[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/kxtPWp5.jpg?3[/img] [url=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eugene_V._Debs][i]“I am opposing a social order in which it is possible for one man who does absolutely nothing that is useful to amass a fortune of hundreds of millions of dollars, while millions of men and women who work all the days of their lives secure barely enough for a wretched existence.”[/i][/url] -- Eugene V. Debs [/center] [b]Midtown Manhattan 11:22 PM[/b] Sam Symington did a line of coke off his black onyx countertop. Symington cheered, surrounded by three call girls in their underwear who cheered along with him, and said something that Rachel couldn't catch. She was in a perch across the street from Symington's penthouse, watching the action with a pair of night vision goggles. She'd been watching the little shit since earlier this afternoon, taking over for Yorkie. In that time Symington had done six lines of coke, went through five bottles of eight hundred dollar champagne, and had some kind of sexual contact with all three of his hookers. The coke, the champagne, the girls, all of ti was paid for by stealing from others. Hundreds of people lost their life savings and Symington was living it up. Rachel wished she'd been allowed to bring her sniper rifle tonight. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to put a bullet right through that assholes smug little smile and watch the bullet blow his teeth and brains across that penthouse. But Castle's orders said this was a simple recon job for the moment. Besides, blowing him away from afar wouldn't be justice. It had to be up close, he had to know what he was dying for. Plus, Rachel's company wouldn't like seeing Symington die. There were two different FBI surveillance teams watching the penthouse, one up in another building watching the penthouse and one down on the streets just in case Symington left. She pulled out her radio and activated the three button sequence that encrypted it. The FBI had bigger fish to fry, but the last thing they wanted was the feds getting wind that someone else was watching. "They still there, A?" Rachel asked into her radio. [i]"They left for about five minutes to get some hotdogs. They're back now."[/i] "Shit. I'm gonna get the big man on the horn." She changed frequencies and ran through the encryption code again. "F, this is R." ----- [b]Lieberman's PC Repair Brooklyn 11:24 PM[/b] "I could do kiddie porn?" David Liberman, better known by his handle Microchip, looked at Frank Castle with raised eyebrows. The back of Microchip's store was a cluttered mess of computers, motherboards, wires, and cables. Through all the junk he'd managed to carve out a workspace for himself and a chair for a guest. Castle sat in that chair while Microchip brainstormed ideas. Castle shook his head. "I don't want to frame someone him for something he didn't do. I want to kill him." On the screen in front of Microchip was Sam Symington's financial records. It took him maybe ten minutes to run down all the bank accounts and offshore holdings that he had. All told there was sixty-five million dollars in liquid assets and almost that much in property. Almost all of the money had been frozen by the IRS in light of the trial, but one of Symington's first legal actions was ordering those accounts unfrozen. Castle looked at the screen and squinted. He followed the action on Symington's active account. "Lots of cash withdrawls. Drugs?" "Probably," Microchip shrugged. "The guy even buys his hookers with a credit card. So far as I know, drug dealing is still a cash and carry business. What about finding out who his dealer is and cutting his coke with rat posion or something?" "Too sneaky. I want him to know why he's dying and who's doing it to him." [i]"F, this is R."[/i] "F here," Castle said. "What's wrong?" [i]"A and I are surrounded by Feds. They're watching him just as close as we are. Two teams on two levels. They're not those Thornguard assholes, but they might as well be another group of bodyguards. It looks likee a straight up assault on the penthouse is a no-go. What do you want us to do?"[/i] Castle sighed and spoke into the radio. "Leave as soon as you can slip away without the FBI noticing you. We'll have to go back to the drawing board. F out." He disconnected and pocketed the radio. "Always got to pick the popular ones, Frank?" Castle grunted and stared at Microchip's computer screen. All that money that man had taken from others, all the lives he had ruined, the way he had perverted the justice system, and now he was getting defacto FBI protection to party all night and do blow and fuck hookers. "Wait a minute," Castle said as he stood. "Scroll back up. Let me look at something. I may have an idea." ----- [b]One Police Plaza 12:45 AM[/b] Oscar Clemmons was preparing to call it a night. He'd been here in the basement for close to sixteen hours. The bagel Chase brought him that afternoon served as his lunch, reheated Chinese takeout as his dinner. If his wife were still alive she'd be hopping mad that he spent so much time at work. He would be sleeping on the couch tonight if Sarah had her way. As it was, he slept on the couch every night. He couldn't stand to sleep in that bed anymore. It still smelled like her. He was afraid that if he got in he'd never want to leave. No, better to spend most of the day down here than to succumb to that. At least here he was making progress of a sort. He had files on files of unsolved murders that occurred in the Five Burroughs. He'd been combing through each one to find something to link any more murders to the Punisher, or the Punishers as he had taken to calling them. There were maybe five additional ones he felt positive were Castle and whoever's handiwork. He knew the brass would be more inclined to stick more on Castle if they could. Nothing brought the clearance and solve rate down like charging a man you couldn't actually arrest. It was a paper clearance, chickenshit in Oscar's mind, and it only made the NYPD look good on paper but looking good on paper seemed to be all the brass cared about. The elevator door opened. Oscar didn't bother looking up. At this time of night it would only be the cleaning crew. He stacked and filed another group of folders on his desk and didn't hear the man until he cleared his throat. "Detective Oscar Clemmons?" Oscar swiveled in his chair and saw a thin man with black hair standing in the doorway. He wore khaki shorts, flip flops, and a plaid button up shirt. Clemmons raised an eyebrow at the man and his dress attire. He grinned widely. "Hi, sorry about this, but my name is William Rawlins. I was supposed to be here earlier but got tied up in Washington. I tried to contact you at home, but there was no answer so I called 1PP to see if they knew where you were." "And here I am," Oscar said as he removed his reading glasses. "Who are you and what can I do for you, Mr. Rawlins?" "I work for the government, detective--" Clemmons smirked. "Government is a broad term, sir. Mind a little more specifics?" "I work for the government," Rawlins said with a grin. He removed a sheet of paper from his suit and passed it to Clemmons. "And I have a special order signed by the Attorney General, Secretary of Defense, and even the NYPD commissioner all saying what I'm doing is above board and has their approval." Clemmons looked at the paper, squinting a bit to read it. He shouldn't have taken his glasses off. "What is it you're doing, Mr. Rawlins?" "Officially? I'm consulting and offering technical support. You're in the capturing Frank Castle business, detective, which is something the US government very much wants to be in. So unofficially, I'm your new partner." Rawlins smiled as Oscar handed him the sheet of paper back. "Now, how about you tell me everything you know about Frank Castle?"