Civil War Prose Novel (17 page)

“GOT
it. Okay, thanks. Be there in half an hour.”

Sue Richards hung up the pay phone, turned back to her brother. Johnny was dressed in jeans and a jacket. A large bandage poked out from under his baseball cap, but he looked much healthier than the last time she’d seen him.

“Falcon gave me the address,” she said. “It’s in Harlem.”

Flames started to rise from Johnny’s head and shoulders. “I can fly us—”

“Put that out! S.H.I.E.L.D.’s got eyes everywhere.” She looked around, suddenly paranoid. “We’ll just hoof it.”

“Yes, big sister. At least the rain’s stopped.”

Sue started off up Eleventh Avenue. She and Johnny had gone straight to the Resistance’s former headquarters, only to find it boarded up and abandoned. For a terrible moment, Sue had thought:
Did Tony round them all up?
But no—they’d just relocated.

They walked in silence for a moment, past gas stations and low-profile nightclubs and auto parts stores closed for the night. Over here, on the far west side, new things hid among the old. A trendy restaurant was likely to open right next to an ancient bodega, then close up again one night, leaving no trace.

“How’s Reed doing?” Johnny asked.

Sue hesitated. “You know that thing he does when he gets totally wrapped up in a project?”

“No. No idea what you’re talking about.”

She laughed. “This is like that, times ten. He and Tony Stark are…they’re like two kids in a candy store. No, more like two kids building their own, giant candy store. With every kind of candy in the world under their absolute control.”

“Are we still talking about candy? ’Cause you’re making me hungry.”

She stopped under a streetlamp, turned to look at Johnny. Since she was fifteen, Sue had taken care of him. Now he was all grown up, a handsome young man, living his own life. And yet…

“Johnny, I have to do this. I made my choice when I helped the Resistance escape from Tony’s thugs. But…”

“Don’t, sis.”

“…but you don’t. You can still come in from the cold.” She rubbed both hands on his broad shoulders. “Go turn yourself in.”

Johnny gestured toward a large, blocky factory building. She followed him into a dark alcove next to the outer door. When they were hidden from the street, he held up a flaming finger to the brick wall. He traced the letter “A” in the air, leaving an afterimage trail before Sue’s eyes.

“A,” he said, “Registration, so far, has gotten me nothing but a fractured headbone. B, Tony Stark is a rich jerk.”

Sue giggled. “Well, go ahead. What’s C?”

“C?” Slowly, he traced the flaming letter in the air. “C is that my sister and I have always faced tough situations together, and I would never abandon her. Never.”

She felt tears rising. She hugged him, hard.

Then they heard the cry.

“You—”

“Yeah,” he said. “Inside the building.”

He lit his whole hand on fire and ran it across the wall like a flash-light. The windows were boarded, the bricks chipped with decay and neglect. But the door…

Johnny pushed lightly at the door. It creaked inward. A big padlock on a chain lay on the ground, picked and discarded.

Again, they heard it. A distant call for help.

“Douse your light,” Sue whispered. Then she reached out, turning them both invisible. Stepped past him and started inside, holding up her hand to generate a protective force field in front of them.

They felt their way down a dark, dusty corridor. No power was on, not even emergency lights. But twice more, they heard the faint cries: “Help me!” and “What are you
doing
?”

The corridor opened onto a disused loading bay. High ceilings, smell of gunpowder and old newspapers. A single light shone from a portable electric lantern, placed right in the center of the floor.

On a large support beam, stretching from floor to ceiling, a man had been strung up tight with heavy cord. The lantern illuminated him from below, casting giant, rapidly jerking shadows on the ceiling. He struggled in panic, cried out: “Why? What do you
want?
”

The man’s briefcase lay open on the floor, papers spilling out in a fan pattern. Tablet computer, too, a long crack along its screen.

A few feet away, his tormentor crouched down, cleaning a big hunting knife. Muscular arms, thick legs, a fierce brow. Skull pattern on his shirt.

“That’s the Punisher,” Johnny whispered.

“Yeah,” Sue replied.

“Is
he
registered?”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

The Punisher’s head whipped up. For a moment, he stared straight at the door. Sue shivered; his cold eyes seemed to bore into her.

Even more quietly, Johnny said, “We’re still invisible, right?”

Sue nodded sharply, raised a finger to her lips.

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.

The Punisher looked up. Not quite in time.

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.