The final bell rang, unleashing the usual flood of students toward the Midtown High exits. Without a Detective Club meeting on the schedule, Harry and Amadeus packed up their bags to head home. Peter, however, had bolted out the classroom door before the bell even finished echoing.
"Hello, boys."
Gwen's voice stopped them halfway down the front steps. Harry and Amadeus turned, looking as guilty and bewildered as if a teacher had just cold-called them during a pop quiz.
"Oh, hey, Gwen," Harry said, shifting his weight. "Did you need something?"
Gwen crossed her arms. Her eyes tracked the crowd spilling onto the sidewalk, searching for a specific face. "Peter didn't walk out with you?"
"He never walks with us," Amadeus said. He adjusted his backpack, the heavy straps digging into his narrow shoulders. "He always has somewhere to be." Amadeus glanced at Harry. "I mean, we've known each other for less than two weeks. It's not really weird that he goes home alone."
Gwen's brow furrowed. She wasn't asking a question anymore; she was confirming a theory. "So... neither of you know what he actually does after school, either."
Harry blinked, finally catching up to the implication. "Wait. Are you saying Peter is sneaking off somewhere?"
"No," Gwen said smoothly, her expression tightening. "I'm just saying he gets home late."
Down by the street, Mary Jane called out, waving Gwen over for band practice. Gwen offered the boys a brief wave and hurried down the steps. Amadeus pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, watching her go.
"What do you think Peter is doing?" Amadeus asked.
Harry shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. "No idea. But considering the rest of us, Peter is probably the most honest guy in our group."
High above the concrete canyons of Manhattan, Peter was currently defying gravity.
He released a webline, launching himself over a water tower. New York had been eerily peaceful all day. The occasional mugging or break-in was being handled with brutal efficiency before Peter could even reach the zip code.
"JARVIS, pull up the Avengers' satellite network," Peter said, the wind rushing past his mask. "Do we have a lock on my imposter or the Punisher?"
The Chameleon had aggressively expanded his patrol routes beyond Hell's Kitchen. Peter knew the play. Dmitri was trying to stay mobile to avoid Frank Castle's crosshairs. But Peter also knew Quentin Beck was running the board. Half the "Spider-Man" sightings today were likely just sophisticated light-particle holograms. If the Punisher took a shot at a hologram, he would instantly compromise his position and blow the entire operation.
JARVIS's crisp voice filled the earpiece. "Satellite sweeps confirm a Spider-Man anomaly in the Garment District. Frank Castle's position remains undetected."
Peter banked hard off a glass facade, swinging toward the district. If the satellites couldn't find Castle, that meant the man was doing his job. Castle would pick a high-elevation blind spot, completely shielded from overhead surveillance, with a clear line of sight to the target.
Peter landed silently on the edge of a pre-war apartment roof. He dropped into a crouch, scanning the surrounding architecture.
Got you.
Two rooftops over, tucked behind a massive HVAC unit, Frank Castle lay prone in the shadows.
Castle peered through a pair of heavy military binoculars. Down in the alley below, "Spider-Man" was brutally dismantling three armed thugs. It was a textbook setup. Castle had spent years learning the exact rhythm of the city's criminal underbelly.
Suddenly, Castle froze. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
He dropped the binoculars. He rolled onto his back, his hand snapping to the M1911 pistol holstered at his thigh. He drew the weapon in a blur.
Thwip.
A line of webbing caught the barrel. The gun ripped violently from Castle's grip.
Peter hung upside down from a rusted fire escape directly above him, the stolen pistol dangling from his hand. "Hey, buddy," Peter said, holding his free hand up. "Let's bring the heart rate down a little."
Castle didn't flinch. He lunged to his right, grabbing the heavy sniper rifle resting on the gravel.
Thwip. A second web grabbed the rifle stock. Peter ripped it away, flipped backward, and landed softly on the roof deck. He stuck both weapons to the brick wall behind him. "I know exactly what you're trying to do. But before you shoot anybody, we need to talk."
Castle slowly got to his feet. His eyes were cold, calculating the distance between them. "There's nothing to talk about. If you're standing up here, the guy in the alley is the Chameleon. I put a round in his skull, and we all go home."
"That's the problem," Peter said. He tapped the side of his mask. Inside the lenses, thermal imaging washed over the alley below. The brick walls glowed with residual heat. The alley floor was entirely black. "There's nobody down there. The thugs, the fake Spider-Man—it's empty air. It's a projection."
Castle frowned. He snatched his binoculars off the gravel and looked down at the alley. He stared at the flawless, brutal choreography happening below. He lowered the lenses, his jaw clenching.
"Son of a bitch."
"Modified Horizon Labs tech," Peter explained. "Someone hooked up with the Chameleon. They're broadcasting hyper-realistic light constructs across the city."
"I've been tracking ghosts all day," Castle growled, his voice like grinding stones. "Seven different drop points. All fake."
"They're chumming the water," Peter said. He reached over, ripped the webbing off the pistol, and tossed it back to Castle, handle first. "They want to lure me into a real kill-box. And I'm going to let them."
Castle caught the gun, holstering it smoothly. He studied Peter. "You walk into the meat grinder to flush them out. I put the Chameleon down from the perimeter."
"Basically," Peter said. "But first, I need a straight answer. Why are you hunting him so hard? Is he really that monstrous?"
Castle let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Monstrous? If you mean some sci-fi freakshow, no. He's just a mercenary. He kills for a paycheck. And he's got over twenty bodies on his ledger."
"And the law can't handle him?" Peter asked.
"I know a lawyer in Hell's Kitchen," Castle said, turning his back to the ledge. "Even he can't indict a ghost. How do you put a man on trial when he doesn't have a face? If the NYPD actually manages to lock him up, give it a week. The CIA or the FBI will quietly pull him out to run black ops. Nobody in the system wants him dead." Castle looked back at Peter, his eyes dead flat. "Except me."
Peter stood silently for a moment, digesting the cold reality of Castle's worldview. He reached into one of the hidden utility pockets on his waist and pulled out a cheap, plastic flip-phone.
"Give me your number," Peter said. "I'm going to hit their setup tomorrow around four in the afternoon. I'll text you the coordinates when I move."
Castle hesitated. Trust didn't come naturally to him, especially not with guys in spandex. But he reached out, took the burner phone, and punched in a secured sequence.
Peter took the phone back, snapped it shut, and vaulted over the roof ledge, diving into the city streets. He was perfectly fine letting the Chameleon run himself ragged for another twenty-four hours. Peter had a trap of his own to prepare.
Far away in Queens, Carl King was not preparing a trap. He was currently curled into a tight, agonizing ball on his mattress.
His skin burned with a terrifying, unnatural heat. Angry, raised red welts covered his arms and neck, pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat. The dead Osborn spider he had swallowed hadn't given him superpowers. It had dragged him into hell.
Am I dying? Carl thought, his teeth chattering violently. Am I going to die?
The bedroom door clicked open. Mrs. King stood in the hallway, clutching a tray of soup and toast. Her eyes were red and swollen. She stared at her son, trembling, completely terrified to step any closer. "Are you alright, Carl?"
"Medicine!" Carl gasped, clutching his stomach. "Bring me the painkillers! Now!"
"You've already taken too many," she whispered, her voice breaking. "If you keep taking them, Carl, your liver is going to—"
"You bitch!" Carl roared.
He fought through the blinding pain, lunged across the bed, and grabbed the heavy digital clock off his nightstand. He hurled it at her. The clock smashed into the doorframe, shattering into plastic shrapnel. Mrs. King screamed, dropping the tray.
"You want me dead!" Carl screamed, his throat tearing. Sweat poured down his blistered face. "Just like you wanted Dad in jail! Isn't that right?!"
"Carl, please..." she sobbed, backing away into the hall.
"Give me the pills!"