The twelfth-floor server room was silent except for the low, rhythmic hum of high-end cooling fans and the wet, heavy breathing of two knocked-out security guards slumped in the corner.
Natasha Romanoff pulled her black encrypted drive from the main mainframe rack. The digital progress bar on her wrist display flashed a steady, neon green: [TRANSFER COMPLETE — 100%].
"Eighty-four offshore shell accounts," Natasha said smoothly, sliding the drive into her coat pocket. "Union Allied bribery receipts, wire transfers to three federal judges, and the real tax returns for Fisk’s shipping subsidiaries. The District Attorney’s office won't be able to sweep this under the rug, even if Fisk buys the whole court."
Felicia Hardy dropped from the upper ventilation shaft, landing with a silent, feline crouch. She dusted off her white-gloved palms, looking over at Jack, who was still sitting in the swivel chair, casually eating a half-stale granola bar he'd found in a technician’s desk drawer.
"Heavy tactical teams are taking the express elevators down from the penthouse," Felicia reported, her green eyes glittering with amused anticipation. "Four minutes until they blow the stairwell doors. We should probably be somewhere else."
Jack took a long, loud bite of the granola bar, chewing thoroughly before bursting into a raspy, dry HAHAHA.
"Four minutes?" Jack rasped, wiping oat crumbs off his blood-stained chin. "That's plenty of time! I was just about to read Willie's corporate bio on the PA system again. The part where he calls himself a 'philanthropist' really cracked me up."
"Get up, Jack," Natasha said, her voice dropping into that flat, no-nonsense tone as she grabbed the back of his coat collar and hauled him out of the chair. "You've bled on enough high-end carpeting for one night."
"Hey, hey! Watch the stitches, Red!" Jack protested, though he didn't fight her. He stumbled slightly, his knees locking as the [10.8% SYNCHRONIZATION] muted the sudden spike of sharp pain in his broken ribs. "A gentleman likes to leave a exit gift! Did either of you leave a mint on the server rack?"
"I left a thermite charge on the main junction box," Felicia purred, pulling a small remote detonator from her belt. "It's much more permanent."
Ten minutes later, the main lobby of Fisk Tower was an absolute madhouse.
Outside on 42nd Street, three dozen news vans had pulled up onto the sidewalk, their high-intensity broadcast lights painting the foggy night in brilliant white and yellow. Federal marshals, NYPD patrol cars, and reporters with handheld microphones were swarming the brass revolving doors, demanding answers about the live broadcast that had just hijacked every news channel in the tri-state area.
High above on the roof of a neighboring five-story parking garage, the three of them stood in the shadow of a rusted water tower, watching the chaos unfold below.
Down in the street, Wilson Fisk's armored Lincoln pulled out of the underground garage, immediately swarmed by flashing camera bulbs, shouting journalists, and three NYPD cruisers signaling for the vehicle to pull over for questioning regarding the federal warrants.
Jack leaned against the rusted iron frame of the water tower, his coat wrapped tight around his chest, his pale face illuminated by the distant flashing red lights of the police cars.
He pulled an unlit, crumpled cigarette from his pocket, tucked it between his dry lips, and let out a long, quiet, raspy chuckle—a low, rhythmic hehehe that settled into a dark, satisfied sigh.
"Look at him go," Jack whispered, his wide, bloodshot eyes tracking the trapped Lincoln. "All those billions... and he can't even get out of his own driveway without a subpoena."
Felicia stepped up beside him, crossing her arms against the cold wind. "He’s going to tie this up in court for months, Jack. He’s got fifty lawyers on retainer."
"Let him," Jack grinned, his blood-stained teeth flashing in the dark. "Lawyers cost money. Stress causes ulcers. And every time he closes his eyes..."
He leaned his head back against the cold iron, his mouth expanding into that wide, unblinking, psychotic smile.
"...he's gonna hear it..." Jack hummed softly into the night air. "...dare, Willie... dare to sleep... HAHAHAHA!"
Natasha walked past them toward the roof door, adjusting her collar against the freezing drizzle. "The legal fight is starting, but your bio-terrorist warrant is officially dropped, Jack. The Kremlin lost interest, and SHIELD has downgraded you from a national threat to a local headache."
Jack turned his head, winking at her. "Local headache? Red, you flatter me! I was aiming for chronic migraine!"
Natasha didn't smile, but her eyes softened by a fraction of a millimeter. "Don't get too comfortable. Fisk isn't dead. He's just wounded. And a wounded animal burns down the forest."
"Good," Jack cackled, dragging his boots toward the fire escape as the rain began to fall harder. "I brought marshmallows! HAHAHAHA!"
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