"The police are three minutes out," he said, his voice softer than it had been all night. "When they get here, you tell them the truth. And you tell them you don't know who opened the door."
Frank Castle knelt in the crawlspace of an abandoned tenement on 43rd. His knees ached against the shattered concrete, but he didn’t move. Through a crack in the brickwork, he watched the back door of The Silver Rail —a dive bar that served as a unofficial clearinghouse for human filth. o justiceiro serie
They were amateurs.
Frank’s face didn't change. There was no anger. No rage. That was for the battlefield. This was something colder. A funeral dirge played on a single, repeating note. "The police are three minutes out," he said,