The Punisher: The Murdered World

The woman was in trouble. It couldn't be more clear if there were a gun aimed at her head.

Frank always stayed aware of his surroundings, especially when driving. It wasn't just that he didn't want to be pulled over. Danger could come any direction. The one and a half ton of metal that other drivers took to be a suit of armor could easily turn into a death-trap. All it took was one grenade. So he kept an eye out for that grenade. And everything else. Even in traffic.

Traffic was nothing new in Miami. People either dealt with it or they didn't. Reactions varied, but weren't particularly original. They sang along with the radio, tapped on the steering wheel, ranted and raved while they relived all the aggravations that had led to this climax of frustration. Some slumped down, just trying to stay awake until the light changed color. And of course, there were those who pounded on their car horns as if that would achieve something.

But Frank had never seen a woman react this way—not in anything other than dire circumstances. She was stock-still, spine rigid, eyes wide and unblinking as they stared straight ahead. Like a prey animal spotted by a predator, she all but played dead. Her white knuckles on the steering wheel the only sign of life.

Careful not to move any of his body except his eyes, Frank shifted his gaze from the rear-view mirror to the side mirror. Scrutinizing it, he spotted that she wasn't alone in the pooled shadows of the car's interior. Two shapes, masculine, with the wiry sharpness of underfed dogs. One in the passenger seat, the other sprawled out in the backseat.

The one riding shotgun had his hand down below the dashboard, touching the woman's leg or somewhere more intimate. His lips were moving in the shadows cast by his hoodie. Whatever he was saying seemed designed to make the woman tremble—to break her out of her self-imposed paralysis.

A bottom feeder like that didn't care if he fucked up whatever this was, sending his prize screaming out the door and forcing his hand to whatever threat he'd made to keep her compliant. Other people's fear was the only drug that scumbags were never short of.

Except when it came to the Punisher.

The light turned. Frank eased his foot down on the gas pedal. The woman's red Jetta jolted forward, nearly had a fender bender before the car in front of her accelerated out of the way. Frank kept one eye on the Jetta, the other on the road. They were both on a surface street, running parallel to a highway. Frank had no idea where the lady was going—where the creeps were taking her.

Tailing a car from up ahead wasn't ideal. It was unexpected, yes; people rarely checked for a tail up front. But it meant you were in full view of any driver, not just the ones who checked their six regularly. And there was always the chance—

The Jetta changed lanes, breezing by a passel of crash barrels to head up onto the highway. Frank hit the gas. He was still on the surface road; in the blitz of the highway, he could easily lose his quarry.

The light ahead glared yellow. Frank ignored it. His foot ground the gas pedal into the floor. He soared through the intersection as the light went red. If a cop saw it, that was too damn bad. Frank's respect for law enforcement hit a wall when it came to innocents like the one in the red Jetta.

The next access road came up. Frank gritted his teeth. Two cars were already on the way up to the overpass. He could only slow down and wait as they slid into the speeding traffic of the highway. Finally, it was his turn. He pushed his BMW M4 into the flurry, scanning the traffic through his windshield, then in his mirrors. He spotted a red Jetta. Then another. In all the excitement, he hadn't nailed down make and model. It could be either one.

Sloppy, Frank. Shouldn't be this sloppy when it comes to yourself, much less a woman.

He hit the gas. Felt the engine purr, the wheels burn, the supple vibration of this one well-oiled mechanism charging through his meat and into his bones. At any other time, it would be a pleasure. He'd always liked cars, not just as a tool, but as a luxury. A rare occasion when form and function could both be served. But right now, that well-tuned engine and all the exquisite moving parts didn't fit his mood. He wanted to growl. But this lightweight sportscar was as invisible in Miami as bad shoes in a bowling alley.

He paced the first Jetta, came up alongside it. Scoped it from the corner of his eye. There was his girl. This close, he could see she was no femme fatale, no hardened criminal that'd gotten in over her head. As far as he could see, she was no criminal at all. Just young. A teenager. Old enough to drive, but only just. And he could see why she'd been taken. The girl was cute as a kewpie doll. Heart-shaped face, lambent hair, a button nose, and wide eyes. Lips like some tart, ripe fruit, that's taste far outlaid its size.

If she weren't scared shitless, she'd be a beauty. As it was, even Frank wanted to hold her in his arms, pet her hair, whisper things into her ear that would make her go back to not fearing the world.

He wanted to hurt people for her.

Stupid risk, chancing the scumbags seeing him. Shouldn't have been necessary. Should never have had to reacquire her. Frank made a show of fiddling with his radio as he eased off the gas and let his M4 drift back. He kept five miles under the flow of traffic; three cars passed him. But he kept the red Jetta in sight.

His fists worked back and forth on the steering wheel like he was breaking windpipes already. Scum like this shouldn't get to let young girls know they shared the same planet. He wanted to speed up, smash into the Jetta, came out of the driver's seat blasting, and let this girl get started on scouring her memory as soon as possible.

But he'd taken enough risks. Couldn't play games now. He would have to watch and wait and be ready when the opportunity came. That should be easy for the Punisher, who had once been Frank Castle.

The Marines had made Frank Castle a perfect killing machine. The death of his family had made that all Frank Castle was. A machine should be able to wait until it was needed. There was no use for him until the shot was clear.

They came off the highway in a bad part of town. It wasn't a war zone. Not on the outside. A little more graffiti, a few more broken windows, a few less cops. The real change was in the air. Frank could feel the apathy, the depression, the resentment that was the only charge at all. It was like a bonfire. What it was given, it could only feed on. What it touched, it could only burn.

The red Jetta slowed, crawling its way through a trash-strewn street. Looking for an address, Frank judged. He pulled up to the curb, put the M4 in park, and got out. In a heartbeat, he was just another pedestrian.

Even money the sportscar would be molested by the time he got back. Maybe even literally. But he'd picked the M4 up on a whim as he left Don Bruno Lombardi choking on his own blood. Once it'd served its purpose, it was only worth forgetting.

Frank was a big man, but he made himself small enough. Slouching, taking desultory steps. He was dressed somewhere between tourist and beach bun. Blue Guayabera shirt, white linen pants, and a pastel blazer that had probably made its way to Goodwill straight from the set of Miami Vice.

The idea was that it was easiest to conceal a weapon when no one was looking for one in the first place. They looked at his cream sneakers and didn't think there could possibly be a Ka-Bar in an ankle sheath, or a small-of-back holster with a raffia hat, the band colored peach.

The Jetta creaked to a stop; shoddy brakes. Frank threw a few drunken weaves into his walking before he paused, leaned against a dark streetlamp, to light a cigarette from his shirt pocket. The two punks skimmed right over him, just another bum fruitlessly trying to get a flame from a Zippo purchased in another life—not noticing he was only barely flicking it. Wouldn't want to give away his face in the light.

Like any animals, they only cared about what they could feed on. With the Jetta lodged against the curb, they hustled the woman out of the car and into an alley between two buildings, one condemned and one that should've been.

Frank moved in quick, quiet strides that ate up ground without letting himself break into a run. He ducked down, took the Ka-Bar from his ankle, and popped back up so that he barely broke stride.

Knives could be more useful than a gun. Punks looked for guns. They recognized the silhouettes. Knives confused them. They thought they could just shoot anyone who had a blade, right up until it was stabbed into them.

The sun was coming down. It was beautiful Miami sunset, but only at the beach and up in the high-rises. In this part of town, it was only less light. Like some stale leftover, a yellow thing that could've been illumination spilled out of a bulb over a side door.

That had to be where the woman was bound, because one of the punks was leading the way, unlocking the padlock that held shut a door that'd lost its handle a long time ago.

The other was behind the woman, prodding her along just to feel her body. She couldn't go fast enough—that door had to be scarier even than being touched by the kind of man who couldn't smell a rose without making it stink.

Frank turned the corner. He walked down the alley, not rushing, not lingering. The same cadence as the punk and the woman, like he was just another part of the caravan.

By the time the punk stiffened, sensing eyes that saw him as prey, Frank was close enough to touch him. And by the time he turned around, Frank was close enough to kill him.

Frank swung his fist, caved in the side of the punk's face. He spun around, went down, on his knees with the baby pink of his scalp showing through his thinning hair. Frank wanted to take that scalp with him like some Apache. But he'd have to settle for blood on his Ka-Bar as a souvenir.

Frank ramrodded the knife forward like a bayonet charge. It took the thug in the back of the head, sharp enough to split the skin with surgical precision and heavy enough to break through the skull. The seven-inch blade neatly parted neurons until it was in his sinuses, tearing through the roof of his mouth, emerging out of his wide-mouthed scream with his upper lip and mustache caught on the tip.

The woman froze even stiller than she had in the car. The second man—what might optimistically be referred to as the surviving thug—went for his gun.

Frank had two objectives, both a priority, but there was no indecisiveness in him. He simply did one, then the other, with such speed that they might as well both have happened at once.

He lashed out with his foot and kicked the woman's legs out from under her, dropping her below the line of fire. And he hauled up with the Ka-Bar, both drawing the blade upward to spread the dying man's nostrils an inch apart and hauling him up to his feet.

When the second thug fired, his aim was not good enough and his care was not great enough to avoid hitting his partner. He simply emptied the clip into the human shield like the vehemence of his fire meant he would kill Frank Castle as surely as his old friend.

By now, Frank had moved to his third objective. He'd skinned his Glock 9MM out of the S.O.B. holster with his free hand. And as the punk dug round after round into his flailing buddy, Frank took a split-second's aim and fired.

The bullet slit into the thug's face where it could, smashed itself the rest of the way in. The man rocked back, already dead but still with dying to do. Blood rushed to get out of his voided face, spurting into the air like a rocket-tail pushing him down to earth, only it didn't get the chance.

Frank fired again, to be sure, and the second bullet knocked the man down to the ground and locked him to it.

Frank fired a third time, this one into the man he'd knifed. The poor bastard had taken a knife through the back of his skull and countless bullets into his chest that were meant for Frank, but Frank was a professional. He made sure the job was done himself—putting the muzzle of the Glock up next to the Ka-Bar and giving the bullet nowhere to go but the top of the man's skull.

The corpse managed one almighty twitch and Frank let him go, allowing his weight to pull the knife free of the falling body.

A spray of blood fanned over the sleeve of the hand that had murdered by knife. More red particles dappled, like the first drizzle of rain, the front of his jacket. Frank stepped away from the cadaver, not out of squeamishness, but to make sure his shoes didn't attract any gore.

He swiped the Ka-Bar clean on the dead man's clothes, then slotted it away under his pantleg. "Are you alright?" he asked the woman while he picked up his shell casings.

It was a chore he wasn't usually conscientious about, but he'd just arrived in Miami. Frank felt no need to give the police any hints as to what was coming—not when they'd have the whole story soon enough.

"They were—they—I was getting into my cars and they had guns..."

Frank nodded. He offered the woman his hand to help her up. She touched his palm like a baby, not knowing how to grip an object she'd never encountered before. "It's over. You're safe now."

Her voice haltered. It was letting in, bit by bit, all the sobs she'd had to swallow over the course of her ordeal. "T-they would've—they would've—and you killed them—oh God—they're dead."

"Yes, ma'am," Frank replied, far enough from being a soldier to feel bemused about so addressing a civilian half his age.

Up close, there was some maturity. She was probably a college student, probably down in Miami for surf and sun. He felt sorry for her. As sorry as he could. She didn't deserve to know how the world worked, but it did work this way.

"You used a knife—oh fuck, fuck—you shot 'em with a gun!"

"Yes, ma'am," Frank said, not one for small talk at the best of times and she wasn't making herself much of a conversationalist at the moment.

"You saved me! You fucking—didn't let them—" That was all she could get out. Her eyes rolled up in her head. Frank seized hold of her before she forgot how to stand.

Toting the fainted woman, Frank wondered if there were any irony in the fact that he'd gone from using a bad man as a human shield to carrying around a good girl. If there was, it was in how he'd enjoyed holding that man up by a knife in his skull. And if he enjoyed holding onto the girl—well, he tried not to.

If his car hadn't been stripped for parts yet, Frank thought he'd still be able to make his appointment.