Chapter Text
Karen had been picking up some heavy reading lately. She’s always avoided it in the past, preferring non-fiction or something escapist and light. Back when Nelson and Murdock had been the greatest thing in her life, she’d gone on a binge of Grishom novels, and every young handsome attorney taking on the system was cast with Matt Murdock in her imagination. In retrospect it was embarrassing. Not that she’d fallen so hard for Matt; that was nothing to be ashamed of. Just that she now realized Foggy fit that role better.
Now she was reading books she’d avoided in high school, the heavy kind teachers tended to gush about because they were supposedly deep. Crime and Punishment, for example. She’d chosen it up on a whim, and found it had far too much relevance to her life. The lead killed the innocent witness to a murder, the descriptions of panic over hiding evidence. It wasn’t perfect, obviously, it had been written over a hundred and fifty years ago, but it was morally complex. Gray.
Karen needed gray. Her entire life felt gray lately.
She set down her copy, sliding an old receipt in between pages to keep her place. She felt like crap. Ever since Matt had explained his entire life story to her - though Karen was certain he’d still edited large parts out - she hadn't been sleeping well. Especially knowing the part where he’d nearly blown his cover to Fisk.
Across the street, the sign on the dry cleaner’s had just turned off, indicating an end to its normal operating hours. She’d been there that morning, dropping off a blouse, scoping it out. It was run, on the first floor, by a lone elderly Romanian woman who spoke next to no English. Utterly innocent, until you wondered how she ran the entire place by herself or managed the books.
But the investigation of the facility a week ago hadn’t turned up the trafficked garment workers that Karen had traced to the building, and the store had quickly returned to normal. She wasn’t convinced, obviously, or else she wouldn’t be here, near midnight, ready to commit a little breaking and entering.
Karen had dressed in dark clothes, for low visibility, her blonde hair tucked under a black stocking cap. That was also for the cold; even with her heavy wool coat the late December weather was seeping into her bones. She slipped tightly along the edge of the building, down to the steps that descended to a little side-door that looked rusted shut with disuse. The perfect place to stage her entrance.
She’d purchased a simple acid to break off the lock (working at the Bulletin had already given her contact with so many interesting people) and it worked like a charm. Getting the door open without making too much noise took a little more work and some grease, but Karen was thin enough that she could slip in a narrow gap. The area around the door was stacked with packed boxes that kept that corner of the basement dark enough to slip in, keeping low.
From beyond the shadowy outlines of the boxes came the glaring lights hanging over whirring sewing machines. The laborers – Hispanic, Caribbean, maybe some Vietnamese too – were hunched over their work. Most of them were women, more than a few were children. Patrolling the walls were armed guards, who, unlike their laborers, were all muscular white men. Scary looking, too. Karen had her phone out in an instant, its audio and flash turned off, snapping pictures as quickly as she could between the gaps in the boxes. Her adrenaline was spiking at the sight of the weapons; she'd left her .380 buried in the bottom of her sock drawer as always when on the job, and she wouldn’t have wanted to start a gunfight in an enclosed space anyway.
She took the candid photos for almost half an hour, making sure to get close-ups of the weapons, the tired, frustrated faces, and the mildew that was settled into the wall. She was ready to pack it in when one of the guards’ walky-talkies squawked. She couldn’t make out exactly what it said, but he replied back “Okay, we’ll move ‘em out.”
Shit, had someone seen her car out front? Was there another raid incoming? The traffickers began shoving the laborers in their backs, and they packed up both their stitching and their machines onto rolling flats, wheeling them up a ramp and out a larger back entrance. Realizing that they’d be coming for the boxes she was currently hiding behind (they’d left the basement bare the last time they’d cleared out), she cut a hasty retreat back outside.
Unfortunately the door made too much noise as it shut behind her, and she could hear a voice on the other side ask “What was that?” Cursing inwardly, she ran up the stairs, but realized that crossing the street would leave her completely visible to any followers. Instead, she ducked behind a dumpster in the alley, holding her breath as a guard came up the steps and looked around, his finger poised on the trigger of his drawn weapon. He peered up and down the alley before shouting back, “Must’ve been a rat.”
Karen breathed a sigh of relief, then sucked it in again when she saw that, from her new vantage point, she could see the laborers being loaded into a large idling van. She had the presence of mind to take a few more photos of the process. The traffickers were urging them along, with shouts of “Move it! Move it!” until every one of them was sitting crammed together on the floor inside. Two of the traffickers closed the doors, then made to move to the front cabin.
That was when the van took off with a squeal of tires. It clearly wasn’t what was supposed to be happening, and the guards unslung their weapons, ready to fire on the escaping vehicle.
They probably would have, too, if the first of them hadn’t had his head blown off in one clean shot.
That made them forget all about the lost van and the lost workers as they swung about in the direction of the gunfire. In that instant of confusion, another one of them lost his face.
Karen found what they were looking for before any of them did. Perched on the fire escape two stories up was a very familiar figure in a black trench and battle armor, and the adrenaline drive she’d been experiencing since starting her investigation shot into overkill. It made the nausea she’d been experiencing in the wake of the two headshots worse, too.
Once the traffickers began opening fire on him, Frank Castle dropped from the escape, almost catlike, and let loose a barrage of bullets that hit two more men before the rest fled behind his line of sight around the corner. In the momentary silence, Karen heard him make a “tssk” noise, as he reached for his belt to reload. The traffickers rebounded and came out guns blazing, and that was when he ducked behind a dumpster to finish loading the new rounds.
The same dumpster she was behind.
His eyes filled those deep-set sockets of his the second he saw her, and his hands paused over the gun. She hadn’t seen him this close since the woods and the Blacksmith, and he’d been a lot more beat up then. And she had no idea how he was going to react to her being here now.
He pointed a finger across the alley. “My van. Run. I’ll cover you.”
She did, without hesitation. He followed behind her, as promised, walking backwards, gun strafing the area behind her. Karen couldn’t hear any bullets hitting flesh, so maybe the traffickers had the good sense to run when they knew they were outgunned.
His vehicle was a large, unmarked panel van, and she fumbled with the side door, finally getting the latch and yanking it open. A black pit bull met her on the other side, growling at her menacingly. She froze temporarily, but decided she’d risk its teeth over the bullets outside. She crawled into the van, and its growling increased, but then Frank had jumped inside next to her, slamming the door shut behind them. “Down, Max.”
The dog relaxed at this, and Frank stepped over it to the front seat, dropping his gun next to him and starting the engine.
Karen stood, thinking she’d join him.
“Stay in the back!” he barked. Karen flinched and sat back down, unnerved. Then she caught his eye darting to his rearview mirror. “Safer.”
A rain of bullets on the side of the car dimpled the walls, confirming that the van's siding was reinforced. It still made Karen shriek, though, which set the dog – Max – to whimpering. She reached over to rub him behind the ears. The way he calmed down so quickly made her wonder how many of these operations he’d accompanied Frank on.
The van took off with a jolt, careening down the alley and into the street. With no windows in the back, Karen couldn’t see a thing outside, but she could hear the scream of wheels behind them, and more gunfire. They were being pursued, and great job, Karen, way to get yourself in danger yet again.
There was a sharp turn that sent her sliding across the floor of the van, and Max scrambled to keep himself steady. Car horns and the weaving of Frank’s driving made her realize they must be on a major street now, and she wondered if they’d lost their pursuers, until another volley hit the back of van.
Then she heard the sirens, and realized the chase had just gotten worse.
Officially, of course, Frank Castle was dead. The coroner had written him off after the explosion on the ship, and reports of the Punisher’s survival were just urban legends. No photos, no proof, a lot of hearsay. There’d been some move made to reconsider his death early on, but after a cop tried to claim he’d seen a civilian murdered by Frank, only to have phone video reveal he’d shot the unarmed man himself in cold blood, certain authorities had decided that admitting the Punisher was real would give too many assholes a scapegoat.
That didn’t mean that every cop in New York City didn’t want him back behind bars. And what would they think of her, riding in the back with him?
They veered again, to a wail of angry horns, and then there was an agonizing squeal of rubber on pavement and a loud crash. The sirens were behind them, now, and Karen got up from her sprawl on the floor. “What the hell just happened?”
“Cops decided to stop the assholes who were actually shooting,” Frank replied, though in spite of losing them, he hadn’t slowed down their flight. After a minute, their route suddenly stopped zigzagging, became straight, and she realized they must be driving along the river. She wanted to ask where the hell he was taking her, but the grim look on his face made her reluctant to voice questions while their escape was still in question.
It was a long stretch – they had to have passed much of the Upper West Side, which meant…Inwood? He was taking her to Inwood? Christ, that might be a good place for someone like him to hide, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be there.
When the van swung to a halt, Frank exited and rolled open the door for her. Max lifted his head and began panting when he saw his owner, and Frank plucked a biscuit out of a trench pocket and tossed it to the dog. He didn’t say a word to Karen, just jabbed a thumb to signal she should exit.
They were in a park, probably Inwood Hill, and it was even colder out here away from buildings. Karen pulled her coat around her tight and glanced around, trying to get her bearings.
“Go call a cab.”
She turned, seeing that Frank was closing up the van, already ready to leave. She gaped at first, then a fury rose up in her exhausted veins.
“Wait, that’s it? I haven’t seen you in two months, and all I get is a ‘call a cab’?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her, face cold. “What, you want to have a sweet little conversation out here with the Punisher or something? Call a cab.”
“You—I’m not leaving until I get some answers out of you! Who was in that van? How did you know when they’d be leaving with the workers? Did you rescue them or was this just a hit?”
“No point trying to get answers out of a dead man.” He’d turned away from her, though he hadn’t taken any steps to move.
That stung. Her grip on her coat tightened as she contained her frustration and hurt. “Fine. Fine, so I guess I’m dead to you too, huh, Frank? Right. Right, I’ll just call the cab—”
She had turned to go, to storm off and write him out of her life, again, when he suddenly spoke up behind her.
“I read your articles. All of ’em.”
Karen paused. She wanted to turn around, to see his expression, but something in her was worried, nervous, scared. “Really? What do you think?”
“First one started cheesy as shit, but they got better.”
That made her smile, and she risked facing him again. His eyes were fixed on her now, though his body was towards the truck, as if torn between whether he should stay or go.
“They’ve been popular. Even the cheesy one. You have a higher approval rating than the NYPD at this point.”
“And what do your lawyer pals think of that?”
Karen began to walk closer to him, cautiously. “Well, Foggy says I’m debasing myself with sensationalism, and maybe he’s right, but it sells papers. Matt…Matt and I haven’t talked much recently. He left the firm and he’s been busy with…his other job, I guess you could say.”
Frank’s chin lifted slightly, giving her a long, appraising look. “Huh. Guess Red finally told you the truth.”
“Red—“ her mind stumbled onto understanding. “Wait, you knew?”
“I got a good ear for voices, and he didn’t do jack to hide his, honestly. Took a few times meeting him, but I figured it out on that boat before it blew.”
Now she was mad again, but no longer at him. “Great, literally everyone knew that Matt was Daredevil before I did, just great.”
“Eh, don’t kick yourself over it. He had reason to hide it.”
“Oh sure, he had reason to hide being Daredevil, but that doesn’t justify every damn time he lied about how disabled he was and pretended he needed my help just so that he could get close to me…” she was saying more than she meant to, standing closer to Frank than planned, and she snapped her mouth shut into a tight line. “Like I said, we’re not talking.”
He gave a single soft chuckle. “It hurts, huh? And you’re running away again.”
“I’ve been hurt worse,” she replied softly. He had the decency to look away at that. “I think…I think I should call that cab now. Thanks…thanks for reading my articles.”
She decided she wasn’t going to look back at him. She knew he was safe, he was out fighting crime, that was enough, really, and if she got entangled any more she’d have the police chasing her. She could see the street not far away, and found a bench to sit on before dialing. It was her preferred cab company, safe and reliable in Midtown, and she gave them her location.
“Yeah, somebody’ll be with you in twenty, twenty-five minutes.”
“Twenty-five minutes?!”
“Hey, it’s not a great part of town, not all our drivers head out that way.”
“Yeah, which is why I don’t want to be stuck our here that long!”
“Look, we’ll get there as soon as we can, but you rather walk? And good luck getting an Uber this time of night.”
Karen took a deep breath to swallow her irritation. “Fine. Send the cab.” She hung up and swore, because this evening just seemed to be getting worse and worse. She rested her elbows on her knees and cradled her head in her hands, running her fingers through her hair in an attempt to relieve the tension.
She felt rather than saw Frank sit down on the other end of the bench, well away from her. Karen looked up and scowled at him, sitting there sipping on a cardboard cup of coffee like this wasn't all his fault.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m not leaving you here to wait for a cab by yourself. Not in this neighborhood.”
“Well, you’re the one who brought me here,” she grumbled. Karen pulled out her phone again and started typing.
“What’re you doing?”
“Writing up my article for tonight’s events. Don’t worry, our little escape isn’t going to make it in, I don’t want to be dragged in for questioning by the cops for the dozenth time in my life. But it helps to get my thoughts down as quickly as I can, to remember everything, then I polish it up later.”
“You can do all that on your phone?”
“They didn’t have smart phones before you shipped out?”
“Not as good as that one.”
She kept typing for a few minutes, trying to ignore him, but she could feel him watching her like an unsettling hawk. Karen saved and closed the file and handed over the iPhone.
Frank turned it over in his hands, unlocking the screen and shuffling through features. “I should get me one of these, it looks handy.”
“Ha, not so much for a wanted fugitive. What you need is a burner phone, untraceable and cheap if you need to dump—“ She glanced over his shoulder to see what he was doing. “Wait, are you looking at my music files?”
“Earth, Wind, and Fire?” Frank was smirking at her now.
“Ben liked them.”
That got her a quizzical eyebrow.
“Ben Urich? The reporter? The man whose car you wrecked?”
“Saving your life.”
“Well, let’s just say I tend to value any connections I have to him.” She snatched the phone back possessively and reopened the file to keep working.
“You don’t have any questions for me?”
“I already asked them, and you refused to answer. I can guess from the other van that you had someone helping you on this little mission, and I hope you got them somewhere safe.”
“That was the plan.”
Karen couldn’t focus on her writing; it would have to wait. “You’re not going to tell me who they were, though.” It wasn’t a question, but Frank shook his head in answer anyway. “Okay, then, I guess…” What was this? Did he want some kind of small talk from her? She supposed it might be lonely being the Punisher, but then again he was the one who’d done everything possible to push her out of his life. “Where did you get the dog?”
“Max? Dogfighting ring in the Bronx I broke up a few weeks back.”
Karen nodded. “I remember reading about that. The ringleaders said you’d been responsible but no one believed them because, well, no bodies.”
“I wouldn’t have minded leaving some, but it was too close to the dogs, I didn’t want them getting hit.”
She was taken aback by that. It was either very sweet or very hypocritical, and she couldn’t decide which. “Wow, you like dogs, I guess.”
Frank shrugged. “Always had one growing up. Not recently because…” his voice trailed off, and Karen waited. Waiting was hard, but she’d been practicing. Ellison said it was the most important skill a reporter could ever learn.
“Junior was allergic,” he finally finished, his eyes looking off at the distance.
Karen’s heart twisted and she looked down at her hands, playing with a loose thread on her coat. “I’m s...” she choked off the apology. What could she say to that? “You, um, you’ve been doing a lot of jobs that don’t really have anything to do with…with your family’s death lately.”
“That’s over.”
“Really? Because you barely touched the cartels, and there’s still plenty of the Dogs of Hell running around—”
“Oh, I’ll get to ’em if they cross my path, believe me, but it ain’t just about that anymore. I had to make it be over at some point. Had to make a stopping point, or else it was going to go on forever. The Blacksmith worked for that.”
“Why…you never told me…” Karen shook her head in amazement. “What made you change your mind?”
Frank gripped his coffee cup heard enough that cardboard began to crush. His face turned dark, and he met her look out of the corner of his eye. “Fisk. Fisk wants me out here killing off all his competition so that he can make some kind of big-ass return to power, pick up right back where he started. Well, I ain’t letting that shit-stain use me again to do his dirty work, nosiree. That fat bastard gets out of jail, and I will be ready, you can guarantee that.”
“Well, I’m glad that mistake taught you something, at least,” she said bitterly. She’d appreciated Frank's honesty in telling her exactly how he bartered his escape, but she hadn’t liked hearing about it then, and she didn’t like talking about it now.
“Led me to the Blacksmith, made it mostly worth it.”
“And do you know what the crazy thing is? Every official report is that he has been a model prisoner, his scummy lawyer is using it as the centerpiece of their appeals process! If we could prove that Fisk was involved with something as deeply criminal as his arrangement with you, you wouldn’t need to be ready for his return, we could stop it from ever happening."
“Hey, what’s this ‘we’ all of a sudden?”
Karen hadn’t even noticed her pronoun usage until he mentioned it, but all at once, she felt a sudden a sudden giddiness coursing through her system. The feeling Ellison said you got any time you just landed a good story. “Well, why not ‘we’? I mean, we worked together before, finding the Blacksmith.”
“I used you as bait.”
“Okay, yes, but…” Karen stood up and started pacing, covering her mouth with her hands, taking deep breaths to contain herself. “That was a shit thing to do. A-a-and there is a big part of me that says working with you again might be the worst idea I’ve ever had with my life. But you don’t know what I’ve been through when it comes to Wilson Fisk.”
Frank didn’t say a thing. He just set down his cup and tilted his head to one side to stare her down.
How much did she want to tell him? “When Matt went to see Fisk, to confirm his theory that he’d let you out? He threatened us. All of us, everyone at Nelson and Murdock, and that includes me. And if I look a little tired, if I seem a little stressed, it’s because I take that kind of threat seriously. Ben Urich, the man you share a taste in music with? He murdered him. I feel like it’s following me everywhere I go, e-every assignment I take, is this the one that brings my path back to Fisk? I can’t live like this, Frank. I want to take Fisk down, and you are a link that can help me.”
“You think anyone’ll believe my word over his? He owns the damn place now.”
“It’s called corroboration, and if I can get it, Fisk is going to molder in his prison cell, the king of nowhere beyond Rikers. I’ll have him out of my life once and for all.”
“There are other ways of doing that,” Frank reminded her, cocking his finger in an imaginary gun and pulling the trigger.
“Yeah, well, maybe for you, but not for me.” Karen folded her arms across her chest, not meeting his eye. Liar. “Is there anyone else who could back up your story?”
“Prisoners, guards, shit I think everyone knew, but good luck getting someone to talk.”
“There’s always someone who’ll talk. That’s how Matt and Foggy brought him down in the first place, and if you can help me—” She was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up and headlights beaming in their direction. Karen sighed. “That’s my cab. Look – get that burner, ok? Then get in contact with me, we can help each other.”
Frank’s face was slightly confused. “You trust me all of a sudden?”
“Why not?”
“Bait, lady, you forget that?”
“Look, you’ll just be a source, ok? It’s work, just, j-just work. I can help you out too, as long as you don’t do anything criminal in front of me or else I have to report it.”
Frank nodded slowly, his face still doubtful. “Why don’t I think about it.”
“Fine.” It was a start. It was a lead. It was something. Maybe an end to her yearlong nightmare that was Wilson Fisk. She looked over at the cab and reluctantly began walking towards it, before looking back one last time. “I’ll…see you around, Frank.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Karen climbed into the back of the cab and looked out the window to see Frank’s retreating form stalk back into the darkness.
Her driver was watching him go too, eyes wide. “Wait, was…was that the Punisher?”
Karen buckled her seatbelt. “Oh yeah, we’re good buddies.” He looked at her incredulously and Karen shrugged in feigned indifference. “Don’t jack up my fare.”