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[color=black][b][u]12:03 AM; July 22nd, 2018
Roscoe Street Station; New York City[/u][hr][h3]ISSUE #7
PART TWO
BALLET OF GUNFIRE[/h3][/b][/color][hr][/center]
The last two weeks had been spent knocking off Manfredi members and their guards. I had killed three made men so far, along with God knows how many mooks. Manfredi's probably pissing his pants, and the cops were organizing some sort of metahuman response team, to take down folks like me. I suppose it was kind of flattering that they thought I was a meta; little did they know that the only secret to how I had killed so many people without taking a scratch was a pinch of skill, a tablespoon of determination, and a dash of rage. Serve with guns. You got yourself the Punisher.

I step off the train and breathe in the air of Roscoe Street Station, much as I try not to. The place isn't exactly renowned for its cleanliness. It was close to my safehouse, amidst a sea of derelict buildings housing crackheads and bums. I pass by a homeless man who stinks of booze laying on a mattress of old newspapers, dropping a few quarters into his cup as I go.

The Glock shifted nervously under my coat. I felt exposed here. But more importantly, I felt like someone was watching my every move. I looked around, finding no one but myself and the homeless man. Maybe I was just getting paranoid. No one knew where I was, not even Dave. And if they did, I'd get to them before they could think to tell anyone.

A voice from behind pulled me from my thoughts. [color=8882be][b]"You Frank Castle?"[/b][/color]

I turned around. I hadn't seen the guy while I was scanning the station, which meant he had come out of one of the bathrooms. He looked like some kind of vagrant, dressed in unwashed clothes with greasy hair and a bushy beard, carrying nothing but a guitar case and the clothes on his back. He looked far too tensed to just be some homeless musician; eyes taking me in as though calculating how big of a threat I posed.

Somehow, I felt like he wasn't going to tell me I had won the lottery.

[color=black][b]"Maybe I am. Why do you care?"[/b][/color]

[color=8882be][b]"Nothin'. Just wonderin'.[/b][/color] He looked me up and down. [color=8882be][b]"Cops and the mob want you dead. You haven't been making any good impressions."[/b][/color]

This guy's picture must have been next to the word 'bad news' in the dictionary. It felt like the gun under my coat was burning through my clothes and searing my flesh. [color=black][b]"I'm not looking for trouble. Just walk away. Whatever money you're being offered isn't worth it."[/b][/color]

[color=8882be][b]"Sorry, Mr. Castle. It's just business. Look on the bright side: you'll be putting my little girl through college."[/b][/color] The guitar case in his hand cracked wide open, and he had pulled an MP5 from it in a matter of two seconds. I barely had time to dodge before he opened fire, hitting the air where I once was. The homeless man woke at the sound of gunfire and, upon seeing a man shooting at another guy with an SMG, did the smart thing and booked it.

I pulled the pistol from under my coat, firing at the man. Just as I did, he leapt out of the way, firing simultaneously and missing by the smallest fraction of an inch. I rolled backwards, managing to get into a kneeling position. I fired off a round at the man, who rolled on his side out of the way of the shot, firing blindly as he went.

I heard the click of an empty gun; it was his. The half moment of hesitation between trying to fire the gun and tossing it was enough for me to get a shot off, clipping his shoulder. It didn't send him to the ground, but it did slow him down enough that he couldn't instantly pull another trick out of his sleeve. I stood up and ran to cover in the brief moment I had, while he pulled a handgun out from under his jacket and fired in my direction.

The metal trash bin shook with every bullet that struck it, and I knew that after another few shots it would fall over and leave me exposed. So I did the only logical thing, and jumped out from my cover, firing off a few rounds in the man's direction. He leapt to the side just as I did, also firing. We landed right next to each other, both of us sticking our gun to the other's head and firing.

[i]*click* *click*[/i]

We were both empty. I had forgotten to reload after the latest gunfight I had been in, and he had spent most of the clip on the trash can. We both jumped up to our feet, and swung our pistols at each other, landing a hit on the other's face and staggering back. We reloaded. To any passerby it must've been a sight to see; two men doing the exact same things in sync with each other.

As soon as we reloaded, the two of us jumped in opposite directions and fired at the other. One of his shots struck my leg, one of mine struck his off-hand. Once we got up we took to strafing around in a circle, the two of us firing at each other and narrowly missing, before coming to a stop and aiming at the other's head. Another click from both our guns. I was out of ammo; judging by the look on his face, so was he. Our ballet of gunfire had come to an end. Now we would be dancing to a different tune.

We threw our guns to the side and began to fight in a flurry of fists and feet, each of our strikes narrowly missing their marks or being deflected. Occasionally one of us got past the other's defense and landed a hit, but it wasn't long before the other returned the favor. We were two connoisseurs of death, equally matched in skill. It'd take some sort of divine intervention to stop this fight. If it wasn't for fatigue eventually having to set in, we'd probably fight for the rest of time if we went uninterrupted.

But we didn't go uninterrupted. A train came barreling past us, drawing our attention to it. I recovered just a moment before he did, giving me time to go for a throat shot; he fell to the ground, gasping for air. I didn't completely crush his airway like I had hoped, if the sounds of wheezing breaths was anything to go by, but he'd definitely be feeling that in the morning. Still, just because he was down for now didn't mean it wouldn't stop him from coming after me later.

I pulled the small derringer out from my boot. Why didn't I use it after we were both empty? For starters, by the time I got it out he'd have me on the floor and would be kicking the shit out of me. Second, it had been a while since anyone gave me any trouble. I wanted to have an actual fight, if only to make sure I didn't get rusty before I started fighting the [i]really[/i] dangerous guys that Manfredi had.

I took aim at his kneecap and fired, eliciting a blood curdling scream from the man. I wasn't going to kill this guy and make an orphan. Sure, he might've been bullshitting me or cracking a joke when he mentioned his little girl, but I wouldn't chance it. Maybe I was starting to grow soft. Maybe I wanted to let him live after pushing me for the first time in what felt like ages since I'd started this crusade. Maybe I just didn't want that little girl to grow up and come after me for revenge.

Whatever my reasons, I walked away from the crippled man, already mentally preparing myself for my last raid before I struck at Manfredi himself.