The Punisher Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE - CRIME

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  OPERATION ARES EYES ONLY SURVEILLANCE SUBJECT: MICKEY DUKA

  TOP SECRET EYES ONLY UNDERCOVER OPERATIVE PROFILE DESIGNATION: A14-Z11 NSA CODE: AQUA

  ELEVEN

  25 June 1630 Hours

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  INTERLUDE ONE ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

  INTERLUDE TWO BOQUERON POINT, PUERTO RICO

  PART TWO - PUNISHMENT

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  23 September 0340 Hours

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  12 OCT 1856

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  Acknowledgements

  By D. A. Stern

  Copyright Page

  By D. A. Stern

  Published by Ballantine Books:

  DARK ANGEL: THE EYES ONLY DOSSIER THE PUNISHER

  Books published by The Random House Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for premium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1–800–733–3000.

  For Amorette, with appreciation and thanks

  PART ONE

  CRIME

  15 June 1840 Hours

  Crossed wires. Not a good omen.

  At one P.M. this afternoon, Divisional HQ pulled the plug on Ares. Two years of work, one agent’s life, my family’s sanity . . . all of them almost went right down the drain then and there.

  Took almost three hours of Weeks massaging egos and making phone calls before they restored support to the op, gave us the green light again for tonight.

  I heard about this only twenty minutes ago-a message Weeks left in my voice mail box. I don’t think he would have told me at all, but he had to make sure word hadn’t reached me some other way, that I knew we had a go.

  What happened was this: OCB had sent a memo out, six months ago, asking all Tampa-based ops to clear everything through them. Protocol, pulling rank, whatever you want to call it-all we had to do was send them a note about what we had planned for this evening, and we would have been okay.

  The memo never got sent. Weeks made noises about having delegated that task to Clark or Shannon, but that’s bullshit. It’s totally on him, totally his fault OCB had no paperwork about Ares. Something’s happened to him in the last year, since he settled in here as AIC. He lets things slide, slip through the cracks . . . he wasn’t like this before, God knows. Maybe it’s age-maybe it’s his divorce. I don’t know. Doesn’t really matter.

  This afternoon, OCB was talking to the Tampa PD about something else, and our op got mentioned.

  They, naturally, went through the roof.

  Called Washington, faxed over their memo, and had all the support we’d lined up-local law enforcement, logistics, Justice Department-withdrawn. Said Ares had the potential to interfere with ongoing surveillance they were running.

  Lucky Weeks was able to convince Washington that our op had to take priority-national security concerns trumping OCB’s attempts to get the dirt on a local dirtbag name of Howard Saint.

  I’ve heard of him, of course-he is big down here, and getting bigger-but haven’t yet had the pleasure. Doubtful that I ever will-Saint and I travel in different circles.

  On top of which, after tonight, I am out of Florida entirely, not likely to return.

  Op is only a few hours away. Must prepare.

  [Entry Ends.]

  ONE

  Trouble was coming.

  Howard Saint saw it through the polarized lenses of his Persols, through the tinted glass of his limousine, through the throng of well-wishers and paparazzi crowded around the entrance to Saints and Sinners. Trouble in the form of a round, balding man in his early fifties, a businessman in a light blue windbreaker he had no reason to wear on this warm Tampa evening. A windbreaker that bulged suspiciously underneath one armpit as the man pushed his way through the crowd and headed for Saint’s limousine as it pulled up to the curb.

  “Reston,” Saint said softly, a faint smile on his face. “What an idiot.”

  “Howard? What is it?”

  Saint turned. His wife, Livia, next to him in the back of the limo, was leaning toward him, trying to peer through his window.

  “Peter Reston,” Saint repeated, pointing. “He’s brought a gun. No doubt intends to use it on me.”

  Livia saw the man and frowned in disgust.

  “For God’s sake. I told you he was going to be a problem.”

  “You were right.” Saint didn’t bother adding that he’d suspected as much himself, after the ugly scene in Reston’s offices last Friday. After the man had realized that the business he’d spent his entire life building was now worthless, that his only chance at avoiding bankruptcy was to sell his assets (at a fraction of their actual worth, of course) to Saint Holdings. To Howard Saint, the architect of his fall.

  The realization had not—needless to say—made him happy.

  “You bastard,” Reston had said, rising from behind his desk, his face twisted in hatred. “You cold-blooded, double-dealing bastard. I trusted you.”

  Reston stood over Saint, both hands clenched into fists, literally trembling with anger.

  “I’ll kill you, Howard,” he said. “I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

  Saint had looked up at the man and given him the same faintly amused smile he wore right now.

  “Don’t be an idiot, Peter,” he’d said, and stood up himself. “You’ll do nothing of the kind.”

  The two men had faced each other then, eye to eye, almost toe to toe, barely a foot apart. There was a floor-to-ceiling mirror behind Reston’s desk—Saint remembered looking at it, seeing himself and Reston reflected in its surface, and thinking that the contrast between the two of them couldn’t have been greater.

  Reston, red-faced, sweating, shaking, crammed into a suit that had probably last fit him a dozen years ago, about when it was last in style. Saint in a black, crew-neck T-shirt and gray blazer (the outfit Livia preferred him in, above all others) looking tan, fit, calm. Commanding.

  “My advice to you is to deal with the facts,” he told Reston calmly. “Reston Motors is mine. Take the offer I’m making for your assets—the inventory, the database programming, the body shop—and start over.” He flashed a smile. “Just stay out of the car dealership business. A little friendly advice.”

  Reston glared. “Fuck your friendly advice. And fuck you, Howard.”

  For an instant, Saint thought the man might swing at him. He wouldn’t have minded that—a chance to complete the man’s humiliation by bloodying his nose—literally.

  But, of course, Reston did nothing of the kind. Perhaps he’d seen Saint’s own willingness to fight, and thought better of it. Or perhaps he was just a coward.

  Or perhaps, he’d just wanted to run home to bring a little equalizer to bear. T
he bulge hidden underneath his windbreaker.

  “Pathetic,” Saint said, and tapped on the glass between the driver and passenger compartments. The barrier lowered— Dante, who was driving tonight, had a hand pressed to the earpiece in his right ear, was nodding even as he turned around.

  “We have a problem,” Saint said. “Reston’s here.”

  “Yes, sir. Lincoln just spotted him. How do you want to handle it?”

  “Quietly,” Saint said.

  Livia leaned forward in her seat. “Permanently.”

  Saint smiled.

  Reston had called him cold-blooded, which was certainly the case, but his wife was the single most ruthless, relentless person Howard Saint had ever met. Those who turned against her, those who hurt her . . . she made them pay a thousand times over. A survival trait, no doubt, acquired during her singularly brutal childhood in Ybor City. He’d long ago given up on trying to cure her of it. In this instance, there was no need to.

  In this instance, she was right.

  “As Mrs. Saint said,” he told Dante, “permanently.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dante spoke quietly into the small microphone in his lapel, relaying Saint’s instructions, as Saint himself sat back and squeezed his wife’s hand.

  Livia was wearing a simple red dress, low-cut and fairly short, which she made look anything but simple. Chanel, of course, as were the wrap and the hat she’d chosen to complete her ensemble. His wife’s taste was exquisite, and expensive, just as his was. One of the many reasons they made such a perfect couple.

  “You look beautiful,” he said. “They’ll put you on the front page of the society section tomorrow.”

  “I don’t dress for them. I dress for you,” she said, leaning forward and brushing his lips with hers. Saint felt a stirring in his body—even after twenty years, he still found his wife the most alluring, desirable, provocative woman he had ever met.

  “We’ll make it an early night,” he said.

  “Here.” She smiled again. “An early night here.”

  Saint was about to respond when he caught a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. He looked up just in time to see Lincoln and Cutter walk past his window, Reston squeezed in between them, helpless. They were guiding him past the crowd queued up in front of the club, down the sidewalk and across the street now. Toward, fitting enough, the Saint Motors lot there, which was now—with his purchase of Reston’s assets—the single biggest luxury car dealership in the state of Florida.

  Of course at this time of night, the dealership would be completely deserted. Perfect for his purposes. Not so for the unlucky Peter Reston.

  The limousine pulled the last few feet up the drive, and stopped in front of the club entrance.

  As Dante exited the car, Saint rolled down his window. Good crowd tonight—Saints and Sinners was never going to be much more than a break-even proposition (what nightclub ever was?), but at least the past few months, they had stopped losing money. A good thing, too—he knew John would have hated having the place shut down. The club had been his pet project, and his son—both sons, in fact, John and Bobby—spent a considerable amount of time here. As did Saint himself. He had an office upstairs, next to the private club rooms, one where he often conducted business that wouldn’t have been . . . appropriate to deal with downtown.

  Dante came around the back of the car and opened the door.

  Saint stepped out, and the crowd surged.

  Flashbulb after flashbulb went off.

  Saint waved—making sure to catch the eye of the Times’s photographer—and then turned to help Livia out of the car.

  Reporters began to shout out questions.

  “Any firm decision yet on the gubernatorial race, Mr. Saint?”

  “Are you fund-raising now?”

  “What about your family? How do they feel about you getting into politics?”

  “Mr. Saint!”

  “Howard Saint!”

  “Over here—Mr. Saint!”

  Saint kept a smile glued on his face, and continued to wave and walk forward, one hand on Livia’s arm. Dante was pressing through the crowd, blazing a way for them to the club’s front door.

  “There are rumors about an FBI investigation into Saint Holdings, Mr. Saint. Any comment?”

  A step away from the entrance, Saint froze.

  He’d recognized the last reporter’s voice instantly—Danny Palmer, from the Tampa Times. Five feet, six inches of irritation, as far as Saint was concerned. Since the day that Saint had begun to formulate his plans, the man had been all over him, into every aspect of his business. Writing piece after piece on his companies, his family, himself, none of it openly hostile, but all of it filled with innuendo and suggestion, all of it intimating that Howard Saint, two-time Chamber of Commerce president, Tampa’s wealthiest and most successful businessman, was nothing more than a crook.

  And now this. Spreading rumors of an FBI investigation. Saint couldn’t have that story out there—not now.

  Even if it was true.

  “Does that concern you, Mr. Saint?” Palmer called out. “An FBI investigation?”

  He felt Livia’s fingers tighten on his arm.

  “Leave it,” she whispered, urging him forward.

  Saint ignored her and turned around.

  “Danny,” he said, locking eyes with the reporter. “First I’ve heard of any investigation.”

  “Really? So you’re not worried?”

  “No.” Saint smiled at him, and then shared that smile with those members of the crowd, the press in particular, who were listening. “The only thing I’m worried about these days is Pittman resigning with the Bucs.”

  Laughter—from everyone except Palmer. The reporter himself didn’t even crack a smile.

  “I hear that’s a done deal,” Palmer said.

  “Well, I’m glad. That means I can relax and enjoy the evening. And I invite you all—” his gaze took in the crowd again “—to do the same. Especially you, Danny.”

  “I’m working,” Palmer said.

  Saint shook his head. “All work and no play, Danny. You know what they say.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Oh, but I do.” Saint took a step forward, and lowered his voice so that only Palmer could hear him. “You know I do, Danny. I worry about you quite a bit, actually.”

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the man visibly pale, and struggle for a response. Saint didn’t give him the chance to find one.

  With a final wave to the crowd, he turned back to his wife and entered the club.

  Saints and Sinners was—as John had so eloquently put it—a multiple-use facility. He’d originally built it intending to rent out the ground floor as a restaurant, and use the second story as a private club for his friends and closest business associates.

  They’d barely broken ground on the project, though, when John and Bobby had come to him, suggesting that they open a nightclub in the space instead.

  The name—Bobby’s suggestion—had sealed the deal. Saints and Sinners. Howard had loved it from the first.

  The ground floor had been split into a half-dozen different rooms, for the differing clienteles that the club attracted. Also Bobby’s idea—a club room for the rich twenty-somethings; a cigar lounge for the overachieving young businessmen and women; even a restaurant, with tables, quieter music, a minimal food menu—for Howard Saint’s business associates and friends. He and Livia would end up there later this evening, more likely, but for now, they were headed for the club room.

  To reach it, though, they had to pass through another throng of well-wishers, crammed together by the coat check. More handshakes and smiles, more small talk. Saint exchanged views about the upcoming city council race with Commissioner Myers; promised Ben Mix, his number two at Saint Motors, ten minutes tomorrow morning; complimented Rebecca Grafton, who did public relations for all his companies, on the dress she was wearing; managed a few quick words with District Attorney LaRue on some outs
tanding business.

  Just as he finished speaking to the DA, he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.

  He found himself face-to-face with Quentin Glass. For the first time all night, a smile of genuine pleasure crossed his face.

  “Quentin,” he said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Good crowd tonight. Excellent work.”

  Glass was Saint’s right-hand man—the only one who’d been with him from the very beginning, since Howard Saint had arrived in Tampa almost twenty years ago, determined to make something of himself. Glass had stayed with him every step of the way, through the good times and the bad, helping him do just that. Just as tonight he’d helped gather a cross section of Tampa’s key movers and shakers— politicians and businessmen, entertainment figures and sports stars—to be seen here with Howard Saint. It was not officially a fund-raiser—Saint hadn’t declared his candidacy yet—but connections were certainly being made tonight. Valuable connections.

  “Thank you, Howard. Believe me, it wasn’t that hard. They all wanted to be here.” Glass leaned closer to his employer and lowered his voice. “Lincoln reports that problem from before has been taken care of, by the way.”

  “Ah.” Reston. Saint nodded in satisfaction.

  Glass looked over his employer’s shoulder then, and smiled. “Livia. You look extraordinary tonight.”

  “Flatterer.” She linked her arm through Saint’s and gestured toward the bar, where the crowd was two and three people deep. “What are the chances of getting something to drink?”

  “Considering you own the place . . . excellent. Let’s get you seated first.”

  Glass led them to a table in the center of the room and pulled out a chair for Livia. As she sat, people at the bar turned and noticed Saint for the first time. Someone started applauding—a second later, the entire room followed suit. Flashbulbs popped again.