"Put the gun away. You've lost too much blood—you can barely hold it." Salomon said, but Frank Castle shook his head and refused to comply. He was also using a SIG P226, the standard sidearm of the U.S. Marine Corps and the pistol he knew best. This one, however, was a ghost gun with its serial number filed off. Judging by its workmanship, it had most likely come from a home gunsmithing workshop in the Philippines or somewhere else. Its reliability was practically zero, but that was also the most common source of weapons on New York's black market. "Don't mistake me for someone with a good temper, Frank Castle. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't have lived this long."
"You're taking me to the place I told you about." Frank Castle swiftly raised his head and glanced through the skylight at the night sky, then pressed the muzzle closer. Lowering his voice, he asked in a grim tone, "Where's your Quinjet parked, hmm? Where's the extraction route that son of a bitch Nick Fury arranged for you? That explosion... was it you? Was it done by the agent that bastard sent?"
"There's no room for negotiation on this." Salomon did not indulge him. The smell of blood and sweat on Frank Castle was nauseating. He had no idea whether it was Castle's own blood or that of the gangsters, but one thing was certain: a gunshot wound and several cuts on his body were still seeping blood. "You don't have to leave here conscious. Even if I beat you half to death, I can still save you. So either put down the gun, or I'll help you put it down." Salomon saw that the light machine gun he had given Frank Castle had been tossed by the window,