The Punisher - Part 2 -

Frank stopped two feet away. He could smell the man’s cologne—sandalwood and fear.

He didn’t announce himself. No speech. No warning. The first round punched through Volkov’s throat. The second took the knee of the Russian beside him. As the man fell, screaming, Frank transitioned to the two Vaccaro bodyguards—three shots, two hearts, one head. The third Russian reached for his waistband. Frank’s fourth round went through his hand, then his hip. The Punisher - Part 2

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. “Vaccaro moves in 20. Roof of the Lexford. Exchange with the Bratva. Don’t be late.” Frank didn’t ask who. He didn’t trust anyone. But he checked the intel anyway—cross-referencing it with three separate feeds he’d tapped into over the last month. It fit. Vaccaro always took the high ground. He liked to look down on the animals he fed. The Lexford Hotel was a crumbling art deco relic, its upper floors condemned after a fire five years ago. Perfect for a meeting no one was supposed to see. Frank stopped two feet away