"Mason," Fisk said, his voice deceptively calm, though anyone who had worked for him long enough knew this was what the underground king sounded like when he was furious, "I pay you people millions of dollars every year. I gave you the most secure hidden lab in all of New York. Not so some reporter from the Daily Bugle could wave photographs around and expose my supply chain."
The Tinkerer was clearly one of the old guard, someone who had been with Fisk for a long time.
And right now, he was drenched in sweat.
His glasses were practically sliding off his face.
Why?
Because he was on his knees.
"Mr. Fisk, this really isn't on me!" the Tinkerer said, terrified out of his mind. "I only handle the technical side, the design and assembly. The problem is those gang idiots. They're not discreet at all. They're practically trading fire with the cops in broad daylight, showing off like idiots. And something went wrong inside those companies too. Somebody handed the ledger to that reporter!"
He was genuinely panicking. As far as he was concerned, he was just a researcher.
"Norman, that old fox, cut off all trade with me last night," Fisk said, turning around and calmly helping the Tinkerer to his feet. "Mason, I'm not a tyrant. I'm a businessman. So don't be afraid."
It sounded like comfort.
It did not feel like comfort.
"This article is the spark," Fisk continued. "That new commissioner, George Stacy, announced this morning that he's forming an Anti-High-Tech Crime Task Force. If we don't stop the bleeding fast, they'll eventually follow the line straight back to the import-export companies under my name."
That was what had truly enraged Fisk.
It meant the police were serious this time. And that new commissioner, the one he had hoped to quietly bring into line, clearly could not be bought, pressured, or turned.
The news had answered that question for him.
"Should we destroy the remaining inventory?" Mason asked carefully.
"No." Fisk's answer came instantly. "That technology, those weapons, they're what we use to keep the street rats under control. Without them, they'd scatter the moment the police pushed back hard enough. They'd run like vermin, and when that happened, they'd stop being useful to us."
Fisk understood these things clearly.
This was part of his design.
"But," he added, pressing the intercom button on his desk, "we can make sure the Daily Bugle never speaks again."
He looked toward the speaker grille.
"Contact Shocker. Tell him to suit up and hit the Daily Bugle. I want Ben Parker and every draft, note, and piece of evidence they've got turned to rubble. Let them learn that some things can be said, and some things cannot."
His tone stayed smooth and even.
"By tomorrow, every newsroom in New York will understand exactly what happens when people stick their hands where they don't belong."
The Tinkerer looked startled.
He had never thought of Kingpin as reckless, but this?
It was broad daylight.
"In broad daylight?" Mason blurted out. "An attack on a newspaper building in Manhattan? That won't just bring the police. The National Guard, even the military, could get involved!"
Fisk looked at him almost patiently.
"Do I strike you as stupid, Mason? Of course it happens at dusk. That's when they'll be preparing tomorrow's paper." His gaze hardened. "Tell Shocker to do it cleanly. If he makes a mess of it, you know what follows."
Ten in the morning, Midtown High.
This was Peter and the others' first day at school with powers.
Cindy spent the entire day being absurdly careful, terrified she would lose control.
Even after a full afternoon of training yesterday, accidental web discharge was still a very real problem for her.
As a result, Gwen had effectively spent the whole morning acting as Cindy's bodyguard, and things only got easier once lunch rolled around.
Meanwhile, Clark, who had stayed home claiming he didn't feel well, was now sitting on the slope of his roof.
Around him was a quiet neighborhood.
Nice neighbors mowing their lawns.
Dogs happily keeping their owners company in front yards.
It all looked peaceful.
But Clark could hear and see much more than that.
The moment he activated his super-hearing, an overwhelming flood of useless information crashed into his mind, enough to bring sweat to his forehead.
He had to pick out what mattered from the noise.
In one of the most densely populated cities in the world, that was incredibly difficult.
But after a while, he finally locked onto the Daily Bugle building.
The loudest thing inside was still Jameson's furious voice tearing into interns, but eventually Clark found what he wanted, Ben's office.
"Got you."
Clark lay back on the roof like someone simply sunbathing, listening.
Kingpin would never let this go.
This was 2008. Superheroes barely existed in the public eye. Fisk was bolder because of it. In New York, almost no one could openly defy him.
Ben's article had not only threatened their money.
It had challenged their authority.
And if Fisk wanted to strike back, he would choose the most direct method possible.
The most visible.
The kind of retaliation everyone would see.
From late morning into the afternoon, time passed little by little.
Nothing unusual happened beneath the building.
Then, just as the newsroom was preparing for deadline, Clark opened his eyes.
Three unmarked delivery trucks had pulled up around the Bugle building.
The back doors flew open.
He heard bolts being racked.
And the unmistakable electric hum of powered equipment.
"They're here."
Clark rose to his feet and jumped off the house.
He crouched slightly, then his legs exploded with force. His body became a streak cutting through the air as he shot toward the building.
Evening in Manhattan was loud and crowded as ever, especially around the Daily Bugle building today.
On the twelfth floor, the editorial department was in a state of total chaos.
The phones had not stopped ringing all day.
Typewriters and printers had been going nonstop since morning.
"I want the follow-up on that shell company! Not useless celebrity gossip! Rewrite it! Rewrite the whole damn thing!"
Editor-in-chief J. Jonah Jameson stood at the door of his glass office, waving a still-unfinished proof roll in his hand while roaring at the reporters outside.
Ben Parker sat at his desk in the managing editor's office, coffee in hand, staring at his computer screen.
As deafening as Jameson was outside, Ben himself felt strangely calm.
More than calm.
He was excited.
He knew the front-page story that ran that morning was only the beginning. The timeline he was compiling now, tracing the movement of black-market weapons, was the real nail.
The one that could finally pin the vampires hiding in New York to the cross.
"Ben, the mayor's press office called again," one of the interns said nervously, edging closer and pointing toward the internal line. "They hinted that if we keep publishing stories about Hell's Kitchen tomorrow, the paper might run into... tax complications next year."
"Tell them Editor-in-Chief Jameson says he'll personally buy the tax auditors coffee when they arrive. Then hang up." Ben didn't even look away from the screen.
"And, uh, managing editor, there's also word from the police. They said they'll send people first thing tomorrow morning to protect our staff."
"Tell George thanks for me. It's good to have him back." That was the first genuinely good news Ben had heard from law enforcement all day.
Old neighbors were reliable.
Just as the intern turned to go handle the calls...
***************************
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