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The bitter smell of cordite hung thick in the air. With a single, smooth motion, Frank Castle ejected the empty shell from his 12-gauge and scowled grimly, drawing a deep breath.

Sweat soaked his jet-black, greasy hair. He blinked twice, exhaled and relaxed a bit, letting the barrel of the shotgun droop, and calmly scratching his stubbly chin; he then ran the hand back over his head to slick back a few straying locks.

His evening had been fruitful and well spent, despite the few minor gunshot wounds he'd recieved. His black Kevlar vest, emblazoned with his infamous stylized Death's Head, had protected him from the worst, anyway.

He squinted, as the air was filled with gunsmoke, and cast his gaze around the small room. He surveyed with cold satisfaction the end result of the last six months of work.

Months of tailing, stakeouts and wiretaps on these punks, and relentless patience on Castle's part, had finally paid off. Bodies of mobsters, and their hangers-on, were strewn around this sparsely-furnished office and building. Their  blood was spattered on the walls and pooled on the bare floor.

Every one of these animals he killed earned him back a very small piece of himself, he felt. There was a lot of him still out there to be reclaimed, though....waiting.

Two of his throwing knives were missing; one was buried in the chest of a mook named Tommy 'Voice' Selazzo. Castle had thrown the knife with such force that it had actually sunk far enough into Selazzo's body to pin him to the wall. The other blade was jammed into the throat of a high-ranking soldier called 'Little Johnny' Guzzetta, protruding just above the large, ragged hole blown into his chest.

Little Johnny was a cold, brutal thug, a button man who had started out years ago as a leg-breaker for a pissant neighborhood bookie and loan shark named Jackie Gatto. Gatto had tried to hustle a ranking member of the local mob family and had wound up dead for it. Guzzetta, who had in fact ratted out his boss, had then been given a job. Pieces of what was left of Gatto were found several years later, when they drained a strip-mining pit in Central Ohio.

Guzzetta was 6'8' and weighed about 380 pounds, but a lot of it had gone to fat in the last few years; he wasn't as fast as he used to be. His bad luck.

One of the dead, the body that lay sprawled across the cheap, battered sheet metal desk, was a small-time hood with big dreams named Edward 'Pony' Tonaccio. Tonaccio had been on The Punisher's list for quite some time, ever since the deaths of an unfortunately overworked manager and a night watchman in an electronics supply warehouse, brutally murdered when they came upon The Pony and his pals ripping off a truck full of stereos and other electronics equipment.

The guard had been a widower with three kids. Tonaccio and his buddies had gone free, the result of a few pulled strings and a little jury-applied pressure.

Now, he was dead. One loose end tied up.

Castle, however, had actually come to find Tonaccio's boss, a capo by the name of Gianni Colozzi, a local figurehead who answered to a minor Don named "Fat" Albert Polombo. Colozzi would be able to provide some answers to questions Castle had about the present whereabouts of Polombo and his associates.

Colozzi had, for his part, decided to exercise the better part of valor and had quickly vacated the premises as soon as he'd heard the words 'The Punisher.' This was the only catch in what had otherwise been a reasonably productive evening.

No matter; Castle could track him down later. True, it would have been more convenient to have had the information Colozzi could have provided, as he could then have taken care of Polombo tonight, as well. But, things didn't always work out as desired.

At least he could scratch The Pony. Little Johnny, too. The others here were soldiers, low-ranking gun hands; small fish, but big enough not to throw back. Some of them might probably have had bright futures within the Family.....not anymore.

As The Punisher slung the shotgun across his back and bent to retrieve his empty and discarded AR-15 and Uzi, he stopped and cocked his head, listening.

A soft scratching sound came from behind him. He swung around as he straightened, bringing the swiftly unslung shotgun around with him. He stopped short as he took in what he was seeing. Selazzo, still nailed to the wall, was twitching limply, trying vainly to pull himself free. His arms came up stiffly, reaching out for Castle; his mouth opened soundlessly, blood oozing from the open maw, and his lifeless, hollow eyes focused (if that could be the word) on his prey. Castle's scowl deepened, his brow creased, as he eyed the upright form, and knew without a doubt that the punk had to be dead.

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