It isn't a long walk, but it feels as though it may as well be miles.
The steamer is quiet around them; people are cowering, doing their best to protect themselves and their children. That's for the best. The last thing they need is more possible collateral damage.
Michael's tense, and the girl is shaking, but he can't think too hard about either of them, his mind caught by the offhand comment of the treacherous bodyguard.
There's no way. He would know.
So he's almost relieved when the door to the cockpit is unlocked and opened by one of the two armed thugs inside and he lays eyes on Pierre only to not recognize him.
It's a small mercy, but one nonetheless, and he relaxes, slightly, as the man turns to face them. He'd been crouched by the group of frightened children, but they seem unharmed, for now, and that's another one of those little pieces of luck.
Of course, now, it immediately runs out.
He's tall, Pierre, with a carefully manicured beard and mustache, trimmed into swirls of dark hair over his cheeks and jaw, but his eyes are sharp and they land on the girl first.
"Ah," he says, brightening into a smile. "Good! Excellent work."
That's when he looks up, and to the girl's right, and sees Wolfwood.
It takes less than a second to realize he's screwed.
Pierre frowns, staring. "I know you," he says, slow. "The priest who rings the black funeral bell. They call you Ch--"
Unleashing the Punisher is an act so instinctive he may as well have been born with it. The belts and cloth can drop in a split second, and he's armed before two have passed, but two seconds is too long when the other guy has a gun.
Wolfwood's hand moves, and Pierre lifts his pistol, swiftly, fires.
He can feel the bullet ripping across his shoulder even as he throws himself to the side.
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The steamer is quiet around them; people are cowering, doing their best to protect themselves and their children. That's for the best. The last thing they need is more possible collateral damage.
Michael's tense, and the girl is shaking, but he can't think too hard about either of them, his mind caught by the offhand comment of the treacherous bodyguard.
There's no way. He would know.
So he's almost relieved when the door to the cockpit is unlocked and opened by one of the two armed thugs inside and he lays eyes on Pierre only to not recognize him.
It's a small mercy, but one nonetheless, and he relaxes, slightly, as the man turns to face them. He'd been crouched by the group of frightened children, but they seem unharmed, for now, and that's another one of those little pieces of luck.
Of course, now, it immediately runs out.
He's tall, Pierre, with a carefully manicured beard and mustache, trimmed into swirls of dark hair over his cheeks and jaw, but his eyes are sharp and they land on the girl first.
"Ah," he says, brightening into a smile. "Good! Excellent work."
That's when he looks up, and to the girl's right, and sees Wolfwood.
It takes less than a second to realize he's screwed.
Pierre frowns, staring. "I know you," he says, slow. "The priest who rings the black funeral bell. They call you Ch--"
Unleashing the Punisher is an act so instinctive he may as well have been born with it. The belts and cloth can drop in a split second, and he's armed before two have passed, but two seconds is too long when the other guy has a gun.
Wolfwood's hand moves, and Pierre lifts his pistol, swiftly, fires.
He can feel the bullet ripping across his shoulder even as he throws himself to the side.