Not dead yet. Dropping 3 chapters before that changes.
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"This is insane," Noah continued, pacing around the armory. "I accepted what I thought was a standard disruption contract—hit a drug deal, collect payment, go home. Instead I accidentally started a war with two of the most powerful criminal organizations on the East Coast."
Frank watched Noah's agitation with the calm assessment of someone evaluating a tactical situation. "Tell me about this contract. Who hired you?"
"Anonymous employer through Sister Margaret's," Noah replied. "Standard black card commission. Target a Russian drug transaction, disrupt the operation, payment on completion."
"And the intelligence was accurate?"
"Suspiciously accurate," Noah admitted, his expression shifting as he processed Frank's implication. "I spent days hunting other targets with incomplete information, but this one? Perfect location data, precise timing, detailed operational intelligence."
Frank nodded grimly. "Someone wanted that warehouse hit. The question is whether you were the intended trigger or just convenient."
"You think someone set me up?"
"I think someone set up that operation to fail," Frank corrected. "Whether they specifically wanted Noah Malachi to be the one pulling the trigger is another question entirely."
Noah felt a chill that had nothing to do with the warehouse's temperature. The possibility that he'd been manipulated into starting a criminal war was significantly more disturbing than accidentally stumbling into one.
"Why were you there?" Noah asked. "That can't be coincidence."
Frank was quiet for several seconds, clearly weighing how much to reveal. Finally: "Kage was my target. Drug trafficking, human smuggling, weapons dealing. I'd been tracking him for weeks."
"And you just happened to be moving on him the same night I got contracted to hit the same operation?"
"Timing was suspicious," Frank agreed. "Someone wanted that warehouse burned down and everyone inside dead. Maybe they figured hiring a mercenary and having me show up independently would guarantee results."
Noah sank into a folding chair, the implications hitting him. "So I'm not just dealing with angry criminals who want revenge. I might be dealing with someone who deliberately orchestrated this whole mess."
"That's my assessment," Frank confirmed.
"Any idea who?"
Frank shook his head. "Could be anyone with resources and motivation to see both the Russians and Kingpin's operation disrupted. Government agency, rival criminal organization, someone with a personal grudge."
Noah rubbed his temples, feeling the beginning of a headache that had nothing to do with post-bullet-time exhaustion. "I need to get back to Sister Margaret's, talk to Weasel about this contract. Maybe trace the money trail."
"That's dangerous," Frank warned. "If someone's watching your movements—"
"Everything's dangerous now," Noah interrupted. "But sitting here speculating isn't going to give us answers."
Frank studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You're right. But you go in prepared." He gestured at his arsenal. "Pick something with more stopping power than that popgun you've been carrying."
Noah's eyes immediately went to the mounted Gatling gun in the corner.
"No," Frank said flatly.
"But—"
"Absolutely not."
"It would be very effective for crowd control—"
"Kid, if you walk into Sister Margaret's carrying a minigun, you're going to start the kind of firefight that gets innocent people killed."
Noah sighed and selected a more reasonable upgrade—one of Frank's modified .45s and several spare magazines.
"Before you go," Frank said, "what's your real name?"
Noah paused. He'd been using his actual name since arriving in this world, but something about Frank's tone suggested this was more than casual curiosity.
"Noah Malachi," he replied honestly.
"Well, Noah Malachi," Frank said, his expression carrying the weight of someone who'd seen too many young people walk into situations they weren't prepared for, "be careful. Someone played you once already. Don't give them a second chance."
Noah checked the modified pistol, appreciating the craftsmanship and the substantial upgrade it represented over his previous weapon.
"What about you?" Noah asked. "Fifteen million is enough to bring every bounty hunter on the East Coast to your door."
Frank's smile was cold and predatory. "Let them come. I've been looking for an efficient way to thin out the criminal population anyway."
That's the Punisher for you, Noah thought. Turn a death sentence into a target-rich environment.
He headed toward the exit, then paused at the door. "Frank? If this goes badly and I don't make it back—thanks. For the backup, the weapons, the tactical analysis. I know you didn't ask to get dragged into my mess."
"Kid," Frank said, his voice carrying an unexpected note of something that might have been respect, "after watching you work tonight, I'm thinking you might survive longer than most people in your situation."
Noah nodded and stepped into the night, leaving Frank alone with his arsenal and his plans for whoever came looking for blood money.
As he made his way back toward Sister Margaret's, Noah reflected on how dramatically his life had changed in just a few weeks. From torture victim to professional assassin to wanted fugitive with supernatural abilities and a price on his head that could fund a small country's military budget.