They said he never misses, well let Frank paint a big target on himself then, to draw him out, keep him away from Karen. The skull’s become an advertisement, changed as most things do when they hit the public eye. To him, it would always be a symbol. He looks at the skull and hears his daughter asking him to read a story, he looks and sees the blood on the carnival grounds. But yeah, yeah, let Bullseye know he was coming for him. One batch, two batch, penny and dime.
It’s what he’s good at, after all. A trail of bodies is an easy way to instill that sense of impending doom, amp up the panic. He just hopes Bullseye isn’t crazy enough to not feel fear. Some guys were like that, shit, he’d had one in his unit, used to just stare lazily at the DI when he was barking orders and they’d all get punished for it. Crazy fucker died in a firefight outside Tarin Kowt and Frank hadn’t lost any sleep over that one, like he would have for the other troops, his brothers. Like he would have for Billy, back then.
He’s been back in the city for only a few weeks, that headline in The Bulletin sitting him straight up and ten minutes later his bag was packed. L.A.’s “finest” would be waiting for him when he got back, but he was not gonna miss something happening to his… to Karen again. She hadn’t talked about it at the hospital, but he should have brought it up. How he’d screwed up, not being there for her, not keeping tabs on the city like he should’ve.
He should have said a lot of things that day. He hoped what he didn’t say now would be enough.
He slides the vest on and looks into the mirror above the dripping porcelain sink and sees The Punisher staring back.
The fire cuts into the body he’s pulled in front of him, feeling the impact of the bullets as they riddle the flesh in his hands. He roars and tosses the body away, diving behind a parked car. Red is on the other side of the street, flanking the shooter, and despite that advantage, Frank knows Bullseye has the real advantage and he’s gotta flip the narrative fast or this fight’s gonna end quickly.
He takes a grenade dangling off the side of his vest and pulls the pin, tosses it into the street where Bullseye is hiding somewhere behind an armored truck caught between bank transfers. He’s aimed it to push the guy towards him in reaction, sees a flash of movement as the grenade lands and detonates. The guy is fast, for being paralyzed just a year ago. Gotta be implants.
Frank lets himself think for just a second as he follows Bullseye’s movement, heading diagonally up the street that will place him just ahead of Frank. He grips his leg where the shrapnel from an exploding vehicle sliced a line of fire across his thigh, then gets up and runs, low and quick, belying his bulk.
He’s like a freight train hitting a car jumping the tracks, if Bullseye didn’t react lightning fast and shift his weight off his right foot, taking the hit and spinning with it so that Frank’s momentum swings him past in an arc from his hold on the shooter’s waist. Frank scrabbles for traction, left foot on the tarmac, knee bent, twisting from it and aiming a knee at the fucker’s balls, once again missing. Those lightning fast reflexes, man, he’s gotta stop this guy.
He hears the jangle of empty casings before seeing them streak across his face, clipping his right eye, the distance too close for Bullseye’s throw to have any heat on it but the distraction enough. Frank throws a left jab but it’s weak, ungrounded, and Bullseye bats it away before the muzzle of a gun settles on Frank’s forehead, the empty click a life sentence.
Shit. Down to five lives, he thinks as his left hand comes down on top of Bullseye’s wrist while his other grabs the muzzle and pushes up. There’s a satisfying grunt and the gun is high in Frank’s hand and sweeping down across Bullseye’s face in a downward whip. The crunch of bone sounds, just audible amid the sound of incoming sirens. They’ve got to finish this fast.
“What are you even doing?” Bullseye spits through the blood from his broken nose. “You’re not part of this goody two-shoes squad. What the fuck is in this for you?” He’s swaying from the combined pain even as he slides a knife out of a leg holster and slices a line of agony across Frank’s side, just below the edge of the vest.
Frank raises his arms, holding them up at an angle to ward off the blows from the knife. This isn’t Bullseye’s strength, close quarters fighting, but still Frank is wondering where the fuck exactly Red is. Seconds stretching out in the haze of battle, he can’t rely on him, he can’t, he needs to end this. He spots the moment.
“Sometimes,” he says, staring into the manic eyes of Bullseye as he answers the earlier question, “you need to hold on to something with two hands, and never let it go.”
It’s an answer and a strategy as he grabs the man's neck with both hands, pulling his face into his knee before twisting and resting Bullseye's head on his shoulder, almost gently.
The crack sounds and the body slumps and Frank melts into the darkness of the city, to find her and say the unspoken.