NOTE: This takes place before the events of Daredevil #0

"Well you may throw your rock and hide your hand
Workin’ in the dark against your fellow man
But as sure as God made black and white
What's down in the dark will be brought to the light

You can run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Run on for a long time
Sooner or later God’ll cut you down
Sooner or later God’ll cut you down"
- Johnny Cash, ‘God’s Gonna Cut You Down’

Early Morning
Hell’s Kitchen

The high bar bowed as a weight constantly shifted, spinning and twisting around its middle then it bounced violently as the weight sprung free. Matthew flipped wildly in the air backwards before falling head first down to the low bar. His palms slammed onto the lower bar sending a vibration up his fully stretched arms – jarring his joints – but he held himself there straight for a full two minutes. He pulled in a deep breath as he tried to control his heartbeat, keeping it slow but a wave of nausea washed over him as the stinging scent of the Icy/Hot patch stuck on his neck wafted up his nose nearly forcing him to lose his grip.

Every morning Matt tried to squeeze in two hours of training in his personal gymnasium constructed in his brownstone. Many, including Foggy – and at times even Matt himself – forgot that his agility didn’t just happen supernaturally – even if his enhanced balance helped – but was conditioned over many hours of practice along with his extensive martial arts training. On those occasions Matt found himself slacking he’d pay for his negligence with knotted muscles in his back, sore legs and pain in places he never thought possible or even existed.

One thing Matt – no, Daredevil – could not afford to do was slip up.

Physical training wasn’t the only component to his training exercises. It simply wasn’t enough to perform acrobatics that could make gold-medal Olympians jealous, but his mind had to be strong to focus on the world around him without being overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stimuli generated by the environment he lived and fought in. An awful clashing of sound blared through hidden speakers immersing Matt in a hellish dissonance as Black Sabbath’s ‘War Pigs’, LL Cool J’s ‘Mama Said Knock You Out’, and Alice In Chain’s ‘Dam that River’ simultaneously blasted unmercifully in the gym.

He focused through the noise, pushed through two songs to hear only one. He pushed even farther than that to focus on just one bass, or drum beat, and he’d listen to that for a few seconds before cycling to another, then another all the while tracking movement and conversations outside. In fact, a cab pulled up to the front of his brownstone depositing his partner, Franklin Nelson, to the street.

Being constantly consciously aware of everything that was going on around him in a 360 degree radius, from the planes that flew miles above to a fly that annoyingly buzzed around mere yards away, would be enough to overwhelm a normal man and drive him to suicide for eternal, blessed silence – something that Matt had forbidden many years ago. Matt needed to ignore the world at times in order to focus on the more mundane and menial tasks like reading or holding a conversation with his partner.

Foggy walked into the darkened room; the only source of light was the skylight high above the floor. He had gotten used to Matt never having any lights on, so his eyes had to slowly adjust to the lack of light long enough for him to spy a light switch his partner kept in consideration of others who still needed normal sight to get around.

"You’re making me sweat just watching you."

Matthew threw himself off the uneven bars and landed as soft as a cat on the pads covering the floor. He grabbed a white towel off a rack on the wall and wiped the sweat on his face off. "Just gimme twenty minutes to shower and change." He tossed the towel and it sailed in the air then folded neatly in half as it came to a rest on the back of a chair.

Franklin jammed his hands into his pants pocket and sighed alone in the gym.

Nelson & Murdock
Later That Afternoon

Matthew sat alone in his office with his fingers flying, clacking away on the brail keyboard with practiced ease as he detailed the events in his mind over this morning’s court hearing. His current case was a relative slam-dunk. State officials did all of the investigative work for him and it was all in his favor. By tomorrow he expected the judge to issue the fine and end this dispute for all of the apartment residents once and for all.

Even as he concentrated on the computer and the XM radio in the background, his senses told him that his partner was coming long before he hit the lobby that separated their offices. The creaking of the floorboards told Matt that Foggy had gained about five pounds; he blamed the steak and cheese subs and the chocolate milkshakes as just part of the reason for his friend’s physical deterioration. Foggy wasn’t mentally in the best of places either.

Matthew pulled away from the keyboard and stretched his arms over his head. He had no idea how anybody could sit here for hours on end without being drawn to dementia over the endless clacking – clacking he was happy was relatively quiet even by his standards. His old keyboard had pounded in his ears like a tympani drum until Reed Richards, a long-time client of his, replaced it with this specially constructed one.

Foggy knocked twice on the door before opening it. "Matty, you in here?"

"Yeah, Foggy, come on in. I could use a break."

Foggy navigated into the large office and dropped into one of the two leather chairs positioned in front of Matthew’s desk. He sat there for a couple minutes in silence; Matthew waited patiently for his friend to speak, but when he felt he wasn’t Matt decided to break the ice first.

"Foggy, what is it?"

Franklin ran his hand through his shaggy light brown hair. "I dunno. I guess I’m just starting to feel a little guilty over something."

"I noticed," Matthew didn’t need to see the confused look on Foggy’s face to know it was there. "You put on about five pounds over the last week. I can smell the steak and cheese sub on your breath. You tend to eat when you feel anxious."

Foggy chuckled. "Did I? I wondered why my suit felt a little tighter," he said as he patted his stomach. "I thought it shrunk at the dry cleaners."

"You feel guilty about last night?"

Foggy’s cheeks flushed and his heart raced slightly faster. "Huh? Last night?"

Matthew smiled. "Foggy, you’re the worst liar I know. Even without my enhanced senses I could read you like a bright neon sign, and considering the flunkies I’ve come across in my time that says a lot." His partner squirmed and tugged at the knot in his tie.

"I don’t know what you mean."

Under his red lenses Matthew rolled his dead eyes. "Jesus, I can still smell her on you Foggy. You got laid last night by a girl with dyed hair and a thing for Victoria Secret's ‘Love Spell’ perfume. From the way you’re moving, and walking, today I’d have to say she was fairly young, full of stamina and nearly broke you in half."

Foggy dropped his head and smirked. "Yeah, well…"

"Listen, if you think that this somehow ruins your chances with Liz, I wouldn’t worry about it. You got lonely, and considerably drunk I might add, and were just looking for a little company. Trust me, I know what that feels like," Matt allowed himself to smile as he added. "It probably explains a lot about myself and Natasha."

White teeth pulled at a piece of loose skin on his bottom lip; Foggy felt like changing the subject. "So, about that interview later? Do you want me to handle it alone, or are we gonna talk to this guy together?"

"Who, that Brandon guy who called yesterday?"

"Yeah, Pam tried to make the appointment for next week, but he insisted somebody meet him as soon as possible."

"When is it?"

Foggy looked at his gold Rolex watch. "In about six hours."

Matt hesitated. "Leave me the address. I’ll let you know if I can make it. I may have another commitment to keep."

Foggy stood and straightened out his pants. "I’ll give it to Pam before I leave. I got another meeting right now with Elle Baumgardner, the Public Advocate for the City of New York. She’s interviewing various law firms over their recent cases I guess. Somehow I got saddled with this."

"Whatever she throws at you, Foggy, I’m sure you can toss it right back in her face." Foggy just nodded then left Matt’s office, shutting the door behind him leaving Matthew alone once again with ‘Ron & Fez’ on the radio.

Daily Bugle
Manhattan

Ben Urich liked his job…or so he kept on telling himself. As he wiped his stressed eyes he wondered how he tended to end up with these backward assignments that ended up in the middle of the newspaper when front-page material always landed dead in his lap. Ben sighed as he slid his glasses back to their usual perch on his nose.

He crushed his tenth cigarette of the morning into the overflowing ashtray, sucking in and blowing out the smoke filled air of his office in blatant violation of the ‘No Smoking’ policy; minutes later he pulled another white stick from the soft pack with his lips. The reporter scanned over what he just wrote on the flat panel computer screen, again wondering about why he put so much attention into definite page eight material; the current story he was working on dealt with the new housing development policy the Mayor was pushing in light of the current scandal with the apartment developer Dan Davis.

This was Ben Urich’s life.

Ben rarely saw his wife, Doris, except for her sleeping form in their bed after he shuffled home late at night, only to leave early in the morning before she even woke up. He doubted he had even talked to her about anything important in years, and there were a few times he swore he even forgot her name. Yet somehow through it all they remained married. In the face of that Ben Urich still spent most of his life in front of this damned computer, or out on the streets walking through dark places that sane men had the sense to ignore.

Gray smoke leaked out of Ben’s mouth and he let the cigarette ash fall from the burning tip of the cancer stick that lazily sat in his mouth to cover the keyboard, blackening the keys as he smudged ash onto the buttons. "Like anybody gives three shits about apartment developments," he quietly hissed to himself.

Damn you, Jonah, one of these days I’m just gonna quit and go to the Post. Not that it would bother you a damn bit since an infant could write these shit assignments. I’ve proven I can handle the large stories, dammit, and yet here I am…writing page eight. Urich pulled the cigarette away and stuck it in the tray.

Then, like an answer to Ben’s frustration, the phone rang.

His attention to the monitor never wavered as he grabbed the receiver. "Urich,"

The voice that replied startled him. It was modulated with a deep mechanical tone. Somebody was trying to hide his or her identity. "I have the answers you’re looking for."

Ben slid away from the monitor, turned off 92.3 FreeFM on the radio and huddled near his desk. "Answers? Answers to what? Who is this?" he hissed into the phone.

"Who I am is irrelevant. Do you wish to solve the mystery behind these murders or not?" Even through the distortion the person’s annoyance was clear.

"Fine." Ben grabbed a stack of yellow post-its and a pen. "Where do you want to meet?" He wrote the address down as the voice directed him. "Yeah, I’ll be there in two hours. Yes, I’ll come alone." An enthusiastic surge ran through his body as he hung up the phone. This was exactly the break he needed! Ben snatched his brown, wrinkled trench coat off the hook and raced out of his office to the elevators.

"Urich! Where in blazes are you going?" J. Jonah Jameson yelled from his office as he watched Ben make his way through the newsroom.

"It’s important, Jonah!" Ben yelled back as he stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut.

J. Jonah Jameson’s face flushed as the blood rushed to it. Everybody close to him scattered like ants. "Little! Get your ass over here!" the Daily Bugle’s editor snapped at the first person he saw.

David Little’s skin paled in contrast to the deep red Jameson became, and he hung his head in defeat as he made his way to his boss’s office. Everybody looked on as David paid the ultimate sacrifice for the entire floor. They owed him a few dozen beers after this shift.

Wilson Fisk has been an enigma for me lately. Not really in how I feel about him – of that I’m sure – but more in how he feels about me. As far as I’m concerned the Kingpin is a soulless monster whose dark touch corrupts everything he’s involved with like a cancer. Wilson is a powerful man, he’s the unofficial Mayor of New York City, though to the underworld at large he’s more commonly referred to as the Kingpin of Crime. Yet to Joe Public Wilson is a charitable entrepreneur. He’s used that status to destroy countless lives, and has certainly eliminated more than I’ll ever truly know about. Hell, I doubt even he knows the official body count. To Fisk those lives were insignificant; barely equal to the thought it takes to decide on ham or sausage for Sunday breakfast. ‘It’s only business,’ he’d say.

I can feel his dark influence in the city around me every night I take to the streets in pursuit of justice. I’ve dismantled his organization twice, obviously to no lasting effect, and I’ve disrupted his affairs too many times to even bother counting. Almost on a nightly basis.

That’s where he confuses me. Wilson certainly has the resources at his disposal to effectively destroy me twenty times over, and yet he hasn’t – to a degree. The fact that he knows my identity, as Matthew Murdock, would make that act infinitely easier. Everything in my life becomes a target; playthings even. I’m not stupid. I know that there have to be thugs in his organization that know who I am too, and it’s only through the grace of the Kingpin's presence that protects me from their deadly reckoning. It’s sickening too think that that I owe anything, let alone my life, to that monster. In a weird way I think his protection stems from some twisted sense of honor.

Maybe it’s because he knows where he stands with me, that no matter what happens I’ll still treat him fairly; like a man…that I’m the devil he knows – no pun intended. Maybe he could feel that I’m predictable, that he knows just how far to push me, and that he’ll get away with it. That he knows in a lot of ways he’s the lesser of two evils and with him gone some more sinister, less honorable entity would take his place.

Or, the stronger probability is that Wilson still feels indebted to me from something I did many years back. Vanessa. I could have let my hate for the Kingpin cloud my judgment and left Vanessa to her fate in the dank sewers under the city. I didn’t and since then that changed my status with the crime lord. What’s his favor to me? Life. Life is my favor and when that favor runs out he will be the one to rescind it. He is the one destined to kill me, or I am the one destined to end him. Not his thugs. Not anybody. In the end it should be us.

In the mean time he may try his best to ruin it, but at least I’ll be alive in my misery.

Yes, Fisk did sell my secrets to Mysterio and he could have killed me if he didn’t end up taking his own tragic life as a way to strike out at me instead. In the end I think Wilson was positive I’d survive and he was just having fun with me until he got his empire back. It’s his twisted sense of humor.

In a lot of ways, despite how things are now I shudder to think of what would happen if all that changed.

Somewhere in Brooklyn

"Perfect." The cell phone pulled away from the ear and slapped shut. Sammy Silke slid the phone into a hidden pocket inside his suit coat then looked around the large table to the men he had assembled. There were twenty people gathered and they now in unison gazed at their host with impatient looks. "So, are we all here?"

"I dunno, you tell us," one of the assembled mobsters blurted out to the amusement of the others.

Sammy adjusted his stylish lime-green glasses and again looked around the table for the one who made the comment. None of the faces jumped out at him. "Alrighty," he smiled and stood from his chair to freely walk around the dusty concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse. "Let's get this show on the road." His free arm motioned as he talked; the other was still pinned to his chest in a sling. "I gathered you all here today because I know we all have the same goal. I’m here to tell ya gents, that soon we will see that goal reached and I’ll be one to see it done."

"Oh yeah? An’ what exactly is that goal?" another voice rose up.

Sammy stopped pacing around the table and his eyes looked over every one of their faces. "We’re gonna remove that fat bastard from power. We’re gonna kill the Kingpin." He angered at the series of snickers that chirped in the warehouse.

"An’ how exactly do you plan on doing this? You just expect all of us to follow you? Who the fuck are you?" That familiar voice that already interrupted twice today spoke up again. This time Sammy saw who talked and walked around to the other side of the table to be near him as the guy continued to talk. "You got some balls to think we’re just gonna throw in with you in this suicide trip a’ yours."

"Listen, baby, I totally understand. If you want out, then you’re free to get out. If you don’t wanna be apart of the winnin’ team when this all goes down, then that’s your choice." As Sammy talked one of his crew approached him from the shadows of the unlit building holding an object close to his leg. "Trust me, if I thought I could kill the fat cocksucker myself I would, but I need a team I can trust."

Sammy turned his back to the assembled gangsters and took the object from his soldier.

"Fine, then I’m outta here." The uncertain mobster turned in his seat at the exact moment Sammy spun around. The baseball bat in Sammy’s free hand slammed against the mobster's nose. The impact sent the mobster spinning back to the table, his nose gushing blood that sprayed over those unfortunate enough to sit close to him. The bat pulled back then came crashing down on the back of the mobster’s head in with a resounding crack of wood against bone. The mobster slammed face first down onto the table as the bat continued its assault against his head. The back of the skull finally shattered completely in one last strike, splashing blood all over Sammy’s white suit and it pooled from the mobsters head onto the tables surface and slowly spread out.

The shock on the other nineteen live mobsters was apparent; more over Sammy’s unexpected flash of viciousness and less over their comrades death. Sammy was usually all talk and zero action. Something had apparently changed in the mobster.

Sammy dropped the bat back into his soldier’s hand and continued to pace around the table, paying no mind to the blood that decorated his suit or his sunglasses as he ranted. "The Kingpin bullies us. He reaps all the rewards, all the wealth, while sharing none with us. Worst yet, the Kingpin has a monkey on his back, one that I’m sure we’re all acquainted with: Daredevil. That masked freak as been a thorn in our side for years and yet our fat lard of a boss does nothing about it…even when he knows the vigilante's identity."

He swung his arm over the assembled. "We, every single one of us, will turn Daredevil into hamburger. However, first thing's first; we kill the Kingpin and once we do that this entire city is ours to command – right after we eliminate Matthew fuckin’ Murdock."

Sammy scrutinized the faces of the nineteen mobsters. "Now, who is with me?"

Slowly, one by one the hands started to rise until all nineteen were in the air. A smiled pulled at the corners of Sammy’s mouth. He could already see victory before him. "Perfect."

His thumb traced the contour of her face on the glass pane that covered the picture underneath. He marveled at her timeless beauty, hair as dark as a raven’s feather and skin as smooth as butter. Even today she looked like she did nearly thirty years ago when this photograph was taken on their vacation through Italy. Her tireless smile was a sign of a more innocent time when they happily lived in ignorance of his underground career when he wasn’t a typical entrepreneur.

The picture frame felt small in his massive hands, almost as small as what their life had become when she found out that the entire time she was married to a criminal; a mobster. A flash of anger swept over him, his hand clenched and the glass cracked spreading out like tiny faults, fracturing their perfect day. Wilson Fisk dropped the frame into the open desk drawer and slammed it shut, shaking everything on the desks surface.

Wilson turned his chair around to face the windows. The sun hung high in the nearly cloudless sky blanketing everything below with yellow rays giving the city – from all the way up here – an almost golden glow that visually reflected just how Wilson mentally viewed New York.

He spun his chair back around, turning his back to the world. "Only for you, Vanessa. I hope it’ll be worth it."

17th Precinct
Manhattan

Captain Garth Bryce groaned as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms behind him, resulting in a series of small cracks along the line of his spine. He had spent the entire morning following up leads and chasing down judges to issue warrants. The severity of his case grew after this mornings report came in that J.R. Walker, Jr. had dropped off the FBI’s radar and now his whereabouts were currently unknown. If he followed Daredevil’s hunch then Garth knew exactly where the assassin known as Shotgun was.

Though that knowledge didn’t really seem to make him more comfortable.

"Sweet Jesus." He rubbed the sore spot in his neck that developed after hours of having his neck cocked at odd angles to hold his phone against his wide shoulder, or leaning down reading the stack of papers that were dropped off at his desk not long ago. Bryce sighed as he reached for his mug filled with steaming coffee that was only a shade or two darker than his own skin, and took a sip of the bitter liquid.

The small break was enough to relax his eyes that were frazzled after flipping through a dozen pages of some report from the FBI that required half a dozen calls, a few pulled strings with a buddy in the federal service, and one of those warrants to get. It was all a formality, an attempt to save face over sharing information that the Fed’s tried desperately not to disclose. The surveillance report he read was filled with useless babble written by some special agent named Derrick Wardell. It told him nothing other than Wardell’s frustration about how ineffective he felt he was.

At least it jibbed with what his friend, Special Agent Harold Driver, had told him: that Fisk gave new meaning to being the ‘Teflon Don’. Hell, Garth doubted if Wilson even remembered what the inside of a courtroom looked like. Garth flipped the manila folder shut and dropped it on his desk. He was getting nowhere investigating these crime bosses. They either told him nothing or things he had already known.

Garth picked up what felt like to be the three-hundredth folder – when it was really more like the sixth – he hoped that reading about the victims would offer more insight. Otherwise he just might have to blow his brains out just to create some excitement. That’s when Garth recalled the day before and the bloody mess that used to be someone’s head. "Wrong choice of words."

His eyes at this point only saw a blur of black, words meshed with words in a swirling mix that almost forced him to go cross-eyed. That was until one word jumped out at him: informant.

Captain Bryce perked up in his chair. Did he read this right? The first victim, Howard Lacey, was an informant to the FBI? It kinda made sense, he already knew that the third victim, Peter Vanini, was an informant also and Garth had a hunch that if he checked on Steve Carlise and Curtis Ritchin’s he’d find they were too. Ten minutes and a paper cut later, Garth realized his hunch was true.

"So, somebody knows these guys are ratting out the mob and having them knocked off --" the tip of Garth’s black BIC pen found its way between his gnashing teeth as he settled deep into thought. "Does somebody in the mafia know, or does the FBI have a leak?"

Garth sighed. "Man, I don’t need this shit."

He dropped the folder back on his desk, causing a couple papers to blow off the top. That’s when he saw a yellow post-it note paper-clipped to another paper with a handwritten list of names scribbled on it partially hidden under another stack.

Garth

I’m breaking some rules to get this to you so you didn’t see this list from me, but these are other informants in the NYC area that haven’t been hit yet. Some of the guys here think that these guys are just funneling info from a higher power, but we cannot confirm it. Good Luck.

Four names were written below but no addresses were attached to them. "This is gonna be a world of fun." Bryce grabbed the list and rushed out of his office. It was time to find these people.

Ben Urich has been a long time friend of mine – well, maybe more of a friend to my alter ego than me. Most of our interactions come when I’m in costume. He was one of the first to deduce my identity as Daredevil and Ben’s in the perfect position to expose that knowledge and destroy me in return for public accolades and probably a Pulitzer. It’s a credit to his integrity that he didn’t follow that path allowing me to continue my alternate life to protect Hell’s Kitchen.

Ben is a very good, intuitive investigative reporter who doesn’t give up in the face of adversity, namely J. Jonah Jameson, for the sake of digging to the truth for a good story. That boy Timmy we met recently is a perfect example of who Ben Urich really is. He doesn’t get nearly the amount of credit he deserves. The problem is I see the qualities as something that could potentially get him into major trouble someday.

I just pray that day never comes.

The cigarette tumbled end over end as gravity greedily pulled down on it until it crashed onto the dusty concrete floor, the burning ash broke off the tip to smolder in a tiny pile until the sole of a worn leather shoe crushed down and ground it onto the floor. "Why does it always have to be abandoned warehouses?" Urich complained as he looked around to confirm that he was still the only one present. "One of these days I’d love to meet these shady people at Bobby Flay’s place, at least I could get a decent steak out of it."

Ben sighed as he reached into his dirty brown trench coat and grabbed the pack of cigarettes. He brought the pack to his lips only to realize that it was empty. "Damnit," he crushed the pack in anger and tossed it to the floor. "This is just great." Already getting a little antsy Ben looked at his watch. He was supposed to meet with his mysterious informant fifteen minutes ago.

The freight elevator whirled to life, old pulley’s squeaked from years of neglect and dust build up. Behind the wooden gate that blocked the floor from completely opening into the shaft three men slowly rose up. The two that flanked the one in the middle looked like to Ben the typical leg-breaking goons you’d see in movies like ‘Miller’s Crossing’ with the long dark trench coats and fedoras. The one in the middle, even in the dim light, looked different.

It wasn’t until the gate was opened that Ben could get a clear look at him. The man was easily the size of a linebacker with broad thick shoulders wearing a dark charcoal gray Armani suit that fit the large man amazingly well. The oddest part that stood out to Ben was the burgundy leather mask and gloves that the mysterious man wore.

The large man reached up and activated a vocalizer that he wore around his throat. "Mister Urich. I’m glad you could make it."

"I’ve been here for half an hour, and I used up all my smokes," replied Ben clearly annoyed.

"I know. I’ve been here for an hour. I had to be sure you kept your word and came alone."

The reporter kept a careful eye on the one goon that left his bosses side and took four steps behind him. "So, you said you had some answers. What do you get out of helping me?"

The leather-covered head tilted. "Right down to business. Don’t you even want to know who I am?"

Ben pulled off his thick black-framed glasses and wiped them clean with a handkerchief that he pulled from the inside of his coat. "I know who you are, you’re ‘the Rose’. The only question is who’s under that mask?" he slid his glasses back onto their normal perch on his nose. "But, if you’re wearing a mask then I assume you don’t want me to know anyway. So why ask?" he could tell his guess was right when the Rose began to chuckle. Even though it had been years since the Rose had last appeared Urich felt it was necessary to remain mindful of all the special players that have come and gone.

"Sammy Silke. He’s the one you want to look into."

Like an old school reporter Ben flipped open a tiny notepad and wrote the mobsters name down. "What’s so special about this guy? He’s the one behind the recent attacks on your former goombas?"

The Rose clasped his hands behind his back. "Sammy has his sites on the Kingpin’s chair. He’s been disgruntled lately and lashing out at whomever he can. Been crossing the family lines."

"And he’s hoping what? That these attacks will lead to some sort of war between the families?"

The Rose waved a gloved finger at the reporter. "That’s for you to figure out. All I’m doing is pointing you in the direction you should be looking at."

Ben flipped the notebook shut. "You never answered about what you gain out of helping me?"

The leather stretched a bit around the jaw. Ben could imagine the grin the Rose had under the burgundy mask. "I have my reasons. You’d get it if I told you, though I doubt you’d understand how it could be important for people like me," the Rose motioned to his bodyguards and they fell in place next to him. "I’ve done all I can do now."

The trio turned to exit into the elevator that brought them up here, but stopped when Urich called out to them. "Hey!" The Rose turned back to face the reporter. "I don’t suppose any one of you has a cigarette I can bum?"

If there’s one positive about the winter season is that dusk settles in early in the evening, which is fine enough with me. I hate maneuvering in the day. In the daylight to anybody on the streets that manages to notice me – when they’re not absorbed into their own little world – I’m just another costumed ‘jerk-off’ jumping around on the rooftops, flying across the street on a cable. I find that darkness adds to my mystique. In the shadows of the city, under the pale moonlight I come off as something more…supernatural.

His hands rubbed together franticly in an effort to create warmth from friction. Garth cursed himself for leaving his gloves down on his desk. It all seemed silly to him, to meet him up here, but he saw the wisdom in it when it concerned dealing with men of his profession. There were definitely more conspicuous places to get together.

"Good evening, Captain."

Captain Bryce prided himself on having steel tough nerves and keen senses of observation, but right then he nearly jumped roughly ten feet out of his skin. "Jesus jumpin’ Christ!" cursing again, completely caught unaware of the others presence, especially when he sounded only a couple feet away.

From the shadows stepped out Daredevil, dropping the cloak that the darkness granted him. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I guess it’s more of a habit than I thought to stalk people like this."

Garth waved it off. "Isn't this a little cliché? To meet on top of a police headquarters?"

"Hey, if it works then why reinvent the wheel?"

"Good point. Anyway, I managed to get a list of some other possible targets for Shotgun. It looks like our previous victims were all informants on some level, and the names I have here are also mafia informants," Garth pulled a folded paper from his pocket and attempted to hand it to Daredevil, yet the vigilante didn’t make a move to take it.

"You can just read them to me."

If the police captain looked surprised then he hid it well…from anybody that didn’t have hyperactive senses. "Yeah, well there’s only four names here. Tommy Shannon, Paul Sorrentino, Brandon Wiacek and Todd Hillier. I’m in the process of trying to find an address to go with them. These men are well hidden…" he looked up from the paper to find that Daredevil was gone, the howl from the wind that kicked up masked his sudden exit.

"I could never understand how anybody ever gets used to that."

To Be Continued…