own daughter. The one he’d held as she bled out on a park bench. Tonight was surgical
Here is Part 2 of the story.
“Justice,” Frank said. The word tasted like ash. “That’s what the courts are for. The ones your money buys.”
Frank Castle sat in the back of a stolen panel van, the smell of gun oil and copper thick in the enclosed space. Before him, a corkboard was plastered with photographs, red string, and newspaper clippings. At the center was a face: Orlando “The Tailor” Vaccaro.