Ten Days Ago

Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime, sat at his desk, in the dark. A blindfold covered his eyes, shielding them from the light and stares of those around him. He sat with his palms by his side, steadily breathing in, breathing out.

Millions of thoughts flooded his mind, and he calmly pushed them aside in favor of one: Daredevil. He could still see the bastard blinding him, clear as day. He really hadn't had time to adjust to his new situation, and gave his respect to the man who had to deal with this for his entire life.

'How fitting,' he thought as his hands moved up towards the desk. 'Now my enemy and I share a common bond.' How very melodramatic, indeed, and he laughed. He exhaled and forced himself to breathe slowly, rhythmically, to let his other senses adjust to the world around him.

The first thing he noticed was an insatiable buzzing in his ears. That quickly faded, replaced by the sound of footsteps, gradually becoming louder and louder, then softer and softer. His tongue began to dry, as did his throat. He started to smell the faint scent of cologne, no doubt that of one of his associates during the meeting they had earlier today. He smiled. Very good, he told himself.

He was startled by the sudden ringing of the phone. He shook the feeling off, then groped around his desk for it. He laid his massive hand over the receiver, and picked up. "What?"

"Fisk, hey! How are ya?"

The voiced sounded all too familiar. "Silke?" he growled. "What are you doing?"

"Hey, hey, hey. Don't get all catty with me, all right? I just called to see how you were doing."

Fisk leaned against his desk and rubbed his forehead. "What do you want?"

A brief pause - Fisk heard Silke take a breath - and then, "First things first. I want to tell you a story."

"I don't have time for-"

"Oh, it'll be quick. Trust me."

Fisk leaned against the back of his chair. "You have one minute."

He heard Silke clear his throat. "Okay. So, how much do you know about World War Two?"

"I am quite familiar with the subject. You waste my time."

"Patience, baby, patience. Anyway, you know about the guy that started that shit, Adolf what's-his-name, right?"

"Hitler. Adolf Hitler." Fisk leaned forward. "Your minute is up."

"Geez, hold your horses, okay? So, you know that not everybody liked him, right? I mean, he had some...dissenters in the ranks, if you catch my drift."

Fisk sat in silence for an instant. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that life imitates art, or something like that. Anyway, there was a fifth column of Nazis - his own men, mind you - that wanted to take him out. And so, they hatched a plot to get rid of him."

A laugh came from over the phone. "He really was nothing but an idiot. A fat, bloated entity that sucked the life out of everyone around him and refused to make any really vital decisions. Especially when he had important information about the enemy. So you know what they decided to do?"

A brief pause, followed by a moment of panic. "They built a bomb."

"Right-o! From what I can remember, they placed it in a very secure place, while he wasn't looking." Something dawned on Fisk, and his free hand slid under the desk as Silke talked, trying to find...he wasn't sure of what he was going to find, really. "Of course, it would've been easier if Hitler was blind, y'know."

Fisk first felt under the left side. Nothing. Then he moved over to the right. "But Hitler survived the attempt, and thus sealed the fate of all those involved."

He heard Silke take another breath. "Yeah, but here's the thing. The guys who put that bomb there didn't take into account any chance movements on his part, which ultimately saved his life. Moving to the right, or to the left, I forget. Just sheer millimeters out of the way."

Fisk's hand hit a square block attached to the underside of his desk. It had a plastic feel to it. His heart skipped several beats, and he attempted to jump up out of his chair. "Damnit!" he yelled, trying to get his bulk out of the way.

"Me?" Silke's voice floated out of the dropped receiver. "I just decided to use more of it. The bigger bang, y'know? So, bang!" he said, a split second before the bomb underneath Wilson Fisk's desk detonated.

Special Agent Derrick Wardell sat at his desk, face down, fast asleep. Watching Wilson Fisk's organization for the last couple of long and frustrating months bored Derrick out of his mind. 'Fuck,' he thought while trying to catch up on some sleep. 'If the FBI wants Fisk so much, let some other schmuck take the case.'

Derrick thought about his transfer to New York, and out of Violent Crimes, into Organized Crime. Back in Los Angeles, Derrick worked a gang task force, and liked the thrill of chasing down wannabe gangsters popping each other on the mean streets. When he learned of his impending transfer to NYC, Derrick thought that he'd finally hit the big time. "Yeah, boy!" he boasted, parading around his fellow agents. "I'm gonna be chasing down REAL gangsters, not these California wannabes."

If only his Cali buddies could see him now. Instead of landing onto the Gambino squad, like he expected, he somehow drew the Fisk case, which everyone in the New York office treated like leprosy. And once Derrick started working the case, he knew why.

"This guy's untouchable," Derrick's predecessor told him, obviously glad about leaving. "You know he's dirty, I know he's dirty. Shit, even the fucking mayor knows he's dirty. But in the eyes of the law, he's an angel, and as long as he keeps his nose clean, donating to charitable organizations, it'll stay that way. Good luck," the agent said. And not two seconds after Derrick got to work did he hear laughter from the departing agent.

Derrick later found out that the agent was right, as his investigations ran into a brick wall. Nobody wanted to talk about Fisk. At least, no one that mattered. And those that did either recanted their tales or simply disappeared. And the highest guy on the Fisk food chain that Derrick could put away was an enforcer for a sub-lieutenant for one of Fisk's underbosses. Pretty fucking low on said chain, really one step away from the bottom. And for a parking violation, of all things.

And that's after six months of work. A year later, and the Fisk squad steadily brought the office's average down. The Gambino squad managed an arrest roughly every ten days, and the Hammerhead squad every two weeks. The Fisk squad managed ONE arrest in an entire year. So yeah, he could see how right his predecessor was.

"The Fisk squad." Derrick laughed at that when he actually thought about it. When Derrick first got on the case, eight agents worked on trying to take Wilson Fisk down. A year later, the squad shrank to Derrick and one other agent, a rookie named Fred Barnes or Burns or something. The more 'profitable' squads gained the six other agents, and because FBI doctrine mandated that a squad contain at least two agents...

And so Derrick usually spent his days either sleeping face-down on his desk or dreaming about walking into Fisk's penthouse and shooting him in the head. His boss and head of the OC office, Supervisory Special Agent Mark Carey, stopped yelling at him and Fred after a while. Wasn't much point to it. No matter what they did, they just couldn't get the results that either Carey or the FBI wanted. So SSA Carey vented his anger on other squads, leaving Derrick and Fred alone in their misery.

That is, until Derrick's phone rang one day. "Fred, pick up," he said without lifting his head. The phone rang again. "Fred, pick up." The phone rang again, and Derrick sighed. "Goddamnit." Without moving his head, grabbed the phone. "Wardell. Yeah. Yeah. Why not." Then he lifted his head. "What?" Then he sat up straight. "You're bullshittin' me. When?" He looked at his watch. "Oh God, yes! Stay there! I'm coming!"

Derrick slammed the phone down, jumped up, and rooted around in his desk for his gun. He took a while, because he hadn't needed it in weeks. Carey, working with another squad, noticed this and came over. "What's up, Derrick? Goin' out for Chinese?"

Derrick smiled, the first time in so very long. "Nope. I got a hot tip. The penthouse at the Pendleton Arms blew up."

"Pendleton Arms? Fisk's place?"

"Yeah. My tipster said that Fisk was in the penthouse when it went sky high." He smiled as he headed out the door. "I think the Kingpin's dead."

Eight Days Ago

The underworld exploded at the Kingpin's departure from the crime scene. After the attack on his penthouse at the Pendleton Arms, Wilson Fisk went incommunicado, and the rumor mill started grinding. Some believed that Fisk had finally gotten his just rewards, while others believed that Fisk was still alive and about to strike back at whoever dared to oppose him.

Only a few knew the truth: That Wilson Fisk WAS in the penthouse, but somehow got to cover at the last second, and the bomb failed to kill him. It did, however, put him in a coma, and he was shipped off to parts unknown. Only the loyalists that recovered Fisk, led by his estranged wife, Vanessa, knew the truth.

In less than a week, Silke and his crew asserted their dominance, taking over Fisk's territory and criminal enterprises. He called a meeting of all the heads of the other families one night, and everyone attended, fearing that to do otherwise would call Silke's wrath upon them. After all, this new guy came out of nowhere and did something that everyone else had been trying to do for years. Why should they bother fucking with him?

Silke walked into the room and looked at everyone. "Evenin'," he said by way of introduction. "Now, just here to say that I'm going to impose a new order. Wilson Fisk was weak, and a shithead. He knew the identity of his greatest adversary, and yet he did NOTHING about it. Nothing. Why? Why did he do it? Or rather, why didn't he do anything about it?

"So, he had to go. He was holding back the entire community, and, well..." Silke flashed a smile so sickening it should've been trademarked. "You see what happened."

Silke began pacing around the room. "So, I'm going to say this once, and only once. I am the new Kingpin, and unlike that fat fuck, I will take care of this Daredevil problem. And anyone who doesn't like the situation...," he waved a hand at the door.

No one moved, and Silke smiled. "Yeah. I didn't think so."

Six Days Ago

Silke woke up next to some girl named...Kate, was it? It didn't matter, he thought. He tapped her on the shoulder, getting horny at the sight of her naked body, but his cell phone ringing interrupted his mojo.

"Fuck," he said, picking it up. "What?"

"Boss!" One of his lieutenants. He sounded a bit frantic. "Boss! Oh, fuck!"

Silke sat up straight. "What? What the fuck's going on?"

"I dunno! I- shit!" Silke heard the distinct sound of gunfire over the phone, then the sound of metal being punctured. "Jimmy!" he yelled. "What's going on? Jimmy!"

After a moment, Jimmy came back onto the phone. "Boss..." he said. He sounded really weak. "They...fuck."

"Who? Who, goddamnit?"

"Ugh...masked men...fuckers hit us out of nowhere...said...'For Fisk...'" Then Silke heard boots crunching on glass, and then he heard, "Sammy Silke?" A completely different voice. Much more baritone, much more menacing.

Silke swallowed. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Don't worry, Mister Silke. You're next. And remember, it's lonely at the top." Click. The phone call ended.

Silke threw the phone onto the floor and stared at it. He stared at the girl, naked and passed out. Fuck this, he thought. I gotta get the fuck outta here.

He stood up and started dressing himself. He grabbed all his stuff, then as an afterthought, grabbed his phone. "Might need this," he said before leaving.

Two Days Ago

Special Agent Wardell's phone rang.

For the first time in a long while, Derrick threw himself into work, poring over hundreds of reports detailing the underworld shakeup after Fisk's death. While he worked the files, he had Fred out busy at every hospital in the city, trying to find Fisk's corpse. Really the one thing that held Derrick's case back, but he didn't let that one stop him. After months of dicking around, Derrick finally felt useful. And even if he couldn't take Fisk down, at least he'd figure out what happened. "And maybe congratulate the guy that killed him," Derrick joked.

So Derrick really didn't notice his phone ringing until an agent passing by tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to it. "Thanks," he said, picking it up. "Wardell."

"Special Agent Wardell?" the voice said.

Derrick sighed. He almost said, "No, this is Boo Boo the Bear. Who the fuck do you think this is?" But he took a breath and said, "Yeah. What do you want?"

"This is...who this is is unimportant. But I have something for you."

Derrick rubbed his head. "Listen, I don't have time for this. If you want to be cryptic, then take it somewhere else."

He almost hung up the phone when he heard, "Okay, okay, okay. Fine. Alright. But before I say anything, I gotta know that I'm gonna get some help. I'm a wanted man out here."

"Fine. Now, who are you, and why should I care?"

Derrick's heart skipped a beat when he heard, "Alright. I'm Sammy Silke, and I took down the Kingpin. And now I've been targeted."

Derrick took a breath, leaned back, and started playing with a pen. "Yeah, right. Y'know how many people I get claiming to have killed the Kingpin?"

"Yeah, but I have detailed knowledge about him, because I planned everything." Silke then recounted his tale, and Derrick compared it to the reports in front of him. With a few exceptions, it matched what he read word for word.

Derrick leaned back and rubbed his head. "Okay, so what do you want me to do? What can I do?"

"I need witness protection, because I'm a dead man out here. And in return...uh, I can give you names."

"Names of who? Your men? Fisk's men? Sorry, don't need 'em, don't want 'em."

"Okay, then how about the Daredevil?"

Derrick nearly jumped out of his seat. "W-who?" He cleared his throat. "Who the hell is that?"

He could've sworn he heard Silke smile over the phone. "Yeah, I thought so. You want him, huh?"

'Goddamn right,' Derrick thought. Ever since he drew the Fisk case, he'd also been working closely with the vigilante squad, and focused on hunting down a particular vigilante named Daredevil that'd been plaguing Fisk for years. He appreciated the vigilante's efforts, but a vigilante's a vigilante, and therefore the man broke the laws of this great country of ours. Derrick snorted at that. Laws. Fuck. "Okay, so give me a name."

Silke laughed. "Yeah, right. I tell you, and then you hang me out to dry. No, I want you to meet me, then take me to a safehouse or something. THEN, I'll give you a name."

"Fine. Meet me at Finorelli's in thirty. Y'know where it is, right?"

"Yeah. Be there, or..." Click.

Derrick got up and grabbed his gun, this time within easy reach. "Yeah, I'll be there." He opened his cell phone and dialed a number. "Fred? Derrick. Meet me at Finorelli's in twenty. Yeah, forget about the body for right now. I might have something that could blow this shit wide open."

He paused for a second, then, "No, Fred, don't stop for fucking Chinese food. Shit, eat AFTER we've done this." He hung up. "Fucking rookies."

Now

Leland Owlsley, the Owl, sipped his tea as he watched the Daredevil make short work of his bodyguards. He sighed as the Daredevil threw one of his men through a table, breaking it in half. I really must get better help, he thought. He put on a smile when the Daredevil approached. "So, Mister Devil, or should I say Dare? How may I help you today?"

The Daredevil just stared at him for a minute, breathing lightly, then said, "You know what I want."

Owlsley finished his tea and set the empty cup on a saucer. He then templed his hands in front of his face. "Yes. And what do I get for it?"

The Daredevil reached out and cleared everything from his desk with a swipe, then leaned over and moved his face to within a breath of Owlsley. "You get to stay out of jail, limbs intact."

"Don't you mean 'wings' intact?" Owlsley smirked at his own joke, but stopped when the Daredevil grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. "Ow! Okay, okay!" The Daredevil released him, and Owlsley smoothed himself out. "Sheesh. Don't you know that violence will never solve anything?"

He walked back over to his desk, carefully stepping over his knocked-over articles, and sat down, under the Daredevil's watchful eyes. He again steepled his hands and regarded the red-garbed vigilante. "Okay, so what do you want me to do?"

"I need a name."

"Hmm." Owlsley leaned back and stared at the ceiling. "How about...Mar-co Po-lo." He began laughing, but stopped and raised his hands in a futile attempt to protect himself when the Daredevil surged forward, murder in his eyes. "Alright! Alright! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I-" The Daredevil grabbed him and lifted him into the air. Owlsley stared down into the Daredevil's shadowed face, and cracked a smile. "I really am sorry. I couldn't resist."

Suddenly, the Daredevil hurled Owlsley against a wall. "Argh!" Owlsley said, attempting to pick himself up. But the Daredevil jumped on him, and started punching and kicking him. Owlsley tried to roll with the punches, but more than a few got in and started breaking some valuable equipment. A right cross broke some of Owlsley's teeth. A left hook broke his nose. A couple of jabs softened up his chin, which an uppercut broke.

Owlsley laid in a corner, chest heaving, struggling to breathe. "You...bastard," he said, spitting up blood. He wiped his nose, and the Daredevil smiled. Owlsley felt no more than the common street thug that he really was, and intensely hated the Daredevil for it. "I'll kill you," Owlsley said, but made no move.

The Daredevil started walking toward him, billy clubs in hand, and Owlsley started backing up against the wall. "What's wrong, Owl? I thought you said that you would kill me?"

Owlsley stared up at the Daredevil with fury and hatred, a glint of murder in his eye, then turned his face down and closed his eyes. He spat up blood again, then mumbled something.

The Daredevil leaned down and grabbed Owlsley's hair. "What?"

"Ow!" Owlsley gritted his teeth, his breathing harsh. "Silke."

The Daredevil released his hair. "Who?"

"Sammy Silke," Owlsley said in a whisper. "He's the one you want. He orchestrated the attack on the Kingpin."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know where he is right now. Last time I heard anything, he was staying somewhere in the Lower East Side." He opened an eye and looked up at the Daredevil. "Why do you care, anyway? He did you a favor, didn't he?"

The Daredevil walked over to the door. "I have my reasons." He exited, and Owlsley slammed his fist onto the floor.

"Motherfucker! I'll fucking kill you next time!" He then laid his head down on the floor. He suddenly felt very sleepy. "Motherfucker...I'll kill you tomorrow..."

Matt paused outside the door, took a breath, then walked up the stairs to the roof. On the way, he knocked out several of the Owl's hired goons waking up from their previous beating. On the roof, he took a second and listened to the sounds of the city: The cars passing underneath, the couple having the argument in the apartment complex over, the bum peeing in an alley. 'Well, Murdock,' he thought. 'What's next?'

He knew that Silke knew his true identity. That in itself wasn't unusual. A lot of villains often knew the true identity of their adversaries. Silke frightened Matt because Silke didn't appear to have any honor, and would probably rat Matt out just to save his own skin. He chuckled, often a natural reaction to fear. "At least with Fisk I knew where I stood. This guy, Silke..."

Matt readied his billy clubs and jumped out into the city. He started leaping across rooftops, headed uptown to the Lower East Side. He didn't know what he was going to do to Sammy Silke when he got there, but-

Matt swung onto a building and stopped. He angled his head down, and realized where he was. FBI New York headquarters. He heard two men walking toward a Chevy Blazer, one man talking into his cell phone. Matt's superhuman ears picked up every word. "Fred, yeah, yeah. I'm going to get Silke now, and we're going to go to the safehouse in Staten tonight. Bring Frank and Brian along with you. I'm taking Alex. They're going to guard him. All right."

The man ended his phone call, and they both got inside the Blazer. The cell phone man said something as the engine revved, and while it was drowned out a bit, it sounded like, "Sammy Silke, you're gonna make my career."

Matt locked onto the Blazer with his 'radar' as it drove down the street. Going to pick up Silke, huh? Matt smiled. This could be interesting.