Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

Chapter 132 Assassinating Frank, the Punisher of Hell

On the streets of Manhattan.

The Hellsword squad did not change their patrol schedule despite the sensational press conference that took the nation by this afternoon.

Bright's Squad, Lester's Squad, Frank's Squad.

The three teams drove out of the police station garage on time and spread out along their respective designated routes.

As with every night before, there were no police lights on the roof or sirens on the windows.

The only sounds were the low rumble of the engine and the constant rustling of the tires rolling over the asphalt.

But tonight's patrol was different from usual.

No matter which street Frank's team drove their black Hummer SUV, people on the sidewalk would stop what they were doing and look in the direction of the car.

They used to watch it too.

The residents of Hell's Kitchen were already used to Frank's face.

He was used to dragging robbers out of their cars at intersections and shooting fleeing drug dealers on the sidewalk.

But today, there's something new in those gazes that wasn't there before.

Fear, curiosity, and some deeper, indescribable complex emotion.

Because today, on television, in front of a national audience, he has transformed from a living, breathing human being into a burning skeleton.

Then, with his hands engulfed in flames, he crushed more than a dozen heads, publicly declared them guilty, and sent their souls to hell.

He has the power to send people to hell.

In other places, this kind of thing might just be a strange story told over tea.

But in the United States, a country where almost everyone has a religion, no one can help but be afraid.

Even those who have no faith, or those who claim to believe only in science, witnessed a burning skull this afternoon.

Standing in front of the Manhattan Police Department, next to the remains of those alien creatures.

We also had to start rethinking some questions that we had never seriously considered before.

The effects on the streets were immediate.

The thugs who usually squatted at the alley entrance smoking all shrank back inside, and simply stopped staying in the alley altogether.

There were fewer people on the street than on any other night.

Occasionally, a few homeless people still wandering outside would see the headlights of Frank's SUV sweeping towards them from afar.

He immediately wrapped the sleeping bag over his head and huddled under the vent, too afraid to move.

Frank sat in the passenger seat, holding a half-cleaned shotgun, his eyes fixed on the street outside the windshield.

The team member in the driver's seat turned to glance out the window and said with a smile, "Did Lester and his men go too far the other day?"

Lee had previously instructed Lester to clean up all the unruly gangsters in Hell's Kitchen.

The report Leicester returned was very brief.

He led the third squad and wiped out seven gang strongholds in succession.

All seven operation reports ended with the same line: "The dark creatures have been completely eliminated."

After that, he set his sights on an organization called the "Hand".

That gang was more troublesome than the ones we had taken down before. It was extremely well hidden, and its members operated in a way that was completely different from ordinary gangs.

Lester has killed one of the Hand's five fingers, Shin, the leader of the Yakuza.

However, judging from the intelligence he sent back later, the letter was only part of the whole hand.

The Hand has many more members lurking in the deeper shadows.

Frank originally planned to go and help, but Lee suddenly decided to take advantage of the momentum and directly announce his candidacy for mayor.

The task of hunting down the Assassins Guild can only be left to Lester.

And then there's Little Red—the one Matt used to jump around on the roof of Hell's Kitchen every night in his dark red outfit. He's in charge of that now.

The SUV turned onto Ninth Avenue and drove down the ramp along the Hudson River.

This area is a frequent gathering place for homeless people and drug addicts.

The open space under the bridge is often piled with waterlogged cardboard and empty bottles, and occasionally a few drug addicts gather under the bridge piers to divide up the drugs.

Frank doesn't usually come this way; the road under the bridge is too narrow for cars to drive in, making patrols inefficient.

But the streets were so clean today, it was almost irritating.

So he decided to come down and take a look, even if it was just to find a few clueless thugs to stretch his muscles.

The car came to a complete stop.

Frank opened the car door and stepped off the bridge steps, but suddenly froze on the spot.

His right foot was still on the last step, while his left foot was suspended in mid-air without touching the ground, and he remained there in the posture of taking a step.

"Captain Frank, is there a situation?" The squad members behind him reacted very quickly.

The three men drew their weapons from their holsters the instant Frank stopped and spread out back to back.

The gun barrels were pointed at the darkness ahead, the shadow of the bridge pier on the left, and the open space piled with abandoned building materials on the right.

Their fingers rested on the trigger guards, their breathing held low, awaiting further instructions from Frank.

Frank stood under the bridge in the darkness, which was not fully illuminated by the moonlight, his brow furrowed slightly, and then he started walking again.

He didn't turn around, his voice was very low, and each word was short and clear.

"You stay on the bridge, and if you see any suspicious persons—shoot them without warning."

"Yes." The three team members didn't ask any further questions, and simultaneously put away their guns, turned around, and walked back up the steps to the bridge.

He crouched down in the shadows on both sides of the road, resting his gun on the guardrail crossbar, his field of vision covering the entire passage.

Frank walked toward the river.

His steps were slow and steady, each step firm, his combat boots making a soft rustling sound as they rolled over the mud.

He didn't turn on his flashlight or draw his gun; he simply walked step by step toward the riverbank swallowed by the night, his hands hanging at his sides.

"Guilty, guilt, all of these guys are guilty—"

The voice of the vengeful spirit kept exploding in his mind, one after another, like someone scraping the inside of his skull with fingernails.

The voice was sharp and cold, carrying a certain suppressed excitement.

To the spirits of vengeance, every living human being is guilty, only differing in the degree of their sins.

But at this moment, the frequency and volume of its howling were significantly higher than usual.

This means that a large number of targets it has judged to be "deeply sinful" are concentrated in the same area.

Frank stopped less than a step from the river.

The area in front of the boot toes was covered in blackened silt soaked in water. Moonlight leaked through the gaps in the clouds, casting a thin layer of cold, silvery-gray light on the river surface.

His gaze swept over the black river inch by inch.

From the reeds on the left, sweep to the abandoned sewage pipe on the right.

He marked out any location in his mind where the water ripples were outside the normal frequency range.

When he looked at the seemingly normal body of water about three meters in front of him, a voice exploded in his mind.

"Guilty! Here! Right here!"

Frank did not hesitate.

He drew the shotgun from his back with his right hand, rested the butt against his shoulder, and aimed the muzzle at the water.

boom.

A muffled gunshot rang out under the bridge, and the shotgun pellets sent a dense spray of white water flying across the surface.

After the splash subsided, the river returned to its calm state, and there was nothing there.

Frank slung the shotgun back over his shoulder, reached into the tactical pocket on his outside thigh with his right hand, and pulled out a tactical knife.

Grasp it with your backhand and flick it forward with your wrist.

The knife spun halfway in his palm, then flew out, drawing an almost invisible dark line in the air before piercing the water's surface with a soft "plop" and embedding itself deeply into the silt at the bottom of the river.

A moment later, a dark red liquid rose to the surface of the water where the knife had pierced the surface.

It didn't spread too far, just forming a few wavy, dark red threads on the water's surface.

But on this river surface, which was grayish-white under the moonlight, those few streaks of red stood out conspicuously.

Sure enough, there was an ambush.

Frank's right hand reached for the tactical pocket on the outside of his thigh again.

Another knife slid into his palm. He turned his head and locked his gaze on another spot on the water to his side.

Just then, two extremely dazzling white beams of light simultaneously shone from the rooftops of the two abandoned buildings across the river.

The searchlights, with their extremely high beams of light, instantly transformed the entire riverbank from night into day.

All the light focused on Frank, making the white skull on his chest shine and casting a long, dark shadow on the muddy ground.

Immediately afterwards, footsteps sounded from all directions.

Those footsteps trod on gravel, in mud, and on broken bricks from discarded building materials.

The sound of feet landing was so dense that it almost blended together, surging in from the left, right, front, and even the riverbank above the back.

Frank stood still, not looking in any direction, his right hand gripping the knife he hadn't thrown yet, the tip pointing towards the ground.

He knew he was surrounded.

He didn't need to turn his head to count; the density of the footsteps in his ears was enough to tell him.

There were quite a few people, and their formation was very scattered; it wasn't the fighting style of a regular army.

Each individual is accustomed to acting alone, yet they can quickly assemble into a large-scale group.

The assassin most likely took the job from a hotel in mainland China.

A sniper bullet, spinning at supersonic speed, flew out of the gun muzzle from a rooftop on the opposite bank of the river.

Before the gunshot could reach them, it struck Frank between the eyebrows.

The impact lifted him off the spot and made him fall backward, his back hitting the muddy ground and splashing up a cloud of mud.

The gunshot followed only after that; it was an extremely muffled roar of a heavy sniper rifle, which swept across the river from the rooftop and lingered in the night sky for a long time before slowly dissipating.

Just as Frank fell to the ground, footsteps from all directions suddenly accelerated.

The assassins hidden in the darkness abandoned all cover and rushed out from their hiding places at the same moment.

The group numbered over thirty, and their weapons were a diverse mix.

Automatic rifles, short-barreled shotguns, submachine guns, and pistols.

Everyone stopped running at the same time when they were about ten meters away from where Frank had fallen.

Then he frantically pulled the trigger on the body lying in the mud.

The gunshots spitting fire created a dense and noisy network of light on the riverbank, which was illuminated by searchlights as if it were daytime.

The sound of spent cartridge cases hitting the ground was crisp and fragmented, mingling with the gunfire and causing the river surface to tremble slightly.

The hail of bullets lasted for nearly two minutes.

Someone yelled at the top of their lungs, "Get out of the way!"

The crowd automatically parted to both sides, creating a gap.

An assassin carrying a rocket launcher rushed out from the middle and knelt on one knee.

The rocket launcher was pressed against his shoulder, the crosshairs of the scope were positioned where Frank had fallen to the ground, and his finger pulled the trigger.

The rocket, trailing a fiery white plume, shot out of the launch tube, spun in the air, and struck precisely the muddy ground that had been riddled with bullet holes.

Boom!!!

Flames and smoke engulfed the entire riverbank in seconds, black smoke billowing into the sky and mingling with the grayish-white moonlight beneath the bridge.

The assassins did not leave.

They all stood still, holding their still-smoking guns, staring intently at the epicenter of the explosion through the smoke that obscured their view.

Someone lowered their voice and said, "No matter what, this guy should be dead by now."

His voice was soft, floating unsteadily in the air where the smoke of battle had not yet dissipated.

Several people nearby nodded at the same time, but no one put their gun away first.

These assassins take orders from hotels in mainland China year after year, and they deal with the dead more often than they speak to the living.

They knew better than anyone that confirming death wasn't something that could be resolved with a simple "I see he's not moving anymore."

The body must be identified as completely dead, otherwise every bounty could be backed by your own funeral expenses.

But the bounty this time is just too big, two million dollars per person.

Just by participating in tonight's ambush, all that's needed afterward is to confirm Frank Castle's death.

Everyone who is still standing can withdraw this money from the mainland hotel's account.

Mainland hotels never extend credit; payment is made in full upfront.

This amount of money is enough to tempt any killer who makes a living in the shadows.

With more people and more money, people become bolder, and no one is willing to leave first.

The assassin who spoke first was about to say something more.

Not far from him, an old assassin, over fifty years old with gray hair, suddenly pressed down on the muzzle of his gun, his pupils contracting sharply.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word sounded as hard as if it had been frozen.

"Something's not right. Why haven't his squad members come down to provide support?"

As soon as those words were spoken, the air suddenly turned extremely cold.

Frank is the captain of the first squad of Hellsword, and his teammates never abandon him.

Even in a situation where certain death was inevitable, those special forces soldiers would have jumped off the bridge and charged into the encirclement, instead of doing what they are doing now.

The bridge was so quiet that not a single question was asked.

The old assassin didn't call for retreat; his body made the decision the moment he uttered those words.

He turned and dashed towards the river behind him, his feet landing on the broken bricks at the edge of the riverbank. With a burst of strength, he leaped into the air and plunged into the black river.

Just as his body leaped into the air, an iron chain flew out from the smoke and dust kicked up by the rocket.

The chains moved so fast that no one had time to blink.

It whirred through the air with a clanging metallic scraping sound, precisely wrapping around the old assassin's waist.

The chain wrapped around his torso several times, tightening in an instant and pulling him to a stop in mid-air.

Then a dark red light appeared on the chain, and the entire chain was engulfed in flames at the same moment.

The flames spread along the chain to both sides, faster than a snake, reaching the old assassin in a fraction of a second.

He didn't have time to make a sound.

The flesh turned into grayish-white powder the moment it came into contact with the flames, and the bones shattered and dissipated in the heat wave.

His entire body was burned into a very brief, dark red flash in mid-air.

Then not even ashes remained; they were simply blown away by the river wind.

The night wind blew open a gap in the smoke and dust.

Everyone saw the figure standing in the very center of the crater.

He was engulfed in flames, and the white skull on his bulletproof vest turned a strange dark orange in the firelight.

His head had turned back into a skull.

Exposed bones, with two dark blue lights flickering deep within the eye sockets.

His jaw was slightly open, and at the corner of his mouth, or more precisely, at the bone crease at the corner of his mouth, wisps of dark red smoke were seeping out.

He held a still-burning iron chain in his right hand and a shotgun engulfed in flames in his left.

He took a step, his boots sinking into the still-burning mud, leaving a charred footprint with each step.

Frank's jaw moved.

Two crisp clicks.

"You are guilty!"

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