#3 - Targets
"A Dark, Twisting Path, Part Three"
He leaves her sleeping in the bedroom, not wanting to rouse her from the sleep that eluded him so effectively this evening. Alone, he steps out to the balcony, leaving the French doors parted behind him, allowing the thin curtains to flow in and out of the bedroom, twisting in the autumn winds. Silently, he hopes that the cold breeze will not wake his wife, knowing that he will then need to explain his reasons for being up at this hour. And for men such as himself, he should never have to explain himself.
Searching his memory, he tries to remember the last night he had a good night’s sleep, a night when he closed his eyes from sunset to sunrise with no interruptions. Shaking his head, he gives up and turns his eyes to the city below, a city so much like himself. A city that never sleeps.
He had always been an insomniac, for as long as he could remember. For years, it had helped him, given him the time that he needed to maneuver himself into this position of power. On the streets, it had even earned him the nickname Joey No-Winks, although no one has the nerve to use that name anymore. No, Joseph LaMotta is not a man who is trifled with, especially by those who wish to continue their lives.
Closing his eyes briefly, he rolls the coffee cup in his hands, wondering where the warmth disappeared to. Sighing softly, he turns back to his bedroom door. Leaning back against the railing, his eyes drift up to the dark silhouette framed against the curtains. He smiles briefly then says, "You are late, Pondexter. When I have money involved, I expect the utmost obedience, and that includes punctuality."
"I’m here, ain’t I?" The man responds, a wry smile rising in his lips, twisting up at the edges with a slight degree of malaise. His eyes remain hidden by the darkness, covered by the shadow that stretches down from the eve above. "So, you got the numbers or you gonna send me back to the fat boy? I hear he’s enjoying some sun right now."
LaMotta scowls, not favoring the hints that the assassin is dropping. He’s trying to establish a larger power base, and if there’s anything he’s trying to instill in his people, it’s the need to move on from the past. And especially from the Kingpin. "You should know better than to raise that topic in my presence. My money is not spent unwisely, and it most certainly can be spent elsewhere. I am not opposed to employing others for my needs."
"Go for it. But one of two things are gonna happen. Maybe both."
"And what is that?"
"One, you hire other muscles and they schmooze the job. Bad mojo. Two, you hire other muscle and I run the other mooks through because they’re horning in on my cash flow. Either way, you ain’t spending your money good unless you’re investing in me. Take out the middle man and get the job done right."
He sizes up the situation, smiling slightly at the assassin’s idea of negotiation. Setting the cup of cold coffee upon the ledge next to him, LaMotta continues, "Reputation on the street states that you have difficulties with a certain masked vigilante who will go unnamed at this time. How do you plan to prevent that from coming down upon me?"
The man doesn’t respond with words, his smile growing wider as he stares back at LaMotta. His hands move like lightning, twisting a dime from his pocket and launching it through the air. The coin impacts with the coffee cup, shattering it into several pieces which cascade over the edge of the balcony. Grinning maliciously, he chuckles. "Bullseye."
His heart races a mile per minute, the heartbeat echoing in his ears like thunder rumbling over the horizon. For a moment, he wonders how he found himself here, facing down an urban myth of Biblical proportions. He remembers the sleepless night, the mysterious women in the streets, the memories of Karen, and the dead priest dying in his arms.*
* (See Daredevil #1 for details – Michael)
He dives to the right, twisting to the side, and pulls his legs to his chest as he rolls into a crouch. His ears search for any sign of the Sin-Eater, a heartbeat, the shuffle of feet, anything that his extraordinary senses can pick up. But he is greeted with nothing but silence, until a voice cries in his mind. "Run, run, little devil. For your sin is the greatest of all, and the hunt shall be worthwhile for it."
Against his cheek, he feels a slight ruffle of wind moving from the left to right, and he launches his billy-club into the air, aiming purposely forward and hoping that his target remains along the same path. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone," he says, hoping to calm his own mounting fears by resorting to repartee. But his hopes are dashed as the sound of the club striking the far wall and ricocheting drifts back to his ears. Nothing but air.
It strikes back immediately, closing in on Daredevil with a speed that defies all of Matt’s extra senses. An iron fist connects with Matt’s ribcage, sending splinters of pain shooting through his nervous system as he bends forward from the impact. Following up the attack, the Sin-Eater slashes across Matt’s abdomen, raking through the weave of his costume with its claws. "Ahh, yes. Sweet is the taste of your sin, still fresh in its womb and waiting to spring forth into the world. But it shall not have that chance to grow, instead it shall feed me and my hunger."
As he stumbles backward, his hand wraps itself around his waist, feeling the warmth of his own blood flowing from the open wounds. He knows that there is little hope of defeating this monster, little hope of surviving for long if he doesn’t stop the bleeding soon, but still, there is one hope that he has yet to rely upon.
Faith. The unshakeable admiration and trust he had once placed in the Lord, his Father. But with Karen gone, Matt is unsure whether or not God is watching over him anymore, and with that doubt, comes a loss of faith.
But is a man without faith also a man without hope?
Halfway between sleep and dream, she feels the movement on the bed beside her, and for a moment she believes it is her husband. But then she feels the touch of cloth spread across her face and her eyes snap open, staring straight into the green lenses of her tormentor’s night vision glasses. She has long known her husband’s dealings, known that he pulled strings behind the scenes, but Maria LaMotta has never believed that danger would follow her into their own home.
The red head raises a finger to her lips, signaling for Maria to remain quiet. Glancing from left to right, the red head seems assured that the room is clear of hostiles, and she removes her goggles, lowering them around her neck. Keeping her eyes fixed on the woman below her, she says, "Good evening, Mrs. LaMotta. You have no reason to fear, provided you give me the information that I need. I am the Black Widow, a member of the Avengers…"
"Please no," Maria spouts forth in hushed whispers, a look of sheer terror splayed across her face as she interrupts. And despite her desperate tones, she finds her words turning to lies, words she had memorized long ago. "My husband has done nothing wrong. You have no right to take him into custody."
"I am not here for your husband, despite what I know of his dealings within the New York Underworld. And contrary to what may be your own belief, your husband is no saint, by even the least stringent . However, I am not here in that capacity, nor have I come on behalf of the Avengers or S.H.I.E.L.D. Instead, I have come seeking a business partner of your husband’s. Where is your husband, this evening?"
"Her husband is right here." He calls out, moments before dousing the room in light. Framed in the doorway to the corridor, he is an imposing man, wide in the shoulders and thick in the torso. As he steps further into the room, his brow furrows deeply and his low bass inquires, "To what do I owe the honor this evening? As my wife has said, I have done nothing beyond the precepts laid forth by the law of this land, nor have my business pursuits. Thus, you have no basis for being in my home. I believe that they call this breaking and entering. "
"I am not here to call to bear your indiscretions. I come only for information concerning a man in your employ. This man works under the alias Bullseye, and he is regarded as an assassin of the highest caliber, oft-time employed by the wealthy and powerful of the criminal underworld. I want to know his present whereabouts and the last time you saw him."
"My, word seems to rumble through the sewer urchin rather quickly these days." LaMotta responds, shaking his head while his gaze refuses to move away from the Widow. "You have come into my home, threatened my wife, and you expect me to readily supply you with information?"
"But of course. You wife is in direct jeopardy, and I am not acting within any government jurisdiction, so I am free to enact justice as I see fit. I think that I have given you sufficient threat to provide me with the information I desire."
"Perhaps, but I am not a man who is easily swayed by veiled advances upon my kin."
"I am sorry. Was I being vague in my intentions?" Natasha teases, the energy caster on her left wrist lighting up with electrical energy, lighting Maria LaMotta’s face in a hue of pale blue.
They stare at each other for the longest time, each unwavering in their gaze. Both are steadfast in the convictions, stubborn unto the end, and unwilling to relent. Finally, LaMotta scowls deeply, and says, "If it is Bullseye that you want, then name your time and place. I will see to it that he is there."
He runs, feeling the floorboards impact against his feet as he twists further into the warehouse. And then a wave of dizziness hits him, and his feet slip out from beneath, thrusting his body forward to the floor. At first, he wants to give into the desire to pass out, let the dark sweep over him and maybe, just maybe, save him from the pain that is coming.
But then he understands that there is little point in surrender. His father never would have surrendered, and even stood his ground when the Mafia tried to blackmail him into taking a dive. Even when faced with death, his father had remained a fighter. And Matt knows that there is no other way to go on, other than by honoring his father by standing his ground this evening.*
*(As detailed in the Daredevil: Man Without Fear miniseries – Michael)
"You have me wounded. You have me frightened. And you have me running, but I refuse to run anymore. You’ll have to just get it over with, so why don’t you come out and face me like a man?" He says, climbing to his feet and straightening his posture, despite the pain echoing through his abdomen. Within seconds, he feels its presence upon him, only inches from his position.
"Bravery and valor will get you no where, devil-angel. For your sin is still your own, and you will find no safety by feigning a newfound faith." The Sin-Eater replies, coalescing before him and assuming a humanoid shape. Its hand shoots forward, enwrapping Daredevil’s neck and lifting Matt off the ground, and as it stares at him with piercing eyes, it asks, "Tell me, devil-angel, how does it feel to at last be blind to all around you, including that which you had held onto for so long."
Struggling from breath, Matt coughs out, "I have not gone blind to my faith, but I have lost sight of it. And perhaps I am angry and disillusioned with God right now. I have every right to be. But does that mean I have forgotten who I am? It certainly does not."
Swinging his lower body forward, Matt drives his feet into the head of the Sin-Eater, connecting with the creatures forehead and sending it stumbling back, as it drops Matt to the ground. But he doesn’t relent, taking the time to send his batons flying at the creature and listening to the crunching impact. But the creature is quick to recover and issues forth a high-pitched wail that sends Daredevil’s ultra-hearing into overdrive.
"Pathetic creature, you have tried your best. Now take your sentence."
It should take only a moment to bring death upon him, but in that moment, Matt feels an extreme heat above him, and then the smell of burning flesh assails his senses. It is in the next second that he realizes that the burning flesh is not his own, but that of the Sin-Eater. Taking the chance to breathe, he tilts his head skyward, and wonders what has happened. Then the warmth disappears, and there is the sound of impact as the Sin-Eater’s body collapses to the floor next to him.
An arm wraps around his waist and gently hauls Matt to his feet, trying not to disturb the wound. Stammering, Matt finds the energy to speak once more, asking, "Who? How?"
"Who I am is not important, for my identity matters not as much as your safety. The How is simple," a man’s voice says, responding to Matt’s inquiry. "The Sin-Eater must inhabit a mortal shell while on this plane, making him vulnerable to a degree. Thus, the flames from my blade were enough to vanquish him back to his dimension for the time being. It shall be some time before we see it again."
"But how did you find me?"
"You aren’t the only one that can follow a clue." He answers him once again, guiding Daredevil down the corridor to the front door. The sound of sirens drifts to his ears, and he lowers Matt down against a wall. "My recommendation now is to get yourself out of here. There is a free clinic a couple blocks down the street where they will honor your desire to keep the mask on. There is no point in waiting for the police to arrive, especially given the stench of death which has followed the Sin-Eater."
Leaning back against the wall, Matt breathes heavily, and listens to the stranger’s heartbeat, calm and steady with a slight irregularity every fifth beat. He reaches out to the stranger, feeling the heavy silk of his costume and saying, "Thank you."
"Think nothing of it. I was only doing as any hero would do."
Matt listens for a second, and then even the stranger’s heartbeat is gone, and he is alone once more. The sound of sirens begins to draw closer, and deciding that discretion is the better part of valor, Daredevil slips into the shadows and begins to head toward the clinic.
The next day.
He stretches his arms, working out the kinks in his back from a night spent tossing and turning in a bed that is long overdue for a new mattress. And despite how often he has complained about that bed, Foggy is still reticent to drop the extra money on replacing it. He’s had it for as long as he can remember.
Disengaging the deadbolt on his door and sliding the chain lock out of its housing, Foggy opens the door and bends down to pick up the newspaper. He begins humming a song as he allows the door to close behind him, and he tears away the plastic wrapping from the newspaper.
A look of worry crosses over his face, as he sees an image that he had never thought he’d see on the front page of the Daily Bugle. Instead of the normal Spider-Man story, there is a large headline and a police artist’s rendering of Daredevil spread across the top half of the front page.
HELL’S KITCHEN DEFENDER SUSPECTED IN THEOLOGICAL SLAYINGS
| 
