The neon sign above the counter hummed like a trapped fly. Outside, the rain was relentless, turning 10th Avenue into a greasy, black canal.
Jack sat near the back exit, his legs stretched out under the table. His shoes were soaked through, the damp leather stiff against his socks. A half-eaten plate of cold eggs sat between his elbows, the yellow yolk congealing around a plastic fork.
He didn't care about the food. He was watching the clock behind the cash register. Its second hand jerked forward in little electric twitches, three minutes slow.
He pulled a disposable flip-phone from his pocket and popped the casing open with his thumb. The hinges groaned. He pressed red to clear the screen, then punched in the number.
"Yeah," Karen said. She sounded like she was speaking through a wet towel.
"The laundry bag," Jack said. His throat was dry; the water in his glass tasted like iron pipes. "Did you move it?"
A long beat of static. "There were two cars parked outside my building when I left. Dark sedans. Tinted glass."
"They're not looking for you," Jack said, his nail scraping a flake of blue enamel off the table edge. "They're waiting for Wesley to tell them where to go. Did you drop the bag?"
"It’s in the bin behind the dry cleaner’s on 44th," she whispered. "If the police find it—"
"The police won't find it. A runner for the Post will. I gave him fifty bucks to check the bin at six."
"Jack, he's a stringer. He'll sell it to the highest bidder."
"That's the point." Jack snapped the phone shut, pulled the battery out, and slid both pieces into the greasy paper wrapper from his straw. He crumpled it into a ball and dropped it onto the cold egg yolk.
Sixteen floors up, the city noise didn't reach the glass. It was just a vast, quiet grey beyond the curtain wall.
Wilson Fisk was cutting an apple. He used a small, sharp paring knife, shaving the red skin into one long, unbroken ribbon that coiled onto a china plate.
Wesley stood three feet from the mahogany desk, holding an unlit cigarette between his middle fingers. He hadn't touched his lighter.
"The Irish are moving," Wesley said. "Cooley took the heavy van."
Fisk didn't look up from the apple. The blade made a quiet, wet slice as he cored the fruit into four neat quarters. "How many?"
"Seven or eight. They didn't leave anyone at the docks."
Fisk picked up a quarter of the apple and chewed slowly. "The precinct on 54th?"
"Captain Miller pulled the morning patrols," Wesley said, his thumb flicking the wheel of his unlit lighter once. Click. "There won't be a uniform within five blocks until one o'clock."
"Good." Fisk set the knife down on the white plate. "Let Cooley bleed. If he comes back with the boy's head, we take his territory before the blood dries. If he doesn't... we don't have to pay him for the precursor shipment."
Wesley nodded once, stepping back toward the door. "I'll tell Miller to clear the morgue wagon."
The rain came down sideways at Pier 54, hammering the corrugated iron roof until the whole warehouse rattled like an empty drum.
Jack was under the main processing tank, his knees dug into the damp gravel floor. He was wrapping a strip of raw rubber around the lower release valve, his right shoulder throbbing where he'd taken a blow from a crowbar three days ago. His coat was off, tossed over a rusted generator to keep the dry components from getting soaked by the roof leaks.
The side door gave way with a dry, splintering crack.
No screaming. No shouting. Just the heavy, rhythmic thud of work boots on wet timber.
Finn Cooley came through the gap first, his shoulder hitting the frame as he brought up a short-barreled shotgun. He didn't look around. He didn't sweep the dark corners. He just pulled the trigger toward the shadow behind the compressor.
BOOM.
The blast tore through a stack of wooden pallets, showering the floor in splinters and dry rot.
Jack threw his weight to the right, his boot slipping on a patch of spilled grease. His hip hit the iron leg of the tank hard, knocking the wind out of his lungs in a sharp, painful wheeze. He reached blindly into his coat pocket for the brass remote, his thumb jamming down on the toggle.
Nothing. The wet air had shorted the battery contacts inside the casing.
"Found him!" a shooter barked from the doorway.
Finn stepped forward, swinging the heavy barrel in a smooth, practiced arc.
BOOM.
The lead shot caught Jack in the left shoulder at point-blank range, slamming him flat onto his back against the wet concrete. The impact felt like a sledgehammer hitting raw bone. The dark wool of his thermal shirt tore open, revealing crushed muscle and deep, jagged tears that began pouring thick red onto his chest.
Finn walked over, his heavy boots stopping two feet from Jack's head. The shotgun barrel was smoking, the smell of burnt powder sharp in the damp air.
Finn looked down at him, his face flat and hard.
He didn't jump. He didn't yell. He didn't make a speech about his nephew.
Finn raised his boot and stomped down on the brass remote, crushing the plastic casing into the concrete. "Matches," Finn grunted. "Kid's playing with matches."
Jack lay on the floor, his vision swimming as the pain flared into a blinding white wall behind his eyes. A sharp, mechanical hum flickered across his peripheral sight—[6.2%... CRITICAL STRESS... OVERRIDE].
His jaw twitched. A thin trickle of red leaked from the corner of his mouth, but his lips pulled back into a tight, ugly grimace.
"...dare..." Jack rasped, his voice barely audible over the rain. "...dare... dare..."
Finn frowned, his knuckles white around the wooden stock. "What?"
"...dare to jump..." Jack whispered, his eyes locked on the ceiling joists above. "...dare to fall... dare, dare, dare..."
Finn raised the shotgun stock, fixing to smash it into Jack's teeth. "Shut the—"
Jack’s right hand whipped across the floorboards, grabbing the iron release lever at the base of the solvent tank. He hauled it down with everything he had left.
The valve slammed open. A thick, grey stream of volatile Mark II precursor dumped straight out of the spout, splashing over Finn's boots and soaking through his heavy trousers.
The chemical fumes hit the air like an invisible wall. Finn gasped, his lungs seizing instantly as the vapor hit his throat. He dropped the shotgun, his hands flying to his collar as his knees buckled. He hit the concrete hard, rolling onto his side, his body twitching as he choked on his own swollen tongue.
Jack dragged himself backward inch by inch, his dead left arm trailing through the spilled chemical wash.
He reached the fallen shotgun, pulled it into his lap with his good hand, and cracked the breech.
Empty brass.
Jack leaned his head back against the cold iron of the storage drum, his chest heaving in short, shallow bursts.
In the quiet of the warehouse, the rain kept hammering the roof, mixing with the wet, choked gurgling coming from Finn's throat a few feet away.
Jack closed his eyes, his breath slowing down.
"...dare..." he muttered into the dark. "...dare... dare..."
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