The penthouse was dead quiet, except for some sad sounding cello music coming from speakers.
The whole place was white and empty, looking more like a modern art gallery. Everything cost a fortune, but there wasn't a single picture frame, a stray magazine or a personal thing in sight.
Fisk stood at the floor to ceiling window, in a custom tailored black suit, staring down at the lights of the city. In his hand was a heavy crystal glass of brandy.
For months, a new crew had been making noise on the edges of his turf. A guy they called the "Masked Man" was leading them. They were tough, organized and a real pain in the ass, but they were still just street level muscle.
The private elevator dinged softly. The doors slid open and James Wesley walked in.
Wesley looked like he'd seen a ghost. His face was pale, his shoulders were drawn tight and he was holding a data tablet like he was afraid it was going to bite him.
"Sir," Wesley said, "We've got a big problem. It's about the Masked Man."
Fisk took a slow sip of his brandy, letting it burn all the way down before he turned. "Did someone finally put a bullet in him? I'm paying enough for it."
Months ago, after a half dozen failed assassination attempts against the Masked Man, Fisk had put an unprecedented bounty on the Masked Man's head, open to any professional in the underworld.
"No, sir. That's the first issue," Wesley said, his voice tight with urgency. "Of the twelve assassins who were confirmed to have taken the contract, the best from the Albanians, Bratva, Madripoor, Lazlo, even a butcher from Budapest. We sent him the advance ourselves. And…"
Fisk's eyes narrowed. "And?"
"And seven out of twelve are missing. We can't find a body, a witness, or a single shell casing. The other five have returned the advance. Returned it, sir. They refuse to continue." Wesley took a shaky breath. "The word is, this Masked man's security is airtight. His intelligence is perfect, he knows where they'll be before they do, so he's just setting traps for them. No one will touch the contract now. They're spooked."
Fisk's massive jaw tightened imperceptibly. He had dealt with costumed vigilantes and street level thugs. But this Masked man had made the world's deadliest killers quit. He gestured with his glass toward a severe looking white leather couch. "The other situations?"
Wesley said, "Multiple, seemingly disconnected incidents. But they all occurred within the last twelve hours."
He tapped the tablet. "The first problem is with this port. Container 77B, the shipment of graphics cards from Taiwan."
"The hardware, good stuff for advanced weaponry," Fisk corrected him.
"Yeah. It's gone," Wesley said.
"What do you mean, gone, Hijacked? The Russians getting bold again?" Fisk's voice was demanding a sensible explanation.
"I mean there's no explanation!" Wesley's professionalism cracked for a moment. "Our man at the port, Kowalski, confirmed it was unloaded at 4 PM and placed in the holding area in Zone C. Encrypted tracker we placed inside was active. At 7:14 PM, the tracker went dead."
"An EMP?" Fisk suggested.
"That's what we thought," Wesley countered. "But there were no reported power surges in the area. And an EMP strong enough to kill our shielded tracker would have fried everything in a hundred yard radius. The port's systems are fine."
He took a sharp breath. "I sent Leland and his boys down there myself an hour ago. They bribed the union foreman and checked the logs. The container never got a truck assigned. It was never logged out."
"The security camera for that spot?" Fisk asked.
"The security footage from the camera covering that specific section of the yard is corrupted… a perfect two minute loop right around 7:14. The boys walked the whole damn zone with a fine toothed comb. Forty ton steel and merchandise, sir. Gone. It's like they just get up and walk away. You can't lift it without a crane. You can't move a crane without a dozen people seeing it. This was like a magic trick."
"I don't believe in magic," Fisk grunted, walking towards him.
"Neither do I," Wesley shot back. "Which is what makes this so terrifying. It just happened."
Fisk remained silent, his eyes fixed on Wesley. He understood the implication. Intimidating his men was one thing. Making forty tons of steel disappear was another.
"Second, Councilman Miller," Wesley continued, his voice getting tighter. "The zoning vote for the West Side redevelopment project. It was a sure thing. We've owned him for ten years. He was scheduled to vote yes. At the last minute, he abstained. The motion failed."
"What was his explanation?" Fisk asked, his voice a dangerous rumble.
"I tried. He won't take my calls," Wesley said, sounding genuinely confused. "I had to go to his house. He was with his family. He wouldn't let me inside. Spoke to me on his doorstep. Said he got a 'bad feeling.' That the project was 'too dirty' and he couldn't risk the exposure in this 'new era of transparency.' Kept rambling about his family. It made no sense. We have enough on him to ruin his life ten times over. After a decade on our payroll. He starts talking about how some things aren't 'worth his soul'."
Fisk stopped in his tracks. His eyes bored into Wesley. "His soul? I bought his soul ten years ago with his first gambling debt."
"I know. He wasn't scared, that's the thing. He looked very peaceful, not like being threatened but more like he'd found his conscience." Wesley said
Fisk walked over to the white bar and placed his empty glass down with a soft click. He looked at Wesley, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight. "And the next incident?"
Wesley swallowed hard, looking down at his tablet as if he couldn't quite believe the words himself. "It's about the standard weekly transfer to our associates… ten million Origin, like we do every Friday"
"Don't tell me, It's gone" Fisk said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "A hack is a hack, James. There's always a trail. Find it."
"There is no trail!" Wesley's voice was a strained whisper.
"It left our holding account at the Global Federation Bank at 9 PM," Wesley continued. "My guys have been over it for hours. They said, the transfer was authenticated and clean on both ends, there was no breach or unauthorized access. They cleared every security check and Federation's own blockchain ledger says the transaction is perfect. We have a perfect digital receipt. But it never arrived at the private digital vault. It has vanished somewhere within the global financial system."
He finally looked up, his eyes wide with a mixture of raw fear and confusion. "My head tech guy tried to explain it to me like the money went into a pipe, but the pipe isn't connected to anything on the other side. But the bank's computers swear the pipe is there and the water went through."
Fisk became completely still. Individually, they were problems. Collectively, they were a declaration of war.
"Pull everyone back from the docks," Fisk commanded, his voice cold. "Shut down the offshore vaults for now. We're going dark. All transfers will be handled physically until we understand what we're dealing with."
"And Miller?" Wesley asked.
Fisk's lips curled into a sneer. "Find out everything you can about Councilman Miller's sudden attack of morality. I want to know who he spoke to, what he ate, who he even looked at in the last 48 hours."
"Yes, sir," Wesley said.
"Go."
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