A massive screen displaying encrypted data streams that only Wilson Fisk could access. He was personally vetting every piece of information that crossed his desk.
Fisk paced before James Wesley, his massive form casting a long shadow. "They hit us through our systems. So we take the systems away from them. Everything moves physically. Armored cars, two man teams, random routes."
Wesley nodded. "It's slower, sir. More expensive. Our overhead for transport and security will triple."
"It's secure," Fisk shot back, stopping to stare down his consigliere. "Security is the only currency that matters right now. We operate in the world I control."
He turned to the screen, where a blueprint of a nondescript building in Queens was displayed. "Consolidate everything. Move it to the Queens facility. That vault was built to survive a nuclear blast. Let's see their digital magic get through ten feet of reinforced concrete."
…
Deep beneath a legitimate Umbrella warehouse in New Jersey, Amon observed a similar map on his own screen.
"He's abandoned the digital battlefield," Amon stated, adjusting his monocle.
A holographic avatar of a 16 year old girl shimmered into existence beside him. "Big man, big muscles. He thinks he can punch the problem. It's adorable, really."
Red Queen leaned in, her holographic form peering at the screen. "You know, the original you would probably find this whole exercise dreadfully boring. He's much more... direct."
Amon didn't rise to the bait. "The original has his methods. I have mine."
"I know," Red Queen said, her tone shifting to one of almost bored omniscience. "I've already mapped his physical movements based on fuel consumption records from his armored cars and cellphone pings from his top men. The patterns point to a single new 'treasury' at a laundromat in Queens. How quaint. He's literally laundering his money."
She giggled. "You want me to just drain his new bank accounts? I could do it in the time it takes you to blink."
"No," Amon said flatly. "That would confirm his fear of our digital superiority. He needs to believe he was beaten in the world he understands. We will make him tear his own operation apart."
"Aww, you want to play with your food," Red Queen pouted, but her eyes gleamed with interest. "Fine. A psychological operation, then. So much more elegant."
"We will create a convincing decoy," Amon stated. "He will strip his real target bare to defend against it."
"Russians. Oh, perfect!" The Red Queen clapped her holographic hands together. "They're exactly who he'd expect to make a move. I can build a legend for them in an hour. Do you think the original will be impressed when I tell him?"
"He has other priorities," Amon said.
"Right," the Red Queen sighed dramatically. "Loving his girlfriends... so tedious. Alright, let's find our delivery boy." Her eyes glowed for a moment as she scanned billions of data points. "Ah. Here we go. A degenerate gambler… deeply in debt. He's perfect, pathetic, greedy and believable."
…
Sammy Carbone, smelling of cheap whiskey and desperation, placed his last two hundred Origin on a long shot named 'Ghost in the Machine.' When the horse won, paying 50 to 1, Sammy thought God had finally answered his prayers.
As he stumbled from the betting window, clutching his winnings, a man in a hurry "accidentally" bumped into him. "Watch it, pal," Sammy snarled, but the man was already lost in the crowd.
It wasn't until he got to his grimy apartment that he found the encrypted burner phone in his coat pocket.
Later that night, the phone buzzed. Screen lit up with a data package. There were audio files.
He played the first one. A heavily accented voice of Dmitri Volkov, a notorious Bratva captain, the sound of clinking glasses and steam hissing in the background.
"Fisk is distracted. He's pulling his men in the unions, that's his real money. We hit Local 282, we cut off his head..."
Sammy swiped to the next file.
Geotagged photos of known Bratva enforcers, their faces grim, taking pictures of the Construction Workers Union Hall from a van across the street.
Then came the financial records… millions of Origin pouring into a Bratva slush fund from an untraceable source.
As Sammy stared, his hands shaking, a subtle pressure built in the back of his mind.
His fear of the Russians was immense, but the thought of the reward Wesley would give him for this... it was a tidal wave. He could get out of the city. This was it. The big one. The score of a lifetime.
…
The meeting took place in the back of Wesley's armored sedan in a dark alley. Wesley listened, his expression a mask of professional skepticism as a sweating Sammy Carbone laid it all out.
"I'm telling you, Mr. Wesley, it's the Russians! They're making a big play, a real big one. They're going after the unions! It's all on the phone... This is the real deal! You gotta believe me!"
Wesley took the phone. For the next twenty minutes, he listened and scrolled. The audio passed every voice print analysis he could run from his car.
The financial data cross referenced with known Bratva accounts.He gave Sammy a thick stack of bills. "Disappear for a week, Sammy. Don't talk to anyone."
…
Wesley rushed the intel to Fisk. In his penthouse command center, Fisk spent an hour poring over the data. It fit perfectly.
He was pulling his resources back, creating a perceived vacuum. The Bratva, like the hyenas they were, would absolutely make a play for his crown jewel. It was a classic power grab.
He made the call. "Pull the security teams from the outer boroughs. Every man we can spare. Triple the guard on all union halls, especially Local 282. I want our best men there, armed for war. We will gut the Bratva on the streets tonight when they make their move."
Fisk's elite security teams, heavily armed with military grade hardware, swarmed the union halls, setting up a kill zone for an enemy.
…
Meanwhile, across town in Queens, the elite security detail that had been in the laundromat an hour ago was now blocks away, preparing for a war.
A skeleton crew of four bored guards remained.
A nondescript laundry service van pulled into the back alley. Three figures emerged.
The leader wore a form fitting tactical suit, the emerald green Mask of Loki fused seamlessly to his face.
They cut the power to the block, used a device to pump knockout gas through the rooftop ventilation system and dropped in through a skylight. The guards were unconscious before they even knew the lights had gone out.
They descended to the subterranean vault.
Blonsky used a high tech thermic lance and surgically cut the massive steel hinges, the metal glowing cherry red before peeling away.
With a low grunt of effort, he used his super soldier strength to pull the multi ton door open. Inside was a fortune in cash and bonds.
Silently, they loaded everything into the laundry vans.
As they were about to leave, Blonsky paused. On the security desk next to the unconscious guards, he placed a recently emptied bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka, a brand favored exclusively by Dmitri Volkov.
Fisk in his penthouse, watching the empty streets around the union halls on his monitors. His phone rings. It's Wesley, his voice filled only with shock.
"Sir... it was a feint. The unions were a decoy. They... they hit the vault in Queens. They took everything." There's a pause. "Sir... they left a bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka."
Fisk is utterly silent, but his eyes are burning with a pure rage. He's been played.