When the Smoke Clears

Chapter 9

Before he left New York, Frank stashed some things around the city for when– and if– he came back. He had hideouts and caches hidden throughout the boroughs, stocked with the necessities for his particular line of work. Not exactly known for being an optimist, he always assumed his services would be just as needed after the Snap as before it. Turns out, he was right.

Thankfully, most of his troves were untouched. He retrieved a handgun, two clips, and one of his favorite coffee thermoses from a roof near Queens. He picked up a shotgun and some body armor a few blocks from the cemetery where his family was buried. Some first aid supplies were stashed near gas stations with the kind of bathrooms only the most desperate of people used, leaving most of those things unbothered as well. He even had some wheels waiting for him in an abandoned storage unit on the East side. By the time he was finished with his scavenger hunt, Frank was stocked for days.

Well, depending on how his night went.

Karen might have been ready to solve her problems with news articles and picket lines, but he wasn't. Asking Lieberman to work on leads around Poindexter was probably the most (and only) hands-off contribution Frank was willing to make. He decided it was time to start hunting down some leads of his own.

He started with the Serpents. The shitbag bikers had been poking their heads up enough that Frank was beginning to sense a pattern. Karen's encounter with them at other rallies might have been bad luck, but he was under no impression their presence at the GRC event was coincidence. That Poindexter guy must have been connected. Frank was determined to find out how.

He drove the streets in an old, light-blue pickup. It wasn't much, but it had a covered bed, and he had a lot of tools that needed covering. It was close to sunset when he started patrolling the areas he remembered the Serpents hanging around. Their presence was scarce, indicating they probably moved sometime over the last two years. Their location might have changed, but their patterns likely hadn't. They weren't smart enough for that. All Frank had to do was find a few, and they'd do the rest of the work for him.

Some of them were spotted hanging around a gas station near West 43rd, but Frank didn't move in, not yet. He wasn't interested in just three of the jackasses. He wanted the whole herd. He had a better chance of getting information that way, and if there wasn't any info to give, he could at least have the satisfaction of taking them out in one fell swoop. The Punisher wasn't getting any younger. He had to be smart about his work. Minimum effort, maximum reward. One shot, one kill. That used to be the motto, anyway.

As expected, the three little Serpents led Frank right back to their hideout. It looked like a small warehouse that'd been turned into something of a garage, not unlike the Dogs of Hell den Frank hit years ago. He circled the building a few times before parking the truck a block away. He'd counted at least ten bikes outside and banked on more being inside the building, so he stocked up on weapons and ammo. His black sweater was pulled over the body armor tightly-fastened to his torso, the hood flipped up to cover his head. Equipped and eager to get this show on the road, he slid into the shadows like a blade through oil.

The first thing he did was rig the bikes. It was an old trick and honestly one that only ever worked half the time– and half as planned at that– but Frank would be lying if he said he didn't get pleasure out of blowing up some asshole's favorite toy. Insult to injury, and all that. It didn't take much. All you had to do was send one up, and the others would go with it. You'd think by now the idiots would learn to stop parking their motorcycles so damn close. But, like clockwork, when an alarm started blaring on one of the bikes, a small handful of Serpents came out to check the rest. Frank was standing around the corner of the building, so he didn't get the full view, but the loud boom and rush of heat were just the same: satisfying as hell.

The Punisher emerged amidst the chaos. Four Serpents were on the ground with various parts and pieces of their motorcycles sticking out of their limbs. A fifth was around there somewhere, but all Frank was able to find was his hand. When two more poured out of the building, Frank shouted to get their attention and rewarded them each with a load of buckshot to the chest. He stepped over the downed bikers as he crossed the threshold, not bothering to spare either of them so much as a glance. His eyes were up, where the threat was. A few Serpents were diving into cover behind motorcycles. More scurried toward a box truck in the southeast corner of the building. A few brave souls came out to take Frank head on, guns raised.

He dove behind a large steel tool cabinet as bullets started to fly. He set the shotgun down at his feet and pulled out two handguns. His dark eyes stared at nothing as he counted shots and listened for the telltale sign of empty clips. As soon as he heard it, Frank popped out from cover. He put two bullets in the chest of a Serpent reloading, turned, and fired two more at the biker beside him. He dropped back down just as more bullets started coming from behind the motorcycles.

Eyes low, Frank saw some feet moving toward his position. He holstered one of the handguns and grabbed the shotgun instead. He waited for the Serpent to get close, then rolled out and, one-handed, fired the gun. The blast caught the biker in the knee. He hit the ground in an instant, and Frank used his sidearm to plug him in the head as he fell.

There was a temporary halt in shooting, then. Frank assumed it was the Serpents reloading. Either that or they were contemplating getting the hell out of there. They had to know who'd barged through their front door by now. But just in case they didn't...

"You assholes done yet?!" He yelled from behind the tool cabinet.

"You're a dead man, Castle!" One of them shouted back.

Frank smirked. So they did know. "Wouldn't be the first time!" He called.

He peeked out from behind the toolbox. Three Serpents were standing near their bikes. It looked like two or three more were cowering behind the box truck. Frank reminded himself that he needed to leave some of them alive. He eyed a fuse box near one of the garage doors and got an idea.

"Tell you what!" He shouted. He set the shotgun down again and checked the clips on his handguns. "You shitbags tell me what I need to know, and you can die with all your limbs intact. How's that sound?"

"Sounds like you're going soft!" Someone replied. "That got something to do with that blonde of yours? Bet she's real soft."

Frank's nostrils flared. Rage crawled up his spine and gripped him by the back of the neck. Bloodthirsty, he roared in anger and stood up from behind cover. He fired his guns, not at the bikers but at the fuse box behind them. Four shots sent it up in sparks, and a moment later the building was covered in darkness. Flashes of light and the pop of bullets intermittently lit up the warehouse, accompanied by the yells and grunts of men fighting– and dying.

Frank took out the ones behind the box truck before he went for the rest. By that time, his clips were empty, but he was still chalk full of anger. He lost count of how many times his fists made contact with faces, stomachs; ribs. He was pretty sure a bullet grazed his arm, and he knew a knife caught him in the leg, but he didn't stop. Not until the room went quiet, and the only sounds were the groans and gurgles of the Serpents, and the heaving breaths of the man standing over them.

In the dim red glow of the emergency exit signs, Frank found his first victim. Half his face was covered in tattoos; the other half in blood. Frank grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and started dragging him toward the tool cabinet. He heaved the biker's body into the cabinet with a loud grunt and turned to spit some blood from his mouth. The Serpent moaned miserably, head lolling, and tried to reach for something, anything, to help him. All he found was Frank's boot, pressed down onto his fingers so hard that the bones cracked.

The biker yelled in pain.

"Shh, shh..." He knelt down, boot still firmly planted on the biker's hand. He stared at him with cold, hungry eyes, two black pools dancing in the dark. This was the one stupid enough to mention Karen.

"You like talking, asshole?" He pressed his foot down harder. "Then let's talk."