The story is mine, but all characters that resemble Marvel characters are owned by Marvel Inc. Some story-lines are Marvel's, but details are mine.
Feel free to leave suggestions if you feel something in the story is not clear. This is long, but only Chapter 1 in a continuing series if popular enough
It was dark. Not the ‘camping in the middle of nowhere’ dark, where you look up to the sky and see millions of stars. No, this was the ‘I’m trapped in a cave miles below the ground and my headlamp just went out’ dark. In fact, he might be trapped in a cave. There were enough cobwebs in his head to be in a cave. His head hurt. Maybe a rock fell on him during the cave-in. That would explain the bolts of lightning shooting through his skull. He suddenly remembered an old Bugs Bunny cartoon where Elmer Fudd went cross-eyed and saw birdies flying every time he got hit in the head. He started to reach for his head in an attempt to find the inevitable lump, but couldn’t lift his arms. The metallic scrape he heard and felt made him realize that he was handcuffed or shackled to a chair. Moving his legs to stand, he felt the same restraints around his ankles. He heard the inner voice of panic start to address his psyche, convincingly whispering that he was dead and waiting his sentence and deliverance to the appropriate level of hell. Immediately he began to control his breathing, counting in a memorized cadence that simultaneously slowed his heartbeat and quieted (temporarily at least) the monologue in his head. The exercise almost seemed innate, but had to have been trained. He couldn’t focus on where, though. He started to shake his head to lift the haze, but the pain shot through his head to his eyeballs like electricity through a conduit. Still… he must be still. He began to try to remember where he had been before this but his memories were as hazy as the early morning mist hanging on the shore of a northern California beach at sunrise. Instead of that, he decided to focus on the immediate question; where the hell was he? He could smell dampness in the air, a coppery scent that reminded him of being deep in a cargo ship’s hull on a transatlantic course. There was no up and down movement of being at sea, though, so if he was locked in a ship, it was docked in a bay or inlet, deceivingly calm enough to simulate being on land. Without moving his head, he strained to hear any sounds that might help him identify where he was. Nothing. The tag-line from an old movie popped into his head. ‘In space, no one can hear you scream.’ This created the inevitable inner dialogue that happened when you found yourself alone and in an undesirable situation.
Was that from ‘Alien’?
Yeah, I think it was.
Those face-suckers were terrifying.
And the retractable teeth?
I couldn’t sleep without the lights on for days!
Whoa, get ahold of yourself, pal. You’re chained to a chair somewhere in the dark, not knowing who or what will inevitably show up to do God-knows-what to you, and you’re thinking about a Ridley Scott movie?
Or was it Cameron Crowe?
Russell Crowe?
No, that was the guy in Gladiator.
Dammit, I’m doing it again! Focus! OK, forget where I am, how about WHO I am.
Wow, that sounded cliché. Who am I? What, am I in some kind of pseudo-psychology class?
Und today, vee vill be searching our minds und trying to decide who vee are…
Sh*t, I’m losing it.”
Almost imperceptibly, he heard what sounded like a metal door opening somewhere beyond the inky blackness. Shutting down the conversation in his head, he closed his eyes and concentrated on the distant sound, trying to identify its direction and proximity to his location. He heard boots on concrete approaching from what seemed to be his 9 o’clock.
A muffled voice spoke, “Do you think he’s awake?”
The question identified the fact that there was more than one, an instant tactical point he made to himself. He began to do a mental checklist of all possible information he could glean from what he heard.
Two people minimum.
“Awake? I’m not sure he’s alive.” was the answer.
Both speakers were male, most likely pretty large, judging from the baritone in their voices. He labeled them #1 and #2, internally recording their voices for future identification, if he made it that far. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing as shallow as possible, hoping they would continue to talk, maybe giving him a chance to properly assess the situation he was in currently.
“Hey Wade! You alive in there?” one of them shouted.
They were obviously not worried about yelling and giving up their position or disturbing anyone else. Was he the only one held captive, or just the only one who was possibly still living?
“If he’s dead, I swear I’ll shoot the Colonel myself. I’m not doing this again. I’m sick of this sh*t!” the other man swore. Both men listened for any movement or answer.
The title immediately identified them as military. Or maybe ex-military. He decided to chew on that later. He needed to concentrate on their dialogue for now.
“Don’t open the door. We’re just ordered to see if he responds.” #1 said.
“Yeah, well he ain’t. 50 bucks says he’s dead.” #2 offered.
“You’re on!” #1 confirmed.
“All right ladies, let’s go back and report. No noticeable movement or response.”
Three men out there, the third obviously outranking the first two. He subconsciously called the third man Sarge.
As he heard the footsteps receding, he began to internally appraise the situation he was in based on the information he had been able to collect.
He had no clue where he was, or how he got there. He was either drugged or knocked out, he didn’t know which. He was being held against his will, by trained personnel for reasons he also didn’t know. So far, there were three of them, but there had to be more, because they obviously reported to someone with the rank of Major. He also knew that the success rate of running a controlled operation involving the capture and complete control of at least one individual using only four operatives were slim. He could be dealing with an entire platoon or company for all he knew. The sudden feeling of hopelessness of his situation threatened to spew him back into the inner dialogue that only led to the finality of complete surrender. In fact, taking into account all he had learned, he knew exactly…squat.
Wait, when they were calling to him, they called him Wade…
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to force his memory into acquiescence. Wade…Wade…the frustration threatened to overtake him, but he relapsed into his breathing exercises, compelling himself to calm down and concentrate. The prickling in his brain that his identity, no his entire being, his life was right there was maddening. He would almost reach it but then it would be gone, like trying to grab the draining sand in an hourglass, feeling the grains but seeing them slip through your fingers.
But then, somewhere in the recesses of his mind he caught a glimpse of some clandestine operation in which he might have been involved. Faces shimmered ghostlike in his memory, like the vapors rising and dissipating from a hot asphalt road in the middle of the summer. As he attempted to capture these faces, the voices of the three men he heard earlier wafted in his ears, taunting him with recognition and then casually flying away.
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Inter Team 1 was made up of 11 various ‘specialists’ from different elite outfits of several branches of military around the world. They had been assembled and were led by Colonel William Stryker, background unknown.
It is impossible to be in a combat situation without forming a tight bond with your comrades. This is why almost all military units universally refer to each other as brothers. When you are responsible for another man’s life, and vice-versa, a mutual respect is inevitable. You may personally hate the man next to you, but when the shit hits the fan, you will do anything to save him. Surviving intense combat situations also creates an overblown sense of invincibility, which leads to intense displays of bravado. Observe any military unit during down-time and you will see behavior that more resembles a fraternity than a finely tuned group of men ready to kill for God and country. However, the combination of elite soldiers from the world’s best special forces created a completely different atmosphere. There were no arguments about who was the best. Each man viewed the others with a sense of respect, borne out of the fact that each was the best at what they did. Every man on the roster represented a separate elite military branch, forming a who’s who of the top combat and tactical groups in existence. Eight of the so-called ‘top 10 bad-asses of the world’s special forces’ were accounted for in the unit. 2 men were from MARSOC, or the Marine Corps Forces Special Operation Command, 1 from MI-6, 1 Army Special Forces, 2 Green Berets, 1 Shayatet 13 (and Mossad), 1 Navy SEAL and 1 from the British SAS. And then there was Major Wade Wilson. Wade had been born in Canada, but moved to the US as a child and had enlisted in the Army when he was 18, moving up in rank and expertise, achieving Major before being privately selected for his current assignment. Every member of the team had been briefed on one another's military background, and each had a specific specialty except for Wade. Wade was an expert in almost all of the tactical and fighting methods and none of the other soldiers knew his exact military background, although the current bets stood between the Navy SEALs and the 1 st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, or Delta Force. Truth be told, none of the others liked Wade and if forced to, would have to admit that they were actually a little afraid of him. The men had given Wade a nickname in secret, based on a growing group bet on when, how and if Wade would ever be killed. They all called him Deadpool.
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“Wilson! Get your ass over here and secure these prisoners!”
Wade looked up from the body of the dead Afghani and saw the Colonel waving his arm in the ‘come-here’ motion, about 50 yards away. 6 members of his team had a group of insurgents surrounded, each soldier sweeping their weapon across the band of men who had all quickly laid their own AK-47’s on the ground once they realized they had no recourse, other than death. Not that all of the Afghanis had given up so easily. The clearing in the middle of the village was littered with the corpses of dozens of the insurgents, as well as several civilians, many of them women and children.
As Wade stepped over the body and made his way over to the group, he swiveled his head to the left and right, surveying the scene, more in assessment of the damage than for the purpose of locating additional threats to their safety.
The effects of the aftermath immediately permeated and assaulted his senses. In the minutes prior to the intense action of a calculated operation, it is common for the body to experience a building surge of adrenaline. Elite operatives, through training and discipline, channel that increased energy into a pinpoint tunnel-vision effect, where the target and objective become the focus of all attention. The post-combat adrenaline rush, however, typically gives a wide and extreme perspective on specifics of the scene. As Wade experienced this, he saw that the ground was covered with chunks of brick and mortar from the destroyed walls of the village housing. The coppery smell of spilled blood mixed with the odor of feces and urine from many of the dead, their muscles involuntarily relaxing upon death, releasing the contents of their bowels and bladders simultaneously. He heard the dull crunch his boots made on the ground as he stepped over the bodies, mixed with the sharp bark of several dogs nearby, previously ignored in the intensity and immediacy of the firefight. He noticed the corpse of an elderly male villager missing half of his head, his one eye seemingly fixed on Wade, almost in an accusatory stare stating his case that he was merely a civilian, and not involved in this fight whatsoever. What the villager had failed to realize before his death was that Wade really didn’t care one way or the other. That he was there to simply complete a mission, and any collateral damage incurred along the way was merely a path down an imaginary rabbit trail that he neither wanted nor cared to journey.
“Major Wilson’s ass reporting as ordered, Sir!” Wade bellowed, as he approached the Colonel, who was standing outside the group of men covered by his team.
The Colonel had been Wade’s commander for so long that he was not surprised at the soldier’s response. He had quit reprimanding him for insubordination long ago, realizing the he had as much chance of stopping the sarcastic remarks as he did changing the direction of the wind.
“Major, secure the prisoners, gather HUMINT, and report back to me at base camp at 1900 hours.”
HUMINT stood for human intelligence and referred to intelligence gathering by means of interpersonal contact. ‘Interpersonal contact’ in the field really meant ‘by any means necessary’. Getting accurate information from prisoners was a very tricky process that necessitated a delicate balance of fear and follow-through. If the subject had no fear, then he also had no motivation to give information. If he was tortured to instill fear, the probability of him giving any information that was truthful was slim. Even the most highly trained individuals will come to a point where they will say anything to stop the pain, or become completely resigned to their eventual death, slipping into silence or repeating a rote stream of calculated information, such as name and rank, or in this country, some obscure religious passage. Getting intel from a group, however, could be much easier.
Typically, the interrogator would take his time and tactically establish the presence of one or more in the group who was less invested in their cause and more interested in staying alive. Wade decided to take a much more accelerated approach. He counted fifteen insurgents in the group and pulled fourteen black zip-ties from his pack. After binding the hands behind the backs of fourteen of the fifteen, Wade reached up and behind his head, silently and swiftly sliding one of his Katana from its sheath, swinging it around and slicing the last man’s carotid artery open wide enough to spray most of the remaining prisoners with his blood. His hands flew up to his neck too late in a futile attempt to stem the blood flow, his body collapsing to the ground as he gurgled out the last sound he would ever voice. To Wade, it sounded like when he gargled his mouthwash after he had finished brushing his teeth. In the movies, the Katana would have sliced the man’s head from his body, but in reality, the muscle tissue and vertebrae of any human being was too dense and strong for that to be possible. This was why medieval be-headings were done with a two handed axe, with the neck placed on a stump or stock of wood. This was also why he just went for the arterial slice. Besides, Wade thought, who could look cool lugging a two-handed axe on his back? He also knew that this would be equally, if not more effective.
All of the prisoners flinched and attempted to duck the froth of blood except one, and three of them began to babble incoherently in Pashto. Wade looked at his teammate Sampson and silently gestured to the three who were speaking, indicating that he should separate them and collect information from each one independently. Being Israeli and an ex-member of the Shayetet 13, Sampson was one of the few team members fluent in the Pashto language. Wade chose him for the intel collection for that reason and because he knew of his intense and personal hatred for the radical Afghanis.
Wade then grabbed the collar of the one Afghani who had not moved and hauled him to his feet. He was older than the rest, the only one with a beard, which was now dripping with blood and gore. The insurgent made no attempt to run or even avert his gaze, instead standing and staring with quiet defiance at the man who would most likely send him to meet Allah and collect his virgins.
“Set the rest of these men free, so they can properly worship their god.” Wade said to the rest of the unit as he walked towards the open doorway of one of the few houses that was still intact, dragging his defiant prisoner with him.
As he reached the doorway, he heard the single shots from each of his team’s rifles as they put bullets in the brains of the remaining captives, sending them to heaven or hell, he didn’t care which.
“Now, let’s talk about you and me.” Wade said to his man after getting him inside the building. He pushed him down to a sitting position on the floor and squatted in front of him. The man’s face was still dripping with his comrade’s blood and he growled something at Wade in Pashto. He then spit a combination of blood, saliva and phlegm in Wade’s face.
“Come on now, you know I don’t speak Arab. I’m Canadian, so I can barely speak English. I know you do, though, because you’re obviously Mujahideen.” Wade said as he calmly wiped the spittle from his face.
The Afghan Mujahideen were guerrilla fighters who successfully drove the Russians out of Afghanistan in 1989 after a 10 year struggle. Most of their support came from Pakistan and Iran, but the United States had supplied the majority of their advanced weaponry as well as special operatives for reconnaissance and tactical training. All of this had been conducted as black ops, of course, but Wade knew because he had been there. The stubborn recalcitrance that this man exhibited told Wade that he had been brainwashed by his fundamentalist superiors for many years.
“So start giving up the goods, so I can go back to camp and you can go to Allah, quickly, quietly, and without much pain.”
He really didn’t expect this guy to start talking so easily, but he at least had to give him the chance, and he knew that lying to him about his chances of survival wouldn’t magically start the flow of information. Wade’s stare didn’t waver from the man’s eyes as he waited and hoped he would suddenly decide to tell him everything he wanted to know.
Nope. Wade sighed and looked around at his surroundings. The sparse furnishings of the house was a reminder of the poverty that was inevitable in sections of all towns, as integral to the culture of its population as was the successful opulence of the ruling class. A single rattan chair, the fibers of the woven reeds fraying from years of use sat in one corner. A small handmade coffee table was in front of it, with an ornate tea set sitting on top of it. He could see the fine etchings of a holy temple or mosque engraved on the teapot and fleetingly wondered how old it might be, briefly playing a scene in his head of it being ceremoniously handed down multiple generations until it sat here, a sublime reminder of the simplicity of life in this village until he and his team had arrived. There were religious tapestries decorating the walls and he could see into the bedroom, noticing that the only piece of furniture was a brown stained cushion that served as a mattress. He brought his attention back to the living room. Next to the chair he spotted a metal container that looked like an umbrella tin that he had once seen in England. Sticking out of it was a rolled up rug that he immediately identified as a Muslim prayer mat. Wade stood up and walked over to the tin, plucked the mat out and unrolled it in front of his Afghani prisoner. Most formal or city prayer mats are made of silk and very intricately designed with precise and flowing patterns and have an arch or niche at one end for the worshiper to kneel in prayer in the direction of the holy city of Mecca. However, this prayer mat reflected the status of the owner in that it was made of wool and the arch was more angular in nature, signifying a mat that could be afforded by a poor villager. This did not change the fact that it would be seen as holy in the eyes of the man zip-tied and sitting on the floor.
Wade purposely pointed the arch of the mat away from the direction of Mecca and sat down on it cross-legged (criss-cross applesauce, he remembered from kindergarten), with his ass firmly planted on the arch. For extra effect, he farted loudly as he did so.
The man watched him as he did this, and Wade saw the fiery hatred blazing in his deep brown eyes. He showed no other obvious signs of outrage that Wade was hoping for in response to his blatant insouciance towards something so holy. Damn, this guy was good.
“So this is how it’s gonna be, huh?” Wade said as he looked at the man, suddenly sure of the inevitable outcome of this encounter. Well, at least he could have some fun.
“OK, I’ll tell you what. Do you hear those dogs barking?”
Wade unsheathed one of his Katana and pointed it directly at the belly of the insurgent. He knew that while Islamic fatawa dictated that dogs be treated kindly, Islamic tradition was that dogs were impure and only kept for hunting or guarding livestock. They abhorred the thought of coming in direct contact with the animals.
“If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to open you up, but leave you alive and then I’m going to drag you over to where those dogs are and guess what? Dinner time!”
Suddenly, the Afghani lifted his head and spoke to Wade in broken English.
“You want me to talk English? Today I will be martyred and fly on the wings of the prophet to meet Allah in the sky.”
Wade sighed again, stood up and pulled out his nickel plated Desert Eagle 44 magnum and said, “OK, but I’ve read the Koran, and nowhere does it say that your virgins are guaranteed to be female.” and shot him in the head.
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Wade’s head snapped up from his chest and he looked around in the dark, searching for recognition. It was still too dark to see and he still had no idea where he was. The cobwebs of unconsciousness were just beginning to float away when his body was wracked with pain. He felt a lightning bolt of intense heat shoot through every muscle, every bone, every fiber of his being. So white hot that he could not help but scream. Tactical and operative thought left his mind and he screamed in an agony that he had never felt before. He could feel something in his body fighting its way out. It seemed to be slowly moving through the muscle and tissue to escape the prison of Wade Wilson. He shut his eyes tight, but could not escape the pain coursing through his body. Every muscle in his body began to spasm violently, jerking his head back and forth, pulling his arms against his restraints. Froth began to foam out of his mouth as he mindlessly jerked his head back and forth, begging for death, willing his heart to stop and end the fire coursing through his flesh. Finally, mercifully, his brain shut down and he passed out, his head slumping back down to his chest.
Wade’s screams broke the chill inside the main chamber of the secret maze of caves that served as the underground base and lab of the team.
“Did you hear that?” Williams said.
‘Ha! That’s 50 bucks you owe me, !” Branson answered.
“From the sound of that, I’m not convinced he’s still alive.” Williams retorted.
“Stop screwing around and go check on him!” Stryker finally ordered.
Williams and Branson slowly walked down the corridor of the cave, arguing about who would open the door to see if Wade was still alive. When they arrived at the locked door, they had finally agreed how to settle the dispute.
“Ro Shambo to see who opens the door.” Williams said.
“Best two out of three?” Branson hoped.
“No, best one out of one!”
They each slapped their palms with their fists.
“Yeah! Rock beats scissors! Always start with rock!” Branson crooned.
“Whatever, just unlock the damn door!” Williams snarled.
Williams turned on his flashlight as Branson unlocked and opened the door, his Glock at the ready. They were immediately hit in the face with a smell that neither one could identify, but faintly reminded them of the odor of burnt flesh. Both men simultaneously covered their mouths and noses with their hands.
“Aghhh, what is that smell?”
As they walked into the room with their flashlights, Williams heard a wet popping sound as he stepped on something on the floor.
“What the hell…are there giant roaches in here?”
They brought their beams up to Wade’s head lolling on his chest.
“He’s dead. He’s gotta be. That smell is death itself.”
“Wait, his chest is moving. Holy sh*t, he’s alive!.”
They both slowly moved forward, looking at Wade’s head and face. His scalp was pocked with slick, wet craters that looked like holes through his skull. Yellow pus oozed from each one, winding thin sticky trails down his skin to his face. His face had several more of these pits, and as they moved the light down to his body, they gaped in horror as the holes grew bigger, becoming open windows into the musculature and makeup of his anatomy. They could see the striations of his muscles, the connection of tendons and ligaments, and hear the gurgling of blood as it winnowed through his pores, dripping down into shimmering pools collecting on the floor. As they moved their flashlights down to Wade’s legs, they heard another popping sound and saw a small lump appear on his right thigh. Looking closer, they noticed that it was throbbing, seeming to vibrate as it got bigger, approaching the barrier of his skin. Suddenly, Wade’s flesh parted with a sickening rip that reminded Branson of the sound of the first knife strike when gutting a pig. They both bent over to see a blackish-gray oval barely push through the hole in Wade’s leg. With a noise that sounded like a soaked washcloth being thrown against a wall, the mass escaped Wade’s body and fell to the floor with a soft thud. They found that the floor was littered with dozens of these things. Williams realized with growing revulsion that what he had stepped on earlier was several of these objects.
“What the hell are these things?” Branson gasped.
Williams bent down and took a closer look.
“Wait, the Colonel said Wade was dying from malignant carcinoma, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, so? The procedure was supposed to take care of that.” Branson answered.
“Yeah, well, I think it did.”
“Holy sh*t! Are you saying these things are tumors?” Branson gasped.
“I think so.” Williams replied.
Branson turned and retched on the floor.
“Man, I gotta get the hell outta here!”
The sound of the tumors cracking and breaking under his feet as he turned to leave made him vomit again. He could see the brackish fluid being pushed free of their cancerous cells as he stepped on them, leaking their poison onto the floor below. Branson and Williams could not get out of the room fast enough. They closed and locked the door and practically ran down the narrow corridor back to the meeting room, their footsteps echoing in the damp air, fading and then disappearing into the dark.
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New York City – 1974
“What’s the target’s name?” Wade asked again.
“What do you care? He’s not our target. We’re just the muscle in case something gets out of hand.” his partner Billy Russo replied.
“And we’re getting paid for this, right?” Wade said, looking up from his scope.
“Yes! Stop asking me that! Since when did you become a mercenary, anyway?” Billy asked.
“Since I became broke.” Wade replied. “Besides, the US of A doesn’t pay squat anymore. Do you know how many people I killed for Uncle Sam? And does he offer me a pay raise? Nope. Nothing. Nada. Squadoosh. Hell, I’d go back to Canada if they’d have me. Maybe there’s still a chance I could play for the Oilers…”
Manhattan’s Central Park in April was always beautiful. Stretching from 59th street all the way to 110th street, it offered 843 acres of lush green grass, paths, lakes and tourist attractions all nestled in the middle of the busiest city on earth. It also provided countless areas of concealment should one wish to remain hidden with a M40A3 sniper rifle. He had chosen this model over the preferred M24 because of the distance to target. He would be looking at about a 2400 meter shot from where he was positioned.
Two hours prior, Wade and Billy had walked up West Drive and then cut across the grass and up The Great Hill where they had laid a blanket down underneath a Flowering Dogwood tree. The Dogwood tree was the perfect cover, with silver bark and white-ish pink flowers that created the perfect distraction from the two men parked beneath it. Billy sat with his back against the trunk, casually sipping a Coca-Cola soda, seemingly relaxed in the springtime weather that always teased of a mild summer, before the heat and humidity descended and crushed your hopes as it always did. Wade was lying prone next to him, his body underneath a camo blanket to hide his position. He was looking through the Leopold scope of his rifle at the target, a man sitting on a park bench in the Italian Garden of the Conservatory Garden.
The Conservatory Garden is a large garden approximately 400 feet long by 150 feet wide that is actually broken up into three smaller gardens; the French Garden, the Italian Garden and the English Garden. The target, a middle aged man dressed in a navy blue business suit, was reading The New York Times while sitting on a park bench to the right of the 12-foot high jet fountain located at the end of a large rectangular lawn. The lawn was bordered on both sides by spectacular blooming white and purple crab-apple trees. Wade began a sweep of the area, scanning each garden methodically, creating a mental inventory of each civilian within 100 meters of the target. His view came to rest on a family having a picnic on the grass, just outside of the French Garden. One man, one woman and two children, a boy and a girl. The man was throwing a football with his son, enjoying the springtime weather. The woman was braiding her daughter’s hair.
“Joel Ginsberg.” Billy said.
“Huh?” Wade replied, brought back from his concentration through the scope.
“Joel Ginsberg. You asked who the target was. That’s his name.” Billy answered. “He’s the Consigliere of the Costa family, but he ratted them out to the feds, and now Bruno’s taking him out.”
Wade re-aquired his target through the scope and began another sweep of the surrounding area, casually swiveling the rifle on the tripod, glancing at individual landmarks within the Italian Garden. He then moved his view to the French Garden, focusing on Untermeyer Fountain. He looked at the fountain’s three laughing maidens holding hands while dancing, each one clad in a sheer dress clinging to her body as if they were being sprayed by droplets of water from the fountain itself, or from a sudden spring shower overhead. Their bronze bodies and smiles of joy offered a sense of peace and tranquility that belied the act of violence that was soon to happen. He noticed a couple sitting on another park bench, holding hands and kissing underneath the warmth of the noonday sun. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his surroundings. Breathing deeply, he could smell the sweet scent of the Himalayan Blackberry blooms. He could hear the sounds of children playing in the grass less than 50 yards away. He visualized his earlier trek to this spot, crossing the Willis Avenue Bridge, passing Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard and moving through East Harlem. He remembered the weight of the specialty case carrying the M40A3 as he turned right on 116th Street strolling toward the park, and then turning left onto Lenox Avenue which would lead him into the park. He also recalled seeing a monument for Nutter’s Battery and hearing his stomach growl, asking for a Nutter Butter Cracker. A few tacos after this job would have to do. Finally, he opened his eyes and moved his sight from the fountain back to the target, Joel Ginsberg. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, relaxing his body for the possibility of taking the shot.
Wade was not used to being in this position without authorization for the kill. Just two years prior, he had been a sniper in the southern region of Vietnam outside of Tay Ninh with orders to kill anyone in a Vietcong uniform. There he was a complete badass with 123 confirmed kills under his belt. Here he was just another hired gun, broke and in New York City, waiting on orders from some two-bit goombahs who had a vendetta against their Jewish lawyer. He was not ashamed of his current position, but had a general distaste for the Costa family’s insistence on revenge for a perceived slight against them. There really was no damning evidence of Ginsberg talking to the FBI. The increased surveillance could have resulted from any number of things. In fact, nothing concrete pointed to his collusion with the authorities whatsoever. Billy himself had told Wade that this hit was based on pure conjecture and scurrilous information gathered from various sources who were tenuous in character at best. The rumbling in Wade’s belly reminded him of the real reason he was here, and he refocused his attention to the task at hand.
Frank had decided to take the day off and have a picnic with his family. He had walked his wife Maria, with his son and daughter from Central Park North, around Harlem Meer, past the Lasker Ice Rink and had settled on a spot in the Conservatory French Garden, just south of Untermyer Fountain. Since retiring from the United States Marine Corps 18 months ago, Frank had been working nonstop at reassimilating to civilian life with little success. He was obsessed with working out and training, convinced that if he lost his combat proficiency he would somehow become an obscure version of his true self, a weak man unable to adequately care for and protect his family. He often woke up in the early hours of the morning, haunted by dreams taunting him with the visions of the people he had killed, nameless faces retracting from his mind like wisps of smoke escaping from a campfire. Once he was awakened by these memories, sleep was impossible. He often found himself walking into his children’s rooms, sitting on their beds as they slept, trying to convince himself that he was a different person from that soldier who had mercilessly killed his country’s enemies. In Vietnam, it was easy to rationalize killing an enemy soldier. Kill or be killed had been drilled into his head since boot camp, and there was complete truth in that. The Vietcong would not have thought twice before putting a slug into his brain, he knew that. Sitting in the dark at night however, listening to the soft sound of his son’s breathing did little to convince him that he was merely doing his duty. The screams of men being shot down in combat would crowd his mind with the cacophony of death until the day he himself was laid to rest.
Billy elbowed Wade and pointed in the direction of the park bench where Joel had finished reading his paper and had gotten up to walk toward the Italian Garden’s lawn. Wade followed Joel’s movement and saw the entire scenario unfold with the clarity of a slow motion scene straight from an old James Cagney movie. Joel turned north toward the French Garden and made his way in between the rows of crabapple trees that separated the gardens themselves. As he did, he noticed three men in black suits approaching him. It took several minutes for him to recognize the man in the middle as Bruno Costa. Joel knew Bruno to be the one who took care of the family’s ‘dirty’ business and immediately recognized that something was not right. Realization shot into Joel’s brain and a white-hot spear of dread pierced his gut. He looked to his right and left for a means of escape while the feeling of certainty invaded his body like a lead weight placed on his chest. Before he could act on his suspicion and run, Bruno’s two thugs had lunged forward and grabbed him by each arm. Struggling against the grip of the two men, he addressed Bruno directly.
“What’s going on, Bruno?” he asked.
“Come on, counselor, we know you talked to the feds.” Bruno answered.
“What? I would never rat you out! I’ve worked for your father for 15 years! He’s my family! You’re my family!” Joel pleaded, but he could see from the look on Bruno’s face that the decision had been made.
Bruno brought the rope that he had been holding behind his back and threw it over a thick branch of the nearest crabapple tree. One end had been tied into a loop, and he threw this over the head of Joel Ginsberg, tightening it until the veins in Joel’s neck began to bulge from the pressure. He threw the other end to his men who immediately began to back away, eliminating the slack in the rope until Joel had to stand on his toes to remain on the ground.
Before he could protest further, Joel heard Bruno say “Come on boys, let’s get this finished. I’m hungry.” He felt the rope squeeze into the flesh of his neck as Bruno’s men stepped away, pulling him from the ground. His breath caught as he felt the entire weight of his body being suspended from the ground. His hands flew up to the rope as he desperately clawed at it, knowing that he could not loosen it even as he tried in vain to break free from its deadly grasp. His lungs began to burn as he kicked at the air, his eyes bulging from their sockets while the oxygen slowly drained from his brain. He heard himself gurgling with a last futile attempt to cling to life and then his body began to twitch and go limp, his last thought being of the ironic beauty of the pink and white blossoms that surrounded him in the birth of springtime as he succumbed to the blackness of death.
Frank was playing catch with his son, and his wife and daughter had begun to place the lunch on their quilt. He had just thrown the football to his son when he glanced up the hill behind him and saw a strange erratic movement under the trees that triggered a distant memory in his mind of an old civil rights movie he had seen in college. As he realized that he was witnessing a man being hanged, he began to walk calmly toward his son while focusing his sight on his wife and daughter.
“Let’s go, right now.” He said, hearing the calmness in his voice as he held the panic he felt at bay. They both began to move toward the picnic spread that Maria had laid out when Frank saw one of the men look up and make eye contact with him. He began to move more quickly and saw the three men in suits walking calmly from the path across the grass towards them. Up on the hilltop, Wade watched the scene unfold, tracking Bruno and his accomplice’s path. The three of them were walking directly toward the man and his family. Wade saw Bruno’s men reach into the breasts of their suits and pull out a handgun, each fit with a silencer. Wade was following the three men in his scope and saw one of the men break off and walk towards the man’s wife and daughter. “Hey man, what’s he doing?” Wade asked suddenly. Billy focused his own binoculars on the scene down the hill. “He’s sending a message. The Costa Family leaves no witnesses, even women and children.” As Wade watched the scene unfold, he turned his scope back to the father, seeing him focus on the man walking toward his wife and daughter. Frank’s mind immediately registered that the shiny object in the man’s hand was a gun. He began to run towards his wife but was only rewarded with the flash of the muzzle that sent the projectile through her ribcage and into her heart. As her body was crumpling to the earth, he focused on his daughter only to see her catapulted backward as the next slug tore through her forehead, throwing her body onto the grass in a lifeless heap, killed instantly.
Frank turned back to his son when the feeling of fire shot through his right shoulder, directly underneath his clavicle and violently pitched his body forward with his face landing in the dirt. He heard his son yell for him, his voice interrupted by another gunshot and then absolute silence. By this time, terrified screams from onlookers at the park began to mix and reverberate throughout the air. The man who had shot Frank the first time, walked up and shot him twice more in the back. Bruno leaned down and took the wallet out of Frank’s back pocket. He pocketed the twenty that was in it and pulled out the man’s driver’s license.
“Francis Castiglione” he said. “I almost hate killing a fellow paisan, but you shouldn’t have been here. Salud.” The three of them then turned away, slipped the handguns back in their jacket holsters and quickly walked in separate directions. This entire scene had unfolded in less than two minutes and Wade Wilson had seen it all.
“I’m not OK with this, Billy” Wade protested.
“It’s too late now anyway, Wade. Besides, you’re on the payroll. That’s 50 g’s for doin’ nuttin”.
”No women, no kids. That was part of my deal. And now it’s been broken. I don’t like broken deals, Billy.”
“Hey, you didn’t kill nobody. What’s the big deal?” Billy asked.
“I do things one way, and that’s MY way. You understand? I said no women and no children.” Wade was stripping his weapon quickly and loading it into its case, looking around as he did so. Not for onlookers, but for other members of the family, possibly a clean-up crew. “I’m out, Billy. This isn’t what I signed up for and I’m done. Leaving, skating, whatever I have to do to get the hell away from this mess. See you later, but probably not.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa there partner.” Billy said. “No one leaves before he sees the old man.”
Wade turned to look at Billy and found that he was staring down the barrel of Billy’s Matte Black Glock 29, 10mm pistol.
“Come on now Billy, you don’t want to do this.”Wade warned him.
“Yes, I think I do. In fact, in a couple hours time, you’ll be reading about a NEW hitman that works for the Costa Family who is ex-military and happens to be a hell of a shot with an M40A3 sniper rifle. The slugs won’t quite fit, but by then, who really cares? Of course, you’ll be reading about it out at Rikers!” Billy laughed. But then he looked into the eyes of Wade Wilson. There was no pleading in those eyes. There was no running away in those eyes. There was no fear in those eyes. There was nothing. They were as black as a shark’s eyes with no emotion, only blind and deadly determination. Wade shot his right hand up the outside of Billy’s gun in a Gendai Aikido disarming move, wrapping his fingers around the outside of the wrist and bending the hand so the barrel pointed away. This also loosened Billy’s grip on the gun enough for Wade to slip it out of his hand. As he did this, he pulled down with the Glock and swung it in a wide arc finally bringing it crashing into Billy’s nose, instantly breaking it while stepping in and swiveling his hips to create enough force that his elbow strike to Billy’s right temple rendered him unconscious. Wade quickly stripped the Glock and dropped all the pieces onto the chest of Billy’s prone body. He then picked up his case and walked away, down 105th Street where he caught a cab on Columbus Avenue. As far as he was concerned, this was over. He was still broke, but there were plenty of others willing to pay for a little wet work. He would go home, have some tacos and cast another line in the morning.
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