Moscow
His arm was bleeding profusely. He gripped it as hard as he could to stanch the flow, but he had seen enough wounds in his career to know that if he didn’t get medical attention immediately, he would be dead. He kept one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to move. The higher his heart rate, the faster he would bleed, but he couldn’t stop. Whoever was after him meant business, and that business was death.
He rounded a corner and ran into an alley. This part of the city was deserted this late at night. What was a spy’s greatest ally was now a hindrance. A public space, lots of people, could help him stay alive. Now, he was sure he was going to die alone. His communications gear was scrambled. His standard issue pistol was useless. Whoever was after him knew exactly who he was and what he had for armaments. He couldn’t call for help through any of his usual secure methods. He needed to find a telephone land line and take his chances.
He came across an empty lot and saw a warehouse on the opposite side. A dim light was on. A shadow moved across the dim luminescence. A person was there, someone that might have a phone. Someone that might at least let him get a message out.
He looked around himself and saw no one. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed his wounded arm and made his way across the empty lot. He nearly tripped on long grass and clumps of dirt, but managed to keep from falling over. He was almost to the window and the door beside it when everything abruptly stopped.
Something wound tight around his neck and yanked him back and up off the ground. He released his arm and furiously tried to gain some purchase on the slim cable choking him. His hands were slick with blood and couldn’t get between the cable and his neck. He couldn’t breath. His vision was beginning to tunnel. He could see that he was up above the empty lot, suspended in the air. He glanced up and saw a pale white skull looking back at him.
Then everything went black
#####
Ilya looked at his watch and saw it was almost 5 am. He had been working all night and lost track of time. He stood, stretched and decided it was time to go home, get a few hours sleep and get back at it again. The rest of the shipping manifests would have to wait. Gort could finish the rest. He never put in extra hours anyway, the lazy bastard.
Ilya turned off the lights and stepped outside, the first hints of daylight were appearing. He locked the warehouse door and began the walk to his car. As he came around the corner, he saw an odd shadow from a streetlight, moving slightly back and forth. He glanced up and jumped in terror.
A man was hanging from the streetlight by his neck, blood dripping from his hands. His face was red and swollen, his tongue protruding. A knife was embedded in his chest through a piece of paper. Ilya could just make out the letters on it.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
His arm was bleeding profusely. He gripped it as hard as he could to stanch the flow, but he had seen enough wounds in his career to know that if he didn’t get medical attention immediately, he would be dead. He kept one foot in front of the other, forcing himself to move. The higher his heart rate, the faster he would bleed, but he couldn’t stop. Whoever was after him meant business, and that business was death.
He rounded a corner and ran into an alley. This part of the city was deserted this late at night. What was a spy’s greatest ally was now a hindrance. A public space, lots of people, could help him stay alive. Now, he was sure he was going to die alone. His communications gear was scrambled. His standard issue pistol was useless. Whoever was after him knew exactly who he was and what he had for armaments. He couldn’t call for help through any of his usual secure methods. He needed to find a telephone land line and take his chances.
He came across an empty lot and saw a warehouse on the opposite side. A dim light was on. A shadow moved across the dim luminescence. A person was there, someone that might have a phone. Someone that might at least let him get a message out.
He looked around himself and saw no one. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed his wounded arm and made his way across the empty lot. He nearly tripped on long grass and clumps of dirt, but managed to keep from falling over. He was almost to the window and the door beside it when everything abruptly stopped.
Something wound tight around his neck and yanked him back and up off the ground. He released his arm and furiously tried to gain some purchase on the slim cable choking him. His hands were slick with blood and couldn’t get between the cable and his neck. He couldn’t breath. His vision was beginning to tunnel. He could see that he was up above the empty lot, suspended in the air. He glanced up and saw a pale white skull looking back at him.
Then everything went black
#####
Ilya looked at his watch and saw it was almost 5 am. He had been working all night and lost track of time. He stood, stretched and decided it was time to go home, get a few hours sleep and get back at it again. The rest of the shipping manifests would have to wait. Gort could finish the rest. He never put in extra hours anyway, the lazy bastard.
Ilya turned off the lights and stepped outside, the first hints of daylight were appearing. He locked the warehouse door and began the walk to his car. As he came around the corner, he saw an odd shadow from a streetlight, moving slightly back and forth. He glanced up and jumped in terror.
A man was hanging from the streetlight by his neck, blood dripping from his hands. His face was red and swollen, his tongue protruding. A knife was embedded in his chest through a piece of paper. Ilya could just make out the letters on it.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
He sipped his Prosecco and marveled at the view. The Burj Khalifa was his preferred place to stay when in Dubai. The Arabs had done a marvel of engineering with this jewel of a city in the middle of a vast desert. Of course, there was always room for improvement, but then when you were employed by the Advanced Idea Mechanics, that kind of thought was constant.
Still, he was here not to come up with ideas to improve this city, but rather to conduct business. His contact with the Red Skull’s organization was set to arrive in a few minutes. He downed the remainder of his drink and went to put his mask on. A more subdued version of the AIM beekeeper helmet that was traditionally worn by his co-workers in the terror science collective. Anonymity was everything in this business.
A knock came at the door. The Skull’s agent was a couple of minutes early. No matter, he was eager to conduct his business and then go back to enjoying his trip to Dubai. He went to the door and checked the peephole. He didn’t recognize the face, but then he didn’t expect to. The person was wearing a lapel pin with a red skull on it. Just as he had expected. He opened the door and let the person in.
“Welcome,” said the AIM Agent. “I trust your trip was uneventful.”
The Skull’s agent nodded, then reached behind and produced a blade.
The motion was so swift the AIM Agent didn’t realize what had happened until the blade was slashed across his throat. The air sparked around him. His personal force field had done nothing to stop the blade. His hands went to his throat, blood pouring out. He gagged as he drowned in his own fluids and collapsed on the floor looking at the Skull’s agent. The assassin took the lapel pin off and tossed it on the floor. The assassin took a piece of paper and put in on the AIM Agent’s chest. The knife went up and down into the Agent’s chest, pinning the paper to his body.
The assassin got up and left the room.
The paper had three letters written on it.
A.I.M.
#####
Madripoor
Frank Castle sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes from the little man who had stepped out his Lexus sedan. The little man was unassuming except for the superior attitude he exuded. Physically unimposing, Castle knew that he was far more dangerous than he looked. Khoi Phan was one of the highest ranking members of the Hand.
Phan was not a usual Hand operative. He wasn’t a ninja, one of the undead raised back to serve the Beast. No, Phan was a dealmaker, brokering the Hands services to those that could afford to pay. He was a number cruncher, and bean counter. He travelled under a cloud of indifference from his status with the Hand. He believed himself untouchable.
Castle was about to give a touch of his own.
“Hill,” said Castle, “I have eyes on Phan.”
“Roger,” said Maria Hill from her operations base several blocks away.
They had been assigned another mission from Nick Fury. Their efforts continued as they hunted the members of the mysterious Cabal that Fury said had infiltrated all levels of world wide governments and intelligence agencies. Castle had agreed, begrudgingly at first, to act as an unofficial scalpel for Fury to take out these rogue elements. He had toppled regimes in Africa, taken out corrupt politicians and dealt with human traffickers. The list never seemed to end, but Fury’s intel was on the mark every time. They were rattling cages, and when that happened, rates began to scurry.
Khoi Phan was exactly what he seemed to be, an agent of the Hand. On the other side of the coin, Fury claimed he was also an agent for the Cabal. The fact the Hand wasn’t aware of this was enough to show how canny Phan was. Castle wasn’t about to underestimate the little man. As much as he wanted to take the man out, they needed intel from him first.
Maria Hill was Castle’s handler, assigned by Fury. They had an off the books budget and access to materiel that even Castle would have been hard pressed to access. He and Hill had been at odds at first, but Castle had learned to respect her as an operator, even grow to like her. The fact she shared the same first name as his dead wife was not lost on him, either.
Hill was based temporarily several blocks away in a hotel room, satellite links and communications set up for this mission. They had a submarine off the coast ready to dust off as soon as they grabbed Phan. Once aboard, they would be invisible to any normal surveillance. The trick was going to be getting there from here.
In Hightown, Madripoor represented the richest of the rich, a paradise of skyscrapers and opulence the Arabs would desire. The opposite of this was Lowtown, where squalor and crime ran rampant and a murderous bent was considered a virtue. Castle was dressed in an Armani suit with a disguise. Hill was in Lowtown, her eyes on the cockroaches as much as her computer equipment.
Phan walked into the hotel as he passed his keys to the valet. Castle left his own vehicle, a shiny Land Rover, and walked across the street and into the hotel. The concierge nodded at Castle, recognizing him from the past few days. Frank Castle was Illyich Castrovich, a Russian oligarch, for the duration of this mission, complete with grayed beard and fashionable eyeglasses.
“Mr. Castrovich,” said the concierge, “Welcome back, sir.”
“Spaceeba,” said Castle in his best Russian accent. He entered the lobby and saw the other rich and opulent guests milling about. Some checking in, others checking out, and others heading to one of the many bars and lounges in the aptly named Hotel Prosperity.
Castle saw Phan enter an elevator and have it close behind him. He waited calmy for the elevator to stop, and it did on the 128th floor. Castle then stepped into the next elevator and pressed 128.
“Heading to 128,” said Castle. “Are you patched into surveillance?”
“Of course,” said Hill. “He’s going to Room 12806. Next room over has one occupant on either side. 12808 has an older women sleeping. 12804 has two men discussing plans for the evening. Your nanocloud is keeping you off the camera feeds.”
“Roger,” said Castle. He didn’t understand the technology 100%, but Fury had outfitted him with a personal cloud of nanobots that surrounded him unseen and unheard. They produced a field that kept him invisible from video security. He stepped off the elevator and headed toward the indicated room. He walked past it to Room 12808 and entered a special key card. The lock quietly released, and Castle stepped inside, closing the door silently.
He stepped carefully in the dark room. The suite had a living room that led into a bedroom. The bed had an older woman sleeping silently. He stepped up to her, brought out a small cannister and sprayed her face lightly. The gas would keep her sleeping for the duration of Castle’s mission.
He tapped the side of his glasses. The view through the lenses shifted until he could see translucent shapes in the next room. Phan was alone, reclining in a chair enjoying a drink. Perfect.
Castle tapped the glasses again and the vision returned to normal. He went to the patio and opened the doors. His balcony was only a few feet from Phan’s own. He stepped up to the railing and against his better judgment, looked down. He looked back up and took a deep breath, then jumped.
He landed on the next balcony without a sound, his vibranium soles absorbing any sound he might have made. Phan was sitting facing away from Castle, his head leaned back and his eyes closed. The little man truly thought he was untouchable.
Castle stepped up to the sliding door and waved the key card he used to get into the hotel room next door. The sliding door lock disengaged. Phan opened his eyes and turned to the door, but it was too late. Castle had already stepped inside the room and sprayed the gas at Phan. The little man dropped like a stone.
Castle picked up the man and pulled out a collapsible bag from inside his suit. He folded the little man inside and zipped it shut, then strapped it to his own back like a backpack. He stepped back outside and went over the balcony, holding on to the railing. He tapped his glasses and a heads up display appeared. A digital arc showed from his current position to the waterfront where their sub was waiting.
“Ready to go,” said Castle.
“Confirmed,” said Hill. “I’m on my way out, I—”
She was cut off at the same time as an explosion sounded, loud enough and bright enough that he could see it in Lowtown from his high perch. “Hill?” asked Castle. “Hill, come in!”
No answer.
“Hill!”
No response.
Castle clicked his belt buckle and glider wings expanded from his lower ankle to his wrists. He leaped off the balcony and flew through the sky. His glasses told him the path to follow to the sub and exfiltration, but he ignored it, instead heading to Lowtown and the explosion.
#####
High overhead, he could see smoke coming from the hotel where Hill had been stationed. He drew his arms in and dove down, bringing his arms back out in time to alight on the hotel roof. He retracted the glider wings and took off the human-filled backpack he was carrying. He went to the rooftop entrance and jumped to the stairwell, heading to Hill’s floor.
Her room door was open and sitting on half its hinges. He drew his weapon and made his way closer. He tapped the glasses and went back to x-ray mode. Most of the room’s outer walls were gone. There was a prone body lying on the floor and someone else standing over it. The standing figure was holding some kind of weapon, but its shape was odd and the x-ray image seemed to flicker as if it was hard to resolve.
He jumped into the room and aimed at the standing figure. Special SHIELD issue rounds fired at the target. The person… a woman?... stood her ground and turned to face her attacker. She wore red and black.
He sipped his Prosecco and marveled at the view. The Burj Khalifa was his preferred place to stay when in Dubai. The Arabs had done a marvel of engineering with this jewel of a city in the middle of a vast desert. Of course, there was always room for improvement, but then when you were employed by the Advanced Idea Mechanics, that kind of thought was constant.
Still, he was here not to come up with ideas to improve this city, but rather to conduct business. His contact with the Red Skull’s organization was set to arrive in a few minutes. He downed the remainder of his drink and went to put his mask on. A more subdued version of the AIM beekeeper helmet that was traditionally worn by his co-workers in the terror science collective. Anonymity was everything in this business.
A knock came at the door. The Skull’s agent was a couple of minutes early. No matter, he was eager to conduct his business and then go back to enjoying his trip to Dubai. He went to the door and checked the peephole. He didn’t recognize the face, but then he didn’t expect to. The person was wearing a lapel pin with a red skull on it. Just as he had expected. He opened the door and let the person in.
“Welcome,” said the AIM Agent. “I trust your trip was uneventful.”
The Skull’s agent nodded, then reached behind and produced a blade.
The motion was so swift the AIM Agent didn’t realize what had happened until the blade was slashed across his throat. The air sparked around him. His personal force field had done nothing to stop the blade. His hands went to his throat, blood pouring out. He gagged as he drowned in his own fluids and collapsed on the floor looking at the Skull’s agent. The assassin took the lapel pin off and tossed it on the floor. The assassin took a piece of paper and put in on the AIM Agent’s chest. The knife went up and down into the Agent’s chest, pinning the paper to his body.
The assassin got up and left the room.
The paper had three letters written on it.
A.I.M.
#####
Madripoor
Frank Castle sipped his coffee, never taking his eyes from the little man who had stepped out his Lexus sedan. The little man was unassuming except for the superior attitude he exuded. Physically unimposing, Castle knew that he was far more dangerous than he looked. Khoi Phan was one of the highest ranking members of the Hand.
Phan was not a usual Hand operative. He wasn’t a ninja, one of the undead raised back to serve the Beast. No, Phan was a dealmaker, brokering the Hands services to those that could afford to pay. He was a number cruncher, and bean counter. He travelled under a cloud of indifference from his status with the Hand. He believed himself untouchable.
Castle was about to give a touch of his own.
“Hill,” said Castle, “I have eyes on Phan.”
“Roger,” said Maria Hill from her operations base several blocks away.
They had been assigned another mission from Nick Fury. Their efforts continued as they hunted the members of the mysterious Cabal that Fury said had infiltrated all levels of world wide governments and intelligence agencies. Castle had agreed, begrudgingly at first, to act as an unofficial scalpel for Fury to take out these rogue elements. He had toppled regimes in Africa, taken out corrupt politicians and dealt with human traffickers. The list never seemed to end, but Fury’s intel was on the mark every time. They were rattling cages, and when that happened, rates began to scurry.
Khoi Phan was exactly what he seemed to be, an agent of the Hand. On the other side of the coin, Fury claimed he was also an agent for the Cabal. The fact the Hand wasn’t aware of this was enough to show how canny Phan was. Castle wasn’t about to underestimate the little man. As much as he wanted to take the man out, they needed intel from him first.
Maria Hill was Castle’s handler, assigned by Fury. They had an off the books budget and access to materiel that even Castle would have been hard pressed to access. He and Hill had been at odds at first, but Castle had learned to respect her as an operator, even grow to like her. The fact she shared the same first name as his dead wife was not lost on him, either.
Hill was based temporarily several blocks away in a hotel room, satellite links and communications set up for this mission. They had a submarine off the coast ready to dust off as soon as they grabbed Phan. Once aboard, they would be invisible to any normal surveillance. The trick was going to be getting there from here.
In Hightown, Madripoor represented the richest of the rich, a paradise of skyscrapers and opulence the Arabs would desire. The opposite of this was Lowtown, where squalor and crime ran rampant and a murderous bent was considered a virtue. Castle was dressed in an Armani suit with a disguise. Hill was in Lowtown, her eyes on the cockroaches as much as her computer equipment.
Phan walked into the hotel as he passed his keys to the valet. Castle left his own vehicle, a shiny Land Rover, and walked across the street and into the hotel. The concierge nodded at Castle, recognizing him from the past few days. Frank Castle was Illyich Castrovich, a Russian oligarch, for the duration of this mission, complete with grayed beard and fashionable eyeglasses.
“Mr. Castrovich,” said the concierge, “Welcome back, sir.”
“Spaceeba,” said Castle in his best Russian accent. He entered the lobby and saw the other rich and opulent guests milling about. Some checking in, others checking out, and others heading to one of the many bars and lounges in the aptly named Hotel Prosperity.
Castle saw Phan enter an elevator and have it close behind him. He waited calmy for the elevator to stop, and it did on the 128th floor. Castle then stepped into the next elevator and pressed 128.
“Heading to 128,” said Castle. “Are you patched into surveillance?”
“Of course,” said Hill. “He’s going to Room 12806. Next room over has one occupant on either side. 12808 has an older women sleeping. 12804 has two men discussing plans for the evening. Your nanocloud is keeping you off the camera feeds.”
“Roger,” said Castle. He didn’t understand the technology 100%, but Fury had outfitted him with a personal cloud of nanobots that surrounded him unseen and unheard. They produced a field that kept him invisible from video security. He stepped off the elevator and headed toward the indicated room. He walked past it to Room 12808 and entered a special key card. The lock quietly released, and Castle stepped inside, closing the door silently.
He stepped carefully in the dark room. The suite had a living room that led into a bedroom. The bed had an older woman sleeping silently. He stepped up to her, brought out a small cannister and sprayed her face lightly. The gas would keep her sleeping for the duration of Castle’s mission.
He tapped the side of his glasses. The view through the lenses shifted until he could see translucent shapes in the next room. Phan was alone, reclining in a chair enjoying a drink. Perfect.
Castle tapped the glasses again and the vision returned to normal. He went to the patio and opened the doors. His balcony was only a few feet from Phan’s own. He stepped up to the railing and against his better judgment, looked down. He looked back up and took a deep breath, then jumped.
He landed on the next balcony without a sound, his vibranium soles absorbing any sound he might have made. Phan was sitting facing away from Castle, his head leaned back and his eyes closed. The little man truly thought he was untouchable.
Castle stepped up to the sliding door and waved the key card he used to get into the hotel room next door. The sliding door lock disengaged. Phan opened his eyes and turned to the door, but it was too late. Castle had already stepped inside the room and sprayed the gas at Phan. The little man dropped like a stone.
Castle picked up the man and pulled out a collapsible bag from inside his suit. He folded the little man inside and zipped it shut, then strapped it to his own back like a backpack. He stepped back outside and went over the balcony, holding on to the railing. He tapped his glasses and a heads up display appeared. A digital arc showed from his current position to the waterfront where their sub was waiting.
“Ready to go,” said Castle.
“Confirmed,” said Hill. “I’m on my way out, I—”
She was cut off at the same time as an explosion sounded, loud enough and bright enough that he could see it in Lowtown from his high perch. “Hill?” asked Castle. “Hill, come in!”
No answer.
“Hill!”
No response.
Castle clicked his belt buckle and glider wings expanded from his lower ankle to his wrists. He leaped off the balcony and flew through the sky. His glasses told him the path to follow to the sub and exfiltration, but he ignored it, instead heading to Lowtown and the explosion.
#####
High overhead, he could see smoke coming from the hotel where Hill had been stationed. He drew his arms in and dove down, bringing his arms back out in time to alight on the hotel roof. He retracted the glider wings and took off the human-filled backpack he was carrying. He went to the rooftop entrance and jumped to the stairwell, heading to Hill’s floor.
Her room door was open and sitting on half its hinges. He drew his weapon and made his way closer. He tapped the glasses and went back to x-ray mode. Most of the room’s outer walls were gone. There was a prone body lying on the floor and someone else standing over it. The standing figure was holding some kind of weapon, but its shape was odd and the x-ray image seemed to flicker as if it was hard to resolve.
He jumped into the room and aimed at the standing figure. Special SHIELD issue rounds fired at the target. The person… a woman?... stood her ground and turned to face her attacker. She wore red and black.
“Agent of Fury: Part Three”
Mojimbe laughed at the writhing body of the famous Punisher.
“The man is a legend,” said the dictator, “But look, he thrashes like the girl I did away with the other night. In the end, Bushman, all men die alike. Pathetically.” He stepped closer to the Punisher.
“My King,” said Bushman, “I wouldn’t step closer. The man is dying, yes, but he could still be dangerous.”
“Unlikely,” said Mojimbe. “He has seconds left to live. Look at the pool of blood! You gutted him like a pig.”
Bushman looked down at the Punisher. The man was strong, yes…but even he should have expired by now.
Something was wrong. “Mojimbe,” he said, dropping all pretense of an honorific to his employer, “I think we should—“
It happened in the span of two seconds. Mojimbe was laughing at the Punisher’s defeat one instant and the next a blade was firmly entrenched in his windpipe, the tip protruding out the back of his neck. Bushman looked down to see the Punisher’s arm extended. He had thrown the knife with enough force to nearly decapitate the African dictator. Mojimbe dropped to the floor, dead before he had time to understand what had happened.
The other guards in the arena were separated from the arena by a plexiglass shield. Castle leaped up, covered in blood and gore and tackled Bushman. Bushman was not an easy man to surprise, but Castle had done it. As he tumbled down to the ground with Castle, he chastised himself for getting overconfident. Mojimbe was dead and he soon would be. Castle was fighting with renewed vigor.
Frank Castle was filled with rage and energy. He felt like he had mainlined adrenaline. His fists pounded on Bushman, turning his bone white facial tattoo red. The world was sharp in detail. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion while he moved at normal speed. His heart was beating so hard he thought it might explode.
He lashed out at Bushman over and over, never giving the man a moment’s respite. Blood covered the mercenary’s body as Castle beat him down.
Castle breathed heavily as his perceptions began to slow down. It was then he saw what had happened around him.
He hadn’t simply beaten Bushman… he had killed every soldier in the arena that hadn’t dropped everything and ran.
Castle was covered in blood but very little of it was his own now. Dead soldiers, Royal Guard of the dead Mojimbe, were everywhere. Some had their heads turned around backward. Others had their throats ripped out. Some had limbs splayed out in impossible angles. Better than a dozen men were now dead around Castle.
He checked his abdomen. No wound. He felt his neck. Nothing. Even old scars had disappeared from his stomach and arms. He had no idea why he was still alive, but he knew it had to be something Fury and Hill did to him.
His mission had been to replace Mojimbe with a Life Model Decoy that would rule in favor of policies and methods directed by Nick Fury. Mojimbe was believed to be part of a mysterious Cabal that had corrupted world government and law enforcement, including S.H.I.E.L.D. Castle had been successfully recruited by Fury to work with him and Maria Hill against this corrupt group. Castle’s first mission had been here with Mojimbe’s death.
Castle reached to his ankle and removed a patch of false skin. Underneath was a small pellet. Castle removed the pellet and tossed it across the room. The condensed Pym Particles reacted with the air and began the chemical and energetic reaction of growing the pellet to a larger size. Within moments, the pellet was the size of a man. The covering fell away and dissolved, leaving a Life Model Decoy of Mojimbe.
Castle then went to Mojimbe’s body. He removed the knife and then opened the dead man’s mouth, breaking the jaw as he did so. He took a grenade from a soldier’s body and put it between Mojimbe’s teeth. He quickly took the deep red jacket of one of the guardsmen and donned it, knowing it would not act as a good disguise for long.
He attached an electrode from the LMD to the head of Mojimbe. The android quickly interfaced with the dead brain of the African dictator. Seconds later, the electrodes fell away. The LMD fluttered its eyelids and looked around curiously. Its eyes fell on Castle and the carnage around them.
“We must leave now,” said the imposter that sounded exactly like Mojimbe.
Castle walked over to Mojimbe’s body and went to pull the grenade’s pin when he saw the chest of Bushman slowly rising and falling. Castle reached down and grabbed a gun from the floor and aimed it at Bushman’s head. He fired. Satisfied, he dropped the weapon and went to the waiting grenade. He pulled the pin and ran out behind the new Mojimbe LMD.
They were out the door a scant few seconds when the explosive detonated.
Maria Hill exhaled. Castle was still alive. The artificial healing factor had worked. It was derived from the mutant Wolverine and while it had been deemed a success of genetic laboratory adaptation, there were side effects of its use. It was meant as a last-ditch gamble if the mission deemed it necessary. Hill knew that while Castle had obviously been dying, she hadn’t known if the mission was an absolute scrub yet. Fury might not be pleased, but to hell with it. The man had needed help and she had given it.
She didn’t know why Fury had chosen her as Castle’s mission handler. She had suspicions, but she dared not voice them. She had, surprisingly, found herself empathizing with the trained killer after reviewing his dossier and even still after meeting the man. She had seen men with pain inside themselves, pain so deep it seemed nothing could ever assuage it. Her father had been one of those men. Her ex-husband had been as well, although for entirely different reasons than her father. Frank Castle was a man in pain, but he seemed to thrive on it. Indeed, it seemed to be his only motivating force. She thought she had been driven… but Castle made all others, even Fury, seem lazy by comparison. Castle was almost suicidal; except he was just too damn good at killing.
An indicator blinked on her display. It was a sensor feed through the Negative Zone beacon Castle had been implanted with. Its signals were sent through a microscopic dimensional aperture that came through the Negative Zone and back to Hill’s SHIELD receiving station here. It was registering a Pym Particle burst. That had to mean only one thing.
Castle had activated the Life Model Decoy.
“I want this man sequestered,” said Mojimbe to his guards. They had been running towards the small arena when Mojimbe had stepped out with a gun at Castle’s head. An explosion had followed from within. Mojimbe shoved Castle at the guards. “No one is to have contact with the prisoner, is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said one of the guards smartly. “Bushman… is he…?”
“He is dead,” said Mojimbe. “He was careless. Now, get this devil to his cell!”
The men jumped at Mojimbe’s request and directed Castle away. They were shocked that the dangerous American did not resist in the slightest.
“I am going to my quarters,” said Mojimbe. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”
Minutes later, Mojimbe entered his palatial quarters and stripped off his bloody clothing. He had a quick shower and redressed in a fine uniform with gold gilt and other military adornments. He then went to his balcony overlooking the estate grounds and the greater Mojimbe City beyond. He stood immobile and closed his eyes, seeming to enter a trance.
Maria Hill leapt at her display as a communication transmission announced itself. She verified the call signs and codelocks before accepting it. The message began scrolling down her screen.
MISSION SUCCESSFUL. INTERCEPTION/REPLACEMENT OF MOJIMBE COMPLETE. MEMORY ENGRAMS UPLOADED. AGENT CASTLE SEQUESTERED AND READY FOR EXTRACTION. AWAITING FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Hill responded on her keyboard. She had to be quick lest the microburst transmission be detected. CASTLE IS ALIVE AND WELL?
YES, responded the LMD, CASTLE IS RELATIVELY UNHARMED.
Hill responded again. UPLOAD MEMORY DUMP AT SPECIFIED TIME. INITIATE EXTRACTION IN ONE HOUR.
UNDERSTOOD. OUT.
Maria exhaled, not realizing she had been holding her breath. Castle would be out within the hour. It was time to notify Fury.
Frank Castle leaned against the cold stone wall and welcomed the chill it drove through his body. The cell was dim save for a small light coming from an aperture in his metal door. His body had felt hot after whatever had brought him back from near death, and the cool cell was needed. He felt feverish except he also felt good. Energized. It had been all he could do not to snap the necks of the guards that had escorted him here… except that hadn’t been part of the mission. He had snapped back to reality long enough to release the LMD and play the meek prisoner while the new ‘Mojimbe’ began its assigned tasks. If all went according to plan, he would be exfiltrated within an hour or two. Fury would have his puppet leader and a line into this mysterious Cabal that was a threat to SHIELD and the world.
He guessed that an hour had passed, or close to it. The cell door opened and in stepped Mojimbe, alone. Guards were stationed outside, but stayed back at Mojimbe’s upheld hand. “Leave us,” he said.
“But, General,” said one of the guards.
Mojimbe turned to stare his officer in the eye. “I am not accustomed to repeating myself.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guard. “Do you wish the door to be closed?”
“Yes,” said Mojimbe. The guard stepped back and closed the cell door. Castle and Mojimbe were now alone.
“I’d like to go home now,” said Castle.
Mojimbe began speaking rhetoric about how failure was the only option when facing the grand nation of Katanga. But in Castle’s ear, a different voice spoke, this one more familiar.
“Castle, this is Hill,” said the voice, an electronic buzz faint in the background. “Just nod and look humble. The cell is under surveillance.”
“Fine,” mumbled Castle.
“You are going to be personally escorted by Mojimbe to the desert, where he’s going to tie you to the ground and leave you to die. Once he has left, we’ll exfil you.”
“Fine,” mumbled Castle.
The voice cut out and Castle was left to hear the ramblings of Mojimbe. Finally, the LMD turned dictator knelt down and looked Castle in the eye. “You will be dragged to the desert and tied down, left to rot and feed the vultures. No quick death for you, my friend.”
Mojimbe knocked on the cell door and left as soon as it opened. Several guards came in and dragged him out. A hood was pulled over his head as he was moved roughly. He could feel he was sitting in the back of a truck of some kind. Seconds later, he was being driven away, the harsh African sun beating down on him.
An hour later, Castle was held down by a half dozen guards as he was tied at the wrists and ankles to posts that were driven into the ground. The ropes were looped over and around his wrists and forearms, the hood was removed as he was held down by a half dozen men. His wrists and ankles were tied down with some kind of metal cable and wrapped around his forearms enough that it was impossible to break out of, even if he dislocated his thumb. Castle was hoping Hill was on the money about this. It was hot and the sun wasn’t even at its apex yet.
Mojimbe stood over him. “Goodbye, Mr. Castle. We will not see one another again. Give my regards to the carrion eaters.” He spat on Castle with disgust, then left. Castle could hear the men boarding their truck and then seconds later, drive away.
The heat was oppressive and with no shelter, Castle knew he wouldn’t last the day. If the exposure didn’t kill him, then the predators hungry for any morsel they could find, would.
Judging by the angle of the sun, he had been lying there for 2 hours. His circulation was nearly gone in his hands and feet. His skin was red and dry. His sweat evaporated as soon as his body released it.
“Taking your sweet ass time,” said Castle aloud.
There was no answer. The line was dead.
Another hour passed. Castle was running down the physical high he had mainlined whatever Fury had healed him with. As a Marine, he had learned the value of patience. As the Punisher, that lesson had become his life’s mantra.
Now, he was just pissed off.
He heard footsteps approach from behind his head. He strained to see past the top of his head, but he couldn’t see anyone. The footsteps got louder as they approached.
“Hello, Mr. Castle.” A man stood over Castle’s face, blocking the sun. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“You’re dead,” said Castle. “I killed you.”
“Then I guess Jesus Christ and I have something in common,” said Bushman. He walked around Castle and crouched as he pulled out a Bowie knife, its blade glistening in the sun.
A million questions were going through Castle’s head, but they were all moot. He was helpless against Bushman. He had no idea if the healing stunt would work twice.
Bushman looked none the worse for wear after being shot in the head and blown up by a grenade. If anything, he looked in the best shape of his life. Even the wounds from their knife fight were gone. That’s when Castle noticed a detail that should have been apparent the second he saw the large man: Bushman’s white tattoo on his face was gone. The skin was unmarked.
Bushman flipped the knife in his hand and brought it down to Castle’s ankles. Castle tensed. It was several moments before he felt the circulation returning to his feet. Bushman went to Castle’s wrists and similarly freed them.
Bushman stood back and gave Castle some room to sit up. “I’m not going to hurt you, Mr. Castle. Unless you make me.”
Castle sat up, rubbing his arms as he slipped the cables loose. “What the hell is going on?”
Bushman brought out a water bottle and tossed it to Castle. “We have a mutual friend.”
Castle then realized the truth, however improbable it was. “Cigar smoking son of a bitch?”
Bushman nodded. “You’ll feel better once you get moving some more. We have a bit of a walk, then we can leave this country.”
“Lead the way,” said Castle. “I have more than a few questions.”
“I can’t say I have the answers,” said Bushman, “But I suspect your questions can wait until we get to safer ground.”
The men had walked several miles in the desert before they came across a small camouflaged craft. It was a two-seater and once they were inside, it automatically activated. The sleek craft lifted off and sped into the sky. A familiar ‘BAMF’ sounded, and the skyline changed, with the stars visible. They had jumped from low altitude to sub-orbital in a heartbeat. The craft then banked and matched speeds with an odd ship. It looked like a variation of a S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, but smaller. The craft headed towards an open bay door and landed. As the bay door closed, docking clamps engaged the craft in place. A pressurization gauge went from red to green once the atmosphere equalized. The hatch opened and standing there was Maria Hill.
Castle walked up to her before she could say a word. “What the hell is going on, Hill?”
“Mr. Bushman is a mercenary. He was working for us,” said Hill. “Or rather, a reasonable facsimile.” She walked up to Bushman and put her hand under his armpit. She pressed something and immediately, Bushman stood at attention. His eyes turned pure white. “He’s an LMD.”
“Then the man I killed?” asked Castle.
“The real Bushman, as far as we know,” said Hill. “We’re getting conflicting reports of confirmation of death from our Mojimbe LMD.”
“He’s dead,” said Castle.
“You’ve been dead before, too,” said Hill.
Castle nodded. “So, what happened? How the hell did I survive Bushman’s attack?”
“We used an experimental healing factor, similar to Wolverine’s,” said Hill. “Released from within your tracking chip.”
“So, what,” said Castle, “I’m unkillable now?”
“No,” said Hill. “It takes an incredible strain on your body. I doubt you would survive a second use.”
“Now what?” asked Castle.
“Now, you rest,” said Hill. “Then we talk to Fury.”
Castle sat down and looked at Hill. “Next time, no surprises.”
Hill nodded. “No surprises.”
Hill entered the small office she used on the Quincarrier. She sealed the door as she sat down and called up Nick Fury on her console.
“Status, Hill?” asked Fury.
“Mission accomplished,” said Hill. “Castle was extracted. Our mole is now running Katanga.”
“Does Castle know we tipped Bushman about his arrival?” asked Fury.
“No,” said Hill. “Nor does he know Bushman was working for us.”
“Good,” said Fury. “The Mojimbe plant was necessary, but Bushman’s mission was just as paramount. Has Bushman checked in?”
“Yes,” said Hill. “He’s recovering. The healing factor did the trick with him as well. He escaped.”
“Neither has any knowledge of the other,” said Fury. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hill.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Fury. The screen went blank.
Hill took a deep breath. Fury was juggling dangerous balls in the air with this plan of his. Castle and Bushman weren’t the only agents he had in the field dealing with the Cabal. She just hoped that he didn’t drop them and end up killing them all.
The End
“The man is a legend,” said the dictator, “But look, he thrashes like the girl I did away with the other night. In the end, Bushman, all men die alike. Pathetically.” He stepped closer to the Punisher.
“My King,” said Bushman, “I wouldn’t step closer. The man is dying, yes, but he could still be dangerous.”
“Unlikely,” said Mojimbe. “He has seconds left to live. Look at the pool of blood! You gutted him like a pig.”
Bushman looked down at the Punisher. The man was strong, yes…but even he should have expired by now.
Something was wrong. “Mojimbe,” he said, dropping all pretense of an honorific to his employer, “I think we should—“
It happened in the span of two seconds. Mojimbe was laughing at the Punisher’s defeat one instant and the next a blade was firmly entrenched in his windpipe, the tip protruding out the back of his neck. Bushman looked down to see the Punisher’s arm extended. He had thrown the knife with enough force to nearly decapitate the African dictator. Mojimbe dropped to the floor, dead before he had time to understand what had happened.
The other guards in the arena were separated from the arena by a plexiglass shield. Castle leaped up, covered in blood and gore and tackled Bushman. Bushman was not an easy man to surprise, but Castle had done it. As he tumbled down to the ground with Castle, he chastised himself for getting overconfident. Mojimbe was dead and he soon would be. Castle was fighting with renewed vigor.
Frank Castle was filled with rage and energy. He felt like he had mainlined adrenaline. His fists pounded on Bushman, turning his bone white facial tattoo red. The world was sharp in detail. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion while he moved at normal speed. His heart was beating so hard he thought it might explode.
He lashed out at Bushman over and over, never giving the man a moment’s respite. Blood covered the mercenary’s body as Castle beat him down.
Castle breathed heavily as his perceptions began to slow down. It was then he saw what had happened around him.
He hadn’t simply beaten Bushman… he had killed every soldier in the arena that hadn’t dropped everything and ran.
Castle was covered in blood but very little of it was his own now. Dead soldiers, Royal Guard of the dead Mojimbe, were everywhere. Some had their heads turned around backward. Others had their throats ripped out. Some had limbs splayed out in impossible angles. Better than a dozen men were now dead around Castle.
He checked his abdomen. No wound. He felt his neck. Nothing. Even old scars had disappeared from his stomach and arms. He had no idea why he was still alive, but he knew it had to be something Fury and Hill did to him.
His mission had been to replace Mojimbe with a Life Model Decoy that would rule in favor of policies and methods directed by Nick Fury. Mojimbe was believed to be part of a mysterious Cabal that had corrupted world government and law enforcement, including S.H.I.E.L.D. Castle had been successfully recruited by Fury to work with him and Maria Hill against this corrupt group. Castle’s first mission had been here with Mojimbe’s death.
Castle reached to his ankle and removed a patch of false skin. Underneath was a small pellet. Castle removed the pellet and tossed it across the room. The condensed Pym Particles reacted with the air and began the chemical and energetic reaction of growing the pellet to a larger size. Within moments, the pellet was the size of a man. The covering fell away and dissolved, leaving a Life Model Decoy of Mojimbe.
Castle then went to Mojimbe’s body. He removed the knife and then opened the dead man’s mouth, breaking the jaw as he did so. He took a grenade from a soldier’s body and put it between Mojimbe’s teeth. He quickly took the deep red jacket of one of the guardsmen and donned it, knowing it would not act as a good disguise for long.
He attached an electrode from the LMD to the head of Mojimbe. The android quickly interfaced with the dead brain of the African dictator. Seconds later, the electrodes fell away. The LMD fluttered its eyelids and looked around curiously. Its eyes fell on Castle and the carnage around them.
“We must leave now,” said the imposter that sounded exactly like Mojimbe.
Castle walked over to Mojimbe’s body and went to pull the grenade’s pin when he saw the chest of Bushman slowly rising and falling. Castle reached down and grabbed a gun from the floor and aimed it at Bushman’s head. He fired. Satisfied, he dropped the weapon and went to the waiting grenade. He pulled the pin and ran out behind the new Mojimbe LMD.
They were out the door a scant few seconds when the explosive detonated.
Maria Hill exhaled. Castle was still alive. The artificial healing factor had worked. It was derived from the mutant Wolverine and while it had been deemed a success of genetic laboratory adaptation, there were side effects of its use. It was meant as a last-ditch gamble if the mission deemed it necessary. Hill knew that while Castle had obviously been dying, she hadn’t known if the mission was an absolute scrub yet. Fury might not be pleased, but to hell with it. The man had needed help and she had given it.
She didn’t know why Fury had chosen her as Castle’s mission handler. She had suspicions, but she dared not voice them. She had, surprisingly, found herself empathizing with the trained killer after reviewing his dossier and even still after meeting the man. She had seen men with pain inside themselves, pain so deep it seemed nothing could ever assuage it. Her father had been one of those men. Her ex-husband had been as well, although for entirely different reasons than her father. Frank Castle was a man in pain, but he seemed to thrive on it. Indeed, it seemed to be his only motivating force. She thought she had been driven… but Castle made all others, even Fury, seem lazy by comparison. Castle was almost suicidal; except he was just too damn good at killing.
An indicator blinked on her display. It was a sensor feed through the Negative Zone beacon Castle had been implanted with. Its signals were sent through a microscopic dimensional aperture that came through the Negative Zone and back to Hill’s SHIELD receiving station here. It was registering a Pym Particle burst. That had to mean only one thing.
Castle had activated the Life Model Decoy.
“I want this man sequestered,” said Mojimbe to his guards. They had been running towards the small arena when Mojimbe had stepped out with a gun at Castle’s head. An explosion had followed from within. Mojimbe shoved Castle at the guards. “No one is to have contact with the prisoner, is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said one of the guards smartly. “Bushman… is he…?”
“He is dead,” said Mojimbe. “He was careless. Now, get this devil to his cell!”
The men jumped at Mojimbe’s request and directed Castle away. They were shocked that the dangerous American did not resist in the slightest.
“I am going to my quarters,” said Mojimbe. “I do not wish to be disturbed.”
Minutes later, Mojimbe entered his palatial quarters and stripped off his bloody clothing. He had a quick shower and redressed in a fine uniform with gold gilt and other military adornments. He then went to his balcony overlooking the estate grounds and the greater Mojimbe City beyond. He stood immobile and closed his eyes, seeming to enter a trance.
Maria Hill leapt at her display as a communication transmission announced itself. She verified the call signs and codelocks before accepting it. The message began scrolling down her screen.
MISSION SUCCESSFUL. INTERCEPTION/REPLACEMENT OF MOJIMBE COMPLETE. MEMORY ENGRAMS UPLOADED. AGENT CASTLE SEQUESTERED AND READY FOR EXTRACTION. AWAITING FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Hill responded on her keyboard. She had to be quick lest the microburst transmission be detected. CASTLE IS ALIVE AND WELL?
YES, responded the LMD, CASTLE IS RELATIVELY UNHARMED.
Hill responded again. UPLOAD MEMORY DUMP AT SPECIFIED TIME. INITIATE EXTRACTION IN ONE HOUR.
UNDERSTOOD. OUT.
Maria exhaled, not realizing she had been holding her breath. Castle would be out within the hour. It was time to notify Fury.
Frank Castle leaned against the cold stone wall and welcomed the chill it drove through his body. The cell was dim save for a small light coming from an aperture in his metal door. His body had felt hot after whatever had brought him back from near death, and the cool cell was needed. He felt feverish except he also felt good. Energized. It had been all he could do not to snap the necks of the guards that had escorted him here… except that hadn’t been part of the mission. He had snapped back to reality long enough to release the LMD and play the meek prisoner while the new ‘Mojimbe’ began its assigned tasks. If all went according to plan, he would be exfiltrated within an hour or two. Fury would have his puppet leader and a line into this mysterious Cabal that was a threat to SHIELD and the world.
He guessed that an hour had passed, or close to it. The cell door opened and in stepped Mojimbe, alone. Guards were stationed outside, but stayed back at Mojimbe’s upheld hand. “Leave us,” he said.
“But, General,” said one of the guards.
Mojimbe turned to stare his officer in the eye. “I am not accustomed to repeating myself.”
“Yes, sir,” said the guard. “Do you wish the door to be closed?”
“Yes,” said Mojimbe. The guard stepped back and closed the cell door. Castle and Mojimbe were now alone.
“I’d like to go home now,” said Castle.
Mojimbe began speaking rhetoric about how failure was the only option when facing the grand nation of Katanga. But in Castle’s ear, a different voice spoke, this one more familiar.
“Castle, this is Hill,” said the voice, an electronic buzz faint in the background. “Just nod and look humble. The cell is under surveillance.”
“Fine,” mumbled Castle.
“You are going to be personally escorted by Mojimbe to the desert, where he’s going to tie you to the ground and leave you to die. Once he has left, we’ll exfil you.”
“Fine,” mumbled Castle.
The voice cut out and Castle was left to hear the ramblings of Mojimbe. Finally, the LMD turned dictator knelt down and looked Castle in the eye. “You will be dragged to the desert and tied down, left to rot and feed the vultures. No quick death for you, my friend.”
Mojimbe knocked on the cell door and left as soon as it opened. Several guards came in and dragged him out. A hood was pulled over his head as he was moved roughly. He could feel he was sitting in the back of a truck of some kind. Seconds later, he was being driven away, the harsh African sun beating down on him.
An hour later, Castle was held down by a half dozen guards as he was tied at the wrists and ankles to posts that were driven into the ground. The ropes were looped over and around his wrists and forearms, the hood was removed as he was held down by a half dozen men. His wrists and ankles were tied down with some kind of metal cable and wrapped around his forearms enough that it was impossible to break out of, even if he dislocated his thumb. Castle was hoping Hill was on the money about this. It was hot and the sun wasn’t even at its apex yet.
Mojimbe stood over him. “Goodbye, Mr. Castle. We will not see one another again. Give my regards to the carrion eaters.” He spat on Castle with disgust, then left. Castle could hear the men boarding their truck and then seconds later, drive away.
The heat was oppressive and with no shelter, Castle knew he wouldn’t last the day. If the exposure didn’t kill him, then the predators hungry for any morsel they could find, would.
Judging by the angle of the sun, he had been lying there for 2 hours. His circulation was nearly gone in his hands and feet. His skin was red and dry. His sweat evaporated as soon as his body released it.
“Taking your sweet ass time,” said Castle aloud.
There was no answer. The line was dead.
Another hour passed. Castle was running down the physical high he had mainlined whatever Fury had healed him with. As a Marine, he had learned the value of patience. As the Punisher, that lesson had become his life’s mantra.
Now, he was just pissed off.
He heard footsteps approach from behind his head. He strained to see past the top of his head, but he couldn’t see anyone. The footsteps got louder as they approached.
“Hello, Mr. Castle.” A man stood over Castle’s face, blocking the sun. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
“You’re dead,” said Castle. “I killed you.”
“Then I guess Jesus Christ and I have something in common,” said Bushman. He walked around Castle and crouched as he pulled out a Bowie knife, its blade glistening in the sun.
A million questions were going through Castle’s head, but they were all moot. He was helpless against Bushman. He had no idea if the healing stunt would work twice.
Bushman looked none the worse for wear after being shot in the head and blown up by a grenade. If anything, he looked in the best shape of his life. Even the wounds from their knife fight were gone. That’s when Castle noticed a detail that should have been apparent the second he saw the large man: Bushman’s white tattoo on his face was gone. The skin was unmarked.
Bushman flipped the knife in his hand and brought it down to Castle’s ankles. Castle tensed. It was several moments before he felt the circulation returning to his feet. Bushman went to Castle’s wrists and similarly freed them.
Bushman stood back and gave Castle some room to sit up. “I’m not going to hurt you, Mr. Castle. Unless you make me.”
Castle sat up, rubbing his arms as he slipped the cables loose. “What the hell is going on?”
Bushman brought out a water bottle and tossed it to Castle. “We have a mutual friend.”
Castle then realized the truth, however improbable it was. “Cigar smoking son of a bitch?”
Bushman nodded. “You’ll feel better once you get moving some more. We have a bit of a walk, then we can leave this country.”
“Lead the way,” said Castle. “I have more than a few questions.”
“I can’t say I have the answers,” said Bushman, “But I suspect your questions can wait until we get to safer ground.”
The men had walked several miles in the desert before they came across a small camouflaged craft. It was a two-seater and once they were inside, it automatically activated. The sleek craft lifted off and sped into the sky. A familiar ‘BAMF’ sounded, and the skyline changed, with the stars visible. They had jumped from low altitude to sub-orbital in a heartbeat. The craft then banked and matched speeds with an odd ship. It looked like a variation of a S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, but smaller. The craft headed towards an open bay door and landed. As the bay door closed, docking clamps engaged the craft in place. A pressurization gauge went from red to green once the atmosphere equalized. The hatch opened and standing there was Maria Hill.
Castle walked up to her before she could say a word. “What the hell is going on, Hill?”
“Mr. Bushman is a mercenary. He was working for us,” said Hill. “Or rather, a reasonable facsimile.” She walked up to Bushman and put her hand under his armpit. She pressed something and immediately, Bushman stood at attention. His eyes turned pure white. “He’s an LMD.”
“Then the man I killed?” asked Castle.
“The real Bushman, as far as we know,” said Hill. “We’re getting conflicting reports of confirmation of death from our Mojimbe LMD.”
“He’s dead,” said Castle.
“You’ve been dead before, too,” said Hill.
Castle nodded. “So, what happened? How the hell did I survive Bushman’s attack?”
“We used an experimental healing factor, similar to Wolverine’s,” said Hill. “Released from within your tracking chip.”
“So, what,” said Castle, “I’m unkillable now?”
“No,” said Hill. “It takes an incredible strain on your body. I doubt you would survive a second use.”
“Now what?” asked Castle.
“Now, you rest,” said Hill. “Then we talk to Fury.”
Castle sat down and looked at Hill. “Next time, no surprises.”
Hill nodded. “No surprises.”
Hill entered the small office she used on the Quincarrier. She sealed the door as she sat down and called up Nick Fury on her console.
“Status, Hill?” asked Fury.
“Mission accomplished,” said Hill. “Castle was extracted. Our mole is now running Katanga.”
“Does Castle know we tipped Bushman about his arrival?” asked Fury.
“No,” said Hill. “Nor does he know Bushman was working for us.”
“Good,” said Fury. “The Mojimbe plant was necessary, but Bushman’s mission was just as paramount. Has Bushman checked in?”
“Yes,” said Hill. “He’s recovering. The healing factor did the trick with him as well. He escaped.”
“Neither has any knowledge of the other,” said Fury. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“Yes, sir,” said Hill.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Fury. The screen went blank.
Hill took a deep breath. Fury was juggling dangerous balls in the air with this plan of his. Castle and Bushman weren’t the only agents he had in the field dealing with the Cabal. She just hoped that he didn’t drop them and end up killing them all.
The End