The Marvel Knights Group presents: The Enforcers #8

“You have more going for you than I suspected, Brito,” Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of crime, said, sitting in his leather chair, his bulk hidden by shadow. His massive hands were flat on his desk, the fingers drumming a nonsensical rhythm.

Daniel Brito, Fancy Dan to his partners in the rag-tag group known as the Enforcers, smiled bitterly.

“Heard that before.”

“I suspect you have. Why are you here?” Fisk said, voice a calm rumble. The stink of gunpowder hung heavy on the air. Dan’s gun hand twitched. He fished Bullseye’s mask out of his pants pocket and tossed it onto Fisk’s desk.

“Payback.”

“Hrm. Snart is dead?”

“No idea. Looked pretty dead to me.” Dan shrugged. “But you know him. More lives than a cockroach.”

“Indeed.” Fisk put his hands together, interlacing his fingers. He leaned forward. “Get on with it, Brito. I am not a patient man.”

“I’m thinking,” Dan said, eyes bright. He was breathing heavily. “I’m thinking about killing you.”

“It has been tried before.”

“Thought of that too,” Dan said. “Don’t care.”

“Hrm,” Fisk grunted. He closed his eyes. Opened them. Watched Brito. “Well?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“I do have a business to run.”

“I understand that. I’ll only be a minute,” Dan said. He raised his pistol. Fisk sat back, a small smile curling at the edges of his lips.

“Finally…”

“Fisk?”

“Yes, Brito?”

“Duck.”

Fisk moved swiftly for such a heavy man, hurling himself to the side even as a huge, brown furred form crashed through his window and landed on his desk, fangs bared.

“Fat-Man! I have come for you!” Carlos Lobo snarled, red eyes blazing as he shook glass out of his fur.

“I was here first,” Dan said. Lobo whirled and Dan shot him three times in the head. The werewolf pitched backwards, blood coloring the air. The sound of helicopters filled the air. The building shook. Dan looked down at Fisk.

“Must be hard to be popular.”

“I have always thought so.”

Montana had seen a lot in his time. Heard even more.

What he’d heard about the Russian scared him beyond all measure. The man was a walking death-camp, responsible for hundreds of shufflings off of this mortal coil. And at the moment, it looked like Montana was the next one in line for a dance across the Jordan.

The Russian’s knotted, scarred fingers wrapped tightly around Montana’s windpipe and the killer lifted him off of his feet. Montana’s boot soles dangled a foot above the floor and he tore at the sausage fingers desperately.

“I’m-a gonna ride on de Loooonsome Prairie…” the Russian crooned as he choked Montana, his tiny-marble eyes flashing happily. “Good song, da?”

“Kkk-kkuh…” Montana said as his face turned blue and his vision went black.

“Let him GO!” Sheila shouted, slamming a fire extinguisher across the back of the assassin’s skull. The Russian grunted and tossed Montana aside. He turned and snatched the extinguisher out of Sheila’s hands.

“Stop that,” he said as he raised the extinguisher up over his head as Sheila stumbled back, hands up over her face. “Wait your turn, anxious woman.”

“No.” Linda Carter, the Night-Nurse, swung her sister behind her and lifted a strange looking gun up into the Russian’s face. “Leave, or become a patient.”

“Russian does not get sick. Hardy Siberian winters keep man healthy.” The Russian smiled, displaying gap-teeth.

“You learn something new every day,” Carter said. Then she pulled the trigger.

The Russian screamed and staggered back as a burp of fire enveloped his face. He clawed at his face, making gulping moaning noises as he staggered backwards.

“What the hell IS that?” Montana whispered, his voice hoarse and raw. Carter smiled grimly.

“Sometimes I get souvenirs instead of cash. Way of the work.”

“YOU BURNED ME!” the Russian roared, whirling towards them, face boiled red and steaming, his fingers lightly crisped. He lunged forward, quicker than thought, and snatched Carter into the air by her hands, the pistol crushed between his fingers.

Montana dove on the Russian, whipping his lariat around the brute’s thick neck and digging his spurs into the small of his back. He hauled back on the rope, its ends wrapped tightly around his forearms. The Russian grunted and released Carter, his fingertips digging at the rope biting into his neck. Carter smashed into the wall and slid down, stunned. Sheila darted to her side, eyes wide.

“Best…ghn…settle down, boss,” Montana hissed. “Best-”

“Nyet,” the Russian croaked, reaching up desperately, catching hold of Montana’s bolo tie and jerking him loose from his perch. He smashed Montana face-first into the closest wall, cracking it and sending the cowboy into limp-limbed unconsciousness. The Russian stepped back, ripping the rope off of his neck. He swung his bleary gaze back at the two women. He smiled, burnt skin crinkling.

“Now…now, where were we?”

The helicopters swung around Fisk Tower like angry hornets, chain guns chattering and glass shattering. Smoke boiled out of the windows.

Dan shoved Fisk through the doorway even as Lobo popped to his feet like a demented bop-bag. The little man spun on his heel and emptied a clip into the furry nightmare. Lobo shrieked and fell. Dan slammed the door to Fisk’s office and reloaded.

Fisk watched him, face unreadable.

“You saved me.”

“I don’t know why either, so don’t ask,” Dan said, pushing a full clip home with the heel of his hand. “We got to go.”

“Where, pray tell?” Fisk asked with a shrug.

“Away. Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”

“Mr. Fisk! Mr. Fisk!”

Men clad in tasteful suits charged up the stairs, weapons held tightly. Fisk raised his hand as an assault rifle was waved in Dan’s direction.

“I am quite all right, thanks to Mr. Brito here. Where is Finch?”

“Mr. Finch is in the command center, sir. He’s activated the steel shutters and the interior defenses,” a burly, bald-headed gunsel said smartly. Fisk nodded and started towards the elevator, hands clasped behind his back.

“Very good. We will-”

“Die painfully.”

A wash of crackling fire filled the hallway. Dan threw himself to the side, the stink of burning meat filling his nostrils. Men screamed horribly as they burnt to bone and ash in seconds. Dan pushed himself to his feet, using the wall as leverage. He squinted through the flames, heart thudding in his chest as he caught sight of two figures walking through the flames.

One was easy enough to recognize-the Spot. A coruscating mass of squirming holes in reality wrapped around a vaguely man-like shimmer. Johnny Ohn. The goddamn Spot. Beside him, a bulky shape clad in purple and golden armor, face hidden behind a faceless mask. They ignored Dan, walking past him towards Fisk, who stood, arms spread, fists clenched in front of the elevator.

“What’s cooking, Fisk?” the armored man bellowed. The Spot giggled.

“Good one, Scorcher.”

“Yeah, good one,” Dan said, coughing on the smoke as he rose up behind them. “That you, Hudak?”

“Brito?” Scorcher whirled. Dan shot him, the bullet clipping his fuel tank even as the impact sent him stumbling into Ohn. The Spot screamed as his body instinctively swallowed the resulting explosion. He fell to his knees, arms wrapped around his belly. Dan leapt over him and charged towards Fisk.

“Hit the button! Hit the button!”

“Calm yourself, Brito. I was merely waiting for you,” Fisk said as he stepped backwards between the opening elevator doors. He reached out and grabbed Dan’s tie, hauling him into the elevator even as an explosion rocked the building. Fisk tossed him aside as the elevator began to move.

“It seems I am at war, Brito. Explain yourself.”

“Not my idea. I got no clue what’s going on.” Dan shrugged, checking his pockets. “Shit, I am entirely out of ammo.”

“You lack foresight,” Fisk said. He tapped a panel in the elevator wall and it opened to reveal a heavy caliber pistol and an extra clip. He pulled the gun out and slammed the clip home. Dan watched him. Fisk glanced at him curiously.

“What?”

“Never seen you use a gun.”

“I rarely need to. I have men for that,” Fisk said. “As do my opponents, apparently. Who are they, Brito?”

“Like I said, no clue.”

“Are you worthless, Brito?” Fisk held the pistol, butt first, towards Brito. “Here.”

“What?”

“As I said. I do not have guns. I have men who carry guns. Here is yours.”

“I came here to kill you!”

“Did you? You chose a remarkably bad time.” Fisk smiled.

The Russian’s hand shot out. Sheila screamed and fell backwards over her sister’s legs.

Two fists snapped forward where her head had been, smashing into the Russian’s face. He grunted and stepped back. He shook his head and blinked. His eyes widened slightly.

“Two of you?”

“No,” Ox grunted, hitting the Russian again.

“Yes,” the other Ox growled, punching the Russian in the gut.

Montana, flat on the floor, pushed himself up and stared at them. “Ronnie?”

Ronald and Raymond Bloch looked remarkably similar, especially up close and after a few punches. Both tall and broad, with red hair and puffy faces. They weren’t quite twins, one being older by a few years.

Neither of them was entirely sure which of them that was however.

Their mother wasn’t talking.

Both of them hit the same though. Hard. The Russian was driven back by the sheer sledgehammer force of those blows, steady piston-punches that he actually felt through the scar-tissue and deadened nerves.

Montana threw himself behind the Russian while the brute’s attention was held, and the giant stumbled, falling backwards over Montana’s prone form. He hit the tiled floor hard, and the Oxen fell on him, their fists thundering down.

The floor cracked and buckled beneath them and a cloud of dust rose to the ceiling. Sheila pulled her sister away from the dust.

“Please, please, please…” she repeated the word again and again.

The dust cleared.

The Russian lay still, eyes closed, face a bloody mask. The two brothers stood over him, breathing heavily, bruises already forming on their faces. One of them reached down and hauled Montana to his feet with an easy jerk.

“Jackie…” Sheila began. Montana grinned and winced, arm held around his ribs.

“Don’t worry, Sheila. We got him.”

“We got him.”

The elevator shuddered as something heavy landed on top. Dan looked at Fisk. Fisk gestured at the ceiling.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Do what I’m paying you to, of course.”

“When did you-” Dan shook his head and lifted the pistol. “Man, I knew I should have let Bullseye kill me.”

Above him, the ceiling was peeled back by strong fingers and Carlos Lobo snarled down at them, saliva raining down. Fisk stepped aside, lip curled in disgust and Brito fired steadily upwards. Lobo pitched backwards, howling in agony.

“He’s really got a goddamn mad on for you, doesn’t he?” Dan said, glaring at Fisk.

“The fortunes of war,” Fisk said, arms crossed. “I make many enemies in my business.”

“Including nutcases in costume…” Dan said. His voice trailed off. He hadn’t thought about it before. Not really. Too busy surviving.

It wasn’t Fisk. He knew that. Hammerhead hadn’t ordered them to take out the Bar With No Name. Fisk wasn’t the type to trick small-timers like them into doing that. Not when he had big guns like Bullseye.

That meant someone else. Dan looked at Fisk. Fisk looked at Dan.

“Who benefits?” he said.

“What?”

“Who benefits if the king is dead?”

“Make sense, Brito.” Fisk smiled. “The answer is obvious…the heir to the throne.”

Outside, clutching his boiling head in two hands, Richard Fisk sat snug in one of the attack helicopters, his mind whirling around inside his mask. Masks. Sometimes one didn’t even have to wear them…to be wearing them.

He looked up at the Rose, who stood spread armed and laughing in the open door of the copter. The Rose looked back at him.

“Well, Richard…you asked for our help. You could smile, maybe show a little enthusiasm?” The Rose gestured and Richard’s mask began to crackle and he started to scream and scream and scream…

TO BE CONTINUED

Next Issue: The war kicks into high gear as the Enforcers re-unite just in time to join forces with the Kingpin against the forces of the Rose! It’s criminal vs. super-criminal inside a forty story inferno and not everyone will walk away…be here in thirty for ’WALKING TALL’!