On the 19th floor, he found the first sentry. A young man in an expensive suit, earpiece glowing blue. The kid was checking his phone, bored out of his skull. Frank’s arm locked around his neck from behind. No snap. No blood. Just a slow, silent drift into darkness. Frank laid him down next to a mop bucket.

Volkov’s head snapped toward the door. “Who else is here?”

The rain kept falling. It didn’t wash anything clean. But Frank Castle had stopped believing in clean a long time ago.

It took four seconds. Five men down. Four dead. One dying.

He believed in the work.

“Please,” Vaccaro sobbed. “My daughter. She’s eight. You’d leave her without a father?”

Vaccaro was speaking. “…the docks in Red Hook. No heat for six weeks. You bring the product in through the old sewage outflow. My men will clear Customs.”