The Marvel Knights Group presents: The Enforcers #4

The sky was orange. Whether from the fire or the sun, none of the five could say.

Theories abounded of course.

Dan didn't honestly care either way. Either way, it was the dawn of a new day. A new start. Big things. Better things. He wanted to laugh, to sing, to dance in the goddamn street but the others were looking at him strangely enough as it was.

He'd killed a costume. Bad mojo. Or good juju, depending on your point of view.

Better things, yessir.

They walked down the streets, Montana lagging behind to watch for pursuit. He was always cautious. Too goddamn cautious. They had to seize the opportunity with both hands. It was an olive branch from on high. God watching out for his chilluns.

They stopped in front of a battered looking tenement building. One of a dozen clinging to the debris-strewn streets. It was a brick titan, old and massive, rising above its brethren. The way Hammerhead rose above the criminal sea. He believed in family, Hammerhead did. Loyalty above all.

The Kingpin had never felt that way. Osborne neither. Dan stared up at the building, wondering why they'd never done this before.

"We're here to see Hammerhead," Dan said into the callbox that hung beside the steel door.

"A lot of people wanna see Mister Hammerhead. What's so special about you?" an electronically scrambled voice replied, barking out of the callbox. Dan glanced at the others. He leaned back towards the box, his finger on the button.

"Well, seeing as we just tore up the Bar With No Name on his orders, I'd say we're pretty damn special."

"You what?!"

"I said we-"

The sound of multiple weapons being readied filled the air. The Enforcers turned as one to face a dozen armed men. They'd come out of nowhere, clad in suits and ties, guns held easily. Behind the Enforcers, the door to the apartment building opened.

Hammerhead stepped out onto the street. He was a big man, broad of shoulder and skull, dressed in black pants and a wife-beater, a pair of suspenders over his shoulders and his face was flushed with anger.

"Now, one more time...you did what?"

"We-we tore the shit out of the Bar With No Name," Dan said, stepping back. Hammerhead's eyes bugged out for a second, then he closed them. Thick fingers rubbed his inhumanly broad forehead.

"Why?" he hissed between grated teeth.

"Because you told us to!"

Hammerhead's big fist snapped out, bunching up the collar of Dan's shirt. Dan squawked as Hammerhead hefted him into the air. The other Enforcers tensed and the air echoed with the sound of multiple safeties being released.

"When-WHEN did I tell you mooks to do that? Hunh?" Hammerhead shook Dan hard enough to rattle his teeth. "WHEN?"

"You se-ent Big! Mister Big!" Dan squawked, trying to pry Hamerhead's fingers off his collar. "The new one!"

"What new one?" Hammerhead jerked Dan's face close to his own. "Big's dead last I heard. Besides, why would I hire you five idiots?"

Dan blinked.

His foot lashed out and caught Hammerhead square in the balls, doubling the steel-domed crime-boss over in the street. Dan stepped back, straightening his collar. He glanced around unconcernedly, eyes slightly glazed. It was all happening just like it had in the bar. Slow-motion, bullet-time gun-fu hyper-reality swirling around his head. Guns were raised, but slowly, too slowly. Dan sank to his haunches, jerking his own pistol free of his waistband. Ox had turned with a swiftness that defied description, mallet fists thundering around, sending bodies flying. Harrison barreled into several of the gunman, steel-plated fists crashing into faces and guts. Marston spun, foot cracking across the jaw of the closest of Hammerhead's men even as Montana gently draped his lasso over the rest. He rolled his shoulders and sank into a crouch, pulling them off balance and to the ground.

Dan was left with nothing to do. Some part of him was glad. He looked around, then back at Hammerhead.

"We're not idiots. We're just really goddamn unlucky."

"And getting worse by the minute apparently," Montana drawled, hiding his face with his battered Stetson. "Jeeeesus Dan."

"What?"

"You kicked Hammerhead in the balls!"

"Somebody needed to," Harrison muttered, looking around warily at Hammerhead's boys as they groaned on the pavement. "Crap. This is the third fight we've been in tonight."

"Today," Marston said.

"What?"

"It's today now. New day. Doesn't count."

"Fuck me if it doesn't count."

"Not even in your wildest dreams."

"Not in anybody's dreams please," Montana said, slapping his hat back on his head. "Help him up Dan."

"What? Why?"

"Man can have us put in the river, Dan. Help him up."

"Fine." Dan stooped to help Hammerhead clamber to his feet. Hammerhead grunted his thanks, then slugged Dan across the jaw, sending him to the ground. His hat fluttered down, covering his face. Hammerhead rubbed his knuckles and glared at the other four Enforcers.

"Now. Somebody with two brain cells to rub together needs to tell me what's going on. Or I'm gonna get angry."

He was something of an urban myth. A ghost of an identity, worn by several men over the course of several tumultuous years in the New York underworld. He could have been anyone under the purple mask and dapper white suit, bright red rose pinned to one lapel. Some people thought he was Richard Fisk, the son of Wilson Fisk. And maybe he had been. Maybe this new bearer of the title was a copycat. Or maybe poor, confused Richard had been one of many. A warm body taking up valuable space until the real one could bother himself to pay attention.

But only the Rose could say for sure. And he had no one to whom he felt like talking.

He stood in the warehouse, cigarette between gloved fingers, eyes examining the boxes of equipment his men were bringing in. Crates of pumpkin bombs and explosive boomerangs. Parts for AIM designed Dreadnoughts, wing-harnesses based on the designs of Adrian Toomes, the Vulture, and even two unpainted, impersonalized Beetle chassis, complete with wings and exoskeleton.

Weapons for a coming war. Weapons of modern war.

"Satisfied?" Phineas Mason, the Tinkerer, glanced up at the Rose from where he stood beside him. The Rose glanced down at him.

"No," the Rose said. He took a drag on his cigarette through his mask, the smoke rising up through the porous material. "But I will be."

"You will be what you will be. What I will be, is paid. Now."

"Of course. Big?"

Mister Big stepped out of the shadows, dressed as genteelly as his employer, polished mask gleaming. He pulled an envelope out of his coat and handed it to Mason. "Unmarked bills. Twenties and fifties, as requested."

"It's all there?"

"Do you want to count it?"

"I-no." Mason glanced at the Rose. "Why?" The Rose glanced at him.

"Why what?"

"Why do this? Why go to war with your father again?"

"My father died a long time ago Mason. Isn't that right, Richard?" the Rose said, his voice amused. He glanced at Big. "I'm sorry. Big."

"It doesn't matter." Mister Big waved a hand. The Tinkerer looked back and forth between them, a chill crawling his bent spine. He hurriedly stuffed the envelope in his overcoat and hobbled towards the door. The Rose watched him go and gave a small laugh.

"He thought I was you. How droll."

"Yes. Isn't it just." Mister Big grunted. He rubbed at the edges of his mask, as if contemplating its removal. The Rose turned slightly, fingers gesturing smoothly. Big suddenly screamed and fell to his knees, clawing at his face. The sizzle of burning meat filled the air and the Rose shook his head.

"Richard, Richard, Richard. You are trying my patience, Richard. That arrogance, that self-assurance, is why I allowed you to use my face before. But you turned it into yet another of your attempts to gain the attention of your bloated father. And now you're doing it again." The Rose looked up at the ceiling, arms crossed, foot tapping. "Bringing Fisk and Tombstone into things was jumping the gun don't you think? I have a plan you know. I have had one for years," he said calmly. He sighed and snapped his fingers. Big's screams trickled off and gave way to low, ugly moans as he cradled his face in his hands. "Lucky for you, I prepared for this."

"G-uh, whu-uh..."

"Did you know there's a history to the underworld? A history to crime and criminals, wrought in the fates of their victims. The first costumed criminal was a man named Phantomas, did you know that? And the first organization was called the Black Coats. Groups like the Maggia and the Secret Empire are direct descendants of those Black Coats. Costumed criminals, Richard." The Rose dropped his cigarette to the floor and stubbed it out with one shoe heel. "It's always been about the costumes, despite what some think."

"Have I ever told you how ridiculous that costume looks?" Wilson Fisk rumbled. He sat in his chair behind his desk, staring not at the man who had entered his office, but out at the city, sunlight filtering through the blinds that draped his window.

"Did you call me here just to have a heart-to-heart on my sense of fashion?" Bullseye said, feet up on Fisk's desk, a knife balanced by the tip on one outstretched finger. Clad in his customary black and white outfit, he was the very image of deadly perfection. Lithe and destructive, he radiated a psychotic frenzy, even at rest. Bullseye enjoyed killing. It was his art, and like every artist, he hungered for it. "Or was there something else?" he continued lazily.

Fisk didn't rise to the bait. In his own way, he was far more dangerous than Bullseye and he had long since inured himself to the assassin's so-called wit. "Have you ever had dealings with the Enforcers?"

"Brito's bunch?" Bullseye cocked his head.

"The same."

"Wannabes. Fourth raters without a spare brain cell between the bunch. Except maybe the cowboy. He's got a quick eye," Bullseye said, eyes intent on the dagger wobbling on his fingertip. "Why?"

"I want you to deliver an abject lesson to them. Yesterday they destroyed some of my property. I want you to punish them for that."

"Hunh. Those losers don't jump unless somebody pulls their strings. Anybody else you want me to-ah-punish while I'm going?" Bullseye leaned forward, eyes narrowed. Interested now. He'd been at this long enough to smell a gang war brewing. That meant quick cash and a pile of potential bodies.

Fisk was silent, thinking of the anonymous message he'd received earlier in the day. A voice scrambler and a pre-paid cellphone had seen to that. About Lonnie Lincoln-Tombstone's involvement in the destruction of his property. A warning from on high apparently. Fisk sighed.

"Tombstone."

"Oooh. That'll be fun." Bullseye leaned back, a smirk covering his face. "Lincoln's been a pain in my ass since he was just a merc like me. Be a pleasure to knock his block off."

"The Enforcers first. A lesson must be delivered."

"Oh yeah. Gimme a few hours. I'll make it good. Brito's got a girl. I know where she's staying."

"Do as you see fit." Fisk waved a big hand and fell silent. He watched the sun rise over the city and thought of wars past as he planned for the one that was coming.

The Russian was a mountain of Slavic muscle clad in scars and ugly. Startlingly bright blue eyes stared out of a beetle brow over an idiot's smile. He sat quietly in front of Tombstone, eyes never leaving the albino's face. He had arrived an hour ago, straight from the airport. There was blood on his spade-sized hands, but Tombstone refrained from asking whose it was.

"I've got everything you requested. Address, current info on the group and two crates of Levi's all ready to be sent back to Moscow. Sound good?"

"Da. All is good," the Russian chuckled. "I will beat them senseless with their own limbs and eat the small one."

"You-ah-you don't have to do that." Tombstone blinked. The Russian shrugged and rose from his seat. He loomed over Tombstone in a way few men did.

"Nonsense! Is free of charge! Gratuity service! Backbone of capitalism."

"Yeah. Okay." Tombstone shook his head. "Look, make it nasty. But do it quick. The longer they go on breathing, the longer Fisk'll think he can get away with this shit."

"This Mister Fisk...should the Russian visit him too?" The Russian's flat head tilted, the way a dog's did when it was curious. Tombstone grinned, showing his too-sharp teeth.

"Nah. I got a special surprise for the fat man. One he'll never expect..."

"Then all is settled!" the Russian boomed. He yanked Tombstone into the air before the startled mobster could react and delivered a bone-crushing hug that would have snapped the spine of a weaker man. "The Enforcers will die!"

Tombstone patted the Russian on the arm weakly. "Ye-ah....great...put me down..."

"I stand by my original statement. You're all idiots and I should shoot you now." Hammerhead said, sitting at a small card table set up in the basement of the tenement. In and out of jail on a regular basis, Hammerhead had elected to lead a relatively spartan existence these days.

"In fact, gimme a reason why I shouldn't," he said, pulling a big handgun out of the holster beneath one arm and laid it flat on the table. The Enforcers stood around the table, warily watching Hammerhead's guards as Dan leaned over the table to look Hammerhead in the eye.

"Hey! How were we to know Big didn't work for you?" Dan snapped. "Man says he works for Hammerhead, he's either got stone-cold balls or he's good as his word. Big didn't strike me as having balls, stone cold or otherwise."

"You think that excuses you? You go out, attack a super-freak hang-out, spread MY name around, and think that excuses you? You got any idea what's gonna hap-“

BOOM

The building was rocked to its foundations. Screams echoed dimly from upstairs and the sound of gunfire ripped through the air. Hammerhead stood abruptly, his chair pitching over backwards as he snatched up his pistol. "What the hell?"

The door to the basement burst open and a terrified looking thug in a ripped suit stumbled in. "Boss! It's the goddamn Rhino!"

"Oh sonnuva-"

The building shook again, dust raining down on the assorted hoodlums. Hammerhead swung his blocky head towards Dan. "You. You did this." He raised his gun. "You're dead. Then your buddies. Then this Mister Big, whoever the hell he is. But you first."

"Dan, move!" Montana shouted, slinging his lariat with a swiftness that belied thought. The coarse rope settled over the barrel of Hammerhead's gun and jerked it aside even as he pulled the trigger. One of his men gave a groan and fell. Dan leapt up onto the table and kicked Hammerhead in the face, sending him crashing backwards. Dan whirled.

"Enforcers...RUN!"

They did. Ox shouldered aside Hammerhead's guards, flattening the ones who didn't move fast enough even as the others followed him up the stairs and out into the street, the building shuddering around them.

"Oh holy shit," Harrison breathed as they went out onto the street. It was a sentiment his companions shared.

The Rhino was in the middle of the street, hurling a car through the building behind them. Other costumes wreaked havoc here and there. The buildings around them were ablaze and Hammerhead's gunmen were fighting a losing battle against the criminal elite.

A shadow crossed over the Enforcers. Dan looked up into a leering demon's face.

"Long time no see boys," Jack O' Lantern sneered, a pumpkin bomb bouncing up and down on an open palm. "Here, catch!" with a shriek of laughter, the pumpkin headed mercenary hurled the bomb straight towards the Enforcers!

TO BE CONTINUED

Next Issue: Things get even worse for our fab five as they run a gauntlet of super-villains only to come face to face with the some costumes who are looking for a little revenge! Be here in thirty for 'THE ART OF RUNNING'!