Punisher: The Murdered World (Patreon)

The woman was in trouble. It couldn’t be more clear if there were a gun aimed at her head.

Frank always stayed aware of his surroundings, especially when driving. It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to be pulled over. Danger could come any direction. The one and a half ton of metal that other drivers took to be a suit of armor could easily turn into a death-trap. All it took was one grenade. So he kept an eye out for that grenade. And everything else. Even in traffic.

Traffic was nothing new in Miami. People either dealt with it or they didn’t. Reactions varied, but weren’t particularly original. They sang along with the radio, tapped on the steering wheel, ranted and raved while they relived all the aggravations that had led to this climax of frustration. Some slumped down, just trying to stay awake until the light changed color. And of course, there were those who pounded on their car horns as if that would achieve something.

But Frank had never seen a woman react this way—not in anything other than dire circumstances. She was stock-still, spine rigid, eyes wide and unblinking as they stared straight ahead. Like a prey animal spotted by a predator, she all but played dead. Her white knuckles on the steering wheel the only sign of life.

Careful not to move any of his body except his eyes, Frank shifted his gaze from the rear-view mirror to the side mirror. Scrutinizing it, he spotted that she wasn’t alone in the pooled shadows of the car’s interior. Two shapes, masculine, with the wiry sharpness of underfed dogs. One in the passenger seat, the other sprawled out in the backseat.

The one riding shotgun had his hand down below the dashboard, touching the woman’s leg or somewhere more intimate. His lips were moving in the shadows cast by his hoodie. Whatever he was saying seemed designed to make the woman tremble—to break her out of her self-imposed paralysis.

A bottom feeder like that didn’t care if he fucked up whatever this was, sending his prize screaming out the door and forcing his hand to whatever threat he’d made to keep her compliant. Other people’s fear was the only drug that scumbags were never short of.

Except when it came to the Punisher.

The light turned. Frank eased his foot down on the gas pedal. The woman’s red Jetta jolted forward, nearly had a fender bender before the car in front of her accelerated out of the way. Frank kept one eye on the Jetta, the other on the road. They were both on a surface street, running parallel to a highway. Frank had no idea where the lady was going—where the creeps were taking her.

Tailing a car from up ahead wasn’t ideal. It was unexpected, yes; people rarely checked for a tail up front. But it meant you were in full view of any driver, not just the ones who checked their six regularly. And there was always the chance—

The Jetta changed lanes, breezing by a passel of crash barrels to head up onto the highway. Frank hit the gas. He was still on the surface road; in the blitz of the highway, he could easily lose his quarry.

The light ahead glared yellow. Frank ignored it. His foot ground the gas pedal into the floor. He soared through the intersection as the light went red. If a cop saw it, that was too damn bad. Frank’s respect for law enforcement hit a wall when it came to innocents like the one in the red Jetta.

The next access road came up. Frank gritted his teeth. Two cars were already on the way up to the overpass. He could only slow down and wait as they slid into the speeding traffic of the highway. Finally, it was his turn. He pushed his BMW M4 into the flurry, scanning the traffic through his windshield, then in his mirrors. He spotted a red Jetta. Then another. In all the excitement, he hadn’t nailed down make and model. It could be either one.

Sloppy, Frank. Shouldn’t be this sloppy when it comes to yourself, much less a woman.

He hit the gas. Felt the engine purr, the wheels burn, the supple vibration of this one well-oiled mechanism charging through his meat and into his bones. At any other time, it would be a pleasure. He’d always liked cars, not just as a tool, but as a luxury. A rare occasion when form and function could both be served. But right now, that well-tuned engine and all the exquisite moving parts didn’t fit his mood. He wanted to growl. But this lightweight sportscar was as invisible in Miami as bad shoes in a bowling alley.

He paced the first Jetta, came up alongside it. Scoped it from the corner of his eye. There was his girl. This close, he could see she was no femme fatale, no hardened criminal that’d gotten in over her head. As far as he could see, she was no criminal at all. Just young. A teenager. Old enough to drive, but only just. And he could see why she’d been taken. The girl was cute as a kewpie doll. Heart-shaped face, lambent hair, a button nose, and wide eyes. Lips like some tart, ripe fruit, that’s taste far outlaid its size.

If she weren’t scared shitless, she’d be a beauty. As it was, even Frank wanted to hold her in his arms, pet her hair, whisper things into her ear that would make her go back to not fearing the world.

He wanted to hurt people for her.

Stupid risk, chancing the scumbags seeing him. Shouldn’t have been necessary. Should never have had to reacquire her. Frank made a show of fiddling with his radio as he eased off the gas and let his M4 drift back. He kept five miles under the flow of traffic; three cars passed him. But he kept the red Jetta in sight.

His fists worked back and forth on the steering wheel like he was breaking windpipes already. Scum like this shouldn’t get to let young girls know they shared the same planet. He wanted to speed up, smash into the Jetta, came out of the driver’s seat blasting, and let this girl get started on scouring her memory as soon as possible.

But he’d taken enough risks. Couldn’t play games now. He would have to watch and wait and be ready when the opportunity came. That should be easy for the Punisher, who had once been Frank Castle.

The Marines had made Frank Castle a perfect killing machine. The death of his family had made that all Frank Castle was. A machine should be able to wait until it was needed. There was no use for him until the shot was clear.

They came off the highway in a bad part of town. It wasn’t a war zone. Not on the outside. A little more graffiti, a few more broken windows, a few less cops. The real change was in the air. Frank could feel the apathy, the depression, the resentment that was the only charge at all. It was like a bonfire. What it was given, it could only feed on. What it touched, it could only burn.

The red Jetta slowed, crawling its way through a trash-strewn street. Looking for an address, Frank judged. He pulled up to the curb, put the M4 in park, and got out. In a heartbeat, he was just another pedestrian.

Even money the sportscar would be molested by the time he got back. Maybe even literally. But he’d picked the M4 up on a whim as he left Don Bruno Lombardi choking on his own blood. Once it’d served its purpose, it was only worth forgetting.

Frank was a big man, but he made himself small enough. Slouching, taking desultory steps. He was dressed somewhere between tourist and beach bun. Blue Guayabera shirt, white linen pants, and a pastel blazer that had probably made its way to Goodwill straight from the set of Miami Vice.

The idea was that it was easiest to conceal a weapon when no one was looking for one in the first place. They looked at his cream sneakers and didn’t think there could possibly be a Ka-Bar in an ankle sheath, or a small-of-back holster with a raffia hat, the band colored peach.

The Jetta creaked to a stop; shoddy brakes. Frank threw a few drunken weaves into his walking before he paused, leaned against a dark streetlamp, to light a cigarette from his shirt pocket. The two punks skimmed right over him, just another bum fruitlessly trying to get a flame from a Zippo purchased in another life—not noticing he was only barely flicking it. Wouldn’t want to give away his face in the light.

Like any animals, they only cared about what they could feed on. With the Jetta lodged against the curb, they hustled the woman out of the car and into an alley between two buildings, one condemned and one that should’ve been.