[center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/0199e627-1e23-7253-a48d-a5aff3ffc036.webp[/img][/center][indent][sub][color=gray][b]PUNISHER:[/b][/color][color=lightgray] WAR JOURNAL[/color][/sub][sup][right][b][color=gray]CHAPTER #5:[/color][/b] [url=https://open.spotify.com/track/2MM8qDOkfV1natcOHC5kER?si=a46543a6ade242a2][color=lightgray] Reckoning[/color][/url][/right][/sup][/indent][hr][indent][color=lightgray][sub][b]Interstate 278 [color=gray]♦[/color] New York City[/b][/sub][/color][/indent]
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[center][i]I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
and I fear no evil
Because I'm blind to it all
[/i][/center]

I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. Since I started documenting my little war, I've learned I made more than I thought. October 16th stands out, however. That day I stood on the precipice. Blindfolded, I couldn't see rocks waiting for me below. I didn't know I stepped off the edge until felt gravity pulling me down, down, down.

The machine gun on my shoulder played an all too familiar song as I hold down the trigger. Its tune brings me back to the rain soaked jungles of Sin-Cong. Monk loved this song. When he played it, all the bastards started to dance. They danced until they dropped. I didn't have his special touch. Couldn't work the instrument the same way he did.

Played a hell of a cover, though.

"Come on!"

I put five hundred rounds down in a creeping arc across the line of cars they hid behind. They made for poor cover against heavy weapons fire. Rounds cut through door frames and glass like a knife through butter and into the meat cowering behind it. 

Return fire spat back sporadically. Rifle rounds pinged off the van just behind me. Machine pistols chattered. Sparks and dust sprang up across the asphalt. These gangsters couldn't hit the broad side of a fucking barn. Most of them were just blind firing from behind cover. "That all you got?!" I taunted, hoping I could bait them into sticking their heads up.  

Roaring gunfire may have played the chorus, but screeching tires and honking horns soon overwhelmed it. A chaotic cacophony of noise filled the air. I watched an SUV careen out of control as the driver spotted the gunfight too late and slammed on their breaks. The vehicle spun, then rolled, flipping three times before it crashed through the divider and flew into oncoming traffic.

Catastrophe struck. A panicking old man behind the wheel of his classic car failed to dodge the SUV. He slammed into it at full speed. The front of his car crunched against the side, turning both vehicles into a mess of sheered metal. A third car swerved to avoid the crash only to get smashed from behind by a fourth.

The woman behind the wheel of the SUV had blood flooding down her forehead. She was alive, Thank God. Alive enough to reach into the back seat to check on the two people there. Not adults. Too small to be adults. [i]'Shit, shit, shit,'[/i] was all that ran through my head. Didn't mean for this to happen.

Not everyone else was as lucky as her, however. The old man slumped against his airbag. He hadn't moved since the impact.

People wailed. Whether they were among the wounded or just frightened bystanders, I couldn't tell. Their cries matched the pitch of approaching sirens. Distant, but soon to close. Out of the corner of my eye I watched two people stop behind the pileup. The drivers jumped out their cars and ran toward the accident. Brave bystanders worked together to pry the back door of the old man's car open to drag him out. One of them started chest compressions.

The old man's name was Charles Martins. His friends called him Chuck. He was a retired firefighter out of station house ten. A captain, and a decorated one. His firehouse was right across from the World Trade Center. When I was just a teenage brat watching 9/11 on TV, Chuck had strapped on his gear and ran into the fray to save people. Twenty years later, he's on his way back home from a late night out when his whole world ended.

I only learned his name a week later when it cropped up in the obituaries. His was one of sixteen other faces. All killed in the 'Staten Island Expressway Massacre.'

I stopped shooting. Stopped and just stared— jaw flapping in the wind. I wish I could tell you what I was thinking then. Wish I could say that, somewhere in my gut, I knew I ought to help them. Knew that I could. That I owed it to 'em. I started this, after all. I had a thousand chances to back off before it got this bad.

Micro screamed in my ear. I heard the anger in his voice. The terror laced pleas for me to do something. But the words slipped by, drowned out by an incessant ringing. That was my fault. I should have worn better ear protection.

Before I took my first step, I felt a stinging pain in my chest. Cracked a rib, maybe two. I looked down to see three rounds lodged in my vest. Bad spread. If the shooter'd been disciplined with their placement, it might've cracked my ceramic plate. I locked eyes with the shooter. Some young gun with slicked back hair and too much aftershave shot me. He froze where he stood, pistol extended, like he wasn't sure what to do after he hit me. I blew his head off before he could come to his senses.

[center][i]And my mind
And my gun
They comfort me
[/i][/center]

No one shot back at me after that. They'd all learned from their dead friend's mistake. Didn't stop me from shooting, though. I started forward. The kick from Monk's gun reverberated from my shoulder down into my chest. My march was slow, unsteady. The wound in my leg shrieked in protest. I ignored it best as I could. The sheer force of my barking weapon would've knocked me on my ass if I didn't have a strong base.

I swung left, sweeping around the side of their cover. I finally saw them. Only a handful of gangsters still clung to life, more concerned with protecting their heads than shooting back at me. Four men died in as many seconds, all poked full of holes.

Had to admit, the Costa soldiers dressed well: fitted suits, ties, and shoes polished to a shine. They put an effort into looking respectable. Acted a certain way, too. Called you sir when they threatened you. Made all sorts of apologetic noises when it came to wives and children.

The Costas came from the old world, where men still lived by a code. They weren't a gang- they were a business. A family business. Not [i]'thugs.'[/i]

When they broke in your door, dragged your family from their beds and beat you bloody, it wasn't personal. When they blew open your wife's face and dumped her corpse into the bay, they didn't mean anything by it. They'd do it to anybody if it meant they got paid.

Two survivors threw their guns down. One of them was Rico Colicos, his gelled beard still tidy as could be. "Wait! Wait! Don't shoot, Jesus-" 

He choked on his words when I sprayed the other man down until it ate the last round on the ammunition belt. His body hit asphalt. Spilled blood and oil gathered in a pool under him, staining that precious suit of his.

Credit to him, Rico wasn't as dumb as he looked. He charged me the second my gun clicked. A butterfly knife flashed in his hand from nowhere, blade gleaming in the headlights. I threw the LMG at him. When he brought his arms up to block it, I stepped forward, planting a teep into his stomach. I heard the breath leave his lungs as his back hit the road.

"Bastard!" He came up swinging his knife wildly ahead of him. One pass, a second, then I found the pattern and reached forward. Snatched his wrist in my hand and snapped it like a twig. Rico's screams were music to my ears. Lifting him by his broken wrist, I dragged him to his feet. His eyes were bloodshot. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping him conscious. 

"You still awake, Rico?" I snarled. The hate tasted like hot bile in my mouth. "Good. I want you to feel this."

I took him by the hair so I could shove his face through his car's window. He kept screaming, even as I dragged his face through the shattered glass on the bottom of the window. Kept screaming while I threw him to the ground. I stomped on his windpipe, felt it collapse under my heel, and only then did his voice die.

The sirens grew louder. Much as I wanted to give every kill a personal touch, I knew I was running out of time. Pain raked my body but I pushed on regardless. Stalked up to Bruno's limousine. The doors were still locked despite the dozens of impacts denting its armored doors and cracking the glass.

"Think you can hide in there, Bruno?" I grabbed a block of putty from a pouch on my belt. Palming it, I slapped the material onto the rear door's handle. The detonator and fuse were kept in a separate pouch so I didn't accidentally light myself up. Had to stick one side of fuse into the detonator and the other half into the putty. Just as I started stepping back to get clear, I heard a door on the opposite side of the limo pop open.

"Goddamn psycho!" Big Bumpy Gazzera yelled. "Come on, boss. We gotta move."

Oh no. No you don't. I'd come too far to let them slip between my fingers now. I dropped the detonator as I limped after them. Heaved my weight up onto the back of the limo so I could slide across. 

Bruno, Gazzera, and two more bodyguards had their backs to me. They were running. I lifted my pistol. The first shot took off the slowest man's ear. I corrected my aim to the right, planting the second into his brain stem. The rest them got low, splitting up. They all darted behind different cars. Weaved through them, back and forth, to obscure my aim. I nearly popped off a shot through a windshield, but something made me hesitate. The old man. I remembered Chuck, and I relented.

Flashing lights appeared on the other side of the expressway. The sirens were overwhelming now. Even heard the whirring of helicopter blades. A veritable army of cops must've been headed my way.

"Micro, I need these cops off my ass. Anything you can do?"

The radio crackled. No one answered me. I could hear more sirens coming up from behind me.

I tapped my earbud to reset the line. "Micro? You hear me, asshole?"

Nothing. The helicopter circled overhead. A light brighter than the goddamn sun lit me up. A pair of armored BearCats swung around either side of me. The NYPD's Apprehension Tactical Team flooded out, carbines and shotguns trained on me. Blinking through the blinding light, I tried to spot Bruno through the mob. I had no idea if he'd slipped past the cops or not.

"Hands! Hands!"

"Drop the fucking gun!"

"On your knees!"

My gun hit the asphalt. I kicked it away. Under threat of being shot to pieces, I interlaced my fingers behind my head as I dropped to my knees.
 
[center][i]Because I know
I'll kill my enemies
When they come
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