Rain hammers the roof. Hell's Kitchen blurs past the windshield in streaks of neon red and yellow, a city bleeding light into wet asphalt.

You take the corner at 9th and 43rd fast enough that the van's rear end shudders, grips, and holds.

In the passenger seat, Frank Castle braces one scarred hand against the dash without looking up from the pistol in his lap. He is six-two of bad news in a skull-painted vest, and he does not flinch.

In the back, wedged between a duffel bag of flashbangs and a folding table stacked with monitors, David Lieberman does not look up from his screen.