August 29th, 2015. Another Yankee went down over the Su Tinh Lang Valley. Third one to go down since I rotated back in, if I kept my count right. Air Force kept expanding the no fly zone and the rebels kept blowing up helicopters. Rebels. That's a funny word for the guys that hold ninety percent of the country. Thoat Nihn is the only major city the republic still held uncontested. Probably had something to do with the fifty thousand American guns still in country.

I'm riding into the valley in the back of a covered truck. Local civilian model. There were five marine raiders shoved in the back along with enough crates and farm supplies to fool observers. First element. Slow insert, recon the crash site with minimal enemy contact. Second element waited in the wings for rapid extraction if we found anyone alive.

Diesel sits across from me, a cheap cigarette in his teeth. He only took it out long enough to pop a pair of pills. Dexedrine. They were meant to keep a marine awake and alert during extended engagements, but Diesel swallowed pep like it was candy. A stench followed Diesel everywhere he went. His breath stunk of snakes melting in napalm. His sweat reminded me of a gasoline can lost in the back of the hot garage for half a decade.

"Damn it, D." Curtis Hoyle sighed. He reached across the truck and grabbed the fanny pack on Diesel's belt. Diesel tried to shove Hoyle back only to find an elbow planted into his throat, shoving his face up into the canvas covering of the truck. Hoyle snapped open the med pouch and rummaged around until he found the contraband.

Hoyle fell back into his seat, stashing the three extra bottles of pep in his own kit. "I swear to God when we get back to base I'm going to shoot the dumbass selling you these."

"Don't be an asshole, doc," Diesel whined. "I ain't dyin' sober."

"You're not living sober, either."

I did my best not to smile. SARC Hoyle kept our band of delinquents alive through thick and thin. On matters of my unit's health, Curt was king. He could've told me we needed to throw away our bullets because the metal was toxic and I would've listened. If he wanted to replace our morphine with grape juice I'd do it in a heartbeat.

I wasn't worried about D. Drug-addled junkie he may be, but he was a functional junkie. Could fight like hell even if he was half blind on so much speed it'd kill a rhinoceros.

Stephen Goodwin held onto his M39 EMR like drowning man clinging to a life preserver. His hands were shaking something fierce. That caught my eye. I'd never seen him so much as flinch before.

Stevie had been in the Corps for eight years, and Force Recon for two of those. I served with him in recon for several months in Afghanistan. The guy was a hell of a shot. I was happy to recommend him to the Det One pilot program that turned us all into raiders.

"You got that letter from home yet, Stevie?" I asked. Kept my voice at an even keel, trying to keep it casual.

He blinked six times too many and shook his head, like he was waking from a bad dream. Then he looked at me. I recognized that misty glint in his eyes. Can't remember how many times I'd seen it before; more than anyone should.

"Y-yes sir, yeah. I did."

"Your wife doin' okay?"

Stevie nodded. He looked down at his boots.

I tried on a smile. It looked as fake as it felt. "Boy? Girl?"

He looked back up at me, and the mist turned to fog.

"Ah." I sat back. "Boy." Everyone in the unit knew he wanted a boy. All he'd talked about for months was turning the kid into a real cowboy. Take over his dad's ranch, raise a head of cattle all his own, everything.

"Yeah," the kid choked on a sob. "I didn't think this shit was gonna bother me, but-"

"Hey." I leaned across the truck to slap Stevie's shoulder. "I get it. When junior was born it scared the hell outta me. All'a the sudden I wasn't just watching my own ass out here. Now there's a kid in the world who'd be missin' his dad if I got shot. It changes you. You know what I mean?"

Stevie buried his snotty nose and bleary eyes into his sleeve. "How do you deal with it, man?"

"Use it. You don't wanna die? Good. Do your job. Kill every motherfucker that comes at you. 'S the only way to get home."

Once I knew Goodwin got the message, I shifted in my seat to face the last member of the tactical element: their bald-headed giant shoved into the back of the truck bed. Belts of ammunition wrapped around his thick shoulders and ran down his chest. His SAW leaned against his shoulder. A small cross on a beaded necklace sat in his catcher's mitt of a palm as he muttered a prayer in Latin. Honest to God Latin.

"Hey, Monk. Watch the kid for me, okay?"

Monk didn't stop his prayers. He didn't even nod his head. It was like talking to a statue. I shook it off and prepared myself for the work ahead.

My radio buzzed to life with the voice of our driver,Vân, a soldier in the SNRA. "Road block ahead. They're uniformed PRA."

The People's Republic Army had uniformed soldiers this far south? That didn't bode well. The rest of the team turned to stare at me. Their eyes were hard set, but it was impossible to hide the cold terror behind them. This valley was contested territory. There should've been at least two battalions of national republic troops between this road and the reds.

"Those motherfuckers ran." Diesel spat a chunk of yellow bile and spit onto the floor. "Country's fucking doomed. Damn cowards."

"We don't know that." Hoyle contested, but doubt laced his words.

"W-what're we going to do, captain?" Stevie asked, staring up at me.

I checked my DAGR- a blocky, Nokia-looking GPS receiver. A dull green glow flickered over my face as I examined the map. Two and a half klicks to the crash site. Wasn't a long walk on foot under normal conditions.

Enemy held bush wasn't exactly premium hiking in my book. I grabbed my radio and got back into contact with our driver. "Alright, Vân. Approach as normal. See if they'll let us through."

The line buzzed for several seconds before Vân radioed back: "You don't pay me enough for this. Bah, fine, fine. Driving up now."

The team's chatter died out. I turned, facing out. The soft cover on the back of the truck obscured all but a tiny slit of the road. I listened. Past the rumbling of the engine, I could make out voices growing closer. My Siancongese was limited to 'surrender,' 'stop' and 'beer.' I heard a couple stops before the truck came to a halt. Vân started up in a friendly tone, and he mentioned something about beer.

I slung my rifle down around my chest and unholstered my sidearm. Curtis motioned for me to listen, and signaled a count for how many voices he could hear. I did the same. We both came back to three on the left, four to the right, and indeterminate front.

The conversation outside took a turn. Vân argued with someone through the driver side window. I could hear a pair of people walk up to the side of the truck. Boots appeared in the gap between the tarp and the wall of the truck bed.

I motioned for readiness, and the team took up firing positions with practiced efficiency. My blood turned hot as the moment of contact grew closer. When Stevie and I talked earlier, I told him Frank Junior's birth terrified me. It did. Just not for the reasons I talked about.

Diesel took a long drag from his terrible cigarette. He lifted his gun, tracking someone's movement just on the other side of the tarp.

I watched my duo make their way around the side of the truck. They were moving slowly. Not carefully, though. I could hear them talking. One of them laughed at something the other guy said. I lifted my pistol to where I figured their heads were.

Dying never scared me.

My hands were steady as a surgeon's. The two soldiers wrapped around to the back of the truck. I saw the tops of their helmets peaking through the piles of boxes meant to hide our presence from prying eyes. It wouldn't hold up to a search. My finger brushed the trigger. Gentle as could be, I started to squeeze as I kept the barrel lined up with the lead man's head.

The moment I saw his face was brief. He smiled. His head was turned slightly toward his partner. The other man saw me first, his expression twisting from joy to confusion, and then terror. I finished squeezing the trigger. The first man's face exploded in a spray of blood.

A quiet voice in the back of my mind celebrated it as an act of mercy. 'At least he didn't die afraid.'

The second wasn't so lucky. He started up a strangled cry of alarm just before Diesel put shots into his throat, cheek and forehead.

A storm of gunfire filled the air as I dove out of the truck. My boots barely kissed dirt before I dropped, turning mid-fall to put my back to the ground so I could get a line of sight under our vehicle. My rifle came up in the same motion, smooth as butter. It was like I'd done it a thousand times.

Two shots went into my targets: the first took out one of their knees and made them drop. The second went into heads if I could find them and chests if I couldn't. Sin-Cong regulars had shitty plate carriers. They couldn't stop anything over pistol caliber. 55.6 popped straight through. I couldn't imagine sending my team into combat with gear like that.

The rest of my team flooded out of the truck moments after me. Monk took the right, the machine gun in his fists playing the devil's song as he sent the enemy to hell. Stevie went after him, nakedly using Monk as a human shield as he kept his head low and tried to get a bead with his EMR.

Hoyle and Diesel went left. Diesel covered the corner with his M4 screaming at full auto while Hoyle crouched beside me, leaving my line of fire clear while he grabbing at my vest to check for entry wounds.

As soon as I saw the last of the upright hostiles sprinting back to their vehicles, I let my hand off the trigger to slap Hoyle's aside with a snort. "I'm good, doc."

I got up, stacking behind Diesel with Curt behind me. I tapped D's shoulder, and he started forward. We shot five men in the back before they could get back to the road block. A handful of troops had taken up hard points behind the engine blocks of their cars, but they weren't shooting back. Their heads stayed down as Monk sent bursts of fire down the line.

An officer stood with his hands up, pleading the word for surrender twice before Monk's SAW tore him to shreds.

"Wait."

Hoyle pushed me to the left, off line, so he could approach the driver side door. I was pissed at him for knocking me away from cover before I realized what he was doing. Doc pulled open the bullet ridden door, freezing. Vân lay limp in the seat. His shirt was sticky with brownish red blood. His gun lay in the footwall, jammed up behind the brake. The magazine sat a few inches away, empty.

"Shit," Hoyle cursed, grabbing at Vân's wrist to check for a pulse. It seemed silly to me. "He's dead."

"I could'a told you that." I mumbled, distant.

"He was your friend, Frank." Hoyle breathed. He was staring at me like I was a space alien.

On an intellectual level, I understand that I should be afraid. I was in a gunfight, after all. And I understood that most people grieved when men they drank and gambled with were lying in a pool of their own blood.

Feeling fear or grief is different, though. Its physical. Runs through the body like a lightning strike, or an avalanche. Those were the words Maria used to try and explain it to me when I got back from my last tour. She was trying to get me to understand why she didn't want me to rotate back in again.

I didn't get it.

"Oh." I told Hoyle. "Yeah."

October 16th. 2025. Wind howls off the bay and through North Shore. A '64 Lincoln Continental parked outside a rundown apartment building. An expensive car in a shitty neighborhood. Two men climbed out of the front. Both wore long, wool coats over dark suits. The driver tried to look casual as he posted up on the sidewalk, head on a swivel. His buddy opened the back passenger door.

Their boss climbed out. Mark Scotti, a capo in the Costa crime family. He wore a white suit over a slightly different shade of white shirt. A mop of curly red hair covered his pin-shaped head. His long, thin face was covered in freckles- and fresh bruises. His head jumped around. Down the street, up the rooftops, back to the street.

"Lets go, Mr. Scotti." The guard motioned, and the capo followed. They made their way to the front door of the building. The bottom floor was occupied by a grimy looking storefront. 'Winning Deli - Market & Variety was painted across the window in big, blocky levels.

A bell on the door rung as they made their way inside. The driver stayed by the car.

I stepped back from the surveillance gear I mounted on a tripod on the rooftop parapet. I'd been watching this damned street for forty two hours. Only one person came and went in all that time, and that was the fat old man that owned the place. Never had a single customer.

Before Scotti rolled up I was starting to doubt my intel. Now, though, I felt sure: this was a Costa family safe house.

I made my way back to my rack. Dropped my weight into a lawn chair and pulled a beer from the cooler. The ice cubes inside had all but turned to slush. Wouldn't need to run out and replace it, though. The meet was happening. Tonight, surely. No more shut eye in a sleeping bag on some god forsaken roof. I'd finally managed to scare those assholes into showing themselves.

Reaching into my shirt collar, I tapped a button hidden under a piece of skin-color tap and turned on the hidden microphone. "Micro, I got positive I.D on target approximately two minutes ago. Copy?"

"Finally!" David 'Microchip' Lieberman whooped on the other end of the line. "And here I thought I'd die choking on Cheetos before we found this guy. How's he looking?"

"Like I left him." I chuckled. "Bloody nose and all."

I beat him black and blue three days ago. Caught him and his soldiers overseeing a hand off with a associated crew: Scotti's boys supplied drugs to a dozen associates, and his associates passed the cash they'd made off last month's product. Made the deal at a warehouse on the waterfront at eight PM sharp. Same place as always. Was easy to post up in a shipping container with a rifle. Took out about half the crew, scrambled down and caught Scotti before he could escape. Made sure to rough him up good before he 'escaped.'

Not even an hour later, five more cars rolled up to park on the same street corner. A limousine came in last. Six mafiosos climbed out. They wore their iron naked- luparas and .38s visible to the world. They swept the street in pairs. Looked in windows, knocked on doors, and made sure nobody was home. Whole street was owned by half a dozen different companies and all of them were fronts.

"We're good!" Someone yelled from the street below.

"How're we on all that computer shit, Micro?"

I got a ping on my phone. Got a notification from that app Microchip had me install. Had to tap the stupid screen three times before it read my fingerprint and unlocked. It brought up a list of cameras as long as my arm. I tapped the topmost one and was greeted with a view of the street.

"Matthew Skinner tried to buy penis enlargement pills a few months ago and he neglected to change his email password." Micro snickered in my ear. Skinner was Scotti's bloody right hand. A hitman with seven unconfirmed hits under his belt. "He got me access to their whole network. Every time he logs into the WiFi on his phone, I see everything he sees. And more."

An exterior camera mounted on the corner of the Deli showed me the limo's backdoor as it opened and the underboss stepped out. A big guy, broad shouldered and muscular. Clearly spent his off time at the gym. Lots of scars, too. Big, calloused hands, even an old scar on his neck from the bullet that almost killed him. His head was freshly shaved and spit polished to a shine.

"Bruno Costa." I grunted. "Younger brother to the big man himself."

Micro opened another window on my phone. Bruno's rap sheet scrolled by. Was in and out of Rikers Island throughout the eighties and nineties. An army of mob lawyers slipping money to the right people made sure he never stayed in for long.

Three other capos lined up to offer Bruno a warm handshake. Rico 'The Beard' Colicos stepped up first. He was a well manicured show horse of a man, and a professional palm greaser. He handled all the money laundering for Costa family. Had connections in every big bank in New York and several international financial institutions.

Enzo 'Big Bumpy' Gazzera stepped up next. He pushed aside the offered handshake and pulled Bruno into a hug. Gazzera was an old school gangster. Carried himself with pride. Treated other men with the respect their station deserved. Guy had salt and pepper hair, a generous belly and a lotta jewelry. Good manners didn't make the man, though. Big Bumpy gunned down his first cop before I was even a twinkle in my mother's eye.

Luis 'Lulu' Allegre stepped up last. He was a short, rat-looking bastard with a pencil thin mustache and slick backed hair. There was a perpetual layer of sweat on his oversized forehead. Luis ran guns for the family, trading firepower to small time gangs for their allegiance. I'd been shot with his guns more than once. You could say it felt a little personal after the fifth time I had to get stitches.

"We got audio, Micro?"

"Oh yeah. Ohh yeah we do. I'm in all their phones. Have GPS tracking, microphones, their goddamn nuddies. Everything."

"You can keep the last one."

My phone beeped as it connected to my earbud. It buzzed for several seconds before distorted voices started coming through, like the whispers of specters long dead.

"...Woke me up in the middle of the damn night. Better be good." Bruno growled.

His voice reminded me of a dog I used to have. I called him Mutt. The shelter said they rescued Mutt from a fighting ring. Said he had 'behavioral problems' and were planning on putting him down. Thought I was tough enough to fix him. Could handle a dog that snarled, even nipped. But Mutt and Bruno made the same, terrible sound. They were both feral. No kennel and no prison would change their ways.

"Let's find out, boss, eh?" Big Bumpy Gazzera patted Bruno's shoulder. He led the four of them into the deli. A gaggle of armed guards followed them inside, though about half of them stayed to watch the street. Eight men in total patrolled the sidewalks, leaned on their cars or shared cigarettes near the door.

"They've got cameras all over that place. Even a few in the apartment hallways upstairs. Guess they're pretty paranoid about people sneaking into their safe house."

I pulled up the interior cameras to watch them enter and get a lay of the land. There were a handful of shelves covered in stale food and ancient cans. A single old man in a green apron sat on a stool behind the counter. He was utterly engrossed in a copy of today's Daily Bugle, and its front page story on Luthorcorp. He didn't so much as look up as the mobsters waltzed through his store.

The actual store front area was large and had plenty of shelves and furniture to offer concealment. I didn't see anything heavy enough to offer proper cover from gunfire. Five guards stayed back to browse the grocery store while the Costas made their way to the kitchen through a door behind the front counter. Switching cameras, I watched them walk through the kitchen to a back room. One last door exited the kitchen into a back alley.

I flicked to the outdoor camera watching the alley. There was a car parked next to a pair of empty dumpsters, but no guards.

Flipping back to the kitchen cam, I caught sight of Mark Scotti and Matt Skinner sitting in there at a large, round table with two glasses of whiskey and a pack of Cubans. None of the capos or Bruno greeted either of them. They just stared at each other in the doorway before they split up for their chairs. Three soldiers went into the room with them while the last two closed the door and posted up on either side of it.

Looking through the list of cameras, I couldn't find any in the back room. Meant I was audio only.

"They're in position. I'm movin' in."

"Good luck, Frank. I'll start filtering 911 calls in the area. Anybody mentioning gunfire gets to talk to me first."

This was it. Time to clock in and go to work. I unzipped my duffel to retrieve my tools. Whole block being mob owned meant no civilians. No possible police response meant no risk of crossfire. Meant I could go in fast. Heavy. I settled on old reliable: my Mk 18. A more compact version of the M4 carbine I lugged around jungles and deserts for half my adult life. The barrel was four inches shorter, which meant screwing a suppressor on the gun didn't add any length compared to the original model.

As I climbed down the fire escape, I used half my attention to scan my surroundings for threats. The other half listened to the Costa family dress down Mark Scotti.

"The Punisher. The motherfucking Punisher took a shot at you." Lulu Allgre laughed. "And you got away? You expect us to believe that?"

"Barely! Bastard would've killed me if my man Skinner hadn't been there to drag him off me. I called a meet as soon as I knew it was safe."

"So he didn't follow you?" Big Bumpy Gazzera asked.

"Course he didn't follow us." Skinner cut in. "I drove to the other side of the city, swapped cars and we slept in two different motels. Used cash and fake I.Ds. We're good, captain, you have my word."

Somebody scoffed. Turned out to be Rico: "Forgive us if we doubt your ability to outsmart the most dangerous man in New York City, Mr. Skinner."

Silent as a shadow, I slipped across the street. Made sure to wait until the mafiosos guarding the front sidewalk were all faced the other direction before I made my mad dash. Nobody so much as turned to glance my way. After disappearing behind a neighboring laundry mat, I rounded the corner. Made my way into the back alley behind the deli.

The beater car sat empty. Looked like it hadn't moved in a long time. I slipped past it. Put my hand on the doorknob. Gently as I could, I tested it. Locked. Great.

"Look, Scotti. You gotta understand our trepidation here," Guzzera started, diplomatic as ever, "Punisher isn't known for leaving survivors. Every family and gang in New York can attest to his effectiveness. All the big families have had their operations squeezed."

"Gave us room to expand our operations, though." Lulu chuckled. "Maybe we should be thanking him."

"Enough." Bruno barked. "He killed Costa people too. Cousins. Brothers. Now he's targeting our operations. He's got to pay for this."

"Yes, boss."

"Course, sir."

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Scotti whooped. "Hell yeah, let's get us some good old fashioned-"

I kicked the back door open. Both Maggia foot soldiers went for their weapons but they didn't make it far. Put three rounds into the guy on the left, and just one into the guy in the right. No need to double tap when his skull is painting the back wall.

Almost instantly people started screaming.

"Who the hell-"

"Get down, boss!"

"Guns- do we have guns in here?-"

"Where the fuck are our guys-"

"-Punisher?!-"

Advancing toward the back room where my targets were trapped and seemingly unarmed, I kept my scope on the door to the grocery section. First man to open it ate a lovely dinner of 55.6 to the teeth. Next two were smarter. They posted up on either side of the door and only peaked long enough to fire shots. A revolver round pinged off the sink behind me. Shotgun pellets slammed into my vest. Hurt like shit but I could tell nothing was broken. Been shot in the vest enough to know what a broken rib feels like.

"The door! Bar the door-"

Didn't slow down. I adjusted my aim just to the left of the doorway and put two through the wall. Heard a man scream and then hit the floor. Tried to do the same to the man on the right but he had the brain to run the hell away before he got shot.

"-help me move this damn table-"

Didn't have long, only a few seconds before the rest of the pasta crew fell on me like bats outta hell. Put a hand up to open the door to the back room. Locked. Took three steps back and rushed it, planting my boot into it as hard as I could. Heard the lock break and the door budged an inch, but that was it.

"You think a door n' some chairs is gonna stop me?!" I roared, all piss and vinegar. Scum like this always got my blood up.

"Oh, God, don't kill me!" Mark Scotti pleaded. "Come on man, just- I'll do whatever you-"

"Shut the hell up before I kill you myself!" Bruno roared. I followed the sound of his voice. Down and to the right. I put eight rounds through the wall at waist height.

"Fffghhh...aaghhh.." Somebody gurgled. Think it may have been Lulu but all these rats sound the same when they're clinging on to life. They beg, plead and squirm- like they have any right to keep on living. I've seen the things these men do. What their ilk do to normal folk. I pulled more bodies out of rivers and dumpsters than I cared to remember.

"Believe it or not I'm not here to kill you." I had to scream to be heard over the barking of my M4.

An army of dumbasses wearing cheap suits and cheaper cologne came at me. They filled the air with lead. Lead and noise, noise like the hundred drums beating all at once. Rounds pinged off stainless steel counters, the fridge and the floor. Broken chunks of tile exploded at my feet as I ran. Ran to the rear of the kitchen. I grabbed the door of a walk in cooler and swung it wide. Its heavy steel frame would stop everything these guys were packing.

"Push up! Push up!"

"He's got Bruno trapped. We need to kill this fool."

"You wanna walk into automatic fire you be my fucking guest."

'Come and get it, assholes.'

Two mafiosos breached the kitchen simultaneously. When I tried to peak out to fire a barrage of bullets slammed into my makeshift cover. Could barely hear anything. Didn't know how close they were, if they were going to cross close or far. Had to make an educated guess and pray I was right.

Not that any God I'd pray to would wanna listen. I know where my soul's bound when I die, and I plan to fill hell's halls with a hundred other bastards before I got there.

I waited until I saw the barrel of a shotgun and the front of a shoe. Then I rushed him. Grabbed the barrel with my off hand to shove it aside while I jumped, shoving my knee into his groin. His buddy was three feet back, gun raised. I kept my human shield between me and him, and I used his shoulder to steady my rifle so I could fire it one handed.

Lit him up like a Christmas tree. Turned the kitchen behind him into a bloody mess. Felt bad for his suit. Looked more expensive than the rest.

"Fucking hell, Georgey! Georgey! Oh god-" My shield sobbed. Ignoring his cries, I pulled him around to face the door. Pushed him forward so I could make my way out of the kitchen and into the larger chamber beyond. Mafiosos sprinted in every direction to get away from us. Took the slowest few out before they made it to safety. No good cover in here. Just concealment.

Guess the guy I had hostage wasn't too popular, given how quickly his boys decided to shoot him to pieces to get at me. I threw his corpse down, ducking out of sight. Took the time to reload, and to talk.

Could still hear the capos and their underboss whispering to each other.

"Not killin' all'a you, you know. One of you lucky gentlemen gets to walk away from this. I want a name. The supplier. Drops your drugs off with a damned helicopter."

"Bite me!" Rico yelled back at me. Trying to muster some measure of courage in his final hour, I guess.

"You ready to meet the Devil, Colicos? I got your express ticket right here. What about the rest of you, huh? You know who I want. You've all met him. I know!"

My attention swung back to the front when I felt a sharp pain shoot through my thigh. I almost buckled, had to fall down to my knee. Damn. Got hit. Only once, though, and I couldn't find an exit wound. Must've been a .38. Felt like somebody lit a match and shoved it up the bullet wound so it might've fragmented.

Made me angry. Made me stupid. Focused all my attention on trying to shoot the guy that hit me that I didn't hear the door open behind me until it was too late.

That big bruiser named Bruno came at me. Grabbed me by the back of my vest, picked me up like a misbehaving toddler, and slammed me spine first into the edge of a counter top.

It hurt too much to scream. instinct took over. The rifle fell out of my hands and I had my glock them it instead. I shoved the barrel against Bruno's chest, and I pulled the trigger. I kept pulling it until the gun clicked. Bruno should've died. He should've keeled over and let me see the light leave his eyes. He didn't.

He punched me. A lot, I think. Kind of hard to remember once my head got to swimming and my eyes filled with blood.

"Boss? Boss, are you okay?" Guzzera cried out. He ran up and grabbed Bruno's shoulders, dragging him off me. "We gotta go. The cops are going to be here any second, sir."

Colicos came up behind him. "There's no sirens. We might be in the clear."

"You wanna risk that? How'd the don going to feel when you get his brother arrested?"

I couldn't see, but I was still conscious. I knew where my knife was by memory alone. Felt the comfort of cold steel in my hand. Didn't know where Bruno went so I just started swinging, stabbing and screaming.

"Shit! He's still going! Let's go!"

Bruno swung at me one last time. "I'm gonna enjoy pissing on your corpse, Frank. See you soon." He taunted, then he left. I don't know how he knew my name. Nobody knew my name.

I dug deep so I could stand up. As I struggled to my feet, I could hear a car start through the ringing. People were yelling, running. Then another four cars started in quick succession.

"Micro-" I coughed. "Track them. Keep the cops off. I'm...I'm gonna follow. In the van."

I stumbled into the back alley where I'd left the van. Couldn't see shit through the sweat and blood dripping down my face, so I followed my memory. Fell over a pile of garbage bags, but I managed to find the door. Yanking it open, I knew there was a medkit under the driver side chair. Inside were six patches shaped like disks lying atop a layer of gauze. A plastic film covered each disk. I tore off the film, and placed the first disk flat against my forehead.

The tech whirred to life. Micro said it was some kind of StarLabs wonder gadget. Nanites or smart particles- one of those made up words smart people used to describe their newest bullshit. The thing worked, though. I could feel the skin in my forehead stiffen as the patch stitched the hole in my head closed.

I used a discarded rag in the wheel well of the van to clean my face enough to actually fucking see.

Made it easier to find which syringe would dull the pain and which would pump me full of adrenaline. After debating which I needed more, I settled on both. Fatigue smacked me like a freight train. My brain dropped down into my throat, and everything went dark for a moment. Then it lit up like a Christmas tree as the stimulant hit. Every part of my body shook for a good few minutes before settling into the routine numb of chemically-aided satisfaction I'd come to expect.

Bring my right foot up, I started to climb into the van.

"Micro, gimme an update on those clowns. How far have they- AAGHH! Shit!" I sunk my teeth into my tongue as I fell backward, slamming my back into a nearby dumpster. Pain shot through my leg like I couldn't believe. Only then did I remember: oh, yeah, I got shot, didn't I?

Micro's frantic voice buzzed in my ear. "Frank? Frank, are you okay? What happened?"

"Shut up." I batted away with concern. Didn't need a nanny looking out for me. I needed intel. Plus, if I'm honest? I was a little embarrassed. Didn't need Lieberman knowing I was actually a certified dumbass. "Just tell me where Bruno went."

After carefully applying a second patch to the hole in my thigh, I climbed up into the van. The laptop mounted on the center console clicked on, showcasing a map of Staten Island. A smattering of red dots representing tracked phones were flying down side streets southward into Tompkinsville. They were all traveling in a line and they were moving quick, but the further away they got, the slower they started moving. Go too fast and they'd be stopped by the cops, and they'd be hard pressed to explain all the gunshot wounds and bullet holes in their cars.

The van's engine roared to life. I swerved out of the alley and accelerated down the road. If I burned rubber and Micro kept the streets clear I might be able to catch up to these bozos. My guardian angel made sure every light I passed turned green, and my query was plagued by every demon of the traffic world he could summon.

Lieberman sure did make my job easier. I never told him how much I appreciated having my very own wizard on speed dial. I should have. He was the only friend I had after...after Central Park. He knew what happened to Maria and the kids. He knew, and he dedicated all he had to helping me kill the bastards responsible. And I never gave him so much as a thank you.

"They're leaving Tompkinsville on Van Duzer. I think they're going for the interstate, Frank."

"Which means they could end up anywhere in New York." I grunted. "Great."

"No need to rush. I have their license plates and every traffic camera in the city. Even if they dump their phones, I can find them again."

The van rumbled along at a snail's pace. His armored behemoth had never been intended for car chases. It was a fortress on wheels- a battering ram I could drive straight through a building without stopping. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles turned bone white. Try as I did to slow my breathing, I couldn't. The drugs were making my foot bounce. Tightened the muscles in my arms into coiled snakes.

I couldn't let these bastards get away. The Costa family were a festering wound in this city's underbelly. Their drugs tore apart families. Filled rehab centers with broken dreams and regret. Put kids into the morgue. Not to mention all the people they disappeared to keep business booming.

This started because of the G-Men, but the warpath had many branches. There were monsters down every road. Nobody did a damn thing to stop them, either. The cops and the DA's office were either apathetic or in on the joke, I didn't know which. And it didn't matter. I'd do the job none of them could.

Every body I put in the ground was just a drop on the rainstorm, but it was a drop that wouldn't fall on anyone's head ever again.

"I see them."

They were far ahead of me. I could barely make out the color and make of the rear vehicle in their convoy, but the GPS confirmed it. There they were. Peddle to the metal, I veered into oncoming traffic like an idiot possessed. It let me shoot past the civilians driving ahead of me. The driver in the left lane slammed on their breaks and pulled over onto the sidewalk. They hit a light post, but the damage looked minimal. I was lucky nobody died.

Now I was coming up on the Lincoln Continental. It was Scotti's. I could see his red curls in the back seat.

"They're looking at you, too-" Micro warned a second before Matthew Skinner leaned out of the driver side window with a MAC-10 in his hand. He fired a wild burst into the front of the van, barely scratching the paint. Nothing these guys had would even damage my front windshield. I kept accelerating. Once I was close enough, I could run the scumbags off the road.

"Careful!" Micro yelled, his microphone peaking. "Those are houses on either side of the street, man. You don't want a shootout here."

"I know what I'm doing." I gritted my teeth, too stubborn to listen. I thought I knew better. I'd been to war. Been fighting my entire life. I thought I could keep control over the situation.

I pulled up until my bumper rammed into the back of the continental's. Rolled the window down, even as bullets pinged off right past my ear. I unholstered the sidearm on my hip, waiting for Skinner to stop shooting.

"Take a nap, Skinner!" I yelled over the roar of the wind. I leaned out long enough to put a single bullet behind his ear. The hollow point round expanded as it broke Skinner's skull open. Blood and brain matter followed the bullet out through the front of the driver's face. His lifeless body collapsed against the steering wheel, sending the car careening to the left.

Fast as I could, I got up next to the out of control car, and shoved the corner of my front bumper into the continental's rear. It started to spin. The van's massive, armored hide absorbed the hit and kept the car from tearing into oncoming traffic. Instead, it rolled to the right. It went top over bottom three times before smashing into a car parked in front of a two story duplex. Metal screamed as both frames crunched together into a broken mass of glass and steel.

"Frank..." Micro didn't deliver the lecture I expected. He only sighed.

"Get a drone on that car. If Scotti's alive and attempts to flee, I wanna know." I ordered, then I pressed on. My real target had kept his flight when Skinner and Scotti went down. Bruno's limousine trundled along even slower than my battle van, but he had a solid head start. His limo charged through a gas station parking lot, knocking over a bystander and nearly killing him as it exited off Richmond and onto the interstate.

"Contacting EMS." Lieberman mumbled.

"They'll send cops."

"The dude just got hit and run, man. He needs paramedics."

"I..." I swallowed my pride and let it go. "Fine. Just downplay the details and divert patrol officers."

I followed Bruno onto the on-ramp, swerving past a minivan to catch up to him. His gaudy, cream-colored Cadillac looked like something a president should've ridden in. Two other cars flanked the limo, and a third led the way. No one had started shooting at him yet.

Since I had a moment, I checked my surroundings on the approach. Limited number of civilian vehicles in the area. Given the time of night and the obvious aggression of Bruno's entourage, people were cautious. Slowing down. Good. Meant less chance of crossfire when this came down to a firefight. No sign of the red and blues yet either. Police response time in New York City averaged around fifteen minutes. Specifics varied on the borough and the severity of the crime.

The van thundered on. It pulled up right behind the limo. The two escorts collapsed back, matching me on either side. Passengers with machine pistols and shotguns popped out of their windows. They unleashed a hail of led against the the van, but I paid them no mind. I just rolled my window up. It was six inches of Ballistic glass and Aluminium oxynitride. Nothing short of a .50 was getting through that.

With the flick of a switch, the bull bar on the front of the van folded open. I took a few seconds to align the center of the van with one of the limo's rear tires, then flicked a second switch. A nylon net shot out of the front of the bumper, wrapping itself around the tire. I slammed the breaks. Tires screeched as the weight of the van fought to suspend the speed of the Cadillac. Smoke billowed as the two vehicles fought for control. The limo gave way first. Its axle snapped in two, and the car leapt forward another ten yards, tireles rear scrapping against the asphalt before it came to a halt.

The Maggia security detail whipped their cars around to form a barricade around Bruno's broken ride. They dismounted, stacking up behind the engine blocks of their vehicles for cover. None of them were wielding revolvers anymore. In their fists they held automatic weapons, machine pistols and shotguns. A cold wind blew over the highway. It carried the stench of burnt rubber and gasoline.

Civilian cars screeched to a stop as they approached and noticed the chaos. Those that didn't backup quick enough were greeted by a spray of automatic fire from Costa's men.

My hand hovered over the console. Every switch had a different label: Turret. Flamethrower. Grenades. Spike traps. I passed over those to the last in the line, and flicked it.

Through the windshield, I watched a pair of grenade launchers pop out of hidden compartments on the hood. They launched canisters into the road between the van and Bruno's soldiers. A low hiss sounded as smoke poured out over the roadway, filling it like a passing fog.

I stood from the driver seat. Made my way to the back of the van where I stored all my goodies. I had an armory here, years in the making. Every weapon I could ever want sat in cages mounted on the walls. My eyes darted to an old M240. A Catholic cross and rosary wrapped around the end of the barrel.

Metropolis burned. Bifurcated skyscrapers jutted into the sky like broken spears. Clouds of ash choked the air and stole the reprieve of daylight. Packs of flying monstrosities crossed a blackened sky. Blurs of supersonic jets soared past them. Missiles exploded among the pack, sending chunks of meat and alien cybernetics falling into the streets below. The swarm of parademons gave chase, too numerous to count.

A cracked globe sat in a crater in the middle of Broadway. All around it, the shells of burnt out cars filled the streets. Blood, debris and fire crept along the asphalt. A horrific stench clung to every surface. Terrible as the destruction might've been, Wally West looked past it. His eyes lingered on the dead. Bodies lay on every street corner. They sat in their cars, and in their homes, and behind walls they hoped would protect them.

'Dear God.'

He couldn't move. He stood stock still, a statue painted in red, black and gold. Wally looked down at his hands. These gloves didn't fit, he realized. They were too tight- meant for smaller hands. Dr. Wells had meant it for Iris before she...

A huge, winged shadow passed overhead. A moment's terror turned to relief when its bat-like shape became apparent. The Batwing landed with a heavy thud in a nearby street. Its rear ramp lowered. A shadowed form hidden behind a black cape descended. Batman scowled at Flash behind his sheer white lenses. Behind him, a young woman in white, pink and black spandex jogged off the plane and into the street.

"Jeez. And people say New York is a dump." Spider-Woman snorted.

Batman turned his silent scowl to her, and she quieted.

A giant of a woman left the plane last, ducking to avoid smacking her head against the roof. Clad in the armor of alien gods, she bore a mace crackling with the Power Cosmic. Big Barda paid neither of the mortals any mind as she marched out onto the street, eager for battle.

Wally could hear the others weren't far behind: the roar of a motorcycle fueled by hellfire echoed down the streets.

He was here, too.

"Flash." Superman called his name. He hovered overhead, cape fluttering in the ashen wind. He spoke with a calmness that boggled Wally's mind. Even with all the death- the destruction- surrounding him, Superman remained unshaken. Somehow he made the t-shirt and work boots look heroic. "Are you alright?"

"I, uh-" Wally choked on a nervous chuckle. "Just peachy, blue."

"Sorry." He shook his head, and he smiled. He smiled. "Wrong question. Are you hurt?"

Flash shook his head back.

"Good. We need you, pal. Keep your head in the game."

"Incoming!" Spider-Woman called out, her sixth sense tingling seconds ahead of danger.

Her warning was followed by an ear-shattering explosion. Dust and debris whipped up into the air as a boom tube opened in the middle of Broadway.

Both Wally and Superman turned toward it just in time to see-



"He's here! And right on schedule, too. Evil is nothing if not punctual."

A pair of energy beams exploded against Superman's chest. Black and crimson lightning crackled as it threatened to tear him apart atom by atom. Omega Beams. Everyone else Wally had ever seen take one of those hits had vaporized on the spot. Instead, Superman rocketed backwards through the remnants of the Daily Planet, vanishing from sight.

Barda leapt to action first. A battle cry ripped from her throat as she charged, weapon high: "You have no idea how long I've wanted this. I will wet my hands on your blood, tyrant. Murderer. Die!"

"Go for the eyes!" Batman growled, voice full of gravel and gravitas."Flash, you're on defense."

Spider-Woman followed his lead, swinging up and around with her webs to get behind their target. The two of them were already leaping into an action. Not a moment's hesitation despite the risk. Despite their relative fragility.

A blazing figure appeared astride a howling steel beast. Vigilante spun a pair of cursed revolvers out of his holsters and up into his hands. Gunshots rang out. Their toll was the sound of damnation. "Fall, damn ya! Fall!"

Wally slowly turned to face the source of the attack. His fingers dug into his palms. Panic blossomed in his chest. Memories of annihilation fell like a cloud over his mind.

A god cloaked in malevolence towered over him. Gray skin, craggy and cratered, stretched across a massive frame. Armor blue as midnight glinted with the glow of omega light. His eyes were the worst part. That malicious energy blazed in his eyes with a hunger for destruction Wally thought insatiable. They were a pair of yawning portals to a realm of endless suffering. They could never consume enough death to be fulfilled. They would not stop until everything and everyone Wally ever loved was dead.

Battle raged.

Wally could scarcely recall the details. He only knew it was grizzly.

And that they'd lost.

Barda knelt before Darkseid. Blood stained her raven black hair. It ran down her face in rivulets. The head of her mace lay broken several feet away. The haft still filled her hand, as if it would be any use now. She struggled back to her feet.

Nearby, Vigilante leaned over the fallen form of Batman. Though the ghostly rider's left arm was a mere stump now, he still had the strength to put himself between the Lord of Apokolips and the mangled man in the cowl.

The titan lifted a gauntleted fist. Trapped between his grotesque fingers was a white and pink hood.

"You don't scare me!" Spider-Woman shouted. "Lemme go so I can kick your ass!" She fought with all her strength to escape his grip: punching, kicking, biting at the hand around her skull. It held fast.

"Insect." Darkseid spoke. His voice did not ring out. His lips moved yet made no noise at all. Instead, the voice seemed to radiate from inside Wally's mind. Like a parasite, it slithered inside the meat of his brain. A silent, infectious thing, burrowing into his subconscious.

He squeezed, and Spider-Woman yelled out in pain. "I- could use some help here, guys!"

A storm approached from the sea. With it came harsh wind, rain, and thunder. Thunder boomed like drums played in the heavens. Lightning streaked across ash-blackened clouds. In that flash of light, a figure appeared. It- he- hung from the edge of a skyscraper, something wickedly sharp clutched in his hands. Lightning flashed again as the figure leapt into the open air, falling, and the storm fell with him.

"UXAS!" The King of Asgard bellowed with a hurricane force. "I HAVE COME FOR YOUR HEAD!"

"You flail in vain. Your defeat is inevitable, for..." Darkseid lifted his hostage high. With a mere click of his thumb, he could break the hero in twain.

"Flash, ya idgit, move! Grab 'er!"

"No- no, this isn't- Thor, wait- I can't-" Wally screamed until his throat went hoarse. He couldn't move. His legs were too heavy. His feet cast in iron. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to run."No!"

Thor knew the plan.

Járnbjörn fell with an executioner's stroke.

---

He jolted awake. A layer of sweat slicked his forehead, yet he felt cold at the same time.

A silhouette stood over him. Rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, Wally's vision cleared. He saw a man with dirty blonde hair and an gentle if amused smile on his face. Barry Allen wore a long coat over a red sweater vest and a pair of khakis, like a combination of Colombo and a youth pastor. His arms were crossed over his chest.

"Bad dream?"

Wally just nodded, sitting up. Barry offered a cup of water which Wally graciously accepted, chugging down its contents with frightening speed. It was difficult to slow himself down enough for it to look mostly normal.

"So." Barry moved the blanket off the couch so he could drop into it beside the teenager. "What are you doing in my house? Not that you aren't allowed to come over. We love your company, of course. But Iris told me she screamed like a banshee when she came home last night and saw a man on our sofa."

It took all of his self-control not to shout Barry's name at the sight of him. There he was, Barry Allen, aunt Iris's best friend. Alive. Wally hadn't known him long before his murder, but he knew Iris had loved him deeply. Not that she ever had a chance to admit it.

Embarrassment blazed across Wally's cheeks. He threw his hands up in front of his eyes to hide his shame. "Oh, God, Barry, I'm so sorry. I just-"

Needed somewhere to sleep now that I'm trapped in another dimension. I tried to go home but I found another, altogether happier me sleeping in my bed. And instead of trying to explain to my hardass of a father that I was a superhero, I decided to break into your house and sleep on your couch instead. Sorry!

"Needed to get away from 'the colonel,' right?" Barry made a frightening pair of quotation marks with his fingers as he emphasized Rudolph West's rank. "I totally get it, man. Used to do the same thing when my old man was being a jerk. I just wish you'd called ahead."

Wally hung his head. "I should have, you're right. Sorry."

Then Barry hugged him. He hugged Wally. It took a moment for his brain to catch up with reality before he wrapped his own arms around the man and accepted it. Wally hadn't realized how starved for affection he was until he felt the warm embrace of...well, a stranger, really. The love and care in Allen's voice echoed people West would never see again. Before he realized it, he was crying.

"Wow. Okay." Barry breathed. "Are you sure you're alright? Do you want me to call Iris? If you need to talk to someone about your, ah, home life, we can-"

"No! Nope! I'm good!" Wally coughed, his tears turned to panic in a split second. "Just needed somewhere to crash. Hey, you know, I think I'm late for school-"

"-you've got a little while before-"

Wally pushed off Barry and stood abruptly, pretending to stretch. "Ahh, no, no. That's alright. Need to leave bright and early to catch the bus. Listen, Barry, I really appreciate this. Please don't tell my dad I was here. Or anyone, actually. Even me. Let's just not talk about this again, okay? Ever. Please."

"Okay, okay. You're welcome back for dinner!"

Without another word, Wally ran out of the front door. Golden lightning surrounded his body as he raced away.