Bats and Boomerangs and Bullets Oh My

September 17, 2018:

Owen tracks Frank down right before a meeting the Punisher set up with Batgirl.

Hell's Kitchen, NYC


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Jessica Jones

Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

Frank always tries to be early to a meeting, especially one that he's set. Two of the last three Kitchen Irish on the Punisher's mental list have apparently decided that the safest place for them to be is in a building immediately adjacent to a police precinct. They're not quite desperate enough to actually turn themselves in to protective custody, but they're definitely laying low right next to the fuzz. And so Frank is staking them out from a bombed-out tenement down the street. He has a bolt action rifle with a bipod resting on the scorched desk alongside him, four loose rounds resting point up alongside the rifle. Frank himself sits on a stool, a spotter's scope resting on the bottom of window as he watches a particular window two blocks away, watching the lighted room and the two men inside. He wears a black baseball cap turned backwards, and a black canvas trenchcoat pools behind him.

After his alleyway rendezvous with Batarella Owen Mercer did quite a few things. First and foremost he took the little secure USB communication device back to Stark's and immediately ripped it open to see what components she used, then made a copy of it. He may not be the world's smartest tech guy, but he does have a knack for ripping off other people's work. It's a gift. But what he doesn't do, is plug that device in anywhere.

After a few days of wrapping up more important things in Hell's Kitchen, like facing down the Kingpin and his Dark Defenders, Owen gets back around to the favor that Batgirl has asked of him. First and foremost though he digs into why. Finding articles on the murders and linking it to Frank Castle isn't hard. And then thanks to VigiWatch, he can start connecting some other dots. He's not a great detective by any means but he's also learning that he's been underestimating the wilyness of some hero types. And the fact that someone in the Bat family is coming to him to ask a favor is confusing enough that he refuses to take it at face value. But eventually he learns enough about Frank's story to get pissed on the man's behalf. Owen may not be the most sympathetic of people, but he's not dead inside.

Then he did the requisite asking around. It was a little harder than usual considering Owen showed up to places mostly sober and didn't actually buy anything or even shoot up when a sample was offered. The dark thought of what would happen if he ran into someone peddling Kingpin's product causes some hesitation. It's a test he would fail. He knows that. But he goes anyway. One might be tempted to call it noble. A wiser one might realize he's hoping to fail. But this is a different network, a different set of dealers and it turns out the Defenders have done a fair job of pushing Kingpin's work out … to make room for the competition. Drug users, like nature, abhor a vacuum.

So armed with a little bit of street knowledge and shit ton of boomerangs, Owen suits up. Not the flashy Captain Boomerang gear of old, but a black tactical suit best for sneaking about and hopefully being less easily recognizable. He wears black long sleeves as well to cover the bandages around his swiftly healing arm as well. A black domino mask with facial blurring technology completes the look. It takes him a few nights to home in on Frank, but tonight he finds his mark. Slipping down from the roof quietly, he stands outside the door and calls.

"Frank? Don't shoot at me. I'm not in the mood to get shot … again."

The quiet words from outside the room cause Frank Castle to tense behind the spotting scope, one hand slowly drifting down and away from it to settle inside his coat, undoubtedly on the grip of a weapon. "You didn't trip the cans downstairs." His voice is harsh, as if it doesn't get used often or he smoked several packs every day of his life. In this case, it's also quiet. The spotting scope is set down below the window, and he shifts his seat on the stool to face the door. "Means you're real good, or you came from the roof. You a cape?" There's no mask on Frank Castle's face, nothing to hide his identity except a tendency to kill a lot of the people who see him in action. Drawing the heavy .45 from the holster at his hip, he rests his forearms across his thighs, feet gathered up under him in case he needs to move quickly, for all that he remains sitting down on the little stool.

Slowly opening the door, ready to dodge a bullet at a moments notice Owen enters the room after Franks' first line. Not getting shot at is a good sign. He enters the room and though he is in fact wearing a domino mask, and combat gear, he laughs at Frank's question. To Owen being a cape specifically means being a hero and he definitely does not consider himself one of those.

"Me? Nah. I'm just another yokel in a mask. Took the roof cause this getup gets a few too many looks on the streets."

Taking in Frank's stance and the placement of the gun, Owen takes the time to light a cigarette. Puffing on it a bit, he starts to explain.

"But I am here because of a cape."

Frank groans as Owen steps into the room wearing a mask, "Damn it." Evidently, he considers anyone wearing a mask or a cape to be 'a cape.' Glancing toward the window behind him, he rises to his feet so that he stands out of view of both his target building and the precinct house. The pistol stays in his hand, but it also stays pointing downward, "Lemme guess, you're here to tell me that I should be handing these shitbirds over to the cops, right?" He probably couldn't be more wrong, but he's had a few too many run-ins with the other sort of Defender lately. "Maybe some cape thinks you got something in common with me, and asked you to come at me with some shit about how you understand what I'm goin' through, but it ain't worth it? That it makes me just as bad as they are?" The heavy scorn practically dripping off his words makes it quite clear what he thinks of that idea.

Owen shakes off the reaction. He's used to people being less than please to see him. He leans against the door frame and continues to smoke his cigarette.

"HA!" Owen laughs out loud at the thought of Owen being the one to tell him to not go around killing people. He keeps trying that, and failing. He's the last guy to have that conversation with anyone. After a bit of coughing brought on by the laughing (and the smoking), he continues "Yea, no. I'm not that guy. Unless you really want me to try? I can maybe half-ass a Captain America if ya want?" Owen takes his mimicry very seriously and has only had a very brief run in with the Star Spangled Avenger so he doesn't feel he can really do him justice.

"I'm just here to give you the heads up that you got a Bat on your tail. Batgirl has apparently adopted you as her charity project." Owen waits to see what the man's reaction is, to this news. But can't help himself from adding, "Unless she's the one who's been preaching cops and justice at ya? Then you'd already know that."

Owen's response to his suspicion causes Frank to mentally backtrack a little more, his eyes narrowing under heavy brows as he studies the other man closely. The suggestion of a Cap A imitation draws a little chuckle, and the veteran Marine shifts his shoulders a little, putting on an actually-passable mimicry of Cap's Brooklyn accent, "Only you can sock ol' Hitler in the jaw." It would be better if his voice didn't sound like a mile of gravelly road, but overall, it's… not bad.

The warning, however, causes Frank's brows to shoot up. "Yeah." He touches his ribs at his left side with his empty hand, his eyes tightening as he touches the now-yellowed bruise, "Red stopped by and said hello." Holstering the pistol carefully, Castle snorts, "Naw. That's been Hornhead preachin' at me." And the bruises from that encounter, including the faint smear of yellow beneath a more recent shiner around his right eye, have almost faded. "So you're just the not-so-good Samaritan," an assumption, based on the other man's reaction, "out to warn me of the big, bad bat?" There's a healthy dose of dry amusement in that description of Batgirl.

"Make sure you brush your teeth! Or the Nazi's win." Putting a slight PSA twist on the old gym ads that used to run way back when, Owen does a decent one as well. Feeling the need since Frank started it.

Owen quirks an eyebrow as Frank is apparently aware of Batgirl's involvement.

"Hornhead? You mean actuals Bats or the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?" Owen smirks now as he references Daredevil by one of his actual names, instead of Red Pleather Tight Buns or Satan of the Subway or whatever else Emery and Owen have been calling him before they ended up on the same side.

"Yea. I think that about covers it." Not-So-Good Samaritan is totally Owen's new fake codename. "I'm here to warn you about the cutesy, well-meaning but likely in over her head bats. I'm guessing yer far enough away from Gotham that you don't need to actually worry about the real tall, dark and spooky showing up. But what did little red batling brood want? Cause somehow she decided roping me into tracking down some d-bag dealers on your account was on her to do list. And let me tell you, we're not close. So her coming to me must put this somewhere in the holy quest from God level of importance if she's willing t'ask me a favor."

And that is about when the two peas in a pod get a third. Barbara had decided when she got the call from Frank to not show up as Batgirl. Too close to a police station, and she's well outside her territory. VigiWatch was already a-buzz with excitement at the blurry photo taken of her last time she showed up in NYC in the batsuit. So, she came to meet Frank in her best low-budget vigilante getup: her black and purple-accented motocross jacket, paramilitary pants with functional pockets along the legs, motocross boots that matched the jacket, gloves, and a half-face balaclava currently scrunched up around her neck with her red hair woven into a loose braid and tucked along her collar.

She must have come in through a neighboring window because her footsteps are only heard the last foot or so of the hallway that leads into Frank's chosen room. She can hear the faint rumble of conversation as she approaches… in the holy quest from God level of importance if she's willing t'ask me for a favor.

"Mercer?" Barbara is standing just behind Owen now that she's close enough, and she looks beyond him to Frank briefly before those sharp, serious blue eyes hone in on Boomerang. "What the fuck?" … and Babs never curses, unless warranted.

Frank smirks at Owen's impression, nodding his agreement. At the first question, he jerks his head to the northeast as opposed to the southwest, "The Devil." The full warning causes Frank's brows to lift again, "You're the source then." Considering that, he nods to himself, then adds, "She volunteered. After trying to give me a concussion." A couple, actually, but it only counts as one if it's all in one sitting. His gaze sharpens, and the veteran Marine leans forward ever-so-slightly, "That mean you heard some — " The footsteps from the next room draw Frank's hand back down to the grip of his pistol, and he looks past Owen to the newcomer… and relaxes at least a little after spotting the red hair and hearing Totally-Not-Batgirl's voice. Her response to Owen's presence causes him to snort a dry laugh, "Not part of the plan, Red?"

Nodding in understanding as Frank indicates which horn head he's referencing, Owen blows out a stream of smoke with a wry smile. The thought of Matt giving Frank a no killing speech comes a little too close on the heels of talk of killing Fisk to not be funny.

As Frank confesses that she may have put a hurting on him Owen comiserates, "Yea well she tried to grope me in an alley.." Now that phrasing might just be how he chooses to present it, but the timing of Batgirl showing up is so fortuitous that maybe, just maybe he somehow kenned to her presence just ahead of her entrance.

"Oh. Super. We're using real names." Owen turns off the facial blur of his mask, such that he actually appears as himself. It's not terribly different than before, the tech doesn't make him look like someone else so much as use an algorithm to mask his features from being recognizable. He hadn't bothered with the voice part though, which turns out what a mistake. Turning back to Frank, he introduces himself while giving Batgirl the side-eye to end all side-eye.

"Owen. Mercer. Captain Boomerang to some. But apparently Ginger Spice here and I are on more friendly terms than I realized?"

"I did not grope you," Barbara snaps at Owen, perhaps a bit more tersely than she would have if she was wearing the cowl. She has a duffel slung across her back, and the weight of it suggests one thing: weapons. She came here to fight, and obviously not to fight Frank. She glances between Castle and Mercer, and her expression redoubles into something equal parts annoyed by and assenting to Mercer's presence.

Though, the Ginger Spice thing has her rankled. Why must Mercer always know how to hit that button that just makes her want to strangle him like he's Bart Simpson?

"No. Not part of the plan," she says to Frank before she turns back to Mercer. "Come here to warn the Punisher about me, Baby Spice?"

The complaint from Owen lifts Frank's brows, and he looks over to Babs to get her response… and there's the snappish words. He snorts a laugh, "So let me tell you what I want, what I really really want." Somehow, it doesn't sound as good in a growl. "You two girls to knock off the sniping." Says the man with a rifle and four rounds set out on the table in the middle of the room. "And let me know if you've got the info I need. Since it looks like you came loaded for bear, Red." Then something else sinks into his thick skull, "Boomerang? There can't be two idiots who throw boomerangs around the city, can there? Day of the bombing, you take a bag with some hardware that wasn't yours in it?"

"Baby Spice? I .. woulda gone with junkie or d lister or something a little tighter." Owen critiques her nicknaming thoughtfully.

"But wait, this is a joint venture?" Owen indicates the bag in Batgirl's hands and then back to the rifle on the table. "You.. are in for this?" He asks Batgirl suspciously, like there is some part of this he's not understanding. Because while he expects the former Marine with the tragic backstory and voice like a landslide to be all in for shooting up people, he does not expect that from someone toting a bat symbol, even if she's not exactly doing so now.

And then Frank's asking him about the boomerangs. "Waaaait." Owen draws out, his eyes going just a bit wider. "Columbine?!" Oooh boy, that's not PC. But yes, that's how Owen's been mentally referring to the owner of the bag with all black clothes and lots of guns. "You got my gear? Oh my god. We're like Lindsay Lohans. Oh hells yes, it's like we're fated for a sweet ass team up full of guns and boomerangs, liquor and hot women … " Here he glances at Babs, "Well … one.. kinda .. girl. I guess. Aaaanyway."

"Fuck yea! Teamup!"

Oooh boy, there's still time for Frank to rethink the bit about not shooting Owen.

Owen's question directed at Babs has her lips thinning a bit. "I'm in for this." She drops her duffel down, lowering into a squat to unzip it. From within it, she pulls two tonfa, and hooks them into their loops at her belt. She also pulls out what looks like some throwing knives — slender and small — and spheres that could be compact concussion grenades. She looks up sharply at Owen at his exclamation that is so not PC.

"God, Mercer…" She shakes her head, but respects that Frank has asked them to stop sniping at each other… not that Mercer is playing fair. She narrows her eyes at him at that one… kinda… girl. Then she looks to Frank, and shrugs and half-nods as if she's offering her own opinion whether or not Mercer should help.

"You got anything on Blacksmith?"

And that time is now. Frank lets the enthusiasm wash over him, his right index finger twitching slightly, but he doesn't go for his pistol. It's a close decision, but Owen's not in the way, and not on the list, and one of the very, very few people willing to help him is present. "Columbine? Those two were fuckups who needed discipline." There's a moment's pause as he realizes how that sounds, and then adds, "At home." So he's anti-Columbine. At least there's that. "Not having that carbine's made things hard." And then something else twigs in the Marine, and he frowns, confused, "You're not even Australian. Are you? Boomerangs?" Gotham man. It's way beyond Frank's understanding in many ways. Still, he glances over to Barbara, taking in the half-nod with a thoughtful frown. He's not going to weigh in on whether Barbara Gordon is 'a hot woman' or 'one kinda girl,' not when there's a rather more important question on the table, "Haven't seen a chance for the two over there, but Blacksmith…" there's something hungry when Frank rasps the name, a burning flame of anger usually buried… well, not so very deep.

Owen may be cracking jokes and making light of tragedies over here but he keeps shooting Batgirl that same suspicious look. He glances between the two trying to figure out exactly why Batgirl is willing to a) let Frank kill people and more importantly b) apparently help? He's confused to say the least and not doing much to hide that. But eventually he gets around to chatting about his point.

"Blacksmith, would be a new player in the drug market here in lovely New York. Carting the usual coke, H and what not, but also a couple new surprises. I think Kingpin upped the game a bit with designer stuff and people needed to compete. But I digress. Blackie has apparently popped up big time, so I'm guessing he's got some backing or somethign else because I don't know how anyone grows a network this fast."

He finishes the cigarette he lit when he first came in, dropping it to the ground and grinding it out with a boot.

"I have some more things I can run down. But.. just so I'm clear. You are going to find this guy and murder him. Just like you planned a hit on those goons across the way." His face and attention may be pointed at Frank, but it's clear that he's asking Batgirl the question. WTF are you doing involved in this?

Barbara can feel those questions in Owen's gaze as much as she can see it. Her mouth sets firmly, but there's something there in those blue eyes. She's set in the decision she's made. She's here, with her weapons, and she isn't preaching about showing restraint, or how they are not the end of the system, and that everyone should be given a chance. Somehow, down this road that Barbara is walking, she's decided those things do not apply to the people on Frank's list.

And still… "They aren't goons. They are two ranking members of the Kitchen Irish… the last two lieutenants. If you need me to run through their rap sheet, I can, Mercer."

Then she glances back toward Frank briefly before she nods to Owen. "We need to know where Blacksmith is. Whatever you can do to find his location…"

"And he got three gangs together for a meet that went south. I don't need to know his history," says Frank, making a mistake, and nodding to Barbara, "I just need to know how to find him. And yeah, so he's out of the picture. Forever." He steps back to the side of the window, peeking out briefly and then looking back to the two capes in the room (even if neither is wearing a cape). "These two are too close to the precinct to deal with from here. I don't need that kind of attention, but I'll take it if I need it."

Owen just continues to give Batgirl the narrow eye glances of disbelief, openly. He doesn't question it again, but when she brings up the ranks, he shrugs. "Yea? You want me to run through my rap sheet? You gonna pop a cap in me next /Batgirl/?"

He turns back to Frank and says, "Yea. I'll get you a location. But if I could make a suggestion? Ditch murder Barbie over here. She's either playing some game with this, or woefully underprepared for actually carrying out a hit. She's a liability." Owen's tone has gone from jocular needling to dead serious. In fact he sounds far more like a soldier than he has ever in Babs presence.

"Oh. And I want those boomerangs back."

He doesn't wait for an answer, or the righteous indignation of Barbara Gordon. He tips his hand a bit more than he meant to, in order to disappear in a gust of wind. He needs to track down a lead in Chinatown. And then he has to make what is sure to be one of the most uncomfortable phone calls of his life. 'Hey Tim. Remember when my dad killed yours? Yea, good times. So anyway yer bat sister is planning hits in New York, can you come pick her up and take her back to Gotham?'

Frank's mistake draws Barbara's attention, and she shakes her head. She grabs at his shoulder, touch and words both aimed to grab his attention. "No, Frank. You need to know his history… because this isn't just about your family. And you need to see that. We take out the two across the street, we take out the Blacksmith… we're saving others from your grief." By her tone, she's not backing down from that. She needs him to hear her, even if all he does is grunt and grumble about it, even if all he does is glare and glower and tell her to get the fuck out.

Then she steps away, finishing stocking her belt with the grenades and throwing knives — nothing batarang about them. The bolas, though, those are signature as they are looped at her belt with their weights keeping them tight along her thigh. Owen's comment gets her attention, and she looks at him with a hard smirk. "No. Jessica Jones has vouched for you. You can take that up with her." But, she can't get anything more than that because Mercer's gone. And she's forced to look at Frank again.

Frank looks over to Barbara as she reaches for his shoulder, and though he tenses, he doesn't pull away, shaking his head, "Fine. Whatever. We're saving them whatever his history." Looking back to Owen, he responds, "And I want my carbine back." There's a pause, and then Frank adds, "Besides, Barbie's a blonde." Unfortunately, at least the second comment is lost, because Owen is… just gone. Frank blinks, the pistol coming out of its holster this time, but there's no target. "Shit. He's a meta." Or he just got Batmaned. He pauses there, looking around as if he might find where Boomerang Jr went to. Finally, he frowns, looking back to Barbara, "Jones?" And his eyes narrow, "She's been trying to stop me for months." His suspicion is definitely back in place, "And she vouched for Mercer? To you?"

And Owen Mercer doesn't let her down. The way Frank turns on her causes her brows to arch suddenly, and then her mouth settles into a hard frown. "Everyone has been trying to stop you, Frank. Or haven't you noticed?" The words come out harder than expected, laced with her own threaded emotions. She advances a step toward Frank. "And yes, she vouched for Mercer, and she also gave me a name for someone we can use as muscle when…"

When we go after Blacksmith. That's what she means to say, but it tightens her tongue. Jessica said she was at a crossroads, and here she is… and she feels every tug and twist and yank. She turns away from him then, hooking her hands behind her head while she threads her fingers together at the back of her skull.

"When I kill the Blacksmith." Frank looks toward the door where Owen disappeared again, then holsters his pistol, dropping his eyes to the young woman with tactical gear but no bat-symbols anywhere to be seen. "Everyone but you. And now you think I want more backup. This backup gonna have a problem with the ending?" The anger is clear just under his skin, his right fist clenching and loosing again, "Or am I going to be fighting my backup and the Blacksmith when the time comes, Red?"

When she first became Batgirl, the only thing that really made her exhausted wasn't the long nights, or the healing, or the physical regiment. It was keeping it a secret. From everyone. And now, she feels a new exhaustion. She's not just living two lives, she's living three: Barbara Gordon, Batgirl… and Red. Her hands fall away, and her eyes drop closed as her chin falls. She glances at him after a heartbeat. She doesn't know what to say, so instead she answers with silence.

That's not the reaction Frank expected in the wake of his half-accusation, silence. His jaws tighten just a little, studying her features as she struggles with her various duties and inclinations. He appears comfortable enough in silence, but after long moments, he grunts, "None of you have to be in on the end if you don't wanna be. This ain't some initiation where everyone has to put a bullet in. And if you want out, get out, Red. I know what i'm doin', and I'm comfortable with it. All I need is intel. I can handle the rest if you're not comfortable." He nods down to the weapons, "If you're comfortable, then good. 'Bout time someone else gets onboard. But I don't want backup that I'm gonna have to fight. I'm tired of run-ins with the Hornhead."

The look Owen Mercer kept giving her dominates her thoughts, and it just weaves into what Frank is saying to her. 'Bout time someone else gets onboard. Her brows furrow up, and she looks up at him again. "Frank… I'm…" The words come quietly, carefully. She starts to shake her head. "I'm not going to stop you, but I… shouldn't… be here."

She takes a step back, and that mere gesture widens the space between her and Frank in more ways than physical. "I'm not…" The words stall, and she tries again. "I don't know why I'm here." Gut feelings, strange dreams, and a hopeless quest. She grabs for her duffel, and she takes another step back, this time toward the door.

That's more what Frank expected, and he nods slowly. Still, disappointment weighs on his response, "Yeah. You never seemed the kind to go in for finishing things. Too much time around the Bat." Shaking his head, he reaches down for the spotter's scope again, hefting it in his left hand as he looks down at the rifle on the table, then back up to Babs, "I figured you were here because you wanted to control things. Keep them from going bad." As if dozens of dead isn't 'bad' already. "Maybe see how an actual solution felt instead of treading water. You telling me that ain't it?" And here anger touches his voice, "You here because I'm some sort of sob story to you, Red?"

To hear the disappointment in Frank's surprises a small part of her, but that small part is overshadowed by the anger that comes next. Her mouth sets into a firm line, and her expression darkens a touch. "No." The word is delivered flatly. "I thought… you're at this place, Frank, where you could go somewhere you can't come back from… I've seen it. Good guys who go into a dark place, and it swallows them, and spits them back out; suddenly they think all wrongs deserve a bullet to the head, and they're executing the hungry kid who stole a hundred bucks from the corner store."

Like the Red Hood.

There's more to be said there, but Barbara just turns away from where her mind goes, and instead focuses on what she can actually do. "I said I would help… and I will… Owen will get you what you need."

Frank is already shaking his head, but he lets Barbara finish her warning, "That ain't me." He's so sure of it, even if there's a hint of him that wonders if it could be. "I ain't a killer, Red. I'm a soldier. Do the mission, done." He studies the Gothamite for a long, silent moment after she reiterates her promise, then nods, leaving off the thanks he's given several times in the past few weeks, "Doesn't seem like he likes you much. You workin' with one of the Bat's baddies to help me, Red?" His questions about her dedication mostly answered — if not entirely to his satisfaction — Frank crouches down on the stool again, peeking across the way and down the block through the spotter's scope again.

Barbara shoulders back up her duffel, and it gives her some distraction from Frank until he asks that question. She turns slightly toward him, making eye contact across the stretch of dark, musty room. "Yeah. I am." There's no denying it, or sugar-coating it, or even trying to twist it into anything that it isn't. "Let me know when he turns up something."

Frank glances back over is shoulder at the confirmation, studying Batgirl's features for a long moment, then nods, "Okay. Let me know if I shouldn't hand over his boomerangs." He looks back into the scope for a second, then shakes his head, "Damn it. You're gonna want to be somewhere else, Red. Cops are going to be swarming after I take these shots, but those assholes ain't budging." The scope goes down, and he moves over to the rifle, racking the bolt to check that it is indeed loaded, and then shifting the four spare rounds slightly, leaving them handy to pick them up again.

There's no response, because when Frank turns around, Barbara is gone.

Now, Frank has been officially 'Batmanned' by one of the Bats.

A few moments later, Barbara is riding the rails of a ladder down to the ground with a soft swoosh. She crosses over to her motorcycle, sweeping onto the saddle as she unlocks the helmet from its storage place off the bike's side. She cradles the head protection in her lap, and listens for the shots.

Once they sound, she tugs on the helmet and fastens it under her chin. She guns the engine, and the sleek black machine rips off onto the streets and back toward Jersey.

After a moment, Frank looks over his shoulder again, expecting disappointed-Babs-face, or trying-not-to-look-disappointed-Babs-face. Instead he's treated to the fact that he was talking to an empty room. Grunting something that might be close to amusement, he slowly settles himself down on top of the table. The rifle's bipod is set in place, and he checks the settings on the scope, then looks past his aiming point to the flags out front of the police precinct. Minimal wind. He backs off one screw, gives it a little tap to settle the scope, and then nestles down behind it, snugging the butt of the rifle into his shoulder and picking out his first target. The guy digging around in the old pizza box on the kitchen counter. The other guy's on the couch, so he's going to have more problems getting out of the line of fire. "One batch, two batch, penny and dime…" the words are a whisper along with his outgoing breath. He pauses, then squeezes the trigger once. The rifle jumps against his shoulder, and before he even sees the results of the shot, he's working the bolt and feeding another bullet into the rifle. He's back on-target before the second Kitchen Irish mobster has gotten over his surprise, the man flailing for a pistol between the cushions of the couch, a weapon that won't help him in the slightest… second shot, Frank works the bolt again, loads another round, and then takes his time to spot his targets. Good blood spatter from the first, and the second is definitely dead. Frank nods to himself, then starts to quickly and efficiently police the room, picking up the two empty cartridges, his stool, his scope, and the two extra rounds still on the table. No sense leaving any evidence. After a moment's consideration, he even picks up Owen's crushed cigarette butt on his way out and up. Next building over is ruined too, and there's an easy escape between the two.

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