Two men in black suits entered the house first, handguns in their holsters, but ready to pull if needed. They cleared the house quickly, ready to respond to any signs of disturbance. Finding nothing, they returned to the front of the house and waved the others in. "Okay," one of the agents said. "House's clear."

Special Agent Derrick Wardell led the way into the house, followed by Sammy Silke and Special Agent Fred Byrnes, carrying Silke's luggage. Fred set the luggage on the ground, nodded at Derrick, and departed, and the other two took their places against the walls.

Derrick looked at Silke. "Okay, so here's your new home for a little while, at least until we put you into protective custody. The paperwork's going to take a while, probably a couple of days. In the meantime, you're gonna crash here."

Silke looked around the house and smiled. A two-story affair. Five bedrooms, four bathrooms, an office, jacuzzi, a real nice joint. "Nice," he said, "And expensive. How much?"

Now Derrick smiled. "It didn't cost the Bureau a thing. This was confiscated from a drug dealer some time back. Since then, we've been stashing witnesses here. It's perfect. None of those gangsters would ever think about looking in Staten Island for 'em." He chuckled and shook his head. "Hidin' right under their noses."

"Yeah, whatever." Silke wandered around the room. "So, what's the ground rules?"

"First of all, no leaving the house for any reason whatsoever. If you leave, I have authorized these two agents here-" he pointed at Special Agents Frank and Brian standing at the walls. "To put a round in your ass." This elicited a smile from the agents. "On the grounds that you were attempting to flee federal custody.

"Second, absolutely no outside communication. This is a safehouse. No one is to know that you are here. It's not so much that we don't want you to be compromised. We don't, but the real reason is to ensure that this safehouse REMAINS a safehouse.

"Third, you are to follow any and all directions given by these two agents without hesitation. Failure to do so will result in two in the chest and one in the head, if you catch my drift."

Silke snorted and stared Derrick down. "What's with all the threats? Two in the head and one in the chest? I'm trying to help YOU out."

Derrick blinked. "Because, Sammy. You're still a criminal, with a murder and racketeering charge pending if you fuck up. So." He dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand.

Silke grunted. "Anything else? Here, my ass itches. Can I scratch it, or should I ask permission from Jekyll and Hyde over there first?"

"Don't get smart. Well, I'll be leaving you now, and I'll be checking up on you from time to time. In about a day or so, we should be moving you. So, until then, keep out of trouble." He started for the door, and then stopped and whirled around. "Oh, yeah. One more thing. The Daredevil?"

"Huh?"

"His name, jackass. What is it?"

Silke smiled. "Yeah, right. I want in protective custody, nothing less. I give it to you right now, you're gonna throw my ass out on the street. I know you feds. You're all the same."

Derrick narrowed his eyes. "What? We wouldn't do that. Why would we do that?"

Silke narrowed HIS eyes. "Because I'm still a CRIMINAL, remember?"

Derrick said nothing, but stormed out the door and slammed it. Silke snorted and he grabbed his bags and started upstairs. Agent Frank followed closely, and Silke turned around when he saw him. "Hey, back up off me," he spat.

The agent backed up, and Silke smiled. Still got it, he thought.

Outside, Derrick waved at Agent Alex sitting inside a Chevy Blazer and got inside a waiting car. Fred sat behind the wheel, and when Derrick got in, Fred asked, "So, did he bite?"

Derrick shook his head. "Nope. Asshole won't give up the name until he's in the program." He looked back at the stately manor house. "Smart son of a bitch, he is."

Fred put the car in drive and started back toward Manhattan. "It was a good idea, anyway, sir." He looked at Derrick, staring forlornly out the window. "Don't worry, sir. We'll get him."

"Yeah," Derrick agreed. But his mind wasn't on Silke. Rather, it was on the Daredevil. Derrick really didn't want to put the guy away. He'd heard that he'd been doing good over in the Kitchen, and basically made his job easier by taking down the Kingpin. But orders were orders, and last time he looked, vigilantism was still a crime.

He sighed. "Y'know, Fred. It's gonna be one of those days."

"I know, sir," Fred replied. And as they drove over the Verrazano-Narrows, back towards Manhattan, they couldn't have realized just how wrong they would be.

Not twenty-four hours later, under the cover of night, two black Suburbans sped back over the Verrazano-Narrows, running swift, smooth, and silent. Eight men rode in the Suburbans, four to a vehicle, and each was decked out the same way: Black jumpsuits, ski masks, and most importantly, silenced MP5s and backup handguns in drop-leg holsters.

The convoy rode in silence on the way to the manor, each man deep in thought. They were about to complete their vendetta against the man that almost killed their boss. They knew he would live - in a manner of speaking - but this would be a matter of honor, more than anything else.

Most of the men, save for the drivers, tried to keep their minds on the mission at hand. Dwelling on anything else - family, friends, material possessions - would possibly jeopardize their performance, and might get one of them killed. That was the last thing that anyone wanted.

One of the men, the ringleader 'Bolo', didn't think about the matter before them. Rather, his mind dwelt on the meeting he had earlier that day with...HIM. His eyes closed in deep thought, with a SPAS-12 shotgun between his knees, Bolo smiled. He would have never thought in a million years that he'd be working with HIM.

It was almost sacrilegious. After all of the shit that they went through with Silke siphoning off some of Fisk's men against him, this new development nearly blew his mind. First, he had to deal with killing some of his friends, guys he'd known for damn near decades, all because they jumped ship. Then, he almost witnessed his boss getting killed. And now, working with HIM.

Bolo took a deep breath, and looked out the windshield. He could see Staten Island coming into view. Ever since Fisk went down, and his family split, Bolo'd had to take the reins of the street operations. And since then, he's made it his mission to take down that self-righteous fuck who decided that he could up and do shit about things. He smiled.

And tonight, it would all come to a head.

The Suburbans arrived on the outskirts of the manor house, on the edge of the surrounding forest. "Okay, we're here," Bolo said into a secure two-way radio. "Mount up and meet at the lead car." He then racked his shotgun, and the other three men cocked their own guns, and all eight of them met at the front of the lead Suburban.

Bolo looked at the others. "Okay. You all know the plan, I don't need to make any fucking speeches and shit. This ends TONIGHT," he said, pulling the ski mask over his head. He hefted his shotgun. "And remember: Silke belongs to me. Move out."

He started stalking toward the house, and the others followed. On the way, one of the men broke off from the group and headed towards the front of the house, towards the Chevy Blazer parked in front of the house.

As he neared, he turned his radio off and pulled out an eight-inch serrated knife. He stopped, knelt down, and studied the Blazer for a second. He saw the driver leaning back in his seat, snoring soundly. The man smiled, and he moved forward to make the agent's sleep more permanent.

Upstairs, Agents Frank and Brian played a card game while Silke sat in front of a T.V. Agent Frank threw down his hand much to the delight of the other. "Fuckin' hand." He ran a hand through his hair. "You're cheatin' me, man. I see you dealing from the bottom of the deck."

"Take your ass whuppin' like a man," Brian smiled as he scooped up his winnings. Frank stood up, stretched, and looked over at Silke, staring mindlessly at the T.V. "Hey, Silke!"

Silke snapped out of his trance. "Did you hear that?"

The agent listened for a second, then shook his head. "I don't hear nothin'."

Silke straightened up. "It's loud as hell, I tell ya. Downstairs. Sounds like someone stompin' around. I hear it."

"Aw, you're just gettin' cabin fever, ya punk." He turned on his walkie talkie. "Hey, Alex, you awake?"

A beat, and then, "Yeah, I'm good."

"You see anything out there?"

"Nope. All good down here."

"Thanks," Frank said before shrugging. "See? Nothing to worry about."

"Yeah, but I'd still feel better if one of you went and checked it out."

The agent crossed his arms and stared Silke down. "Look here. I don't give a fuck what you say, and I don't give a fuck what you hear. NOBODY knows about this place, not even everyone in the Bureau. This is a SAFEHOUSE, and I can guarantee you that this place is as safe as they come."

A second later, they heard an explosion downstairs.

Back in Manhattan, Derrick sat at his desk, staring blankly at paperwork. He was the last one in the office, after Fred left for a "hot date" with his bed. "Whatever that means," Derrick said as he turned his attention to the files. It turned out that he really didn't have much of a reason to do so. He already had the guy that offed the Kingpin (even though they STILL didn't find the body), and was about to crack the Daredevil case wide open.

The Daredevil case. Always that damn Daredevil case.

Derrick stood up and stretched. This guy Silke could make my career. Two birds with one stone. Derrick chuckled. He would be known as the guy who took down both Fisk AND the Daredevil. "Man, if only I could stop a serial killer or a bank robber at the same time, I'd be set for life."

He put his files away and grabbed his coat and left the office, on the way to the parking lot. He spotted his blue Ford Mustang sitting alone in the lot. He walked over and put the key into the door, but just stood there, staring at it, but not really staring at it. Rather, in the blue finish of the roof, he saw Silke's face.

He shook his head. "Stop it, Wardell. Nothing is going to happen to him. He's going to be fine, and you're going to go into the stratosphere. Your career has nowhere to go but up. So stop it, asshole."

He sighed, then got in his Mustang and started for the bottom. As he drove down the ramp, something tickled him in the back of his mind. He kept hearing a voice saying, "You REALLY believe that, don't you?" He reached the street, and normally would have made a right turn to head home.

But he just sat there in his idling car. Thinking.

A second later, he slammed a hand against the steering wheel, and turned the car left. "Goddamnit."

"I told you! I told you! They're trying to kill me!" Silke yelled he ran with Agent Brian covering him, firing back at the intruders. Agent Frank was a couple of steps behind, covering the pair from behind a partition overlooking the staircase. Frank looked down at the bottom floor and saw three men, dressed in all black, firing silenced guns up at them. He stopped firing and dropped out of sight to reload, and failed to see a gunman coming up the stairs behind him, holding a SPAS-12 shotgun.

Silke and Brian entered an open room, and the agent closed and locked the door. He turned to Silke and aimed his gun at him. "Okay," he said between breaths. "Who the fuck are they? Are they here to spring you?"

Silke, also out of breath, shrugged. "I don't know, man. They're fucking shooting at me, too!"

Brian listened at the door and heard the roar of a shotgun, followed by a scream. He paused, and instantly knew what had happened, and he dropped his head. "Fuck," he whispered. Silke looked back at him, then continued looking around the room. They were in a bedroom, with a massive bed with oak posts dominating it. A dresser stood over in the corner, and a door right next to it led to a bathroom. Silke looked back at the door. "Damn, I could use a smoke."

The agent laughed. "Me too." He listened, and the firing stopped. The agent snaked the door open, and saw four of the intruders down the hall. Two of them ran down another hall, and the other two started down their way. Brian opened the door even more and stuck his gun out, aimed, and fired.

The shots rang true, and one of the men went down, while the other ran for some cover to the side. "C'mon!" Brian motioned for Silke. "Let's get the hell outta here!" He fired a couple more shots down the hall, and followed Silke outside.

They ran to the other set of stairs, and Silke stopped at the top, staring down. Brian caught up to him, and gave him a look. "What? Why the fuck did you stop?"

Silke looked at the agent like he was an alien. "Fuck you, mister fed. YOU have the gun, man."

Agent Brian started down the staircase slowly, gun up and fully loaded, with Silke following closely. Uncomfortably closely. "Hey, man, back up off me," the agent said. They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Brian took off around the corner, looking for an exit.

He ran into a foot-long silencer aimed dead at his head.

Silke rounded the corner, and stopped as he saw one of the gunmen step over the agent's body. He aimed his MP5 at Silke while he spoke into a radio. "Mister White, this is Mister Green. I have the target, repeat, I have the target. Bodyguard is down hard."

Silke stared down at the bloody hole in the center of the agent's head. Bodyguard is down hard indeed. Silke took a breath, then rushed the gunman. The gunman fell against the wall, and Silke made his for a nearby glass door leading outside, his gateway to freedom.

But the gunman regained his legs and tackled Silke. They fell through the glass door, with the gunman landing on top of Silke, cracking a rib. Before Silke could react, the gunman drew his pistol, reversed it, and smashed it, butt-first, into the side of Silke's head.

Almost a hour and a half later, Derrick arrived at the manor house, swearing at the traffic on the way. Actually, he had to park some distance away, as the house was surrounded by police. "I'm an FBI agent, damnit! Let me through! This is FBI property!" he said before he was finally let through to survey the destruction.

A couple of EMTs were around the Chevy Blazer, zipping up a body bag. Derrick continued inside the house, and found local cops taking pictures of the two dead agents, one upstairs and one downstairs. In the center of the foyer were three cops talking among themselves. One of them, a lieutenant, by the looks of his uniform, walked over to Derrick. "You from the FBI?" he asked.

Derrick nodded. "Yeah. I- What happened?"

The lieutenant gestured at the chaos around him. "What does it look like, agent? Someone forced their way into the house and shot up the place." He sized Derrick up. "What is this place, by the way? Why are federal agents here?"

"I- I'm not allowed to disclose the function of this place." Aw, what the hell, Derrick thought. Can't use this place anymore, anyway. "Forget I said that. This is - WAS - an FBI safehouse. We used to stash witnesses and the like here. Guess it's all shot to hell, now."

The lieutenant grunted. "I guess so, agent. Were your boys guarding someone important?"

Derrick felt his chest tighten. "Yeah."

The lieutenant started walking upstairs. "Follow me." They walked up to a bedroom filled with detectives taking photos. The first thing that hit Derrick was the smell. Then Derrick saw it. Or rather, him.

Sammy Silke was tied to a chair, and his chest was exposed. Two electrodes hung from his nipples, attached to two copper wires. The area around his nipples was charred black. His face was bruised and bloody, and his ear was cut off. A playing card was stuck into his mouth. A knife, buried to the hilt, stuck out from the side of his neck.

The lieutenant dry heaved and excused himself. Derrick felt himself get sick. Not because of the smell, but because of the colossal goatfuck on his hands. His charge was dead, tortured ostensibly, and by "parties unknown." He dropped to his knees. "Parties unknown," he spat, his eyes welling up. "Oh, God. Oh, God."

His breathing started getting shallow. "What did I do to deserve this?"

Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan

A man sat in the darkness. He sat there, thinking about what he just did. He heard footsteps outside his room, but made no attempt to react. He knew exactly who it was.

The door opened, and Franklin "Foggy" Nelson entered the darkened room. He saw a redheaded man sitting on the bed, and the moonlight streaming in through the window illuminated his red costume. "Uh, Matt? Is that you? Are you okay?"

Matt Murdock sat on the bed, in his Daredevil costume. His hood laid next to him. He shook his head. "No, Foggy. I don't think so."

Foggy closed the door and leaned against it. "What happened?"

Matt grabbed the hood and felt the fabric between his fingers. He stared up at his best friend and partner with his blind, white eyes. "Foggy...I think I just fucked up."