"Shocker? Who the hell is that?" Blade growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"One of Kingpin's meta-mercenaries," I explained calmly, watching his reaction closely. It followed immediately.
"Fuck!" He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. The car swerved slightly. "What the hell did Kingpin need from Frank?! Frank is straight as a rail, he never got into business of that level!"
"You know about Kingpin?" I inquired cautiously. I needed to understand the depth of his awareness to frame the rest of the conversation.
"How could I not know the biggest shark in this New York ocean?" Blade smirked bitterly. "This isn't my bloodsuckers hiding in burrows and fearing the light. This is a higher level. A monster sitting at the top of the food chain."
"Yeah," I confirmed gloomily.
"Right, kid. Let's be straight," he abruptly slowed down and turned his head toward me. In the dimness of the cabin, his gaze was heavy as granite. "What's the deal with this Shocker? And where'd you get the info? I see you're not a windbag. But they came after my friend. So if you want to stay in the 'useful acquaintance' category instead of 'potential problem,' lay it all out."
There it was. The moment of truth. Information that would determine how this night ended—and, possibly, our lives. Telling about Shocker was easy, I wouldn't even have to lie. But Kingpin... his identity...
"Do you know who he is? Kingpin?" I decided to give him a chance to resolve my dilemma himself.
"How would I?" Blade snorted. "I hit bandit skulls periodically, sure, but my main specialty is the mystical. I don't get into the political games of big criminal business."
The dilemma was not resolved. Which meant I could only hope Blade has enough brains not to throw himself into the line of fire. Or enough strength to withstand the likes of Rhino and Scorpion, who would be covering Shocker.
"Wilson Fisk," I didn't stall, saying the name evenly and clearly.
"Are. You. Fucking. Serious. Now?" He said each word separately, with emphasis. The car jerked again as he turned to me in shock.
"Absolutely."
"Shit..." Blade exhaled, turning back to the road. "Just shit. A shadow bastard hiding under the brightest light. A damn billionaire-philanthropist. Time Magazine's Person of the Year. I saw him on TV. He was writing a check for the treatment of kids with cancer with a fake, fatherly smile. A beast."
"As for Shocker," I continued, giving him a moment to process the information, "I found out about him yesterday. Was helping a certain spider heroine patch up her wounds. She told me who messed her up like that. A weak superhuman, but with terribly unpleasant vibration gauntlets that hit an area. Name—Herman Schultz. She promised to run a background check on him."
"Right, we can work with that!" Steel appeared in Blade's voice. "Call her. Right now. Find out everything on this Schultz. Maybe we won't have to go into back alleys and crush Fisk's lackeys' faces to lure out the bigger fish."
And here a problem arose. A small but extremely unpleasant one. I had Gwen's number, which I got from Peter. But for her, I wasn't supposed to know who Spider-Woman was. She was supposed to contact me herself from some burner "spider" number. Genius, damn it. I'm messing up too much for a guy under NZT. The feeling of my own stupidity was disgusting. But there was no choice.
I dialed the number.
"Hello?" a wary girl's voice came from the other end.
"Hi. Did you find out anything about Schultz?" I decided to go straight. She already understood who I was. Even if she didn't know how to react to me calling Gwen Stacy personally yet.
"Um... what Schultz? Who is this? How did you get this number?"
"A sawed window frame in a lab," I stated. "I don't have your hero contacts, and the information on Shocker is not just urgent, it's vital. So let's stop playing misunderstandings. Herman Schultz. What do you have on him?"
A heavy silence hung in the tube for a few seconds. The main thing—she didn't hang up.
"Haaa... okay," she exhaled with a mix of anger and resignation. "Herman Schultz, thirty-two years old. Former engineer from Hammer Industries. Fired for corporate espionage, but it's unknown who he worked for. Officially unemployed, but judging by the fact he lives in Manhattan, he's doing fine with money. Kingpin pays his elite dogs well."
"Manhattan, then. Where specifically?"
"You..." alarm sounded in her voice. "Don't tell me you're going after him. You're in a car right now, I hear the engine."
Fuck. She'll probably snap and rush to Schultz too. It was clear as day even without NZT.
"Just tell me the address for now," I said evenly.
"Second Avenue, House Twenty-Five, Apartment 230," she blurted out.
"Thanks. And... you don't have to be there."
"I'll decide that myself!" Gwen snapped.
"Well, as expected," I shrugged, though she couldn't see it. "That's all from me. Talk soon."
I hung up and noticed we had just pulled up to my garage. Excellent. We need to seriously increase our chances of survival in this mess. And that there would be one, I no longer doubted. The only question was what scale it would take...
"You heard everything, right?" I asked Blade as soon as the heavy garage door closed behind us, cutting us off from the night city.
"Yeah," he cracked his neck. "Simple plan. We barge into this freak's apartment. Hurt him real bad until he tells us where the boss is. Find the boss. Hurt the boss even more. Frank is avenged. Questions?"
"I wish I had your optimism," this time I was the one to smirk. I walked up to the cracked mannequin where Proteus hung. Its hour had come. I had delayed this moment as long as I could, trying not to get involved in Marvel business. I delayed too much, it seems. Vampires were... child's play compared to what was coming.
Removing the elastic fabric from the plastic torso, I began the final assembly. I carefully fixed the plasma barrier generator on the belt, connecting it directly to the palladium reactor. Now the battery was eternal, removing any time limits on the barrier's operation. Without delay, I put the suit on myself. It fit perfectly, like a second skin, even leaving a small margin for a future increase in muscle volume. After all, sewing by one's own measurements—priceless.
"Eric, try not to be surprised now," I warned Blade, starting to quickly throw various things into several open crates: stimulants, weapons, first aid kits. Then I touched one of the crates, and it simply vanished. Dissolved in the air.
"You like, a mutant?" Blade tried to maintain a poker face, but his raised eyebrow betrayed genuine amazement.
"No idea," I honestly spread my hands, making the second crate vanish. "Spatial inventory, as I call it. Just a part of me. How it works—I don't know. Maybe I am a mutant."
I mentally performed a quick audit of the inventory's contents. Stimulants, weapons, protection, even anti-vampire flashbangs—the flash and toxic cloud would cause discomfort to ordinary people too. Seems I didn't forget anything critical. We could move out.
"And what are its limits?" Blade approached with undisguised curiosity. "You have to touch the object? Can you shove me in there?"
"No, only inanimate objects with clearly defined boundaries. Resurrected vampires, by the way, fit that definition, but awakened ones—unlikely. I suspect it's all tied to the presence or absence of a soul," I replied, heading back to the Charger.
"Still not bad. Can you take equipment off me? Try my armor."
I stepped up and touched his tactical vest. A slight mental effort—and the heavy plates disappeared, leaving the vampire hunter in a single form-fitting black turtleneck with Kevlar inserts. Another touch—and the armor returned with a dull click, perfectly fitting his body. Yes, the inventory was much smarter and more adaptive than I thought.
"OP," was Blade's verdict, and his voice held genuine respect. I agreed with him. Despite all my knowledge, skills, and crafted goods, the inventory remained the main trump card up current-me's sleeve.
"What's next?" I asked as we sat back in the car.
"Drive to Shocker's. Meet the Spider-Girl there. Decide on the spot."
And we drove. My brain, spurred by NZT, worked at its limit, calculating hundreds of variations of the upcoming events. Multi-layered plans, retreat schemes, analysis of potential allies and enemies... No. All that was unnecessary. All that would only complicate things and make them worse. Specifically here and now, we had to act in Blade's style. Directly. Brutally. Decisively. And, if necessary, bloodily. Shocker gives up Kingpin's location. We kill Kingpin. And... drown New York in anarchy. Because too much is tied to a figure like Fisk. His disappearance wouldn't just remove a player from the board—it would flip the board itself to hell.
"It'll be unsettled in the city..." I muttered, looking at the night lights passing by outside the window.
"When was it ever settled?" Blade snorted. "Do the special services eat their bread for nothing? They'll figure it out. If a new gang war hits civilians, it'll be a glancing blow. Main thing is Frank will be avenged. By the way..." he hesitated for a moment. "Do you... by any chance, have any heals for him? I'll pay. Any money."
"I do," I nodded, still considering his words. There was a certain cruel logic in his disregard for "global consequences." "But only a recipe for now. Lucas is bringing the components tomorrow, and I'll whip up the first portions. I'll give Frank his for free, of course."
To this, Blade only gave a grateful nod, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. Finally, the Charger smoothly braked at an unremarkable apartment building on Second Avenue.
Schultz was inside. And if not—he'd return home sooner or later. Into the trap.
The electronic lock on the main door of the apartment building beeped and clicked, surrendering without a fight. Blade pulled it off in three seconds, inserting something resembling a stylus into the speaker grille. Мой inner engineer helpfully suggested that this probably wasn't a simple paperclip. Most likely, there was a piezoelectric crystal on the end. A sharp press generates a short, high-voltage pulse that burns or, more likely, simply "blinds" the lock's microcontroller, forcing it to go into emergency mode for a couple of seconds and open the doors. Simple, dirty, and effective.
The sleepy concierge in the spacious, marble-trimmed lobby didn't become an obstacle. Blade just cast a short look at him, and the middle-aged man sighed heavily, closed his eyes, and dropped his head onto his chest, plunging into the world of Morpheus. We walked with a calm step toward the stairs—the elevator was too risky and unnecessary, only the second floor. I simultaneously noted the placement of cameras—Panasonics, wide-angle, with good vision. Inwardly I rejoiced that a simple respirator mask and the deep hood of Proteus at least hid my face. And Blade?
"Psst," I called him cautiously on the stair landing. "Are you invisible to the cameras, or do you just not care?"
"I'm invisible to the system, kid," Blade shrugged, not even slowing his pace. "Whatever pops up there, the guys upstairs will wipe it immediately and write it off as solar flares. Besides, I have nothing to hide. I'm a law-abiding citizen in the service of Her Majesty."
We were already on the second floor. A long, quiet corridor with carpeting that muffled our steps. According to Murphy's Law, the apartment numbering started from the beginning, so our target was at the very end. Moving behind this superhuman, and in a protected suit to boot, I felt relatively safe.
We passed the twenty-fourth apartment. And then I noticed her. In a dark corner at the end of the corridor, almost opposite apartment thirty, a female figure lurked. She sat right on the ceiling, hugging her knees like a gargoyle from a monochrome nightmare, and bored into us with a gaze from under the white lenses of her mask. Gwen. Already here. Judging by the fact that Blade didn't even slow down, he noticed her much earlier than I did.
With an absolutely silent, graceful jump, she returned to the floor and headed toward us. Specifically—toward me. I expected anything: reproaches, accusations, another flash of anger. But either Gwen was more mature than I thought, or the sight of the grim Blade and my equipment influenced her mood. She cast a quick, evaluating glance at me, lingering on the belt with the nondescript box of the plasma shield generator, and understood I hadn't come empty-handed.
"What next?" was the first thing she asked in a half-whisper.
"John," Blade threw in my direction as the three of us froze at the door with number 2-30.
I nodded. Under what I was sure was Gwen's stunned gaze, I simply touched the steel door with my palm. A moment—and it vanished. Dissolved in the air, leaving behind an ideal rectangular opening leading into the apartment. Yes, Blade knows how to adapt and play all the cards in the deck. And as for Gwen... let her consider this a mutual disclosure of secrets.
Blade didn't wait. He tore off with such speed that the air whistled. He flew into the apartment like a shadow. Gwen and I heard only a short scream, the sound of breaking glass, and a dull thud of a body on the floor. When we entered, it was already over.
The blond man—Schultz—lay on the floor in the middle of the living room. Blade was pinning him to the carpet with a knee pressed exactly against his neck. No matter how much Schultz tried to break free, his body didn't even twitch. Strength was clearly on the hunter's side. I think there was Chi involved here—Blade's movements were too smooth, too powerful for a simple adrenaline rush.
I silently stepped to the opening and returned the door from the inventory. It stood in place with a dull thud. The mountings were a bit loose, but it was a small price for such a cheat.
"Well, let's talk about the superiority of the Aryan race," Blade muttered grimly, addressing the wheezing Schultz, turning his head and body so that he looked Blade in the eyes.
Ignoring the beginning mental interrogation, I started scanning the apartment with my gaze. My goal—his vibration gauntlets. They couldn't be left here. I'd have to expropriate them for the benefit of... well, let's say, for the benefit of my garage and inner engineering greed.
An absurd thought flashed in my head. An honest Black man, a Nazi mercenary, a capitalist heroine, and an engineer with communist leanings toward other people's property gathered in an apartment... sounds like the start of a great joke.
"Why did you kill Frank Castle's family?" was the first thing Blade asked. His voice was low, even, and for that reason seemed even more threatening.
While he started the interrogation, I, taking advantage of the moment, set about studying the apartment. My sharpened perception, enhanced by NZT and the Master Clockmaker, absorbed every detail. A typical bachelor pad: the ingrained smell of sweat, stale food, and something subtly metallic. A lonely toothbrush in the bathroom, a mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, a cardboard pizza box on the coffee table. No signs of a female presence. However, against this backdrop of the kingdom of entropy, one object looked alien. A nondescript wardrobe in the corner. The rug in front of it was trodden down more than anywhere else, which was strange for a place where junk should be stored, when Schultz's everyday clothes were carelessly scattered on chairs.
"O-order... I'm just an ex-ex-executor..." choking, Shocker wheezed, not taking his frightened gaze off Blade's face.
I walked up to the wardrobe. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gwen was following me primarily, not the interrogation. She clearly understood I was looking for something.
"An order from Kingpin? The goal of the murder? Why did Frank survive?" Blade pelted him with questions, not giving him time to recover.
I threw open the wardrobe doors. Inside, simple clothes hung on hangers—T-shirts, a couple of hoodies, jeans. But something was wrong. Too clean. In this apartment where dust was a full-fledged resident, the inner surface of the wardrobe was sterile. And the clothes hung with almost military pedantry, ideally ironed. Uncharacteristic for such a slob. The final argument was Schultz himself, who, even under Blade's pressure, for a fraction of a second darted a panicked glance in my direction. Bingo. I'm on the right path. Evidently, for Fisk's elite operatives, who could be called at any moment, the equipment must be close at hand.
"Yes... goal unk-k-known... he refused the boss several times... He wasn't supposed to survive!" Schultz said the last part with genuine amazement. I see. Frank Castle somehow cheated death.
I began tapping on the inner wall of the wardrobe. I could, of course, just put it in the inventory, but if the mechanism was built into the furniture itself, that wouldn't help. Finally, at the very floor, my fingers found a small void. Got it.
"Where is Kingpin now?" finally Blade asked the main question.
I straightened up and delivered a short, sharp kick to the found point, then another and another, picking the key; after six attempts, it worked. The mechanism, reacting not to strength but to the resonant frequency of the strike, clicked. It was a clever system: the lock reacted only to a specific vibration that only a person in the know could create by hitting the right spot at the correct angle. Like frames from a spy action movie, the back wall of the wardrobe smoothly slid to the side. Inside, on quick-release fasteners, hung a quilted yellow-brown suit, but they caught my eye. The vibration gauntlets. Steel, simultaneously massive and elegant, they looked like a work of futuristic art.
"I d-don't know!" Shocker wailed.
"Then who knows?!" Blade growled.
Gwen approached me noiselessly.
"What are you going to do with that?" she asked quietly, nodding at the gauntlets.
Without saying a word, I touched them, and they vanished. I didn't need the suit at all. I'd study them later. Right now, if I put them on and made one careless move, nothing but a pile of rubble would remain of this apartment.
"My handler... J-f-ffrey Weacle... He's one of Kingpin's lieutenants!"
"Jeffrey Weacle. Where is he now? Address! Base! Doesn't matter!"
"Base... on Sixth Avenue... underground complex under number fourt-t-teen!"
"Excellent," Blade cast a glance at us. "Does anyone else need to find out anything from this bastard?"
I took one of the gauntlets out of the inventory, but Gwen beat me to it. Her voice trembled from restrained pain.
"Captain George Stacy. Who is responsible for his death?!"
"Never heard of it," Shocker answered without hesitation. From his face, it was clear he wasn't lying. For Gwen, it was another dead end; rationally she understood the order came from Kingpin or one of his top brass, but she needed a specific executor, at least to start with.
"Right, now me," I stepped forward, shaking the gauntlet. "How do you control this thing?"
"Grip strength..." Shocker wheezed. "Inner lining... a matrix of piezo-sensors. Squeeze your fist sharply—a short, focused pulse, like a shockwave from a punch. Squeeze and hold—the charge accumulates in the capacitors, and you release a wide, constant vibration. You can change the frequency with finger pressure: from low ones that crumble concrete to high ones that turn glass to dust..."
"Downsides? A tracker?"
"Recoil..." he siphoned out. "The stronger the pulse, the greater it is. The suit... It absorbs the vibration, distributing the load across its entire surface. No tracker. This is my technology. Only... suicides go after Kingpin's people."
Excellent, so the suit is important after all, so I must take it too.
"Sorry, buddy," Blade's voice became cold as ice. "But the suicide here is you. From the moment you decided to touch my friend. Ciao on the other side."
"Wait! No! You're going to kill him?!" Gwen exclaimed, taking a step forward.
But it was too late. There was not a loud crack, but a quiet, wet, nauseating sound of tearing ligaments and shifting vertebrae. Herman Schultz's body went limp. Blade straightened up, not even looking at the heroine. Dirty work performed with ultimate efficiency.
He turned to me.
"Let's go, kid. Overly righteous heroines are not our path."
I don't think she'll fall behind us, but I hope she learned some kind of lesson. The freak killed an entire family, and those were definitely not his first murders... It would be a mistake to leave him alive. A mistake a common friendly neighborhood Spider-Man would make, but not a death machine like Blade or Punisher, and here I agreed with them. Though perhaps it's the excess pragmatism spurred by NZT talking in me. Doesn't matter; what matters is that now we are going to Kingpin's fucking base, where we are unlikely to be met with open arms.