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The bearded guard lay on the rubble-strewn floor, blood trickling from his mouth, staring up at the hole in the wall where Marcus Reed had just pulled him through like a ragdoll. Every breath sent fire through his broken ribs. His vision swam with pain and shock.
But even through all of that, he recognized the face in the retracted helmet.
The Asian man. The one from the cave. Cleaner now, well-fed, no longer the half-starved prisoner they'd kept chained up for weeks. But the same man. The same eyes.
The yellow-skinned foreigner who'd operated on Stark. Who'd helped build that metal monstrosity. Who'd escaped their control.
"It's me," Marcus said quietly, and there was something cold in his voice. Something that made the guard's blood run colder than it already was. "Surprised I'm still alive?"
The guard tried to speak, managed only a wet cough. More blood.
"You took pleasure in it," Marcus continued, voice still soft, still controlled. "The beatings. The threats. Especially the threats about Gulmira." He gestured around at the devastated town. "You said you'd burn it to ashes. You almost did."
Around them, the guard became aware of movement. People emerging from hiding. Civilians. The very people he and his cell had been terrorizing. He saw recognition on their faces as they saw him lying there, broken and helpless.
His eyes went wide. "Please," he gasped in Pashto. "Mercy..."
Marcus looked at the gathering crowd, then back at the guard. Then he straightened, his armored form towering over the broken terrorist, and spoke clearly:
"I'll leave him to you."
The repulsors in Marcus's boots flared to life. He lifted off, rising into the air, leaving the guard alone with the people whose lives he'd destroyed.
The crowd moved closer. The guard tried to crawl away, his shattered body barely responding. Hands reached for him—rough hands, angry hands, hands that had lost family and friends and homes to men like him.
"You devil," someone spit. "Go to hell."
Then the first blow fell, and then another, and the bearded guard who'd laughed while torturing prisoners learned what justice looked like when delivered by the people he'd terrorized.
Marcus flew higher into the dawn sky, deliberately not looking back, not listening to what his armor's sensors could easily pick up. He'd made his choice. He'd left the guard to face the consequences of his actions.
He told himself it was justice. That the man deserved whatever he got. That the people of Gulmira had earned the right to their vengeance.
But the cold knot in his stomach suggested it wasn't that simple. Jarvis helpfully provided tactical overlays, marking remaining heat signatures, identifying abandoned weapons caches, highlighting areas that still needed clearing.
But the terrorist presence in Gulmira was essentially broken. Scattered. The fighters who hadn't been neutralized had fled into the desert, abandoning their weapons and their positions. The ones who remained were either unconscious, captured, or—like the bearded guard—beyond caring about anything anymore.
"Multiple weapons caches identified," Jarvis reported calmly. "Recommend destruction to prevent reacquisition."
"Show me."
The HUD updated with markers—a truck loaded with Stark Industries missiles parked behind a collapsed building, a warehouse full of assault rifles, an ammunition dump poorly concealed beneath a tarp.
Marcus dealt with each in turn. Repulsor blasts that melted missile guidance systems into slag. Shoulder-mounted munitions that detonated ammunition stores in controlled explosions. Careful, surgical strikes that destroyed the weapons without risking civilian casualties.
Each explosion felt cathartic. Each destroyed piece of Stark technology was one less tool that could be used to terrorize innocents.
"Marcus, status?" Tony's voice crackled over the comm.
"Clearing weapons caches," Marcus replied, watching a crate of grenades cook off in a controlled burn. "East sector is secure. How's your side?"
"Good. Found a whole convoy trying to make a run for it. They, uh, didn't make it very far." A pause. "Yinsen, you good?"
"Clear." Yinsen's voice sounded strained, tired, but satisfied. "The civilians are coming out. They're organizing. Someone's already coordinating medical care and food distribution."
"Natural leaders," Tony said approvingly. "Give people a chance and they'll rebuild."
Marcus destroyed another cache—this one full of the same model of rifle that had been used to guard them in the cave. He took particular satisfaction in reducing it to molten metal.
"I think we got them all," Marcus said finally, scanning his HUD for any remaining hostile signatures. Nothing but green markers now—civilians, emerging from hiding, beginning the long process of recovering their town. "Yinsen's right. The people are safe."
"Then let's go home," Tony said. "I've had about enough of Afghanistan for one lifetime. Jarvis, plot a course back to Malibu. Let's—"
"Sir," Jarvis interrupted, his tone shifting to something more alert. "I'm detecting military radar sweeps. Multiple frequencies. They appear to be searching for something."
"Searching for what?" Tony asked.
"Us, most likely."
There was a moment of silence over the comm.
"Shit," Tony said eloquently. "How far out are we from US airspace?"
"You are currently over Pakistan territorial waters," Jarvis replied. "Approximately 400 miles from the nearest US military installation. However, the radar signatures suggest an AWACS aircraft operating in the region, likely coordinating air patrols."
"Can they see us?"
"Not with clarity. The Mark III's profile is small enough to create uncertainty. They know something is there, but not what."
Marcus felt his stomach sink. He'd been so focused on the mission, on stopping the terrorists and destroying the weapons, that he hadn't thought about the return trip. About how three unknown aircraft flying at supersonic speeds across international borders might look to military radar operators.
"Tony, what do we do?" Yinsen asked, worry creeping into his voice.
"Stay calm," Tony said, though Marcus could hear the tension underneath. "They're probably just curious. We keep our course, maintain speed, and—"
"Multiple contacts inbound," Jarvis announced. "Two F-22 Raptors, approaching from the northwest at high speed. Time to intercept: four minutes."
"Fantastic," Tony muttered. "Okay, new plan. Marcus, Yinsen—you two need to activate stealth mode. Right now."
"Stealth mode?" Marcus repeated.
"Top right of your HUD, there's a systems menu. Find the electronic countermeasures option, enable full spectrum jamming. It'll make you effectively invisible to radar."
Marcus found the menu, his enhanced brain processing the interface faster than conscious thought. ECM suite. Active jamming. Radar absorbent material optimization. Thermal signature reduction.
He enabled everything.
On his HUD, a new indicator appeared: STEALTH MODE ACTIVE.
"Done," Marcus reported. "Yinsen?"
"Activated," Yinsen confirmed. "Tony, what about you?"
"I'll handle our friends," Tony said, and Marcus could hear the grin in his voice despite the situation. "You two hang back, stay in the clouds, and for God's sake don't let them see you. Last thing we need is three unknown aircraft causing an international incident."
"Just one unknown aircraft is better?" Marcus asked dryly.
"One they can see, two they can't find, and all three of us get home safe. Trust me, this is better." A pause. "Marcus, take Yinsen and head due east, then loop south toward Malibu. Stay at altitude, keep your signatures low. I'll draw them off."
Marcus wanted to argue, wanted to stay and help, but the logic was sound. Three unknown aircraft would cause a massive response. One might be manageable.
"Copy that," Marcus said. "Yinsen, on me."
He banked east, climbing higher into the cloud layer, watching his HUD as Yinsen's signal appeared beside him—barely visible even to their linked systems with stealth mode active. Below and behind them, Tony's signature remained bright and clear as he maintained course.
"Contacts now at two minutes," Jarvis reported. "Identifying as F-22 Raptors, call signs Whiplash One and Whiplash Two."
"Showtime," Tony muttered.
Marcus and Yinsen reached the cloud cover, thick cumulus at 35,000 feet that scattered their thermal signatures and blocked visual acquisition. Marcus throttled back, hovering in the mist, Yinsen pulling up beside him.
Through the clouds below, Marcus could see the telltale heat blooms of the approaching fighters—twin engines burning bright on infrared, sleek and deadly, each one carrying enough ordinance to turn a small city into rubble.
"This is AWACS to unknown aircraft," a crisp military voice crackled over an open frequency that Jarvis helpfully patched through. "You are in restricted airspace. Identify yourself immediately."
Tony didn't respond.
"Unknown aircraft, this is your final warning. Identify yourself or we will be forced to engage."
Marcus held his breath, watching the tactical display. The F-22s were closing fast, their radar painting Tony's position with aggressive targeting sweeps.
"Tony, they're locking weapons," Marcus warned.
"I know, I know. Just... stay hidden. This is about to get interesting."
"Whiplash One, you are cleared to engage," the AWACS controller said, voice cold and professional. "Target is hostile. Take it down."
"Copy that," the pilot responded. "Fox Two."
On Marcus's HUD, a new signature appeared—an AIM-9 Sidewinder missile, launching from the lead F-22, tracking toward Tony's position with deadly precision.
"Tony!" Yinsen shouted over the comm.
"Relax, I got this," Tony said, and suddenly his signature on the display went crazy—diving, spinning, deploying flares that bloomed like tiny suns against the infrared sensors. The missile, confused by the countermeasures, veered off course and detonated harmlessly against a cloud of burning magnesium.
"Whiplash One, negative kill. Target evading. Engaging with guns."
Marcus watched in horrified fascination as the F-22 dove after Tony, its M61 Vulcan cannon spooling up, tracer rounds cutting through the air in streams of fire. Tony dodged and weaved, his flight path chaotic, impossible to predict, staying just ahead of the kill zone.
"Little help here!" Tony called out, breathing hard.
"You said to stay hidden!" Marcus shot back.
"I changed my mind! This guy's actually pretty good!"
But before Marcus could decide whether to intervene, something changed. Tony's flight path suddenly altered, no longer evading but accelerating—straight up, climbing hard, right past the attacking F-22.
"What is he doing?" Yinsen breathed.
Marcus saw it a split second before it happened. Tony wasn't running. He was positioning.
The F-22 pilot realized too late that his target had reversed, had somehow gotten above and behind him. He tried to roll, to break lock, but Tony was faster.
There was no impact. No explosion. Just Tony's armored form, painted gold and red against the darkening sky, latching onto the bottom of the F-22 like a barnacle.
"Sir," Jarvis said calmly, "I'm detecting elevated stress levels in the pilot. Heart rate 180 BPM. Respiration rapid and shallow."
"Yeah, well, I'd be stressed too," Tony muttered.
"Whiplash One, what's your status?" the AWACS controller demanded.
"I've got—something's attached to my aircraft!" the pilot shouted, panic creeping into his professional composure. "It's on my belly, I can't shake it!"
"Whiplash Two, visual confirmation. There's something on his fuselage. Some kind of—I don't know what that is."
"It's a man, Two. A man in a flying metal suit."
"That's impossible."
"Yeah, well, tell that to my instruments."
Marcus couldn't help it. He laughed—short, sharp, disbelieving. "He's hitchhiking."
"This is insane," Yinsen agreed, but there was awe in his voice too.
The F-22 began rolling, trying to dislodge its unwanted passenger. Tony held on grimly, his armor's mag-locks engaged, servos whining as they compensated for the g-forces. The fighter corkscrewed through the sky, performing maneuvers that would have killed an unprotected human, but Tony just stayed attached.
"Get off my plane!" the pilot yelled.
"Not until you stop trying to shoot me!" Tony yelled back, before apparently realizing the pilot couldn't hear him.
"Whiplash Two, engaging," the wingman said, and Marcus's blood ran cold as the second F-22 lined up a shot at his own squadmate's aircraft—and Tony.
"Negative, Two, negative!" Whiplash One screamed. "Abort! You'll hit me!"
But the warning came too late. The second F-22's Vulcan cannon was already firing, a burst that was supposed to be precise, surgical, designed to remove the foreign object without damaging the primary aircraft.
It didn't work that way.
Tony released his mag-locks at the exact wrong moment—or the exact right moment, depending on perspective. The jet rolled. The burst of cannon fire passed through empty air where Tony had been.
And then Tony, tumbling free, collided with the second F-22's left wing.
The impact was catastrophic. Carbon fiber composite and titanium met gold-titanium alloy at 600 miles per hour. The wing shattered like glass, fragments spinning away into the darkening sky. The F-22, suddenly asymmetric, began an uncontrolled spin.
"Ejecting!" Whiplash Two shouted, and a split second later his canopy blew, the ejection seat firing, launching the pilot clear of the doomed aircraft.
Marcus watched the F-22 tumble toward the earth below, trailing smoke and fire, and felt his stomach clench. That was a $150 million aircraft. That was someone's job. That was—
"The chute!" Yinsen shouted. "It's not opening!"
Marcus's HUD zoomed in automatically, targeting the falling pilot. The parachute had deployed from the ejection sequence, but something had gone wrong—tangled lines, maybe, or damaged by debris. Whatever the cause, the result was the same: the pilot was in freefall, spinning, tumbling, the ground rushing up to meet him.
"Tony!" Marcus yelled.
"I see him!"
Tony's signature on the display suddenly accelerated, diving, repulsors blazing at maximum thrust. Marcus had never seen him fly that fast before—Mach 2, Mach 2.5, pushing the suit to its limits, racing against gravity and time.
The pilot was at 15,000 feet. 12,000. 10,000.
Tony was at 20,000. 18,000. 16,000.
They were going to intersect at about 5,000 feet. At terminal velocity. With maybe three seconds to spare.
Marcus held his breath.
Tony reached the pilot at 5,200 feet, grabbing him in a tackle that looked more like a football play than a rescue. The sudden deceleration—from 200 mph to 50 in about two seconds—would have been brutal even with Tony's suit absorbing most of the force. Marcus didn't want to think about what the g-forces did to the pilot's body.
But Tony managed to arrest their fall, repulsors screaming with effort, gradually slowing their descent until they were hovering about 1,000 feet above the ground. Tony reached up, grabbed the tangled parachute lines, and with a sharp tug, freed the canopy.
It deployed with a satisfying snap, and suddenly the pilot was floating safely, being lowered gently to the desert floor below.
"Package delivered," Tony said, breathing hard. "And yes, I definitely pulled something."
Through Marcus's enhanced hearing—the suit's audio pickups turned way up—he could hear cheering. Lots of it. The frequency from the AWACS aircraft was going crazy with overlapping voices, all talking at once, shouting updates and confirmations and—
"Unknown aircraft, this is Colonel James Rhodes," a new voice cut through the chaos. Deeper, calmer, carrying authority. "I'm ordering you to identify yourself. Right now."
Marcus saw Tony's signature hesitate, hovering near the rescued pilot.
"Rhodes, it's me," Tony said finally, switching to what must have been a private channel that only Rhodes could hear.
A long pause.
"...Tony?"
"Yeah."
"What the FUCK, Tony?"
"I can explain—"
"You just took down an F-22! You could have killed that pilot!"
"But I didn't! I saved him!"
"After causing the crash in the first place!"
"That was an accident! They shot at me first!"
Marcus shared a look with Yinsen—or at least, their helmets turned toward each other in what was probably a look. They were still hidden in the clouds, still invisible to radar, watching the situation unfold like spectators at a particularly stressful sporting event.
"Should we help?" Yinsen asked quietly.
"I don't think there's anything we can do," Marcus replied. "This is between Tony and the Air Force now."
Down below, the argument continued.
"—don't care if they shot first, you can't just fly around in experimental armor interfering with military operations—"
"I wasn't interfering, I was flying home from a humanitarian mission—"
"Humanitarian? In AFGHANISTAN?"
"I was stopping terrorists! Protecting civilians! You know, actual good guy stuff?"
"Without authorization? Without clearance? Without even TELLING ME?"
"I'm telling you now!"
There was a long, pregnant silence over the comm.
Finally, Rhodes spoke again, his voice carefully controlled. "Tony. Listen to me very carefully. Right now, I have an AWACS full of radar operators who just watched you take down one of our fighters. I have pilots who are scared and confused and ready to blow you out of the sky. I have superiors who are going to want answers. Lots of answers."
"So what do I do?"
"You get the hell out of here before anyone else decides to shoot. Fly low, fly fast, and for God's sake turn off your transponder or whatever's making you visible. I'll handle the paperwork."
"How?"
"I'll figure something out. Just go. NOW."
Tony's signature on Marcus's HUD immediately dropped altitude and accelerated, heading west at maximum speed. Within seconds, he'd disappeared from radar, his profile lost against the ground clutter.
"Marcus, Yinsen," Tony called over their private channel. "Follow my lead. Stay stealthy. Let's get home before this gets even more complicated."
"Copy that," Marcus said, already adjusting his course.
They flew in silence for the next three hours, crossing the Pacific in radio darkness, three invisible ghosts slipping through international airspace like they'd never been there at all. Behind them, Marcus knew, the Air Force would be scrambling to explain what had happened. Rhodes would be in meetings, being grilled by superiors who didn't believe his story. The pilot who'd been saved would be giving interviews, describing the metal man who'd plucked him from the sky.
And the world would begin to wonder what, exactly, had just happened over the Middle East.
They landed in Tony's workshop just after midnight California time, exhausted and running on fumes—both literally and figuratively. The suits' arc reactors were at 15% power, having burned through enormous amounts of energy during the flight and combat. Marcus's legs felt like jelly as the armor disassembled around him, piece by piece returning to storage.
"Jarvis," Tony said wearily, "please tell me we weren't followed."
"No signs of pursuit, sir. However, I am monitoring significant military communications traffic. The incident has been classified as a training accident."
"A training accident?" Yinsen repeated, incredulous. "They're saying an F-22 just accidentally crashed?"
"During a routine exercise," Jarvis confirmed. "According to the official report, mechanical failure caused by high-stress maneuvers. The pilot successfully ejected and deployed his parachute. No mention of unusual aircraft or flying armored suits."
Marcus slumped against a workbench, feeling the adrenaline finally wearing off. "Rhodes really covered for us."
"He's a good friend," Tony said quietly. "Even when I'm making his life hell." He pulled off the last piece of his armor—the chest plate, revealing the arc reactor still glowing beneath his shirt. "Which I definitely did today."
"We saved lives," Yinsen pointed out. "Gulmira is safe. The terrorists are gone. That has to count for something."
"It does," Tony agreed. "But it also means we're on everyone's radar now—metaphorically speaking. The US military knows something's out there. Other intelligence agencies will have picked up the chatter. And Obadiah..." He trailed off, frowning.
"What about Obadiah?" Marcus asked.
"He's smart. Ruthless. He'll have heard about this too, and he'll start connecting dots. Three unknown aircraft over Afghanistan, destroying terrorist cells, specifically targeting Stark Industries weapons?" Tony shook his head. "He's going to know it was me. Or at least suspect."
"So what do we do?"
Tony was quiet for a moment, staring at the three empty armor racks where the Mark III suits had stood just hours before. When he spoke, his voice was firm.
"We keep going. We keep helping people. And we deal with whatever comes next when it gets here." He looked at Marcus and Yinsen, managed a tired smile. "But maybe next time, we avoid pissing off the Air Force."
"Good plan," Marcus agreed.
They were interrupted by the chime of Tony's phone—the secure line that only a handful of people had access to. Tony glanced at the screen and winced.
"Rhodes?" Yinsen guessed.
"Rhodes," Tony confirmed. He answered, putting it on speaker. "Hey, buddy, about today—"
"TONY STARK, YOU CRAZY BASTARD," Rhodes's voice exploded from the speaker, loud enough to make all three of them wince. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I JUST WENT THROUGH?"
"Uh—"
"I JUST SPENT SIX HOURS IN BACK-TO-BACK MEETINGS WITH GENERALS WHO WANTED TO SCRAMBLE EVERY FIGHTER WE HAVE TO HUNT DOWN THE 'UNIDENTIFIED HOSTILE.' I HAD TO CONVINCE THEM IT WAS A TRAINING MALFUNCTION. A TRAINING MALFUNCTION, TONY!"
"And they bought it?" Tony asked hopefully.
"BARELY! And do you know what the kicker is? I had to authorize payment for a new F-22 out of the training budget. Do you know how much an F-22 costs?"
"Uh... a lot?"
"$150 MILLION, TONY. ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY MILLION DOLLARS."
"I'll... write you a check?"
There was a long, dangerous silence.
"You will NOT write me a check," Rhodes said, his voice suddenly very quiet and very controlled. "You will never speak of this to anyone. You will not fly that thing anywhere near US military operations again without clearing it with me first. And if I ever—EVER—have to cover your ass like this again, I will personally ensure that armor ends up in a very deep, very classified hole somewhere in Nevada. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Tony said meekly.
"Good. Now get some sleep. And Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you're okay. You're an idiot, but you're my idiot." A pause. "What were you even doing over there?"
"Saving lives," Tony said simply. "Destroying weapons that were being used to hurt people. Making things right."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Yeah," Rhodes said finally, something softer in his voice. "Yeah, I figured. Just... be careful, okay? The next pilot might not miss."
"I'll try."
The line disconnected.
Tony set the phone down and looked at Marcus and Yinsen. "Well. That could have gone worse."
"He's a good friend," Marcus observed.
"The best," Tony agreed. "Even if I do owe him $150 million." He stretched, joints popping. "Alright, gentlemen. I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted, sore, and in desperate need of a shower and about twelve hours of sleep. We'll debrief properly tomorrow."
"Sounds good," Yinsen said, already heading for the stairs.
Marcus lingered, looking at the armor racks, remembering the weight of the suit, the power it provided, the feeling of making a real difference. And underneath it all, the memory of the bearded guard's face as Marcus walked away, leaving him to the mercy of the people he'd terrorized.
"You okay?" Tony asked quietly.
Marcus looked at him. "You ever wonder if we're doing the right thing? Flying around in these suits, taking justice into our own hands?"
"Every day," Tony admitted. "But then I think about Yinsen's hometown. About all those people who would be dead or enslaved if we hadn't acted. And I think... maybe it's not perfect. Maybe we make mistakes. But it's better than doing nothing."
"Even if people die because of those mistakes?"
Tony's expression turned serious. "What happened in Gulmira?"
Marcus hesitated, then shook his head. "Nothing. Just... tired. Like you said."
Tony didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. "Get some rest, Marcus. We'll figure it out tomorrow."
Marcus nodded and headed upstairs, but sleep was a long time coming. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the bearded guard's face. Heard the crowd gathering. Made the choice to fly away.
He'd told himself it was justice. That the man had deserved what he got. That the people of Gulmira had a right to their vengeance after everything they'd suffered.
But lying in the darkness, Marcus couldn't shake the feeling that he'd crossed a line somewhere. And once crossed, could he ever really go back?
The next morning, Marcus woke to the sound of his phone buzzing. Half-asleep, he grabbed it and squinted at the screen. News alerts. Dozens of them.
AIR FORCE CONFIRMS F-22 CRASH DURING TRAINING EXERCISE PILOT SAFE AFTER EMERGENCY EJECTION QUESTIONS RAISED ABOUT FIGHTER SAFETY PROTOCOLS PENTAGON: FULL INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY
Marcus scrolled through them, seeing the official story taking shape in real-time. Rhodes had been thorough—every news outlet was running the same narrative, fed to them by military public affairs. Routine exercise. Mechanical failure. Successful ejection. Nothing to see here.
But between the lines, in the comment sections and conspiracy forums, Marcus could see the truth bleeding through. Eyewitness reports from people on the ground. Blurry cell phone footage of something red and gold in the sky. Questions about why a training exercise was being conducted over Pakistan.
The secret wouldn't hold forever. Maybe it wasn't meant to.
He found Tony and Yinsen in the living room, watching the news. On screen, Rhodes stood at a podium, looking professional and composed as he delivered the official statement to a room full of reporters.
"During a routine training exercise yesterday, an F-22 Raptor experienced mechanical difficulties resulting from high-stress maneuvers," Rhodes said, his voice steady and authoritative. "The pilot successfully ejected and deployed his parachute with no injuries. The aircraft was lost."
"Colonel Rhodes, can you comment on reports of unusual aircraft in the area?" one reporter called out.
"All aircraft in the region have been accounted for and identified," Rhodes replied smoothly. "This was purely a mechanical failure."
"What about eyewitness reports of a flying man—"
"No credible evidence supports those claims. The area has poor visibility and high winds. Visual phenomena are common in those conditions."
Marcus snorted. "Flying man. If they only knew."
"They'll know eventually," Tony said, not looking away from the screen. "This was a warning shot. Next time we won't be so lucky."
"So what do we do?"
"We prepare," Tony said simply. "We improve the suits. Add better stealth capabilities. Coordinate better with Rhodes so we don't accidentally start World War Three." He finally looked at Marcus and Yinsen. "And we get our story straight. Because when this does come out—and it will—we need to be ready."
On screen, the press conference wrapped up, reporters still shouting questions as Rhodes left the podium. The news anchors immediately began speculating, bringing in military analysts to discuss what a mechanical failure might look like, whether the F-22 had systemic issues, whether taxpayers should be concerned about the safety of their $150 million fighters.
None of them mentioned the real story. The truth that was out there, hiding in classified briefings and encrypted communications. The truth that someone, somewhere, had just changed the game.
"Multiple parties are showing interest," Jarvis announced suddenly. "I'm detecting unusual network traffic from several intelligence agencies. CIA, NSA, DIA, and several I cannot identify. They are accessing all available data on the incident."
"They're investigating," Marcus said.
"Of course they are," Tony replied. "Three unknown aircraft appear over a combat zone, destroy terrorist operations with precision strikes, and then vanish. That's exactly the kind of thing that gets intelligence agencies excited." He paused. "And not just ours. I'd bet money that China, Russia, and half a dozen other countries are looking at this too."
Somewhere in Afghanistan
Obadiah Stane stepped carefully through the ruins of the Ten Rings stronghold, his expensive shoes crunching on debris and spent shell casings. The place was a disaster—burned out buildings, destroyed equipment, bodies still being collected by whoever had the stomach for it.
But he wasn't here for the bodies.
"Here, Mr. Stane," Raza said, leading him to a covered area where several crates had been carefully arranged. "Everything we recovered."
Obadiah approached the crates like a man approaching buried treasure. Because in a way, that's what this was. Treasure beyond price. Technology that could change everything.
He opened the first crate and smiled.
Inside, partially destroyed but still recognizable, lay pieces of the Mark I. The helmet, cracked and dented but intact. Sections of the chest plate. The arc reactor mount, still bearing scorch marks from when Tony had used it to escape.
"You were supposed to kill him," Obadiah said mildly, not looking at Raza.
"Our previous leader failed," Raza replied carefully. "I succeeded where he did not—I recovered the technology."
"So you did." Obadiah lifted the helmet, turning it over in his hands, studying the welds, the engineering, the sheer audacity of the design. Tony had built this in a cave. With scraps. While under duress.
What could Obadiah build with proper resources? With time? With a team of engineers working around the clock?
"I'll take all of it," Obadiah said. "And I'll pay your price. Weapons, money, whatever you need."
"We need enough to rebuild," Raza said. "The Iron Soldier destroyed everything. Our fighters, our weapons, our stronghold—all gone."
"Iron Soldier?" Obadiah looked up sharply.
"That's what the locals are calling them. Three soldiers in iron armor who fell from the sky like avenging angels." Raza's expression was sour. "They destroyed everything. Killed or scattered our fighters. Burned our weapons. One of them..." He paused. "One of them pulled Ahmed through a wall with his bare hands. Left him to the mercy of the locals."
"Three of them," Obadiah repeated slowly. His mind was already racing, connecting dots. Three unknown aircraft over Afghanistan. Three soldiers in armor. Tony Stark's technology, multiplied.
He'd known Tony had built something. The arc reactor alone proved that. But this? This was beyond what Obadiah had imagined.
Tony hadn't just built a weapon. He'd built an army.
"Get this to my plane," Obadiah ordered. "All of it. And keep your mouth shut about what you saw. If I hear about this from anyone else, our deal is off and you get nothing."
"Understood, Mr. Stane."
Obadiah watched as the crates were loaded onto trucks, his mind already working through the implications. Tony had the suits. The technology. The capability to act anywhere in the world with impunity.
But Tony was also predictable. Emotional. Sentimental.
Obadiah was none of those things.
And now he had the blueprints—literally written in steel and circuitry—for how to build his own.
He pulled out his phone and made a call.
"It's me," he said when it connected. "Get the engineering team together. I don't care what they're working on, pull them off it. And find me every specialist we have who understands advanced robotics and power systems. I want them in the workshop by tomorrow."
A pause as the person on the other end responded.
"What am I building?" Obadiah smiled, looking at the crates. "Something that's going to change everything. Just do it."
He hung up and took one last look at the devastated stronghold. Tony thought he'd won. Thought he'd saved the day and flown off into the sunset like some kind of hero.
But the game was just beginning.
And this time, Obadiah would make sure he came out on top.
[End of Chapter 23]
300 Powerstones for extra chapter.
Note : will upload another chapter today .