It took four seconds. Five men down. Four dead. One dying.
The rain over Hell’s Kitchen had not stopped for three days. It fell in grimy sheets, washing nothing clean.
The rain kept falling. It didn’t wash anything clean. But Frank Castle had stopped believing in clean a long time ago. The Punisher - Part 2
He didn’t announce himself. No speech. No warning. The first round punched through Volkov’s throat. The second took the knee of the Russian beside him. As the man fell, screaming, Frank transitioned to the two Vaccaro bodyguards—three shots, two hearts, one head. The third Russian reached for his waistband. Frank’s fourth round went through his hand, then his hip.
Vaccaro stood frozen, his silk tie fluttering in the wet wind. The steel briefcase lay open at his feet—bundles of cash and a flash drive. It took four seconds
And the work was never done.
Two down. A thousand to go.
His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. “Vaccaro moves in 20. Roof of the Lexford. Exchange with the Bratva. Don’t be late.” Frank didn’t ask who. He didn’t trust anyone. But he checked the intel anyway—cross-referencing it with three separate feeds he’d tapped into over the last month. It fit. Vaccaro always took the high ground. He liked to look down on the animals he fed. The Lexford Hotel was a crumbling art deco relic, its upper floors condemned after a fire five years ago. Perfect for a meeting no one was supposed to see.
He believed in the work.
Frank ascended the service stairwell in full gear: the skull stark white against matte black body armor. His boots made no sound on the concrete. He carried a suppressed Mk 14 EBR—precision, not spray-and-pray. Tonight was surgical.