[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/kxtPWp5.jpg?3[/img]

[b]Part III[/b]

[i]"Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule."[/i]
― Charles Dickens
[/center]

[b]
US Federal Penitentiary 
Fishkill, NY
2005[/b]


The cacophony was near-deafening as the gate opened and Frank Castle was led through general population. Two guards flanked him on either side as they walked into the open area where five hundred men watched the Punisher join their ranks.

"Fuck you!" someone yelled.

"Gonna fuck you up, old man!"

There were more threats, each one more lewd than the last one. From a guard station, FBI agent James McCaleb watched the chaos with a frown. For the past twenty years McCaleb had been the Bureau's preeminent Punisher hunter. Nobody had done more to get inside Castle's mindframe and try to plan his next move.

After decades on the run, Castle had walked into a police department in Rye, New York a week ago and turned himself in. The move caused national news and left the big question of why. After decades of avoiding the law, why did he turn himself in? A lot of people in Quantico didn't care about the why, they were just glad it was over. Over McCaleb's protests, Castle had been transferred to the prison here in Fishkill to await trial.

McCaleb knew Castle's play in the prison. The fifty-five year old was coming back to where it all began to end it. In the prison's infirmary ward was eighty-eight year old Dominic Scargetti, the man whose crime family created the Punisher. McCaleb argued with his bosses that the old man was Castle's target. For whatever reason, he was coming here to finally get revenge on the man who took his family away from him. 

The concerns were brushed away. Castle was old, the prison was secure, he'd have to get through so much to even get close to the infirmary that it was impossible. They didn't get it. In the years since 9/11, Frank Castle had been put on the backburner in favor of counter terrorism. Radical Islam was the threat. Meanwhile, Castle had probably killed more people than all the terrorist attacks in America combined. He was one of the most dangerous men in America, and now the FBI was giving him what he wanted.

McCaleb looked on a monitor and watched as Castle was led to an open cell. The electronic door slid shut and the guards walked away. Castle gripped the bars of his cell and looked around. His eyes found the camera McCaleb was watching from and stayed locked on it. After several long seconds of looking, Frank Castle actually smiled at the camera and winked.

----


[b]Boston
Now[/b]


Special Agent Rachel Cole always had lunch at the diner across from the FBI building. Most of the other agents always had lunch together, either in pairs and trios or in groups, but she was always by herself. She was new to the office, having come from the Alabama field office just a month earlier, and was still finding her place. She was in the bank robbery unit -- Massachusetts had a very high number of bank robberies per year -- but what she really wanted was work in the crimes against person section. They were busy with the Bunker Hill Butcher, working with Washington and the Behavioral Analysis Unit to catch the guy. Rachel didn't consider herself the next Clarice Starling, but she wanted to catch serial killers. It was part of the reason she joined the Bureau.

"Hello, Rachel."

And old man slid into the booth across from her. He wore a black jacket and black work pants. His hair was grey and he was big and burly. He looked like an old fighter. She started to protest, but then she saw his eyes. They were green, an unnatural shade of emerald, and bright. Those eyes kept her transfixed and seated right where she was while he spoke.

"When you get back from lunch, you're going to have an idea concerning the Bunker Hill Butcher. The Bureau already knows that he's killing his victims somewhere else and then dumping them at the monument, but you're going to go through a map of Charlestown. You're going to look through the homes and apartments within sight of the monument and find this address --" he gave her the number and street "-- and you're going to find that an apartment on the third floor is rented by a man with two names, the lease is one name and the utility bill is in another, both names are nondescript and sound like aliases. You're going to find this suspicious and check out the apartment yourself. That's when you're going to find DNA evidence that will tie the apartment to the killings. And you're not going to remember this conversation at all. Understand?"

"Yes," she said evenly.

"Good," he said. He stood. "Enjoy your lunch, Special Agent Cole."

He walked out and Rachel remained motionless for a few seconds before blinking rapidly. She looked down at her food. She'd lost her train of thought. The Bunker Hill Butcher, that's right. The killer had taken at least five lives, maybe more. Always dropping them off at the monument... she wondered.

"Can I get my check?" she asked a passing waitress.

She had a thought. Something had clicked in her head. She stood up and threw a twenty dollar bill on the table and walked out before she could get her check. She had to get back to work.