Daredevil: The Man Without Fear

Daredevil

The Man Without Fear

A Novel of the Marvel Universe

Paul Crilley

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by John Cassaday

Stuart Moore, Editor

Design by Spring Hoteling

MARVEL PUBLISHING

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C.B. Cebulski, Editor in Chief

ISBN: 978-1-5040-9291-3

This edition published in 2024 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

180 Maiden Lane

New York, NY 10038

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© 2024 MARVEL

For my kids, Bella and Caeleb. You guys keep me going.

PART I

CHAPTER 1

Hell’s Kitchen.

Now.

After a while, the pain becomes a way of keeping score. A way to keep track of how many people he’s pissed off.

And tonight, Matt Murdock has pissed off a lot of people.

He winces and rolls over. His left cheek is cold from resting in the bloody snow. He puts all his attention on the cheek. It’s the one part of his body that isn’t screaming in pain. Slashes, cuts, fractured bones, definitely a broken rib or two. He thinks he can hear the gurgle of blood in his lungs. Not good.

Close your eyes, whispers a voice in his head. Just rest for a bit.

His eyes drift closed. Yes. A rest. He could do with a rest. He’s earned it, hasn’t he? After everything?

No. Not yet. He hasn’t earned anything yet.

His eyes slowly open. Booted feet approach, running through the puddles and snow. He can hear them pounding on the pier, the sound rising over the swish and roar of the ocean.

They’ve got guns, Murdock. Better get your ass in gear.

But he can’t. He can’t even bring himself to move.

His eyes slide closed again as the booted feet come closer.

He’s over here!

Hell’s Kitchen.

Thirteen years ago.

He’s over here!

Matt Murdock grins at the two fat cops waddling down the alley toward him. Their uniforms are stained dark blue with sweat, their breath coming in gasps. Even Matt is sweating, but at least he has an excuse: He’s wearing an old ski mask to hide his identity.

Still, he makes a mental note that the next time he gets the urge to show off in front of the school bullies in an attempt to avoid getting beaten up, he’ll do it on a day that isn’t one of the hottest of the year.

Just … stay where you are, kid, calls one of the cops. Matt thinks his name is Officer Leibowitz. He’s seen him around the neighborhood. His partner doesn’t even look like he can speak—his face is an alarming shade of red, and he’s wheezing as he leans up against the alley wall. Matt hopes the guy doesn’t have a heart attack. He’d probably get into a lot of trouble for that.

Come on now, says Leibowitz. We just want Officer Mitch’s nightstick back. Can’t go bustin’ criminals’ heads without it. Hand it over, kid.

In answer, Matt leaps up onto a dumpster. He almost slips and falls in, but just manages to catch himself on the low-hanging fire-escape ladder. He peers into the container. Rotten vegetables, old meat, soggy newspapers. Syringes. What looks like a dead cat. Yeah. Do not want to fall in there.

He pulls himself up the ladder and climbs to the first level of the fire escape.

I’m gonna shoot him, Oswald, shouts Officer Mitch. Little creep can’t just steal a man’s nightstick!

Matt peers down and sees Officer Mitch reaching for his gun. His eyes widen in shock. He quickly looks around, searching for a means of escape. The alley ends at a wall, but he can maybe get over the other side …

He scrambles up to the next level, then climbs onto the railing and drops onto the back wall.

He’s going back onto 9th Avenue! shouts Leibowitz.

Matt glances over his shoulder and sees Leibowitz running out of the alley toward West 51st. Officer Mitch is still trying to pull out his gun. He wouldn’t actually shoot a kid, would he? For stealing a stupid piece of wood?

Matt doesn’t want to hang around and find out. He drops over the wall and lands lightly on the asphalt—no way Officer Mitch can follow him that way.

Leibowitz, on the other hand…. Just as Matt exits the alley, he sees the cop running around the corner of 51st and 9th.

Stop! Stop that kid!

Obviously Leibowitz is new in town. Any sane New Yorker knows that the best way to get yourself killed is to try to interfere in someone’s business. Matt might just be a 12-year-old kid, but nobody else knows that. He could be psychotic. A serial murderer escaped from an orphanage. No way anyone will stop him.

Matt turns and sprints along 9th Avenue, dodging around the people out enjoying the summer afternoon. Smells and sights assail his senses: hot dogs, french fries, burgers, gasoline fumes. Some kids have knocked the cap off a hydrant and are playing in the fountain of gushing water. A few adults are enjoying the spray, too. Matt runs through it, letting the water cool him down. He darts between sedans and delivery trucks, ignoring the bad-tempered hooting from drivers slowly cooking in their cars. The sun shines bright in his eyes, reflections glinting off windshields and shop windows. He squints, dodges around a group of teenagers listening to a song that Matt used to like but now seems to be on the radio all the time.

He risks a quick look over his shoulder. Leibowitz is still coming. Not bad. A+ for effort, Officer. But still no match for me.

Matt puts on a burst of speed and darts through the traffic, arriving on the shaded side of the street. Leibowitz has to wait for a bus to pass—and by then, Matt is turning onto West 50th, still sprinting. He ducks into another alley that takes him down onto West 49th, and …

… he can relax. No sign of Leibowitz.

He’s close to home now. Safe. He keeps jogging, moving into the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. The traffic isn’t as crazy here, and the cars he does see are older, more beat-up. The sidewalks are cracked with weeds. Steam that smells like a mixture of dead bodies and crap rises up through the manhole covers. Matt was once dared to put his face over one of the covers and stay there for a full minute. He managed three, but threw up as soon as he was done and felt sick all the next day.

Matt looks around to make sure there are no cops close by, then pulls off the mask and stuffs it into his pocket, turning his face up to the breeze. It’s warm and sticky, but it still cools him down.

He smiles and breaks into a run again, flying past the school and the old bodega that’s been there since his dad was a kid, past the butcher shop where the old gangsters meet up to buy their cuts of meat, and onto West 44th.

He’s made it. Back to the gym with a cop’s nightstick. He’s won the bet. Again. He’s been having trouble at school with some of the bigger kids, but he really needs to think up a new method of holding off the beatings. The dares are becoming more and more dangerous, more and more crazy, and if he does get caught—he won’t, but if he does—Dad will have something to say about it.

It’s late on a Sunday afternoon, so the gym is closed, but Matt has his own way of getting inside. He ducks around the back of the building and pushes the old fruit crates up against the wall, then uses them to pull himself up to the locker-room window. The latch doesn’t work, and no one has ever bothered to fix it. Nothing worth stealing in a gym.

He pushes the window open and climbs over the ledge, dropping lightly into the cool darkness of the locker room. He’ll have to stash the nightstick somewhere. The others will want to see he really has it. That he hasn’t chickened out. Matt thinks for a second, then opens the closest locker and feels around at the bottom. The base is made of wood—and it’s loose. He pries it up, revealing a cavity where he can hide the stick.

He secures the base, then closes the locker and straightens up, feeling pretty good about himself. His cred has just gone up. Word of this will spread, maybe make them back off.

Either that, or they’ll come down on him harder, wanting to put him in his place.

Matt considers that possibility for a moment, then shrugs it off. Nothing he can do about it now. He turns back to the window—

—and hears someone laughing.

Matt freezes. The gym is supposed to be empty. Locked up.

He moves silently toward the locker-room door and slips into the passage leading to the gym. It’s dark here. Can’t see a thing. He runs his hands lightly along the ancient paint, feeling it flake away beneath his fingers.

He hears the laughter again. He doesn’t like the sound of it. It has the cruel hysteria of a bully, the kind he hears at school.

Matt pauses by the door leading into the gym proper.

See … here’s the thing, Jackie. I don’t like it when people say no to me. Especially when I’m being nice to them.

‘Nice’?!

Matt tenses, his heartbeat thumping heavily in his chest. He knows that voice.

Dad.

Matt peers into the gym. The light above the boxing ring has been switched on, flooding the center of the room with a harsh white glare while everything else is layered in darkness. There are three figures in the ring. Matt’s dad is on his knees, held there by a massive guy in a white T-shirt. The guy is covered in black curly hair, thick and dense. Matt’s seen him around the neighborhood. People say he works for the mob.

The third man stands directly before his dad. Tall and thin. Black-gray hair that glistens in the light every time he moves.

Yeah. This is me being nice. Trust me. You won’t want to see me when I’m pissed. That right, Slade?

’S right, boss.

See … people respect me ’round here, Jackie. They like to keep me happy. The man smooths his hair back, frowns down at Dad. Right now, you’re not making me happy.

Dad looks slowly up at the man, and Matt takes an involuntary step back. He’s never seen his dad like this. His eyes are filled with … rage. Fury. Nobody respects you, Rigoletto, Dad growls. They’re scared of you. There’s a difference.

Rigoletto? Matt feels a surge of fear. Everyone knows the name Rigoletto. He’s the head of the Hell’s Kitchen mob.

And you’re not? asks Rigoletto. You know what? Don’t bother answering. I don’t care. ’Cuz you’re wrong about that—fear and respect are the same thing. Rigoletto squats down and grabs Dad’s chin. Think carefully, Murdock. I’m offering you a job. A good job.

I don’t want to work for you.

Why not? Rigoletto looks up at the huge man with his hand on Dad’s shoulder. You like working for me, right?

Sure do, Boss.

See? I’m good to my workers. Remember that time I let you guys work at my club?

The slab of muscle called Slade grins. Yeah. There were ladies.

That’s right, Slade. There were lots of ladies.

Matt’s dad coughs, spits blood onto the mat. It spatters against Rigoletto’s shoes. He frowns, then takes a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and wipes away the blood. He drops the handkerchief in the ring and stands up.

Wise up, Murdock. I’m trying to do you a favor.

I don’t need a favor. And I don’t need a job. I’ve already got one.

Rigoletto laughs. Boxing? What is it they call you up at the casino? The Daredevil? In your little red costume? All the housewives screaming for you. You like that, Murdock? You think that’s any way to make a living?

At least it’s honest.

Rigoletto sighs. Listen. All this talking? It’s just drawing things out. We both know you’re going to end up saying yes. The only thing you gotta question is how many bruises you want before you get there. You will work the neighborhood for me. Collect on bad debts.

No.

Yes. Or—

No! Just do your worst! Dad shouts. I won’t do the mob’s dirty work.

I wasn’t finished, Murdock. Rigoletto wags a finger at him. You need to watch that. Interrupting people when they’re talking. It’s a bad habit. Isn’t that right, Slade?

Rude.

That’s right. Rude. Here’s how it’s gonna go, Jack: You collect unpaid protection money for me. Rigoletto holds up his hand to forestall any arguments. Otherwise things will go bad for you—and your bright-eyed boy, your little Matt.

Dad doesn’t speak after that. No one does. The big man, the one called Slade, pulls Dad to his feet and brushes him down. Rigoletto pats Matt’s dad hard on the cheek.

There you go. See now? Just a matter of finding the right pressure point. There’s a lesson for you there, Murdock. Might be a good idea to remember it when you’re collecting from some of the more stubborn holdouts. Always find the pressure points.

The mob guys leave. Matt watches his dad slump down onto the floor of the ring, his back against the corner post. He doesn’t move. Just stays like that until Matt can’t watch anymore.

He slips back out through the window and goes home.

But home doesn’t feel that safe anymore.

And it won’t ever again.

CHAPTER 2

Twelve years ago.

The thing about doing a job you hate, thinks Jack Murdock, is learning how to separate yourself into two people. One goes home, and one goes to work. Make sure the two don’t cross paths.

The way I see it, Jackie …

Don’t call me Jackie, moron.

Way I see it … Slade pauses, a chicken drumstick halfway to his mouth. What was I saying?

Jack cranks the window down. The smell of fried chicken is making him sick.

You crazy? Put that up. It’s the middle of winter. You know I catch cold real easy.

Jack winds it up. Not all the way, though. He likes the night breeze on his face. The cold air distracts him, keeps him alert.

Murdock. Wind the window up!

Jack turns in the driver’s seat to stare at Slade. The vein on Slade’s forehead is visible. Standing out against his greasy skin.

That means it’s going to be a bad night.

He cranks the window all the way up.

That’s right. You respect your betters. Do what you’re told, Jackie-boy.

Jack grinds his teeth and wraps his gloved hands tight around the wheel, imagining it being crushed beneath his grip, coming apart in his hands. Imagining himself stabbing the broken shards into Slade’s throat.

Let’s go, Jackie. We’re gonna see how the other half lives tonight. Got to pay a visit to one of the rich guys.

Jack pulls out into traffic, taking his time. The more time in the car, the less time spent doing what he hates.

They stop to pick up another pair of hands for the job, a young guy called Larks. Jack has seen him around—usually hanging out with the bald guy who recently joined one of Rigoletto’s squads as a low-level enforcer—and he’s never liked the look of him. Not just his look, although that’s enough to give you the creeps: pale skin stretched over a too-prominent skull; lank blond hair turned almost white; eyes the paler side of blue. It’s everything about him. He just weirds Jack out. Hardly ever talks. Never smiles. Just stares at you with those lifeless eyes.

They arrive at the house a little after ten. Jack parks across the street, realizing their old Cadillac sticks out like a … well, like a Cadillac among Audis and Porsches and Mercedes. Not exactly inconspicuous.

Slade wipes the window and peers at the house. All the windows are dark.

So, what’s the job? Jack asks.

Slade doesn’t answer. He takes out a handgun and pulls back the slide, racking a bullet into the chamber. Jack frowns. This is new. Usually they go to these things with baseball bats and fists. But guns…?

Slade finally turns to look at him. A guy named Mitchell. He pulled out of a deal with Rigoletto. And now the other investors are getting cold feet. Understand?

Rigoletto wants to make an example of him?

Slade smiles, showing teeth that have been whitened so much they look like they’re made of plastic.

That’s right, Jackie. An example. You’re learning. About time, too. It’s only been, what—a year? There are a couple of bodyguards downstairs. We deal with them first.

Slade and Larks get out the car. Jack reaches back and grabs the baseball bat from the well beneath the seat. He doesn’t mess with guns.

They climb the high gate into an immaculately manicured garden. Slade tramples through the flowerbeds, squashing down the precisely placed flowers with undisguised glee—actually going out of his way to make sure he gets all of them. Stupid, Jack thinks. The cops could use his footprints for evidence.

Not that any cops would actually go up against Rigoletto.

They move around to the rear of the house. The