Punishment 2015
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Punisher Spoof free porn video
28 August 2003
On-the-fly Supplement to the Punisher's War Journal
"Incoming, Frank."
My hands are sweaty, and I wipethem swiftly on my jeans, not daring to take my eyes off the monitor.
"How many?" His voice cracklesover the microphone, barely audible.
"Two. White male, five ten, tops.Hispanic male, six plus. Bulky jackets. Likely armed."
"Roger that."
This will not change the mission.
The microphone is sensitive enoughto pick up the creak of his leather jacket as he moves–any more sensitiveand I'd get his heartbeat. There's another device that monitors that, though;heart rate, temperature, blood pressure, brain waves. I am holding my breath,and I ease it out. Doesn't really matter how loud I am, but the tension getsto you after a while.
"Executing." A nice double-entendre,that. Frank moves in, and the only thing I hear before the gunfire starts isa distant "what the fu–"
I jerk back, muttering an oathas the gunshots start. Frank arms himself with an —16 as a matter ofcourse, and I hear crashes, more gunfire, and a thud as he throws himself down.I can see it in my head as clearly as if I were there–he rolls, towardthe closest cover, snaps out and shoots again. Move. Move. Move.
I'm whispering it as I watch themonitors. There's nothing on them; an empty street, the street lamp where Ihid my camera two nights ago. The door of a warehouse that is theoreticallyempty; at least so far as the average citizen and the cops know.
More bursts, and a "Shit" fromFrank. His heart rate spikes and then levels off. No drop in blood pressure,though. A close call, but no hit. I can hear the clicks in the background ashe reloads, slamming the magazine into place, ready to rock and roll. I touchthe Glock 37 at my hip; my own personal security blanket. A bit big for myhands, but stopping power is stopping power. If I have to use it, my wristswill hurt like a bitch tomorrow.
The gunfire goes on for a fewmore minutes, and then silence. Frank is probably peeping over his cover now,and–there. Slow, deliberate shots, making sure the things that look deadstay dead. I hear groans, from a great distance, and as they continue, I canonly assume that this is someone Frank wants alive, for the moment.
"One ducked out the door, Ange-girl."
This is code for watch yourass. I glance at the monitors that display the area around the van, dividingmy attention between the surveillance equipment near Frank and my own vicinity.
"Who's Howard Saint?" Frank'svoice comes through abruptly, and it feels like I'm quartering my mind, tryingto watch the monitors and listen.
"Go fuck yourself," someone spits.I can imagine the smile on Frank's face, and the cold deadness of his eyesas he bends closer to the lone survivor.
"Wrong answer," Frank says, andI hear shrieking. "You want to go for two?"
"He'll fucking kill me, man!"
"What do you think I'm going todo? Only–" Here Frank moves in closer, his K-bar an inch from the man'snose. "I'll kill you slow. Now, who is Howard Saint?"
Obstinate silence, this time,and then the shrieking starts again.
"You've got eight more of those,and ten more on your feet. Then I start on bigger things."
The man breaks–whateverHoward Saint might do to him, it could not possibly be worse than this. Onemore gunshot.
"Mission complete."
"Roger that." I get up, startthe van, and then return to my seat in the back. If the one that ducked outheaded this way, it would not be the first time. Frank appears on the warehousecamera, apparently unharmed. I breathe a sigh of relief, but this won't beover until he actually reaches the van.
His shape appears in the van camerasabout fifteen minutes later, and I slide into the driver's seat. "Where to,boss?"
"The garage." He belts himselfinto the passenger seat, watching the mirrors as we ease out of the alley andonto the main road. The tension has slipped a notch, but until we are backin the garage, Frank considers us in enemy territory.
The garage is twenty minutes fromtonight's rendezvous point. Another abandoned warehouse, near the shippingyards, but far enough away from the struggling businesses that the chancesof anyone stumbling on the van are small. And even if they did, the side windowsare blacked, the van will be locked, and it would take a tank to break it open.
The garage itself is only homefor the van. We vacuum it out silently, destroy all fingerprints, and lockit. The pit below is home–if you would call an arsenal and war room home.
Frank doesn't talk, and I don'tpry. The mission-complete drill is as familiar as my morning training, andI could say every word before Frank does, tell you what he would do beforehe does it. In this, Frank is as predictable as the sunrise. In all else–earthquakesare more predictable.
The north wall of the warehouseis six inches thicker than the others, and Frank palms a panel six feet fromthe northeastern edge. The panel slides left, revealing a chute that dropstwenty feet, a ladder stretching the distance. Top and bottom, there are twoblast doors, which would both withstand a nuclear weapon. Lucky Frank; he founda fallout shelter two years ago, and made it home. Sort of.
The chute is narrow, but largeenough for a hundred-pound girl to slip down, with a two-hundred pound manfollowing her. Whatever else I could say about him, I could never accuse Frankof not being careful with me.
I move into the living room, outof his way, and I hear Frank screwing the blast door shut. Stretch–themuscles in my neck and shoulders are in knots–and bend down with straightlegs to touch the floor. Most of the van's arsenal is hidden, from the casualglance–which means it's tucked in the floor, in the wheel wells, andunder the seats. Good for secrecy; uncomfortable for extended sitting. I'dneed an ass made of iron to tolerate it happily.
Even from my position–upsidedown, head near floor–I watch Frank from the corner of my eyes. The mainroom is actually three rooms; living area, kitchen, and the largest space,which is Frank's war room and armory. Several long tables, two along the wallsand one in the center, which are used to clean weapons, make and study mapsand plans, and occasionally for emergency surgery. He goes into the war roomand starts shedding his weapons, always a lengthy process. His main weapons,the —16 and an 9 mm Browning pistol first, his derringer, and an assortmentof knives and grenades, as well as a few flash-bangs. And even I don't knowwhat he has on him at all times; Frank always has a weapon unless someone takesit from him. Which, in living memory, happened exactly once.
With the focus that is one ofhis trademarks, he sets to disassembling and cleaning his weapons, includinga K-bar that has the slightest hints of blood left on it.
"Howard Saint is our target," Franksays abruptly. I glide over, picking up a notepad and pen on the way. I knowthe drill.
The notes are lengthy, culledfrom his near-faultless memory, and I jot down the facts first, then the correlationswith other information we've both picked up on the way. Saint's habits; thedepth of his involvement in organized crime, the strength and numbers of hisorganization. Anything that is based on surmise rather than cold fact, I highlight.Frank will confirm that information later.
I don't show it, but the namesends a chill down my spine. Frank already knows everything I know about HowardSaint, and the bit that I know is unpleasant. Once upon a time, I worked–underduress– for one of Saint's lackeys. I had just been brought personallyto Saint's attention when Frank came barreling, literally, into my life. Eightmonths ago, and Frank had decided that I could be useful. Grateful, and havingno other pressing business, I accepted his offer.
For the first two months of ouracquaintance, I was cannon fodder, according to Frank. I studied. I trained.I learned to shoot, to spar, to kill. Not in the interests of actually doingso; my true functions are surveillance and hacking into computers, wherevernecessary. Basically, what Saint had had me doing, but Saint would have shotme himself the second I'd outlived my usefulness. Well, he likely would havehad someone else shoot me. Doesn't really matter who pulls the trigger, though,does it?
I also developed and expandeda knowledge of explosives, which was occasionally fascinating, but mostly involvednerves of steel and a fondness for tedious and meticulous detail. Movies glamorizethis kind of thing, but trust me–intelligence-gathering, bombs, surveillance,and the like are mostly painstaking and patient work.
Notes completed, I leave themnext to the computer. Frank will add them to his war journal later, along withany other plans and connections he makes. Then the training will begin again,the planning, the intelligence-gathering. I know Howard Saint, and it willtake a helluva lot of planning to get to him. Though if we do, it will bringone of the biggest crime organizations in New York City down.
Frank is nothing if not ambitious.
And, I sometimes think, suicidal.
He knows, and I know, that thiscan't go on forever. Eventually, one of us will make a mistake. There willone day be someone who is better–faster, a better shot, or hell, justluckier. It'll likely be Frank that goes first, but if he goes down, I won'tbe long in following.
The trick to continuing this workis not to think about it too often or too deeply. Focus on the mission. Takeout the bad guys. Though if Frank and I are on the side of good, it doesn'tleave a whole lot left to fight against.
The explanation there is thatwe are defending the innocent. Something Frank made a career of, a while back.The difference is that he fought who the US government told him to fight backthen. Not exactly pointless, but misguided; why defend innocents overseas whenthere are victims in our own country who never see justice done?
He has a point. And though hisvendetta is less altruistic than he says, I can't argue with results. Thereare a good number of his "targets" that I would dearly love to see dead. Giventhe opportunity, I'd pull the trigger myself.
I am cooking, lost in my thoughts,something neither of us will really taste, but enough to keep us going. Thestory of our lives.
I am also watching Frank, becausehe fascinates me. No, that has nothing to do with my decision to stay withhim.
Frank is tall, a bit over sixfeet, and every inch of it muscled. Black hair, and the coldest blue eyes thisside of hell. His face is permanently tanned, despite the fact that both ofus rarely see the sun, which makes me think that there is something darkerthan Italian somewhere in his background. Indian, most likely; he surely moveslike one when he wants to. A semi-permanent stubble on his jaw. While Frankis absolutely fanatical about many things, he occasionally lets shaving slide.That's about the only thing he lets slide.
I, on the other hand, look likeI've never seen the sun. My freckles have faded over time into a pure, unblemishedivory. Or fish-belly pale, if I wanted to be negative about it. It's the Irish;with my red hair and green eyes, I'm a living stereotype.
He is sitting at the computernow, typing away. Some information he will share; most, he won't. Securityreasons: the less I know, the less I compromise the mission if I get caught.And Frank made it abundantly clear on the first day that the mission comesfirst, above life, death, and act of God.
I have a lot of nightmares. That'sto be expected, I suppose. It would take a fundamentally damaged person tobe unmoved by some of the things I've seen. Knowing that nightmares mean I'mmentally healthy is not much comfort at three o'clock in the morning, as Itry to push the images out of my head with the palms of my hands. I'll sleep,I know I will, when I'm too exhausted to stay awake any longer. In the meantime,it sucks.
"Dammit," I mutter, rolling outof bed with the vague thought of getting something to drink from the kitchen.The light is on in the living room, and Frank is reading, the radio on.
I pretend that it affects me notat all to see him only in his boxers and go about my business, gulping downa glass of cold water. A cold shower would be better. He glances over at me.
"Can't sleep?"
I shake my head, and go to him,sitting on the recliner opposite. I've learned not to waste the rare opportunitieswhen he's talkative. Besides, I'm feeling vulnerable. The dream was a nastyone.
"Do you dream?" I ask quietly. "Aboutthe things you've–we've–done?"
"Sometimes. But there are worsethings to dream about, Ange-girl." Like watching your family die beforeyour eyes, unable to save them. He doesn't say it, and I won't, but thewords hang there. That was what had driven Frank to this two years before.Two years ago...I had been living in a crummy apartment, working a crummy job,before my extracurricular activities had brought me to Saint's attention. Iwas still safe, if bored, at the time Frank was watching his life crumble aroundhis ears.
There are things that should besaid, but if I do, the walls will go back up, and I relish this quiet timewith him. Even at three o'clock in the morning.
I reach for a cigarette, offeringhim one, and we smoke for a while in contemplative silence.
"How long until the next mission?" Iask finally.
"Two weeks." He blows a smokering, staring at the ceiling.
I really don't want to talk aboutbusiness. But what else? The weather? The economy? It's been so long sinceI've talked about anything other than the mission, nothing else seems real.
"Do you want out?" he asks softly,eyes still on the ceiling.
"Do you want me out?"
He shakes his head, grinds outhis cigarette. "That wasn't the question, Ange. You're second-guessing. Thatcan get you killed."
I pause, thinking it over. Hewon't take any quick answer. "What else would I do?" I ask finally. "I'm alreadyin this, and enough of them have seen me that I wouldn't be safe anywhere." Ipause, the memory of them enough to harden my will. "And there are still somethat should be dead, and aren't." Yet.
"Focus," he says, "is a good thing.But no one can focus constantly on one thing, especially if that thing is war.You get battle fatigue. You need to think of other things."
"What other things do you thinkof?"
"What might have been, mostly," hesays, and returns to his book.
Thus resolved to find a hobby–ahobby?–as a way to stay sane, I go back to bed ten minutes later,for another few hours of sleep before training begins.
The morning routine, regardlessof what actions are pending, is always the same. Depending on the time we'dgotten in–most of the missions were night missions–we aimed fora minimum of seven hours of sleep. My alarm clock buzzes promptly at 0700,and I can hear Frank already stirring as I lie in bed, trying to talk myselfinto getting up.
Grumbling, I stretch, stand, andtug a pair of shorts on, padding barefoot out to the kitchen. It's Frank'smorning to make breakfast, but the only thing that interests me is coffee.The smell wafts throughout the kitchen, and I gulp my first cup down appreciatively,savoring the second, rubbing my eyes sleepily.
Frank regards me with somethingakin to amusement.
"What?"
"Good morning, merry sunshine," hesays, arching one dark brow, and burying himself in the morning papers.
Breakfast is steak, eggs, andfried potatoes, cooked in the same skillet. Like they say, you can take theMarine out of the Corps, but you can't take the Corps out of the Marine.
I dig in, eying Frank in standardamazement as he inhales most of the food.
The morning papers are averagefare, from which we will cut clippings later. No outrageous court cases inthe public eye right now–our side missions consist of criminals thatFrank deems have escaped justice. Lest anyone think that his judgements arearbitrary, the evidence against these secondary targets has to be on par with,oh, say OJ Simpson, before Frank will move against them. Cop killers are hisspecial loathing.
Not much risk in those missions,but there is some satisfaction to be had all the same. Justice may be blind,but there are times when, for whatever reason, she looks the other way.
I clear up and wash the dishes,and join Frank in the training room. Two of everything: treadmills, weightmachines, and a set of free weights that starts at five pounds and goes up.Five pounds are strictly warm-up for my triceps; I don't care what anyone says,most women are not capable of building their triceps up much past five poundswith free weights. If the burn is there, don't argue with it.
I run for forty-five minutes,five minutes warming up, thirty-five minutes at a near-sprint, and five minutescooling down. I used to hate running, but there is nothing like armed bad guysto motivate you to exercise. Weight lifting for another forty-five minutes,full body, and the agony of my leg routine never fades. Upper body workoutsare no problem for me, but doing squats always makes me want to throw up, passout, or die.
Sparring and grappling next; notmuch of a test for Frank, but I occasionally manage to surprise him. With Marines,it's more sheer viciousness and will that carries the day. There's some techniqueto it, but the martial arts is secondary. The difference, really, is in thetargets on the body. A Marine's goal is to maim or kill, while most martialarts are for self-defense: incapacitate the enemy, and escape. The applicationsfor me personally are to do the most possible damage in the shortest amountof time, and get my ass out of there. Speed is my ally; I've got nothing inthe way of size and strength on most men. The funny thing about combat is thatfeminism has very little to do with realities. God only gave women so muchto work with.
Then, to the showers with bothof us, and the rest of the day will be spent planning, combing newspapers,and picking out surveillance points. When Frank says two weeks until the nextmission, that means two weeks until we go and start asking questions, likelyat gunpoint. There's a lot to do between now and then.
Trisha
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