Back at the warehouse ruins, the fires had burned themselves out, leaving behind twisted metal and the acrid smell of destruction. What had once been a multi-million-dollar criminal enterprise was now a blackened crater filled with charred debris and unrecognizable remains.
Several Russian gangsters picked their way through the wreckage, their faces grim as they surveyed the devastation. Pieces of what might have been frozen pork—or something considerably less appetizing—lay scattered among the twisted metal and concrete chunks.
One of the searchers knelt beside a particularly burned corpse in the corner, turning it over to examine the features. Despite the fire damage, enough remained to make identification possible.
The searcher's face went pale as recognition hit him. His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone and dialed a number he never wanted to use for news like this.
"Vladimir," he said carefully, "we've got a situation at the warehouse. There was an explosion. Everyone's dead—our people, Kingpin's representatives, all of them." He paused, steeling himself for what came next. "Your brother Anatoly... he didn't make it."
Silence stretched across the connection, so complete that the searcher wondered if the call had been dropped.
Then Vladimir's voice came through, low and dangerous: "Who did this?"
"We found two suspects fleeing the scene," the searcher reported. "We're tracking them now, but—"
"FIND THEM!"
The roar that came through the phone was barely human, rage distilled into pure sonic violence.
"Send everyone! Every soldier, every associate, every contact we have! I want those two alive! Do you hear me? ALIVE! I'm going to make them wish they'd never been born!"
The line went dead with a crash that suggested Vladimir had just introduced his phone to the nearest wall.
The searcher stared at his device, knowing that the death of Vladimir's younger brother had just turned a criminal investigation into a city-wide manhunt with unlimited resources and zero regard for collateral damage.
This is about to get very bad for everyone involved, he thought, then began making calls to every Russian mobster in New York.
BRRRRAP! BRRRRAP! BRRRRAP!
Noah ducked behind the motorcycle as submachine gun fire chewed up the pavement around his feet. His marksmanship, which had been adequate for close-range elevator encounters, proved significantly less effective against moving targets at distance.
Note to self, Noah thought as bullets sparked off metal around him, invest in better weapons and actual training.
Frank, using Noah as mobile cover with the tactical efficiency that had made him legendary, calmly acquired his targets and began systematically eliminating the motorcycle's occupants.
BANG!
The passenger with the submachine gun pitched backward off the bike, his weapon clattering across the asphalt.
BANG!
The driver slumped forward, and the motorcycle veered wildly before crashing into a brick wall in a shower of sparks and twisted metal.
"Check the bike!" Frank barked, already reloading while keeping one eye on the alley where more Russians were rapidly approaching.
Noah sprinted to the crashed motorcycle, which despite its recent encounter with architecture looked surprisingly functional. He hauled it upright and swung his leg over the seat, trying to project confidence he definitely didn't feel.
Frank backed toward him, laying down suppressing fire to keep their pursuers honest.
"Ready?" Frank called, sliding onto the rear seat just as his magazine ran empty.
There was a moment of silence as Noah stared at the motorcycle's controls like they were ancient hieroglyphics.
"Problem?" Frank asked with the dangerous calm of someone whose patience was approaching its operational limits.
"Minor technical issue," Noah admitted. "I may have neglected to learn how to operate motorcycles during my educational development."
Frank's expression could have frozen hell itself. "You can't drive."
"I'm a very quick learner?"
"Then why are you in the driver's seat?"
"Seemed like the logical place to sit," Noah replied weakly.
The sound of approaching Russians grew louder, and Frank's tactical mind calculated rapidly diminishing options.
"Drive," he commanded.
"But I just told you—"
"DRIVE!"
Noah twisted the throttle with the desperate enthusiasm of someone who'd decided that certain death was preferable to Frank Castle's disappointment.
The motorcycle exploded forward like it had been launched from a cannon.
Frank, who'd survived tours of duty in multiple war zones, immediately discovered that riding behind an immortal teenager with no vehicle experience was significantly more terrifying than anything the military had prepared him for.
They rocketed into traffic at speeds that turned other vehicles into colorful blurs, weaving between cars with the kind of precision that suggested either supernatural reflexes or incredible luck.
"SLOW DOWN!" Frank shouted over the engine noise.
"I'M TRYING!" Noah shouted back. "THE THROTTLE SEEMS TO BE STUCK IN THE 'EXTREMELY FAST' POSITION!"
Frank gripped the rear seat with hands that had been steady through urban warfare but were now white-knuckled with terror. He watched the speedometer climb past numbers that should have been theoretical and realized he was experiencing a completely new form of fear.
I've been shot, stabbed, blown up, and tortured, Frank thought as they narrowly missed a city bus, but this is the first time I've genuinely believed I was going to die.
"KID!" Frank yelled. "MAYBE TRY USING THE BRAKES!"
"WHICH ONE ARE THE BRAKES?" Noah called back.
Frank closed his eyes and did something he hadn't done since his family died—he prayed.
Behind them, the pursuing Russians had given up trying to follow what appeared to be a guided missile with a very confused navigation system.
They roared through Brooklyn at speeds that would have impressed Formula One drivers, leaving behind a trail of confused motorists and at least three traffic accidents that would require extensive paperwork.
Well, Noah thought as he gradually figured out the relationship between throttle control and not dying horribly, at least we're getting away from the Russians.
_________________________________________________________________________
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