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The FBI special agent who had spoken too quickly stared in disbelief.
"This… when was this recorded?"
"Oh, you're asking when the recording was made?" Henry replied calmly.
"It was the day the two of you illegally escorted me and took me to the home of State Assemblyman Mike Liddell Horton.
"If you keep listening, you'll hear my conversation with the assemblyman's bodyguard—confirming his identity and location. That doesn't quite match what you told me at the time, does it? You said it was just cooperating with an investigation. Wasn't I supposed to be taken to an FBI office for questioning?
"So I'm very curious. This time, when you say 'cooperate with the investigation,' is it the same thing again? That once I go with you, I'll be taken to some unknown location—and then something unspeakable will happen?"
"Y–You're talking nonsense!" The agent's bluster rang hollow, clearly betraying panic.
The entertainment reporters' flashbulbs exploded again—this time, every one of them playing the role of political correspondent. Their cameras were no longer pointed at movie stars, but squarely at the two FBI special agents.
Some rookie reporters had already burned through all their film and were frantically swapping rolls.
Veteran reporters weren't much better off—but they calmly pulled out second cameras and resumed shooting in a rapid chorus of clicks.
Henry, meanwhile, had no intention of stopping.
Lowering his hands, he continued,
"You say you're investigating Assemblyman Horton, but I know nothing. Because once we arrived at the location, I left almost immediately.
"On the other hand, you know exactly who ordered you to take me to Horton's house. You know why you took me there. And yet, knowing all this, you now come to question me about Horton's disappearance.
"These things—aren't you far clearer about them than I am, someone who's been completely in the dark from the start? So why exactly must I 'cooperate' and answer questions about something you already know more about than I do?"
Without saying it outright, Henry was clearly implying that the FBI intended to frame him.
Every reporter present was a seasoned predator. Even without the hints, they knew exactly what the most explosive headline would be—and from which angle to attack the story.
The other FBI special agent reacted faster, barking sharply,
"This is obstruction of justice! That nonsense recording of yours is not admissible evidence. The speaker never identified themselves—you're insinuating and slandering us!"
"With modern forensic science," Henry replied evenly,
"wouldn't a simple voiceprint comparison determine whether those voices belong to you two? You're denying it awfully quickly—are you sure that doesn't look like guilt?"
"Fine. Hand over the recording," the agent snapped. "We'll have the FBI lab analyze it."
One hand holding a gun, the other demanding evidence.
Henry did not hand over the Walkman. Instead, he asked quietly,
"Is it FBI protocol for the person involved to point a gun while demanding evidence?"
"Maybe that's how things are done on the West Coast," a new voice interjected coolly,
"but this really is eye-opening. Perhaps I should have a little chat with my friends in Washington, D.C., and tell them about the… creative procedures you have out here."
The speaker was Tony Stark, who had pushed through the crowd and stepped forward.
His arrival murdered yet another batch of camera film.
This time, though, the flashes were sparse—many photographers were desperately reloading, which irritated the billionaire more than he cared to admit.
The moment Tony appeared, Owen Davis knew he couldn't allow his subordinates to keep their guns raised. One accidental discharge—whether it hit Stark or not—would lead to catastrophic consequences.
Tony Stark's current backers were a pack of military hardliners. In political circles, no one dared collide head-on with that group. Who wanted to risk being strapped to a missile and launched toward some "unknown destination"?
And Davis still had to clean up the mess that had just unfolded.
The recording in Henry's possession was an unforeseen disaster. If Davis had known about it beforehand, he would never have approved grabbing the man in such a public setting—especially with reporters present.
"Mr. Stark," Davis said hurriedly, stepping forward,
"I'm Owen Davis, Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the FBI's Los Angeles office."
He extended a hand in what he hoped was a conciliatory gesture.
Tony didn't take it.
Instead, he glanced at Davis, then leaned slightly toward the man beside him and asked casually,
"That title—Assistant Special something—compared to the Director, which one's bigger?"
The sharp-looking white-collar elite next to him forced a strained smile.
"Assistant Special Agent in Charge is effectively the head of the FBI's Los Angeles office," he explained, deftly sidestepping the comparison with the Director.
Having received his answer, Tony ignored the outstretched hand entirely and walked straight toward Henry.
"You can hand the recording over to the lawyers," Tony said. "They'll handle it."
A middle-aged white man stepped forward, briefcase in hand, glasses perched neatly on his nose—efficient and razor-sharp in appearance.
"Mr. Brown, hello," he said politely.
"My name is Goss Chandler, legal counsel retained by the Stark Group.
"You may give the recording to me. I guarantee that all forensic analysis will be conducted fairly and impartially—and that no innocent person will be wronged."
Henry didn't just hand over the tape. He handed over the entire Walkman, placing it in the lawyer's hands.
Tony, stepping closer, stared at the device with a strange expression.
"You actually had a recording like this?"
"When I'm faced with conversations that raise doubts," Henry replied,
"preserving evidence is the best form of self-protection. I've never dealt with federal officials before. You didn't explain your intentions, so with no information at all, I had no choice but to protect myself."
Tony didn't even bother asking where Henry had hidden the recorder.
With their boss making a rare appearance at Stark Pictures, the old-timers in the studio hurried over to pay their respects. Even if they couldn't curry favor like Henry Brown, they certainly didn't want to be remembered for staying away.
Representatives from other film companies attending the inauguration banquet were frantically contacting their superiors. Hollywood studios—big as they were—weren't even in the same league as Stark Industries.
Tony Stark had appeared. This was a chance to be seen.
But the most anxious person present was Owen Davis, the head of the FBI's Los Angeles office.
If this incident wasn't resolved cleanly, it would land squarely on him. He was on-site—there was no escaping responsibility.
If not for the pressure to close the case, who would have willingly taken this risk? The plan had been simple: once the man was in custody, even a bullet in the back could be ruled a suicide.
But this time, the operation had crashed spectacularly.
Rushing forward, Davis said urgently,
"Mr. Stark, there must be some misunderstanding here."
"On my turf," Tony replied coldly without turning around,
"you try to arrest the executive I personally appointed—and you call that a misunderstanding?"
The words carried unmistakable protection.
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