SABHA, LIBYA. LAST WEEK.
Grit between his teeth at the shift of his jaw, SAND in every goddamn orifice, even beneath the folds of cloth. He blinks once and the landscape before him doesn’t change. A smear of gold and tawny brown. It’s as though the earth has RISEN up to take this strip of urbanization back from the humans.
Castle’s nearly unrecognizable beneath the layers of pashmina fashioned over his face-- a fistful grabbed from bazaar stall made for a motley of different patterns and colors that don’t seem to fit the SCRAWL on the slat of skin made visible. The woman’d thought about yelling at him while she’d hastily put away her wares as the sandstorm loomed, but she’d caught sight of his uzi and let him have them free of charge.
REPORT. TARGET LOCATION: UNKNOWN.
His quarry is gone, seems. LOST to the whipping winds of the storm and Castle’s thinking about finding a place to hunker down ‘til it passes. Late model imports are pulled over on the roads, headlights shining and wipers going. The draped fabrics over the stalls at the bazaar are whipping, shredded by the sand. Eyes scan for movement, anything. Tactful, he’s a man wrought from war and FOR it. Designed for this sort of thing. He can feel the gristle slipping in behind the seal of his goggles. What a bitch. He’ll be findin’ sand for WEEKS.
Better than water, he supposes. Better than the constant BURN in his lungs, though not by much. Isn’t sure what he’d prefer, really-- DROWNING or choking on sand.
It’s by chance that he catches sight of a footprint. FRESH, he can tell by the way it’s quickly vanishing before his eyes, filling with grit. Castle lunges forward, moving after the blurred shape that he recognizes ( he hopes ) to be his target. Impatient, Punisher stops, boots sliding on the unsettled ground beneath them, and raises his gun. The movement is quick, efficient. Practiced. He takes aim, fires. Watches the body fall.
He hadn’t come all this way to WOUND his quarry.
---
The storm dies, blasts onward into the desert wilderness and leaves the town in shambles. But they’re used to it, and people are already bustling around, shaking particles from nearly everything they own. Stall owners are setting up their wares again. Just another NORMAL afternoon in the Sahara Desert.
In the cupholder of his ‘borrowed’ Jeep, Frank’s cell phone buzzes.
>: ᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀʟɪᴇɴ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠɪᴛʏ, ɴʏᴄ, ᴇʟsᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ. >: ɴᴇᴇᴅ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴄʟᴇᴀɴ ᴜᴘ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇss-- >: ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ?
Castle glances at the series of messages, irises hidden behind the curved glass of his aviators. His thumb punches a single button, other hand veering the steering wheel north, toward the nearest airport.
>: ʏ
