The Punisher - Part 2 -

He believed in the work.

Frank stood there for a moment, breathing the cold air. Then he knelt, picked up the flash drive, and tucked it into his vest. The names on it would take him six months to work through. Six months of blood and gunpowder and sleepless nights.

Two down. A thousand to go.

On the 19th floor, he found the first sentry. A young man in an expensive suit, earpiece glowing blue. The kid was checking his phone, bored out of his skull. Frank’s arm locked around his neck from behind. No snap. No blood. Just a slow, silent drift into darkness. Frank laid him down next to a mop bucket.

“My son,” Frank said quietly. “He was twelve. He liked to draw. Dinosaurs, mostly. You know what he drew the week before he died? A picture of our family. Holding hands outside a house with a sun in the corner.” The Punisher - Part 2

He turned and walked back toward the stairwell, stepping over the body of the young sentry he’d left unconscious.

The rain had turned to a cold mist. On the far side of the roof, beneath a makeshift awning, stood Orlando Vaccaro. He was smaller than his photos—soft, round, with the pale hands of a man who had never done his own killing. Flanking him were two hulking men with Russian tattoos peeking from their collars. Across from them, three Bratvois in tracksuits, holding a steel briefcase. He believed in the work

Vaccaro’s eyes darted left and right. No escape.

Vaccaro was speaking. “…the docks in Red Hook. No heat for six weeks. You bring the product in through the old sewage outflow. My men will clear Customs.” The names on it would take him six months to work through

The roof access door was wired. Frank bypassed it with a magnetic shunt he’d built himself—old habits from Valley Forge. He pushed the door open a crack.