Page 4

He surveyed the kitchen, which he took in at a glance, checking for anything he might need to know.

A bottle of tequila and a cheesy-looking "low-rider" car magazine sat on the scratched, secondhand table, what remained of the second bouncer’s distractions. The only thing that seemed out of place was the partially-consumed Italian hoagie sandwich, drink and chips which now sat endlessly, never to be finished. The rats and roaches would enjoy it.

The cover of the magazine showed a pair of ridiculously overly made-up, supremely well-endowed, swimsuited sexpot senoritas, embracing suggestively atop the hood of a snazzy, sparkling ’71 Nova.

Tequila, overly-made-up cholas and low-rider muscle cars; he never understood people who got pissed over "ethnic stereotypes". Stereotypes had to come from somewhere; had to have at least some basis in observable fact, or they wouldn’t exist. Case in point, right here.

He went to the doorway which gave onto the basement steps.

There were at least two men down there, he could hear, and he could smell chemicals. Meth lab, definitely. Making and selling it here, most likely.

Buy here, use here. One-stop shopping.

He cautiously descended the steps and effortlessly surprised and popped the two, replaced the empty .45 to its holster and drew the other, when a third man jumped out of a small side room. With a screech of frightened fury, he moved, awkwardly and untrained, to stick Castle with a large knife.

Castle deftly blocked the thrust with one forearm, pushed the man to the wall, brought the gun up to his jaw and hissed, "Give me something I can use, and I’ll think about letting you go."

The man chuffed hollowly behind his hazmat suit and goggles, the rebreather on his face giving his breathing a faintly Darth Vader-ish hiss-whoosh.

Castle pulled the gun from his jaw and stepped back one pace, extending the gun to arms-length, pointed at the man’s forehead.

"Three…" he said, stressing each word, "…two…one." His finger tensed on the trigger, and the man screamed.

"Okay! Okay! Don’t kill me, man!" he cried, hands up in supplication. "What do you want to know?"

"Where do you get your shit?" the Punisher asked, relaxing his arm slightly, angling the gun to the ceiling. "The heroin, I mean. I can see where you get the meth."

Silence from the trembling chemist. The gun came back down. "I’m not…going to count…again."

The man shrunk back, sliding down against the wall. The gun’s barrel tracked with him.

"Colletti…" he said feebly, his voice muffled by the rebreather. "Chicago."

"Colletti;" Castle repeated, clearly. The man nodded jerkily.

He’d heard the name, before. Bad news, from what he’d gathered. He’d have to do some research, though.

The fumes were bad, down here, he reflected. It was going to his head. He‘d have to get out, and soon; but he had a role to play. The invincible Revenger; tough; unaffected by such trivial things as harsh chemical fumes.

"Get out," he said to the cowering man, motioning with the gun to the stairs. The man stood and without a backward glance, dashed up the steps. A short, faint scream as he found the corpses. Front door slammed. Then silence. Castle holstered the pistol, reached into his pockets and produced two grenades, with timers.

He quickly set the timers for one and a half minutes, placing one directly under the arcane apparatus, the other at the base of a drum of chemicals, which he punctured. The harsh smell redoubled. He paused, thinking of the three wastrels upstairs, whom he didn’t really want to kill. With luck, they’d be awakened or alerted in time by the explosions, and could get out before the flames consumed the ancient place, which wouldn’t take long.

If not, they shouldn’t have been here, anyway. He shrugged.

A sudden gunshot filled the room.

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