Frank hated waiting. It was his least favorite part of the job. He hated the calm before the storm. That was when things went wrong. He wanted to take action. In combat, situations were fluid, adaptable. But going Rambo would get him killed if he wasn't careful.

He brass-checked his weapon, a heavily customized Ruger 10/22 with an integral suppressor. The action went back and forth smoothly, the gleam of brass showing his gun was loaded. He took another look through the 8x Bushnell scope. Just one pull of the trigger. That's all he should need. Well, two pulls. One to break the window, the other to make sure the first didn't get put off-course from the glass shattering. He had loaded the gun with subsonic rounds, those mooks wouldn't have any idea what hit them until they were all dead. But he still had his Uzi as backup. Just in case. As well as his favorite Springfield Armory 1911A1s.

The man his sights stepped in front of the window. He sighed. Frank let his breath out, stabilizing the rifle. He squeezed the trigger gently, twice. The man fell silently. Well, aside from the glass breaking. Another man rushed into the room. Two more shots. No alarms. Frank shifted his position. He had already taken out the guards on patrol, without any fanfare. His primary target was down, but he couldn't just let the rest of the scum in that heroin processing plant get out of there alive.

He brass-checked his Uzi. Combat load, with 6 extra mags. His 1911s were the same. He put his rifle down, and stood up. The skull on his chest shone slightly in the moonlight. Frank Castle was ready to wreck some shit.

He slid down the slanted roof onto the fire escape of the plant's guard house. As he ran toward the main building of the plant, an alarm rang out. They knew he was coming. That wouldn't change a damn thing. Just meant there'd be more of a challenge. The end result would be the same.

As he burst through the door of the plant, he smashed into a mook. Frank fired a short burst into the thug's center mass. Two shots hit Frank in the side, nearly piercing his armor. Frank turned and fired another burst at the shooter. Then all hell broke loose. Some young mook with a gun dropped to the floor, crying. Must be the boss's son. Definitely not an experienced hired hand. Frank would save him for last, he wasn't a threat at the moment. There were seven other men firing at him. After a short burst took out two more men, Frank's Uzi jammed. A doublefeed. He didn't have time to fix it.

He dropped his weapon, the single-point sling catching it, then pulled one of his 1911s, and fired two shots at each man that his ammo would allow. After eight shots, his gun locked empty, and he ran at the last remaining man, clocking him across the face with his elbow. The man went down. Frank reloaded his 1911, and fired twice into the last man's face, shattering it with two Hydro-Shok rounds.

As Frank caught his breath, he realized how age wasn't treating him as well as it could. Back in his 40's, he wouldn't have broken a sweat during this mission. Now in his 60's, he had to stop mid-way. He made a mental note to do extra PT the next day. Frank holstered his 1911 in his drop-leg on his right thigh, putting it back to Condition 1.

He ripped the magazine out of his Uzi, walking towards the cowering youngster. As he racked his Uzi's action, the problem round flew out of the ejection port. He re-inserted the magazine, and chambered another round.

13 rounds left in that mag. An unlucky number, superstition said. The young mook had wet his pants. Definitely the boss's son. Whether this was Filipo or Ronald Serasso, he didn't care. Papa Joseph would feel the loss of both sons, eventually.

"P-p-please, mister! Don't hurt me! My dad can-" He started to whimper.

"Your dad can, and will, rot in hell. What I want to know is what YOU can do." Frank growled.

"I-I'll do anything! Anything!" was the reply. As Frank expected.

"Can you give him a message for me?" Frank asked.

"S-s-sure!"

"Good. Listen carefully."

Frank emptied the magazine into him.