The Murdered World 15 (Patreon)

With a horrible grinding and a teeth grating shudder, the boat barreled through the shallows. The bow displaced hundreds of pounds of sand, clogging the water with it before the hull dug into the beach and put a hard stop on the boat's runaway momentum.

At its top speed of forty-five knots, the boat refused to accept that. Like a shovel blade jammed into hard ground, the bow stayed roughly where it was embedded while the stern catapulted upwards, pulling the boat vertical before its inertia wrenched the bow forward in a spray of sand.

The boat almost completed a single somersault before colliding with the mansion, hitting it amidships on the second floor.

The force of the impact whipped through the building's facade, bursting its windows out of their frames. Hardwood splintered before being blown aside entirely. Beams cracked like toothpicks.

The boat's gunwale ate into the second story until it came to a rest, leaning on a rapidly disintegrating plaster ceiling and marble floor. The props, still whirling with a fury they could no longer vent on seawater, burst into the guest bathroom, occupied by Reinaldo.

Hearing the commotion outside, he had hurriedly stood from the toilet and pulled up his pants. He'd paused only a moment to run his hands under the tap. He was standing before the faucet when the spinning rotors embraced him. His blood filled the sink as full as a punchbowl before a party, while his intestines wrapped around the propeller like spaghetti on a fork.

***

Crashing through the brick chimney had sundered the boat's hull, letting in light below deck along with a cloud of swirling dust. Frank thrust himself through the hull breach without waiting a moment for the debris to settle. He landed on the first floor, in a living room almost entirely taken over by the upended yacht. Two guards caught his eye, still on the ground where they'd prostrated themselves as if in deference to the awe-inspiring nature of the assault upon them.

The Commando was already in Frank’s hands. He fired a 3-round burst into one, then the other. The bullets tore through them, blasting chunks of their internal organs down into the foundation. When they died, they sagged down as much as spread, their blood surrounding them in growing pools.

It was a process Frank didn't stay to watch. He knew a fast, ferocious assault could often succeed where a cautious master plan would fall through. Even if it didn't, he would rather die than stand idly by while a woman was violated.

He glanced left and right. If there was anyone else in the room, they were buried under the boat. A door waited in front of him. He could only assume that anyone in that room had either heard the shots and run or was preparing a counteroffensive.

He had more offense than they had counter.

Stretching out his left arm beside the rifle, he pressed a button on the wrist-mounted remote. Exactly like a garage door opener, it sent forward a radio signal. The remote’s range was only twenty feet, but that was more than enough to set off the plastique he had planted only one hour ago.

A thump shook the mansion, shifting the precariously balanced boat to fall through a few more of the structure’s bones. Frank ignored that, and the flurry of fresh dust that polluted the room. He was focused on the door, which fell outward, a place setting worth of silverware embedded in the wood.

He'd just exploded Angel Mercader’s kitchen.

Frank stormed in, rifle butt braced to his shoulder. There were three guards in the room. One was down, pin-cushioned by cutlery. The others were reeling but still up. Frank didn't clock their injuries. He gave them both two to the chest, one to the head.

Twelve rounds fired. Eighteen left to go. He mag-swapped anyway, putting the half empty clip in back of his vest. You never knew exactly how many pests you needed to kill when you fumigated.

***

“Oh shit, SHIT, it’s the fucking Punisher!”

Jesu Christo, it was like hearing the cry of a vulture overhead. Angel had been just about to win Emma over when the shots had rang out and he looked to the window to see the boat run itself aground.

Emma had tried to break free then—she still didn’t understand men, their passion. He was almost inclined to let her go, perhaps send a man to watch her and make sure she did nothing rash until things were properly explained to her.

This idiota on the boat would need to be dealt with. Nothing impetuous on his part, nothing that would raise suspicion, but he would destroy the drunken fool’s life over the coming months in ways that could never be traced back to him.

But something else, some instinct told Angel there was more to worry about than damage control and vendetta. His suspicion was confirmed after the crash had stopped echoing, but the chatter of machine gun fire reverberated through the house. Followed by shouts of men dying. The hammer-blows of explosives going off. And finally, the crestfallen shout that it was the Punisher at work.

Angel had suspected as much. There was only one man with the cojones to try an all-out assault on Angel Mercader, right in his very home! That was why he hung onto Emma’s wrist, keeping her from leaving, and nearly knocking her jaw off when she tried to scratch her way free.

The Punisher was a curious creature. He could kill a hundred men without remorse, so long as they were on the wrong side of the law, but would not so much as strike an innocent. Angel had heard tales of gunfights in which the man would refuse to return fire for fear of hitting a bystander.

Although he also recalled the particularly gruesome fates he’d had in store for those gangsters who’d attempted to cow him with collateral damage, once the man had slipped away and returned to find them at more fitting venues.

There were precious few innocents in the house of Angel Mercader, but Santa Maria was kind. Here was Emma, right on hand.

Angel almost tore her arm from its socket as he pulled her along, refusing her any chance to flee as he ripped open the drawer on his nightstand so vehemently that it came out of the furniture altogether. He had to stoop to pick up his Beretta 9MM from the floor.

Emma surged free of him. Angel lunged after her, tackling her to the ground and then bouncing her head off the floor. “Where are you going? Stupid girl! You hear that? We are being attacked! I am your only salvation, little sister.”

“It’s not like he wants me. Why would he want me?” Emma snarled back, her voice rummy with the clotted blood soaking her nose. “He’s after you.”

Clever girl. She’d figured out what was happening almost as fast as he had. “Si, little sister, but this man, Frank Castle, he fancies himself caballería andante. He won’t harm me if it means hurting you.” He let her feel the cold steel of the Beretta’s muzzle on the nape of her neck. “So let’s wait for him together, yes? And hope I don’t have to shoot through you.”

He came to his feet, forcing Emma up with him, and sat on the bed, Emma on his lap. His left arm wrapped around her in a crushing grip, he aimed at the door with his right hand.

“You are a pretty mamacita, little sister. But not nearly so pretty as my own skin.”