Chapter 18: The Man Behind the Kingpin
Bruce approached the elevator Kingpin had hidden within his Brooklyn home. Had he not performed a full tactical scan of the house earlier, finding it would have been nearly impossible.
"Nice painting," Bruce murmured.
A massive oil painting depicting a war between gods and demons hung on the wall, its scale perfectly concealing the machinery behind it. Beside it sat a heavy marble bust of Copernicus. Bruce gripped the bust and, using a significant amount of force, wrenched it to the side.
As the mechanism clicked, the oil painting slid upward, revealing a sleek, sci-fi-style elevator door. There were no biometric scanners—just a simple physical switch. However, Bruce noted the resistance of the bust; it was designed for someone who could lift a car with their bare hands. Only Bruce's peak physical conditioning allowed him to bypass the lock so easily.
He stepped inside. The door hissed shut.
The elevator only had one button: Up. As it began to descend, Bruce felt a sudden, sharp sense of weightlessness. The car was falling far faster than a standard elevator. His ears popped from the pressure.
When the doors finally opened, revealing Kingpin's subterranean sanctum, Bruce was forced to admire the sheer scale of the construction beneath Brooklyn. However, he found the aesthetic lacking. Unless used as a temporary tactical base, he would never choose a place like this. He preferred the natural, rugged utility of a cave—like the one beneath Wayne Manor.
The room was surprisingly low-tech. A few old-fashioned rotary and push-button phones, stacks of notepads, physical file folders, and a massive array of heavy training equipment.
It was the lair of a man who didn't trust digital footprints.
Bruce understood the logic. In a world where Spider-Man and other heroes were technological geniuses, Wilson Fisk knew that anything on a server could be hacked. Physical paper was the only true secret.
He picked up a notebook. As he flipped through the pages, he saw a list of familiar, powerful names.
"This is how he rules New York," Bruce whispered.
The notebook contained names and private contact information for almost every major official in the city:
The Mayor of New York.
The Police Commissioner.
City Aldermen and Council members.
It was a ledger of corruption that could make the entire city tremble. Bruce set it aside and picked up the next one. This one was even more focused: it detailed the weaknesses, secret bases, and manufacturing hubs of every rival crime lord in the New York underground.
If Fisk ever decided to "burn it all down," these notes alone would be enough to decapitate the city's leadership and criminal elements in a single night.
Bruce moved to the folders. The first two were a windfall: a massive cache of bearer bonds and dozens of encrypted account numbers. He had found the wealth he needed. But it was the final folder that made him freeze.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
Inside was a detailed list of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents operating in New York. It wasn't just names; it included their clearance levels, positions, and home addresses. It even listed personal details—their favorite foods, their habits, whether they preferred burgers or hot dogs.
A list this confidential shouldn't be in the hands of a mob boss. This suggested that Fisk wasn't just a self-made kingpin; he was being supplied by someone with deep-level access to the world's most secretive intelligence agency.
Fisk wasn't the top of the food chain. He was a project.
Bruce looked up, his instincts screaming. If Fisk was being monitored or supported by a shadowy benefactor, this lair was likely under surveillance. He wasn't just in Fisk's house; he was in a trap.
He began to gather the essential documents, looking for an alternate exit. A man like Fisk always had a back door.
Just as he turned to leave, the elevator behind him hummed to life.
"They're here," Bruce muttered.
He pulled a portable, high-impact Bat-mask from inside his suit jacket, snapping it over his face. He vanished into the shadows of the training equipment just as the elevator doors hissed open.
A steady red laser sight swept across the room. A tactical team, dressed in unmarked matte-black combat gear and armed with silenced submachine guns, advanced in a tight formation. They moved with a military precision that surpassed any standard mob muscle.
"Search the perimeter," the lead operative whispered into his comms. "Find whoever is inside."
(End of Chapter)
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