Damn it!
Darkness. Absolute, thick as tar. The emergency light went out, just like the screens. The car wouldn't start, and that damn Shocker clearly wasn't planning to tell me a joke. Here, it was either instant death or first becoming a prisoner and then dying. My heart was pounding wildly, my breathing heavy as I tried to hear what was happening outside, but the soundproofing—which I could truly appreciate only now—didn't let through a single sound. I was sitting in a super-strong coffin, seeing and hearing nothing but my own breathing and the loud pounding of my heart, which seemed to be trying to break free from my chest.
Damn it, why didn't I end up as that damn Parker? A year or two of ordinary school life would have been very useful to me, as would guaranteed genius and superpowers! My superpower right now was money, but it seemed that wasn't enough to fend off even a damn Shocker! Damn it, why was this happening again? In movies and even comics, this kind of crap happened less often than it did to me!
The silence rang, and in it, the remnants of adrenaline dissolved, giving way to cold, sticky fear. I was alone again. Alone in a dark place beyond which only death awaited me, and no one would protect me. All my guards were dead, their torn bodies left behind on the blood-soaked asphalt, and I was sitting in this damn coffin on wheels, helplessly waiting for it to be opened!
Damn, how I didn't want to die... For some reason, I was sure now that the Darkness wouldn't be so merciful. I felt in my gut that if I died, it was "game over," and there would be no additional lives, no window popping up saying: "6 lives left." No, I would just die and dissolve into nothingness...
Bastards! Shocker, Rhino, and that damn Fisk! Scum who chose the slippery path and killed people in droves for power, money, and influence! Such bastards didn't deserve to live because they ruined the lives of others, literally harming all of humanity! For a moment, my consciousness was again flooded with that very anger. It pushed away fear and, surprisingly, restored clarity of mind, but now there were no thoughts of death or attempts to find a way to survive. Now I was only thinking about how to kill the scum who dared to kill so many good people.
A memory surfaced in my mind—John, one of the bodyguards, before risking his life to distract Shocker, had left a pistol in the car—right on the front seat. I didn't know why he did it, but if Shocker wasn't bulletproof, and he, as far as I remembered, really didn't want to get shot, then... Taking advantage of the chance, I could kill this bastard... I just had to play the part of what I was already feeling and what the mercenary expected from a young kid—fear.
My hands, trembling from a mix of anger and fear, began to search the seat next to me. My fingers bumped into cold leather, some crumbs, but no weapon. Damn it! Maybe it fell? Trying not to make a sound, I lowered myself to the floor and continued searching by touch. My fingers slid across the mat until they finally hit the cold, ribbed metal of the handle. Got it.
I gripped the pistol with both hands, pressing it to my chest. It was heavy, and it even seemed like something... unusual emanated from it, but I think that was just self-suggestion. The pistol didn't give a sense of security, no. Against Shocker, this pea-shooter was almost useless—after all, even though this bastard was just a human, his reaction and reflexes were at a superhuman level, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to dodge dozens of bullets fired by my bodyguards. But it gave something else—an illusion of control. A chance. The opportunity to die trying to take the bastard with me, rather than just sitting obediently and waiting to be killed.
And then, through the perfect soundproofing, a dull, low hum broke through. It passed through the car's body, vibrating in my back. Followed by a muffled but powerful clap. An explosion. My brain instantly began analyzing. What was that? Another shot from Shocker? Or... reinforcements? The thought of salvation flared and immediately faded. Even if these were my father's people, they wouldn't arrive in time, and the Big Man wasn't an idiot—he definitely considered such a possibility. No need to get my hopes up.
I huddled in the farthest corner of the driver's seat, pressing my back against the door and holding the pistol behind my back in a position convenient enough to quickly bring it to bear on the enemy. How much time had passed? A minute? Five? Ten? In this darkness, time ceased to exist. I sat, listening to the beating of my own heart, and waited.
At some point, the car shook violently. A hit. Then another. Dull, methodical, full of crushing force, and so familiar. Shocker was firing at the door with both hands, and finally, the metal of the body began to give way. I heard it groan and deform. Hit. Another. And another. With a deafening screech, the hinges of the driver's door gave way, and it flew off to the side with a crash.
Dull streetlight and fresh, cold air rushed into the cabin. And in the opening, blocking the exit, stood him. Shocker. His yellow-brown suit seemed even more ridiculous and terrifying in the semi-darkness.
"Well, what a tin can," he rumbled, his voice distorted by the mask. "Your daddy definitely took care of his little boy's safety. Ten times stronger than the last one. I got tired of opening it," he smirked at the end, as if he had told a joke.
I, simultaneously playing at fear and genuinely experiencing it, crawled even further back, wedging myself between the seat and the dashboard, waiting for the moment when my shot could reach the mercenary.
"Sorry, kid," Shocker stepped inside, looming over me. He smelled of ozone and gunpowder. "Nothing personal, just orders. Honestly, I don't like killing kids. It's boring and dirty. But a job's a job, and I get paid for it." He yawned, lazily raising his right hand.
This yawn, this feigned indifference, enraged me more than all his previous cruelty. For him, this was just routine. Another job. The lives of my guards, my life—just a line in his contract. This scum didn't go to serve the state, didn't join the police, didn't even patent his damn gloves! He could have changed the world for the better while earning millions!
"No, please!" I screamed in fear to distract him further, and at that moment, when his attention was scattered, when he was sure of his complete victory, I struck.
Suddenly thrusting my hands from behind my back, pretending it was just an instinctive attempt at defense, I pulled the trigger. The shot in the confined space of the cabin was deafening, my head buzzed. Shocker jerked, instinctively trying to dodge, but it was too late. The first bullet entered under his ribs, into his lung. I saw his body convulse, imagined his stifled gasp, but didn't stop. My finger pressed the trigger again and again. Second shot. Third. Fourth. I kept firing into his twitching body until, in the deafening silence, a dry click rang out—the bullets were gone.
I threw aside the now useless pistol—I didn't have spare magazines. Shocker's body went limp and began to slide out of the car. Without giving myself time to think, I grabbed his leg and, using all my strength, dragged him inside. He collapsed onto the passenger seat. Just in case, fearing he might still be alive, I hit his head against the dashboard with all my might several times. There was a dull, wet sound, and a bloody stain appeared on the mask. Now he was definitely dead.
With trembling hands, I pulled the heavy glove off his hand and put it on myself, pointing it toward the door opening. The gloves were bulky and cold, weighing about ten kilograms each, so even one was hard for me to hold, and I had to use both hands. I crouched, using the mercenary's corpse as a shield, and began to wait. Why didn't I try to escape? Because the guards had mentioned a possible sniper, and I agreed with them. If they wanted to kill me, not sending a sniper, even with supers around, would be sheer stupidity.
A few more minutes of thick silence passed, and then I heard a sound I couldn't mistake—the rustle of dozens of wheels on asphalt. Many cars. They surrounded my wrecked sedan, their headlights flooding the street with bright white light.
"Master Ezekiel? Are you alright?" came a painfully familiar voice. Albert's voice.
My heart skipped a beat. It was ours! But my paranoia-poisoned brain immediately threw up a new thought: Mysterio. The master of illusions. What if this was his trick? This fishbowl wearer in many universes was just as much a mercenary as Shocker and often worked for the Big Man, though I wasn't sure when exactly he appeared—the timeline here was complicated. It seemed too early for his appearance, but in this fucked-up universe, anything could happen.
However, after considering this thought, turning it over and over, I dismissed it. It would be easier for an illusionist to approach invisibly and shoot me. This spectacle was unnecessary. I decided to take the risk.
"Albert! I'm here! I'm okay!" I shouted, my hoarse voice was heard, and after ten seconds, the worried butler looked into the cabin.
His face was pale, but he maintained his usual dignity.
"Master Ezekiel?" he immediately noticed the corpse of Shocker, which I was holding in front of me, and his face became even paler and more thoughtful.
"Yes?" I finally broke the silence, lowering my hand with the gauntlet.
"I'm glad you're okay," the butler smiled. "It's time to go home, sir."
Albert's warm gaze met mine. Before, he only called me "young master," I noted, pushing the corpse aside and stepping out with Albert's support. The scene outside was reassuring. Dozens of armored cars with the "Hammer Security" logo surrounded us in a tight ring. Nearby stood dozens of fighters in full tactical gear. Not far away, I noticed another exploded car from our security service—the one that had stayed behind to cover us from the first attackers and apparently engaged the mercenary after our car stalled. It seemed their cars were much worse than the one I was in, and Shocker easily blew it up.
POV Justin Hammer
"Bishop, Johnson, Richards. All three from Master Ezekiel's personal security are dead. The cover group—another eight people. Eleven people in total, sir," Hank reported, clenching his teeth. He stood in my office, tense as a bowstring, but not a single muscle twitched on his face, even though his younger brother had died.
"Their families have already received maximum compensation."
I clenched my teeth so hard my enamel creaked. Eleven loyal guys. Eleven lives given for my son. Rage boiled inside, threatening to burst out, but I suppressed it. A second later, my face was again an impenetrable mask.
"So be it," I said coldly. "They died with honor. But Fisk... Fisk lost much more today. I don't care about those damn cars, even if they were made from an alloy with vibranium. People are always more valuable, and Fisk will finally understand that. He won't bother us anymore. Ever," saying this, I finally gave in to the urge, and my lips stretched into a predatory grin. Yes, this scum would die, and he would die in agony. That was the price for killing Hammer's people...
Meanwhile, in Wilson Fisk's Apartment
The penthouse at the top of Fisk Tower was his pride. The walls were paneled with rare ebony wood, their dark, almost black surface absorbing light. The floor was laid with slabs of solid Italian marble, polished to a mirror shine, in which the lights of the night city outside the floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows were reflected as faint spots. There was minimal furniture: a low white leather sofa, a couple of chairs with strict geometric shapes, and a glass table on which there was only one item—a genuine Japanese katana on a black lacquered stand. The item was cursed and gave its owner super strength, in exchange for the requirement to kill every day. A great toy for some enforcer.
Wilson Fisk stood with his back to those who had entered, looking at the city. His enormous figure, clad in an impeccable white suit, seemed carved from the same marble as the floor. He didn't move, but his very presence filled the room with oppressive weight.
There were twelve of them. They entered silently, spreading out around the room with the practiced precision of professionals. All in identical black tactical gear without insignia, their faces hidden behind dark ballistic masks. In their hands—assault rifles with laser sights, their red dots dancing on Fisk's broad back.
"Wilson Fisk," the leader's voice was devoid of emotion, processed by a vocoder in the helmet. "Your mercenary is dead. Your empire has fallen. And now it's your turn."
Fisk slowly turned. There was no fear or surprise on his face. Only cold, heavy contempt.
"How foolish..."
"Foolish?" The mercenary smirked. "Bullseye is dead. Apart from your family, you're the last on the list."
For a moment, fear and bewilderment flashed across Fisk's face. Apparently, he had been confident in the mercenary's skills, as well as in the safety of his wife and daughter.
"Family? What the hell..."
"Ah yes," the mercenary's voice carried genuine delight. "The client asked me to show you these pictures before you die..."
He threw a tablet at Fisk's feet. The screen lit up, illuminating his face with bright light. Fisk looked down.
On the screen were photos. Mutilated bodies beyond recognition. A woman and a little girl. But he instantly recognized them. By the necklace with a crescent around the woman's neck. By the small, barely noticeable star-shaped scar on the girl's wrist, which she got when she fell off her bike last summer.
"Vanessa... Rose..." he whispered, and his voice, usually full of authority and self-confidence, turned into a barely audible rasp.
The world collapsed. Everything he had lived for, everything he had built, everything he had so fiercely protected, hiding it from the filth of his world—all turned to ashes in a second.
"NO-O-O!"
This wasn't the cry of a man. It was the roar of a beast whose heart had been torn out. A primal, agonized howl that seemed to make the armored windows of the penthouse tremble.
The mercenaries smirked under their masks. Their leader raised his rifle.
"Mr. Hammer sends his regards..."
Twelve barrels spat flame. The room filled with the deafening roar of automatic fire. Bullets capable of penetrating civilian body armor rushed toward the massive figure in the white suit.
But something went wrong.
At the moment the first bullet touched his chest, Wilson Fisk felt not piercing pain, but a dull, crushing blow, as if a fist had struck him, followed by a second, a third, a fourth. Dozens of blows that should have torn him apart only pressed into his body, making him step back one step, then two. His suit was riddled with holes, dark bruises bloomed on the white fabric, but his skin remained intact. Inside him, something awakened. An ancient, dormant power, stirred by unbearable grief, exploded, rewriting his biology on the fly. His X-gene, dormant all his life, activated.
The mercenaries stopped firing, staring in bewilderment as their target still stood. Fisk lowered his head, his body shaking. Then he raised his gaze. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, now burned with the mad fire of hatred.
"You..." he growled, and his voice became lower, deeper, as if the underworld itself gurgled within it. "You... will pay."
He lunged forward. Fisk swept aside the nearest mercenary without even noticing him. He grabbed the second by the head. Fisk's fingers, now as hard as steel, clenched. There was a sickening crunch, and the mercenary's head burst like an overripe fruit, splattering the expensive wall with brains and skull fragments.
The others opened fire in horror, finally finishing their reload. Bullets again pounded his body, but now, due to adrenaline, he didn't even feel them. Wilson grabbed one of the shooter's rifles and bent it in half, then plunged the mangled metal into his throat.
He moved through the best of the mercenaries, killing them one by one. Fisk tore out one's spine along with his head. He lifted another above his head and ripped him in half. The Big Man punched a hole in the third's chest with a single blow, leaving a smoking cavity in his body. Blood and entrails flew in all directions, turning the luxurious apartment into a slaughterhouse. Kingpin wasn't just killing. He was annihilating. With each new corpse, his rage only grew, fueled by the images of his dead wife and daughter.
The last mercenary, the leader, in terror dropped his useless rifle and drew a combat knife from the sheath on his thigh. It seemed that simple metal couldn't take down the newly minted mutant, but this knife wasn't simple.
"Die, monster!" he shrieked, lunging at Fisk.
The blade, capable of cutting through steel, entered Fisk under the rib. For the first time in this massacre, Kingpin shed his own blood. He roared and grabbed the mercenary's knife-wielding hand. There was a crunch of breaking bones. The mercenary screamed, but the scream was cut short when Fisk grabbed his lower jaw with his other hand and, with monstrous force, yanked it down, tearing it from the skull.
When it was all over, Wilson was alone. Amidst the bloody mess that a minute ago had been an elite squad of killers. Kingpin stood, breathing heavily, his white suit now completely red. The powers awakened by grief and despair slowly left him. The pain from dozens of bruises and the knife wound hit him all at once, making him sink to his knees. The man looked at his hands, covered in someone else's blood, and his face twisted in agony as bitter tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Vanessa!" he screamed, and his cry echoed off the blood-soaked walls of the room. "Rose! I swear, I will bring you back!"
He collapsed onto the marble floor, and his body went still. His consciousness faded, giving way to all-consuming darkness.