"Move!" Frank barked, his voice cutting through the chaos with military precision.
There was no hesitation in his decision. The moment a dozen armed Russians had rolled up looking for blood, Frank had calculated the odds and found them wanting. Tactical retreat wasn't cowardice—it was survival mathematics.
He spun and charged deeper into the alley, Noah close behind him. The sound of their pursuers followed like a pack of wolves scenting wounded prey, boots pounding against concrete in the narrow space that amplified every footstep into an echoing drumbeat of impending violence.
Frank's enhanced situational awareness picked up the ambush before his eyes confirmed it—shadows moving wrong in the darkness ahead, the subtle shift of fabric against brick, the metallic click of safeties being disengaged.
His modified Browning was in his hand and firing before the ambushers finished raising their weapons.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The shots echoed like thunder in the confined space, muzzle flashes strobing against brick walls as Frank's bullets found their targets with surgical precision. Three bodies hit the ground in rapid succession, their ambush turning into a morgue in less than two seconds.
Professional, Noah thought, watching Frank work with the detached appreciation of someone observing a master craftsman. No wasted motion, no hesitation, no mercy.
The Punisher's gunshots seemed to announce open season to everyone else in the area.
RATATATATATAT!
Automatic weapons fire erupted from behind them as the pursuing Russians opened up with everything they had. Muzzle flashes lit up the alley like a deadly light show, bullets chewing into brick and mortar where Noah and Frank had been standing moments before.
Both men pressed themselves into recessed doorways, the superior firepower pinning them down with withering accuracy.
This is notgood, Noah assessed, risking a glance around the corner. We're trapped between two forces with better weapons and more people.
"What's the plan?" Noah shouted over the gunfire.
"Don't die," Frank replied with the laconic wisdom of someone who'd survived more impossible situations than most people had hot dinners.
"I like that plan," Noah called back. "Very straightforward."
Frank produced a smoke grenade from his tactical vest and hurled it into the center of the alley. Thick gray smoke billowed out, turning their battlefield into a fog bank that smelled like sulfur and tactical advantages.
"When I move, you follow," Frank commanded. "Stay low, stay behind me, and try not to get shot."
"What if I do get shot?"
"Then you're probably dead," Frank replied with brutal honesty.
If only you knew, Noah thought, checking his considerably smaller pistol and wishing he'd invested in better hardware.
Frank exploded out of cover like a guided missile with anger management issues. Noah followed, abandoning any pretense of caution and trusting his immortality to handle whatever bullets found him.
The Russians blocking their forward progress saw two figures charging through the smoke and began firing wildly, their shots going wide in the confusion.
Frank's return fire was considerably more accurate.
His bullets tore through the smoke and found their targets with the inevitability of physics, dropping three men before they could properly adjust their aim. The fourth Russian managed to squeeze off a burst before Frank was on him, grabbing the man's throat with one hand while pressing the Browning's muzzle under his jaw.
BANG!
The top of the Russian's head disappeared in a spray that painted the alley wall in abstract patterns.
Jesus, Noah thought. The stories about Frank Castle don't do him justice. He's not just violent—he's artistically violent.
Noah felt the distinctive whistle of incoming death and turned just as a Russian gangster brought a rifle butt down toward his skull. The impact connected with enough force to drop a normal person, but Noah's enhanced physiology absorbed the blow and kept him upright.
The Russian stared at him in confusion, clearly expecting different results from his skull-crushing technique.
"That's gonna leave a mark," Noah said conversationally, then put two bullets center mass.
The Russian dropped, but not before getting off a shot that caught Noah directly in the forehead.
The bullet's impact snapped Noah's head back, and he felt the familiar sensation of his brain briefly relocating to places brains weren't supposed to be. He stumbled backward, playing up the injury while his immortality went to work repairing the damage.
The Russian who'd shot him lowered his weapon with satisfaction, then froze as Noah slowly straightened up, blood streaming down his face from the rapidly healing wound.
"Surprise," Noah said cheerfully, then returned the favor with a bullet that produced considerably more permanent results.
Frank glanced over and saw Noah standing over a corpse with a head wound that should have been fatal but clearly wasn't.
Interesting, Frank noted, filing the information away for future consideration. He'd seen enough enhanced individuals to recognize the signs, but this kid was keeping his cards close to his vest.
The smoke was beginning to clear as they reached the street, but their problems were far from over.
VROOOM!
A motorcycle roared out of the alley like a mechanical demon, carrying two Russians who'd apparently decided that a mobile platform would improve their tactical situation. The passenger had a submachine gun and the enthusiastic intention to use it.
BRRRRAP!
Bullets chewed up the pavement around Frank and Noah's feet as the motorcycle circled for another pass.
Frank watched the vehicle maneuver and calculated angles, trajectories, and the probability of successfully engaging a moving target while under fire.
"These guys are persistent," Noah observed, ducking behind a parked car as bullets sparked off metal.
"They're motivated," Frank agreed. "Question is, what exactly did you do to make them this motivated?"
Noah considered the question as bullets continued to ventilate their cover. He'd eliminated twenty of their associates, destroyed a major drug operation, stolen their money, and blown up their distribution center.
"I may have been slightly disruptive to their business model," Noah admitted.
Frank gave him a look that suggested he was beginning to understand why the Russians had brought so much firepower to this particular party.
"Kid," Frank said, "next time you decide to take on organized crime, maybe start with something smaller. Like a jaywalking ring."
_________________________________________________________________________
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