So much turmoil in his own backyard had rattled the rank and file. With no better option, Frank had decided to return to New York ahead of schedule.
He'd told his trusted lieutenant Jimmy over the phone that he'd be arriving by red-eye, landing around midnight, and to have the crew assembled by twelve. But Frank — cunning and paranoid by nature — wasn't about to let his guard down at a moment like this.
He had no way of knowing whether Jimmy had turned. On paper, Wilson Fisk had several times Frank's resources. And behind the scenes, Fisk was reportedly aligned with the shadowy Hand organization. Jimmy might have been coerced. He might have been bought. Either was possible.
Even if Jimmy was completely loyal, that didn't mean there wasn't a Wilson plant somewhere deeper in the ranks — someone who'd pass along Frank's exact schedule and route.
Frank knew exactly how this worked. He hadn't started his career as a boss. He'd come up under someone else, and his old boss had been "visited" by rivals one day, in circumstances that — to an outsider — might have looked random. Frank knew better. He was the one who'd set it up.
So: everything he'd told Jimmy about his flight, his route, and his arrival time was false.
By 10 AM, Frank had already boarded an overnight flight to Philadelphia. From there, a two-hour drive brought him to Hudson Pier, where he personally met with a select group of loyal subordinates to stabilize morale and shore up his core support base.
He also quietly instructed everyone to move up the assembly time by five hours — to 7 PM that evening, at his building — so that even if something went sideways, he'd have room to maneuver.
With all that arranged, Frank retreated to a safe house, napped, ate a proper meal, showered, and changed into a fresh suit. At 6:15 PM, rested and sharp, he got behind the wheel of his own car and drove toward his stronghold.
He never made it out of the pier district.
At the intersection of West 4th Street and Hudson River Boulevard, a beat-up patrol motorcycle clipped the rear of his car.
The Rolls-Royce Phantom — his limited-edition model, barely two months old, $300,000 — now had a scraped rear panel.
Whatever calm Frank had managed to rebuild evaporated instantly.
Officer George Stacy was, if anything, having it worse.
A few days ago he'd crossed borough lines at 4 or 5 AM to check out a crime scene — earned himself some goodwill in the process, or so he'd thought. But the promotion and raise he'd hoped for never materialized. Just a pat on the head from the superintendent, who'd apparently taken note of him.
His immediate superior at the patrol division hadn't seen it that way at all. That night, it was his supervisor who was supposed to cover Hudson Pier — and his supervisor had been hiding in a bar when dispatch called in. He'd quietly sent the rookie — George — to check things out in his place. When the case blew up into a major investigation drawing attention all the way from the chief's office, his supervisor's dereliction of duty came to light along with it, and the blowback landed on George.
As punishment, his patrol car had been swapped for a rusted motorcycle, and he'd been reassigned from beat cop to traffic duty.
He'd previously worked nights — practically nocturnal himself, often still roaming Manhattan at 4 or 5 AM. Now he was on days. His body clock hadn't caught up yet.
He was half-asleep when he drifted into the side of what turned out to be a Rolls-Royce Phantom.
When he shook himself awake and registered the license plate, his blood ran cold. The money he'd been saving for months — the wedding fund — was almost certainly gone.
Before he could even form a coherent apology, Frank shoved his door open, walked up to the officer, and drove a kick straight into his gut.
"Are you blind?! You scratched my car, you piece of garbage!"
George hit the pavement, the wind knocked out of him. When he looked up and saw who'd kicked him, he came very close to wetting himself. Frank Gardes. Even the NYPD commissioner was careful around this man.
He started to get up, intending to apologize — the accident had clearly been his fault —
But Frank's face had gone rigid. Something behind his eyes shifted. He peeled back his Armani jacket and drew the silver Beretta 92 from his waistband. His hand was trembling. He raised it at George from less than six feet away and fired twice.
Bang. Bang.
George saw the muzzle flash. His lower body went completely slack, and he wet himself. He let out a strangled cry and crumpled to the ground.
I haven't even gotten married yet. I can't die like this. Anna — goodbye—
Warm, spreading shame. And then — confusion. Because from somewhere nearby, he heard someone else scream in pain.
He lay there for a few disoriented seconds, slowly realizing he was still breathing.
He turned his head. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie — bald, heavyset — was clutching his upper left arm, blood soaking through his fingers, wailing.
George pressed his own cheek. No blood. Just a sting — the muzzle flash must have sprayed sparks when the gun discharged.
He hadn't been shot. He was alive.
He nearly wept from relief.
Then a metallic clatter made him look down. The silver Beretta 92 was lying in the road. The barrel was touching his leg.
Frank felt as though something had hijacked his body. He'd drawn his weapon and fired twice at a uniformed police officer, surrounded by witnesses on a public street. Even if he'd genuinely wanted George dead, there were a hundred quieter ways to do it — he had people for that, methods that left no trace. So why had he just done this? Out in the open. In front of civilians. With no control.
And now, just as suddenly, the feeling was gone. He squeezed his fist experimentally. His strength had returned.
Then he registered: the officer wasn't dead. George Stacy was shakily getting to his feet and picking up the gun.
The barrel was slowly rising toward him.
Frank bolted for his car door, shouting: "What the—"
He didn't finish.
Bang. Bang.
Two shots.
Frank dropped face-first onto the asphalt. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. A dark hole in the center of his forehead. White and red seeping together, spreading slowly across the blacktop.
George Stacy stood there for a moment, looking at the gun in his hand as though he'd never seen it before. Then he flung it away like it had burned him, dropped to his knees, wrapped his arms around his own head, and started sobbing.
"A demon — it had to be a demon! I lost control — something took over — something was inside me!"
Under the dim streetlamp, in the shadow where George crouched, no one noticed a thin grey thread quietly retracting into the darkness.
Maya extended her sensory perception, confirmed Frank Gardes was truly, irreversibly dead, and let out a long, slow breath.
She wiped the genuine sweat from her forehead.
Then she slipped quietly away from the crowd of screaming onlookers and walked home.