The Punisher - Part 2 File

Frank stood there for a moment, breathing the cold air. Then he knelt, picked up the flash drive, and tucked it into his vest. The names on it would take him six months to work through. Six months of blood and gunpowder and sleepless nights.

He turned and walked back toward the stairwell, stepping over the body of the young sentry he’d left unconscious. The Punisher - Part 2

The rain kept falling. It didn’t wash anything clean. But Frank Castle had stopped believing in clean a long time ago. Frank stood there for a moment, breathing the cold air

“My son,” Frank said quietly. “He was twelve. He liked to draw. Dinosaurs, mostly. You know what he drew the week before he died? A picture of our family. Holding hands outside a house with a sun in the corner.” Six months of blood and gunpowder and sleepless nights

Vaccaro stood frozen, his silk tie fluttering in the wet wind. The steel briefcase lay open at his feet—bundles of cash and a flash drive.

Here is Part 2 of the story.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. “Vaccaro moves in 20. Roof of the Lexford. Exchange with the Bratva. Don’t be late.” Frank didn’t ask who. He didn’t trust anyone. But he checked the intel anyway—cross-referencing it with three separate feeds he’d tapped into over the last month. It fit. Vaccaro always took the high ground. He liked to look down on the animals he fed. The Lexford Hotel was a crumbling art deco relic, its upper floors condemned after a fire five years ago. Perfect for a meeting no one was supposed to see.