by Stuart Moore
The Punisher frowned, swept the room with his eyes. Then he turned back to his work, pulled a fresh whetstone out of his bag.
Sue motioned Johnny forward, and they crept silently into the room. The Punisher was a vigilante, a killer known for taking down mafia bosses in a very permanent way. After his family had been murdered in a mob hit, he’d sworn revenge against all organized crime.
The man on the beam was whimpering now, struggling against his bonds. Sue studied him: He wore a white button-down shirt, crisply pressed slacks, and a loosened tie. His shoes, dangling and flailing, looked neatly shined and expensive.
This was no mob boss, not even one who’d gone legit. This was a businessman.
The Punisher held up the knife, studied its blade against the lantern light. Without facing his victim, he said, “Wilton Bainbridge Junior. They call you ‘Wilt,’ don’t they?”
The man frowned. “Y-yeah.”
“Wilt.” Punisher turned to him, held up the blade. “We need to have a conversation.”
“A conversation? Oh. Y-yeah! I’m, I’m not going anywhere.”
Punisher smiled, a bloodless smile.
“You’re a banker. Right, Wilt?”
“Y-yeah.”
“And you sit on a lot of boards of directors, too.”
“I guess.”
“Like Roxxon International.”
The man nodded. He still seemed frantic, but curious now, too. Looking for an opening.
“Roxxon’s developing a lot of tech for the government these days,” Punisher continued. “Oh, not as much as Stark is. But there’s plenty of contracts to go around. And some of those involve technology that could be used to interfere with my business.”
“Your business.”
“That’s right.” Punisher held up the knife an inch from the squirming man, running it through the air from his stomach down to his crotch. “So I need you to tell me everything you know about something called the CapeSearch protocol.”
“The CapeSearch—oh yeah! Sure.” Wilt eyed the knife. “That’s easy. It’s pattern-recognition software, used to cross-check thousands of sources to locate any super hero, or, or, or villain, in the world. It’s not really new, it’s an adaptation of Homeland Security software already used in airport spot-checks. The only wrinkle is, it also detects use of metahuman powers. You know, like, like freezing rays or gamma radiation.”
“Metahuman powers.” Punisher turned away, nodding. “Thanks, Wilt.”
“This is weird,” Johnny whispered. “The Punisher doesn’t kidnap civilians. I’ve certainly never heard of him extorting information from them.”
Sue nodded, motioned him again to be quiet.
“What about Project Thunderbolt?” Punisher asked.
“Wh-what?”
“I thought at first it was a code name for that thunder-god monster that ran amok yesterday. But my sources tell me it’s something different, something very dangerous. What’s Project Thunderbolt, Wilt?”
“I, I don’t know.”
Punisher turned murderous eyes on him. Held up the knife, pricked his own finger with it. Didn’t even flinch as blood flowed from the tiny cut.
“I don’t know!” Wilt flailed, struggling against his bonds. “I’ve heard the name, but we didn’t have anything to do with it. It’s top top secret, developed solely by S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark Enterprises.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I don’t! I swear!”
Punisher turned back to his bag. He reached inside and pulled out a high-powered assault rifle.
“Then I guess you’re no more use to me, Wilt.”
Johnny’s grip tensed on Sue’s shoulder.
But Wilt shook his head, summoning up a last bit of bravado. “So you’re gonna kill me?”
Punisher didn’t answer. Pulled out a box of shells, emptied them into his hand.
“I don’t think you’re gonna kill me.” Wilt was sweating, Sue noticed, but he seemed more confident now. “I know you, I know your rep. You don’t just murder ordinary people in cold blood. You kill criminals, period.”
Meticulously, Punisher loaded the shells into the rifle barrel. “That’s right. I kill criminals.
“Let me break it down for you, Wilt.” Punisher turned toward him. “Eight years ago, while in the employ of Terriman Gaston and Associates, you sold mortgages to Chase, Bank of America, and several other major national banks.”
“Yeah. So?”
“You sold the same mortgages, in several hundred cases, to three or more different banks. Very, very lucrative.”
“You’re gonna kill me for that?” Wilt stared, incredulous. “Everyone was doing it.”
“Among the mortgages you triple-dipped were a clutch of houses in a single development, in Hialeah, Florida. Just outside Miami. Ring any bells?”
Wilt shook his head. Fear had crept back into his eyes now.
Punisher looked down the length of the rifle, frowned. He pulled out a swab, started cleaning the barrel. “Two different banks came in to fore-close on those houses. The residents were all first- and second-generation immigrants from Cuba, come here to start a new life. Suddenly, white guys in suits are at their doors, repo-ing their rightly purchased homes with police backup. The Cubans were in no position to argue.
“Desperate, homeless, and starving, these immigrants banded together and began selling heroin. They faced some stiff competition at first, but they quickly learned to become ruthless, and established a toehold in the greater Miami area.” Punisher turned back to his captive. “Do you know what you were doing at the time, Wilt?”
“I, I don’t recall.”
“I’ll jog your memory. You spent a chunk of your newfound profits on something called the Aphrodite Cruise, a seafaring orgy where high-priced prostitutes service wealthy businessmen against a background of decadent Greek architecture. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
“Meanwhile—while you were snorting coke off the stomach of a stripper called ‘Mnemosyne’—our Cuban friends enlisted a regular customer named Enrique. Enrique’s habit made him erratic and unreliable, which caused him to lose his job. When his money dried up, the Cubans cut off his heroin supply. So Enrique decided to rob a Taco Bell. The manager tried to be a hero, and mowed down Enrique with a .30-06 But not before Enrique shot three random patrons in the head.
“One of those patrons was an African-American construction worker named James Victor Johnson.”
Wilt stared, incredulous. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“James Victor Johnson died three hours after the robbery. His sister tracked me down. Told me the whole story.” Punisher paused. “Well, half of it. Took some research to trace it all back to you.”
“And—and that’s why you grabbed me?”
“That’s why.”
“What about all the other stuff? About S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Cape tech?”
Punisher shrugged. “You’re a resource, Wilt.”
“And you’re crazy. You’re totally insane!” Wilt strained wildly now, tugging hard against the cords. “You actually blame me for that guy’s death? That’s not my fault.”
The Punisher cocked the rifle, a sharp snapping sound that echoed through the empty room.
“Oh no,” Sue whispered.
“You don’t want me.” Wilt trembled. “You should be going after the creep who shot that guy. Or, or the drug dealers. The thugs, the, the lowlifes who do that stuff!”
“Oh, I will.” Punisher leveled the rifle up at his victim, peered through the site. “But I like to start at the top.”
Sue felt a blast of heat. A tattered, charred baseball cap fell onto her, little flames still dancing on its surface. She flinched, batted it away, and looked up—
—to see Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, arrowing through the air toward the Punisher. Fire blazed from every inch of Johnny’s body; he’d destroyed his outer clothing, incinerating it in one fierce, sudden flare-up.
A fireball burst free from Johnny’s hands, striking the Punisher’s rifle. Punisher swore, shook his hand in pain, and the gun flew free. It clattered to the ground.
Johnny circled around, came in for a landing between the Punisher and his victim. He allowed his fire to fade away, revealing his Fantastic Four uniform.
The Punisher dropped to a crouch. He sneered up at Johnny. “The Human Torch. Working for Stark now, I see.”
Johnny frowned. “What?”
“You’re not gonna take me in.”
“I’m not here to—I’m here to stop you from killing people!”
“He’s crazy,” Wilt yelled. “Lock him up!”
“Johnny!” Sue called. “Don’t let your guard down—”
But she was too late. The Punisher reached into his boot, pulled out a second knife, and threw it at Johnny point-blank. It struck his cheek, drawing blood. Johnny cried out and fell backward, instinctively flaming on again.
Then the Punisher’s boot was on his neck, incredibly fast, pinning him down to the floor. Flames rose up from Johnny’s struggling form, licking harmlessly at the Punisher’s clothes. “Flameproof Kevlar,” the vigilante hissed. “Douse the fire, kid. Now.”
Johnny made a strangled, gurgling noise. His flame died down.
Sue grimaced. Still unseen, she started to creep forward.
“Your invisible sister’s here, too, isn’t she?” Punisher looked around. “Are you working with S.H.I.E.L.D.? How far away are they?”
An enormous blast rang out. Sue looked up and saw the ceiling cave in, falling in huge fragments toward them. Dust, whirring, and lights up above. Instinctively, she activated her force field.
Wilt, strung up higher than the others, screamed. A huge chunk of granite struck the top of his support beam, severing it from the ceiling. Wilt fell, screaming, still lashed to the beam, heading straight toward Johnny and the Punisher.
Sue reached out, extended her force field to cover her brother. Wilt bounced lightly off the field, wriggling free of his bonds, then dropped a few feet to the floor. Sue flashed the field off for a split-second to let him inside, then raised it again over all four of them.
Wood and plaster fell all around, clouding the air. The Punisher hadn’t moved an inch—he still stood with his foot on Johnny’s throat. Slowly he turned toward Sue, and she realized that, in the confusion, she’d let herself become visible.
The Punisher bared his teeth.
Wilt wriggled loose of his bonds. He scrambled around the inside of the force field, trying to get away, but bounced off its edge with a cry of pain.
Then a huge searchlight stabbed down through the hole in the roof. Sue flinched.
“CAPESEARCH RESULTS: FRANCIS CASTLE, THE PUNISHER.” The voice was deafening. “JONATHAN STORM, THE HUMAN TORCH.”
Up above, four heavy-duty S.H.I.E.L.D. copters hovered, buzzing and swooping through the concrete dust.
“SUSAN RICHARDS, THE INVISIBLE WOMAN.”
The Punisher leaned down to speak to Johnny, who was still writhing on the ground. “You’re not with them?” he asked.
“Nrrggh!”
“THIS IS S.H.I.E.L.D. TEAM FOUR. STAND DOWN AND PREPARE TO BE APPREHENDED.”
The Punisher turned to Sue. “Enemy of my enemy?”
“What?” she asked.
“Temporary truce.”
“Yrrsss!” Johnny cried.
The Punisher raised his foot. Johnny coughed, grabbed his throat. Punisher reached down for him, helped him to his feet.
“FINAL WARNING. DROP ALL WEAPONS, CEASE ALL UNAUTHORIZED USE OF POWERS.”
Sue ran to Johnny, making sure the force field stayed intact. Wilt cowered in a corner of the invisible, dome-shaped energy barrier.
The Punisher waved a rifle to indicate the copters, tilting and hovering just above the blasted-open roof. “They’re not gonna go away,” he said.
Sue nodded, grim. She shrugged off her outer clothes, revealing her FF uniform below. Then, all at once, she lowered her force field.
“Get us out of here,” she said.
Johnny nodded, burst into flame. He grabbed her under the arms, by her flameproof uniform, and took off toward the sky.
A sharp rat-a-tat noise made Sue glance down. Wilt was making a dash for the door, away from the Punisher—who stood his ground, firing off two automatic rifles at once. At the walls, not the copters; randomly kicking up dust to cover his escape.
He must have a hell of a weapons bag, she thought.
“METAHUMANS ATTEMPTING ESCAPE. FIREFOX-TEN AND -TWELVE, MOVE TO INTERCEPT.”
Sue and Johnny sliced upward through the air, straight toward one of the copters. A ferocious antiaircraft barrel protruded from its side, slowly swiveling to take a bead on them.
“Johnny!” she cried.
“Hang on, sis.”
He zigzagged through the air, up past the roof opening, then turned almost horizontal, soaring under the lead copter and past the other two. Bullets whizzed past, filling the air; Sue ducked her feet up, dodging them. She struggled to maintain a force field, but it was almost impossible to concentrate under these circumstances.
Then Johnny made a U-turn, sickeningly fast, straight into the on-coming fire. He reached out a hand, melting the bullets to slag in midair.
Sue could barely look.
Johnny shifted, still holding her beneath him, and began to soar upward. The copters buzzed behind, turning and climbing to follow.
“ALL UNITS STAY IN PURSUIT. METAHUMANS HEADING UPTOWN, STRAIGHT TOWARD TEAMS NINE AND ELEVEN.”
Sue looked ahead, gulped. Past the night spires of New York, above the green sprawl of Central Park, she could see a second batch of copter lights heading straight toward them.
We’re sitting ducks up here, she thought. Like a comet, flaming through the night—
“Sue,” Johnny said. “Make us invisible. Now!”
She nodded, closed her eyes tight. Trust him, she thought. Trust your brother. Slowly, Sue’s invisibility power kicked in. Johnny’s flame faded from view. She signaled him it was done, and he began to drop toward the street below.
“TEAM NINE, THIS IS TEAM FOUR. HAVE LOST VISUAL ON METAHUMANS. DO YOU HAVE VISUAL?”
“NEGATIVE, TEAM FOUR.”
“ENGAGE POWER SENSORS…”
The amplified voices faded as the street rose to meet them. Johnny gradually doused his flame, and they landed softly on a quiet corner of Central Park West. He gasped, coughed, and leaned against a lamppost, breathing hard.
A pair of joggers trotted by, oblivious to the invisible duo. One jogger cocked his head at the gasping noise, shrugged, and continued on.
Sue examined Johnny’s cut face, his bruised throat. “You all right?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Your head wound is bleeding again. That’ll have to be looked at.”
“Great.”
She glanced up at the sky. The copters were veering off now, buzzing angrily toward the south. They’d done it—lost S.H.I.E.L.D., for now at least.
“Better not…use my powers again,” Johnny said. “I think that’s how they tracked us.”
“Come on.” Sue took her brother by the arm, steered him into the wooded, patchily lit park. When they were hidden from view, she dropped her invisibility shield. “Let’s get to the Resistance. They’ll fix you up.”
“Blasted Punisher.” Johnny coughed again. “Think they got him?
“I doubt it. But that is so not our problem.”
They walked down a paved walkway, the traffic noises dwindling in the distance. The park was quiet; just a few clutches of people talking quietly or laughing.
“Not such a bad night,” Sue said. “We saved a man from being killed.”
“Maybe he deserved it.”
“Maybe.” She smiled at him, took a deep breath of night air. “But that’s not for us to decide, is it?”
TONY, I need you to unde
rstand. I just don’t know if I can…
Spider-Man shook his head. No. Not strong enough.
He sat perched like a mantis in Tony Stark’s workshop, on the edge of the main computer bench. Before him, an array of screens blinked with a constant flow of information, including S.H.I.E.L.D. updates, superhuman dossier reports, population projections, and statuses of known alien races. The floor beyond was strewn with Tony’s half-built projects: mini-reactors, engines, fuel supplies, what looked like half a flying car, and prototype Iron Man suits of every possible color and shape—torsos, helmets, gloves, gauntlets, rocket-boots, even a lower-body unit with tank-tread wheels on it.
I know you’re in a hurry, Tone. Tony. You’re always in a hurry. Maybe that’s part of the…
The computers had been on when Spider-Man arrived; in his haste, Tony hadn’t even activated a password lock. Spidey reached out a metallic tentacle and tapped an icon on a screen.
Above him, in the air, a holographic image shimmered into being. Tony—in one of his earliest Iron Man suits, solid yellow, blocky and thick—was standing alert on a city street. A ten-foot-tall Hank Pym lumbered up to join him. Hank was the first Goliath, Spidey recalled. Or was it Giant-Man, then?
A flash of red and black, and the Wasp—Janet Van Dyne, Hank’s future wife—flitted onto the scene, no more than a foot long, her headgear pointed like a stinger. And then: Thor. He dropped from the clouds, hammer whirling, smiling a smile that said: What a wondrous thing to be here today, among the mortals.
It’s just, it’s all moving too fast. Tony, can you just listen to me for a…
Spider-Man stared at the hologram. These were the very first Avengers, newly formed; even Captain America hadn’t yet been found, floating in suspended animation. The Holo-Avengers fanned out, turning to watch as their enemy appeared out of thin air. A purple-suited man with devil’s-horn hair and a murderous look in his eyes.
Spidey frowned, tapped the display to stop playback. He double-clicked on the purple figure and a label appeared: THE SPACE PHANTOM.
The Space Phantom.
Things used to be simpler, didn’t they?
The file he’d accessed seemed to be a chronological record of the Avengers’ cases. Next to it, on the screen, a second icon read: P PARKER. He reached out a finger and tapped it.
