Chapter 6: Picking Someone Up
JFK Airport, 7:00 in the morning.
The wind was strong, making it impossible to keep one's eyes open.
Tony stood at the bottom of the airstair, his trench coat whipped up by the wind. He hadn't buttoned it, leaving it wide open, with his sunglasses propped on his forehead, as he turned back to look at his younger brother.
"You really aren't coming with me?"
he asked,
"Even though Afghanistan is a dump, at least it's a new experience."
"I'm afraid of the Sun."
Lynn stood three steps away with his hands in his pockets, not coming closer.
Tony grinned slightly and turned to leave. Suddenly, Lynnstepped forward and shoved something into the inner pocket of his coat.
It was hard, small, and made of icy-cold metal.
"What's this?"
Tony lowered his head to feel it.
"A tracker. Something new from Stark Industries that hasn't been mass-produced yet."
Lynn stepped back and put his hands back into his pockets,
"Don't take it off. If something actually happens to you, I'll know where to fish you out."
Tony pinched the piece of metal and flipped it over. Seeing nothing special about it, he didn't think much of it and casually patted his pocket:
"Fine, thanks for caring. I'm off."
He took two steps, stopped, turned back, and the faint smile on his face faded:
"Lynn, I chewed on what you said last night all night."
"What did I say?"
"You said someone paid a bounty for my death."
Tony stared at him,
"What on earth do you know?"
The wind whistled through the air between the two of them.
Lynn looked at him without flinching:
"I don't know much. But there is one thing I can tell you right now."
"Spit it out."
"That place, Afghanistan,"
Lynn said,
"someone has already dug a pit for you and is just waiting for you to jump in. If you insist on going, just remember—"
no matter what you hear or see, save your life first, and think about anything else later.
Tony was silent for two seconds, then suddenly laughed, a smile carrying an indescribable taste:
"What you're saying sounds like a last will and testament."
"A will won't be necessary."
Lynn said,
"You have a tough life; a little trap like that won't kill you."
Tony didn't reply further, turned around, and strode up the airstair.
The fuselage slowly taxied toward the runway, getting further and further away, until it finally turned into a small silver-gray dot that plunged into the gray-hazy skyline.
Lynn stood in place, watching the direction where the plane disappeared, and pulled his hands out of his pockets.
His palms were covered in a thin layer of sweat, though he didn't know when it had happened.
Afghanistan, south of Kandahar.
The motorcade ground forward over the gravel road, and yellow sand drilled through the gaps in the car windows, landing on human skin and grinding painfully.
The Sun was fierce, and the car was stuffy. The air conditioning had long since stopped working, and heat waves steamed against the back of his neck, squeezing out layer upon layer of sweat until his clothes stuck to his back.
Tony sat in the passenger seat, his tie yanked loose, his eyes beneath his sunglasses bloodshot from exhaustion.
He reached into his inner pocket and touched the tracker; the icy-cold touch was at least refreshing.
"How much further?"
he asked.
"Sir, we'll be there once we pass the mountain pass ahead."
The translator smiled ingratiatingly,
"The Military has everything arranged."
Before his voice had even faded,
boom.
The Humvee at the front exploded on the spot, sending up a ball of black-and-red fire, with fragments scattering and flying in all directions with a shrill scream.
Tony only felt the entire car lifted up by a huge force and slammed back down. The seatbelt tightened so much that his chest felt stuffy, and his eardrums rang with a buzz, making him unable to hear any sound at all.
By the time he came to his senses, the World was already filled with gunfire.
Over a dozen figures popped up from the dirt slope by the roadside, AK muzzles spitting tongues of fire, and bullets clanged against the car body.
The bodyguards drew their guns to return fire; someone barely poked half their body out before going limp and falling down.
The air was filled with the mixed smell of gunpowder smoke and blood, stinging people's eyes until they watered.
"Sir! Get out of the car!"
Tony was yanked out of the car door by a bodyguard, his knees slamming into the gravel ground, scraping a burning raw patch.
He looked up and saw the people he had brought falling down one by one, their blood seeping into the yellow sand and quickly having its color dried out by the Sun.
A hail of bullets brushed past his ears, and the air was scorching hot.
He suddenly remembered what Lynn said last night,
"someone paid a bounty for your death", which turned out not to be a scare tactic.
A dark shadow lunged over, swinging a rifle butt down with all its might.
Everything went black before his eyes, and the only things left in his ears were his own heavy breathing and the icy-cold, grinding pain of that metal piece against his chest.
Lynn, you damn well got it right.
Stark Manor, deep in the night.
Lynn sat in the study, with a disassembled tactical dagger spread out on the desk, its parts lined up in a row, the blade polished to a shine. He had just put the blade back together when the satellite phone rang.
On the other end of the phone, Pepper's voice trembled violently:
"Lynn, the Military called... Tony's convoy was attacked, Tony's whereabouts are unknown, and he was likely abducted."
Lynn didn't speak. He gripped the phone and listened to her crying intermittently on the other end.
The study was very quiet, with the ticking of the wall clock sounding one by one.
"I know."
He finally said,
"You stay in New York. Go to work when you should work, have meetings when you should have meetings. Don't say a word, don't tell anyone. Leave the rest to me."
"You're going to Afghanistan?"
"Yeah."
"It's so chaotic over there—"
"Chaos is good."
Lynn tucked the dagger into his boot shaft and stood up,
"With chaos, nobody will notice an extra person going in."
He hung up the phone, threw on his trench coat, and pushed open the manor's front gates.
The night wind poured in, mixed with snow pellets, hitting his face cold and hard.
On the tarmac, the Gulfstream that had been waiting for a month was already warmed up, its engines roaring, and the indicator lights on the wings blinking in the night.
Lynn stepped onto the airstair, walked to the cabin door, and glanced back at the lit window of the manor.
Then he bent down and squeezed into the cabin.
The sound of the cabin door closing was very soft.
The plane taxied toward the runway, accelerated, left the ground, and plunged headfirst into New York's winter night.
He closed his eyes, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the hilt of the dagger inside his boot shaft.
"Tony, hold on."
Chapter 7 Cave
After the plane landed at an abandoned U.S. military basein eastern Afghanistan, Lynn changed into old local clothes, mixed into a smuggling convoy, and traveled north for the better part of the night.
The locator was still lit.
The red dot stopped at the position shown by the coordinates.
A valley, marked as "Ten Rings Gang Main Stronghold".
The convoy stopped five kilometers away from the target, and Lynn vaulted down from the truck bed, feeling his way forward along the dry riverbed.
The searchlight on the guard tower swept across the valley entrance every few minutes, its beam blindingly white.
Lynn pressed against the rock wall, waited for the searchlight to sweep past, bent over and hurried a dozen steps, and pressed against the back of another rock.
He could hear his own heartbeat, and he could also hear the two guards on the guard tower chewing on something, chatting casually. He couldn't understand the language, but the sounds carried very far in the silent night.
He bypassed to the side of the guard tower and climbed up along the rock crevices.
The bodily control brought by the Captain Americaphysique allowed him to climb with almost no sound, his fingers hooking into the stone crevices, stopping at every step.
On the guard tower, a guard had just yawned.
Lynn's arm had already locked around his neck.
Without unnecessary movement, with a pull and a twist, the man collapsed softly, the cigarette butt in his hand rolling off, flickering once in the night wind before going out.
The other guard turned back, and what he saw was a pair of exceptionally calm eyes in the darkness, and a dagger already pressed against his throat.
"Lead the way."
Lynn's voice was kept very low,
"Where people are locked up."
The guard trembled, pointing toward the depths of the cave.
The cave was even colder than the outside, and the dampness rushed at them wrapped in a musty smell, the smell of gunpowder smoke, and some pungent medicinal scent.
Dim yellow lightbulbs hung on the walls, their light flickering, illuminating the pocked rock walls.
The further inside they went, the heavier the smell.
The smell of blood, body odor, and some indescribable stench of decay.
At the end of the passage was an iron fence.
Behind the fence, a person was curled up in the corner.
Tony Stark was covered in injuries at this moment, his face stained with blood, his clothes torn beyond recognition, bandages wrapped around his chest where the seeping blood had dried into a dark brown.
Hearing footsteps, he barely raised his head, his gaze unfocused, his chapped lips peeling white.
Then he saw Lynn.
Those unfocused eyes suddenly focused.
"... You fucking—"
Tony's voice was as hoarse as sandpaper grinding across a throat,
"Why are you here?"
Lynn squatted down, separated by the iron fence, took out the locator, and waved it in front of his eyes:
"Said I'm here to bail you out."
Tony stared at the chip for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed, half-laughing until it pulled at his wound, hurting so much that he bared his teeth:
"Holy shit, you're playing for real."
Lynn didn't answer, pulled out his dagger, and cut open the rusted chain on the fence.
The chain fell to the ground with a clatter, sounding exceptionally loud in the empty cave.
"Can you walk?"
"Obviously."
Tony supported himself against the rock wall and stood up, his legs trembling, but gritting his teeth to stand firm,
"I haven't drunk that bottle of Macallan of yours yet, I won't die."
The two looked at each other and said nothing more.
Lynn helped him walk outward, passing through the damp and cold passage.
The searchlight's light swept in from the cave entrance, flickering on and off.
"How many people are left?"
Lynn asked.
"At least thirty, on duty."
Tony panted heavily, his voice dropping, "Their boss went out to negotiate some business tonight, taking away more than half of the manpower. We got lucky and caught them at the right time."
"Luck is never on your side."
Lynn listened intently, his footsteps pausing,
"They're here."
At the end of the passage, footsteps went from far to near, at least three or four people.
Tony's expression changed, subconsciously wanting to find a place to hide.
But Lynn let go of his arm, pulled the dagger out of his boot shaft, reversed it in his hand, and said without looking back:
"Don't move."
"You alone—"
"I said, don't move."
The footsteps rounded the corner.
The white light of the searchlight happened to sweep in, illuminating the face of the person walking in front—dense stubble, fierce eyes, carrying an AK in his hand.
He saw the two figures in the cave, froze for a moment, and then grinned malevolently as he raised the muzzle.
Halfway through raising the muzzle, Lynn was already in front of him.
Without unnecessary movement, the dagger went from bottom to top, brushing past the Adam's apple.
Before the man could pull the trigger, a mouthful of bloody foam surged up his throat, and his body went limp and collapsed.
The people behind him reacted very quickly, drawing their guns to open fire.
Lynn sidestepped, dodging the first bullet.
The muzzle flash illuminated half of his face, his eyes devoid of a single ripple.
As soon as the second person took aim, his wrist was caught and twisted hard, causing the gun to slip from his hand.
Before he could even react, he took a kick to the knee, grounting as he fell to his knees.
The third person turned to run and shouted into the cave,
"Someone's here!"
Before the words fell, Lynn chased after him, bringing the dagger horizontal and striking the back of his head, dropping the man straight down.
The cave quieted down again, leaving only Tony's heavy breathing.
"... When did you practice this trick?"
"That's not important."
Lynn walked back, supporting his arm once more,
"What's important is that there are still more than twenty people outside, and that shout just now might have already summoned them over."
"Then what should we do?"
"Let's go."
The two had just reached the cave entrance when the searchlight's white light swept over, and immediately, a sharp whistle pierced the night sky.
In the valley, lights lit up one after another, shadows crawled out from various rock crevices, and dense muzzles pointed toward the cave entrance.
Tony's heart instantly sank to the bottom.
"Lynn,"
he said in a hoarse voice,
"This time, we really might not be able to get away."
Lynn stood at the cave entrance, looking at the pitch-black muzzles across the valley, the night wind whipping sand particles against his face.
He didn't turn back, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather:
"If we can't get out, we'll fight our way out."
"Stick close to me."
Chapter 8: Night Road
When the white light of the searchlight swept over, Lynnpushed Tony behind him and rushed straight toward the wall of guns.
The first bullet grazed past his shoulder, scorching a hot trace through the air.
He bent down, running low against the ground, while bullets kicked up a string of sparks on the gravel near his feet. The machine gunner on the guard tower had just turned his muzzle when Lynn had already climbed up the tower pillar, stabbed his dagger into the man's shoulder, and kicked him down from the tower.
The machine gun went silent.
But there were many people in the valley, surging over from all directions with muzzles spitting tongues of fire, and the lights flickered in the dark night like a swarm of bloodthirsty fireflies.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with the stench of blood poured into his lungs, choking his throat tight.
Lynn retreated to Tony's side, propped him up, and retreated along the rock wall toward the mouth of the valley.
Bullets hit the stones behind him, and the shattered stone fragments that broke off scratched his face, but he didn't even blink an eye.
Tony was dragged along by him, his legs almost unable to exert any strength, panting heavily, but gritting his teeth without making a sound.
"Over there."
Tony suddenly said,
"There is a trail behind the cave that leads to the back mountain. I used to hear people mention the terrain of this place."
"When did you become so familiar with the terrain of Afghanistan?"
"During the few days I was dragged in here, I just listened to them chat."
Tony coughed twice,
"We always have to find a way to survive."
As the two just rounded behind the cave, Lynn's footsteps suddenly paused.
In the shadow of the back mountain, a person was curled up.
A scrawny man with a graying beard, wearing a white lab coat stained with oil, dragging a broken iron chain on his ankle.
Hearing the commotion, he raised his head, and on that tired face, a pair of eyes were astonishingly bright.
Seeing Tony, his pupils shrank violently, and his voice was lowered extremely low, carrying a heavy Middle Eastern accent:
"Mr. Stark! You——you're still alive!"
"You know him?"
Lynn did not relax his vigilance, holding his dagger horizontally in front of him.
"My name is Ethan."
The man stood up supporting himself against the rock wall, the iron chain clattered once,
"I am the Doctor who was captured to perform surgery on him. They made me save him and take out the shrapnel in his chest. I hadn't finished yet when they dragged me away, saying they were going to transfer stronghold points."
Staring at the blood-seeping bandage on Tony's chest, his voice became urgent:
"The shrapnel is still inside, pressing against the pericardium. If it isn't taken out as soon as possible, he won't survive tonight."
Tony leaned against the rock wall, his face ashen, cold sweat streaming down his temples. He raised his eyes to look at Ethan, then looked at Lynn, and suddenly forced out a smile:
"Doctor, your 'won't survive tonight' is really quite direct."
"I'm only stating facts."
Ethan's gaze turned to Lynn,
"What are you to him?"
"Brother."
"Then don't just stand there."
Ethan ripped off the sleeve of his white lab coat, revealing a piece of crude tourniquet tied underneath and a small roll of surgical instruments,
"I carry tools with me. Find a safe place, and I can perform surgery on him, but we must hurry."
Lynn looked at this scrawny old man, looked at those unusually firm eyes in the dark, and thought for only half a second.
"Follow me."
The three of them retreated down the trail of the back mountain. Lynn walked in the very front, while Ethansupported Tony, their pace much neater than Lynn had expected.
The gunfire gradually grew distant, but in the valley behind them, human voices and headlights were still swaying everywhere searching.
At the end of the trail was an expansive Gobi desert.
Parked on the Gobi was a rusty pickup truck with its headlights still on, and a guard leaning against the car door smoking, the firelight flickering on and off in the dark.
Lynn lowered his voice:
"There's a car."
He crouched over stealthily. The guard heard footsteps and looked up, the cigarette butt just clamped in his mouth, when a hand reached out from the shadow and grabbed his neck. Lynn snapped his arm, dragged him to the back of the car, felt for the keys from the corpse, and threw them to Ethan behind him.
"Get in the car."
Ethan shoved Tony into the back seat, crawled in after him, ripped open the bandage on Tony's chest, and pressed his fingers onto the gruesome wound. Tony let out a muffled grunt from the pain, and cold sweat gushed out all at once.
"Hang in there."
Ethan's voice was very steady,
"The shrapnel is still there, but it's temporarily suppressed."
Lynn started the engine, the pickup truck shuddered, and charged out crushing the gravel. The headlights split the dark night, kicking up two long trails of yellow sand.
Behind them, in the direction of the valley, a few sets of headlights chased out, getting closer and closer.
Bullets hit the sheet metal at the rear of the car, ringing together into a cacophony of clangs.
Lynn sharply turned the steering wheel, and the pickup drew a sharp turn on the Gobi, kicking up dust all over the sky, temporarily blocking the pursuers' line of sight.
In the rearview mirror, the headlights swayed and were swallowed by the dust.
Lynn breathed a sigh of relief, just as he was about to speak, Ethan's urgent voice came from the back seat:
"His body temperature is dropping, and his consciousness is already starting to blur."
Lynn glanced through the rearview mirror. Tony leaned against Ethan's shoulder, his face frighteningly pale, his lips tinged with bluish-purple, and the blood on his chest was still seeping out.
"How much longer to the nearest town?"
Ethan asked.
"I don't know."
Lynn stepped on the accelerator,
"But I'll drive until he can't hold on anymore."
The night wind poured into the car windows, dry and cold. The Gobi stretched infinitely under the headlights, with no end in sight.
Tony's eyelids grew heavy.
In a trance, he heard someone calling him. The voice was far away yet very close, mixed with the sound of the wind and the engine, and there was also a strange, accented male voice shouting something like "Hang in there, don't sleep".
He tried hard to open his eyes, but before him remained only the flickering lights.
Then, he heard Lynn's voice, as calm as if he were talking about a very ordinary matter:
"Ethan, take a look at the wound on his chest. I want the most stable route."
"Why?"
"Because,"
Lynn's voice paused,
"My brother cannot die here."
Chapter 9: Escaping Death
The pickup truck drove in the Gobi desert for another forty minutes, the engine began to heat up, and the water tank emitted white steam.
Tony in the back seat had completely lost consciousness, his face was ashen, his lips were bluish-purple, and the blood on his chest had stained Ethan's sleeves dark brown.
"We can't take any more bumps."
Ethan held down Tony's wound,
"If we bump along any more, the shrapnel will shift, and not even the immortals can save him."
Lynn glanced ahead. At the end of the wasteland, there was a cluster of low houses. The mud walls were pitted by the wind and sand, and the windows were all dark, looking like an abandoned village.
He turned the car over and stopped in front of the outermost house.
The house smelled of mildew and goat dung, but at least it could block the wind.
Hay was piled in the corner, Lynn laid Tony flat, and Ethanimmediately squatted down, untied the bandage to check the wound, his brows furrowing tighter and tighter.
"The shrapnel has drilled inward again."
Ethan raised his head,
"We must operate as soon as possible. This place won't do. I need a clean, well-lit place that can maintain warmth."
"In this ghost place, where would you find a clean place?"
Lynn squatted down, glanced at Tony's grayish-blue face, and stood up,
"You stay here and watch over him."
"Where are you going?"
"To make a call."
Lynn walked outside the house, pulled out a satellite phone, and dialed an encrypted number. After ringing twice, the other side answered with the assistant's lowered voice:
"Boss, the location is confirmed, the plane is already on standby."
"Make them fly east, I will send you the coordinates immediately."
Lynn's voice was very calm, "After arriving at the place, maintain silence and wait for my signal."
"Understood. Also—"
The assistant paused for a moment,
"Over in New York, Miss Pepper is already applying pressure to the Military for news; we won't be able to keep it hidden for long."
"If you can't hide it, don't hide it."
Lynn said,
"Tell them the person has been found, alive."
Hanging up the phone, he stood in the wind, looking at the line where the Gobi and the night sky met in the distance. After standing for a few seconds, he turned around and walked back into the house.
Ethan was debriding the wound with that roll of crude surgical instruments. His movements were very steady, but his forehead was covered in sweat. Hearing the footsteps, he didn't even raise his head:
"Are you done with the call?"
"Done. The plane can arrive before dawn. Thirty kilometers east there is an abandoned simple runway."
Lynn squatted down and glanced at Tony,
"Can he hold on until then?"
Ethan was silent for a few seconds:
"The shrapnel is compressing the pericardium and could trigger pericardial effusion at any moment. Whether he can hold on depends on himself."
Lynn didn't speak, reaching out to grasp Tony's icy hand. That hand tightened unconsciously in his coma, as if grabbing onto something.
Before dawn, a streak of grayish-white appeared in the east.
Thirty kilometers east, the abandoned runway.
The runway was severely weathered, with cracks filled with hay, but it was barely enough for a small Gulfstream to take off and land.
When the distant skyline lit up, the roar of the engine came from far to near. A silver-white airplane swept low over the dunes, its landing gear lowered, and the sound of the wheels crushing gravel was exceptionally clear in the morning wind.
The cabin door opened, and two men in black hurriedly carried a stretcher down.
"Slow down."
Lynn pressed on the stretcher,
"Don't bump it."
Tony was carried onto the plane and laid flat on a temporarily prepared platform in the rear cabin.
Ethan washed his hands, put on the worn, washed-out surgical gloves he carried with him, finished checking the instruments, and looked up at Lynn:
"The cabin air pressure is unstable, the lighting is insufficient, and sterilization is incomplete. Performing thoracotomy in such a place has a low success probability."
"How high?"
"Less than fifty percent."
Lynn looked at him:
"Then are you going to do it, or not?"
Ethan lowered his head to look at Tony's ashen face, and then looked at his own hands stained with old blood.
He remembered the day he was captured by the Ten Rings Gang, when the lights at home were still bright, and his wife and daughter were waving to him at the doorway. That was the last time he saw them.
"Do it," Ethan said, "If he dies in my hands, these hands of mine will never deserve to touch a scalpel again."
The plane pulled up, climbing toward the clouds. The lighting in the cabin was dim and yellow, and the smell of disinfectant mixed with the scent of blood, permeating the narrow space.
Ethan leaned over, the scalpel gleaming coldly under the light.
"Hold him down."
Ethan said,
"If he wakes up in pain and moves around, and the needle pricks the wrong place, it will be troublesome."
Lynn held down Tony's shoulders, his fingertips feeling the unconscious spasms of his muscles.
The dosage of the anesthetic was very light, almost relying on Tony's comatose state to endure it.
The blade fell.
Tony's body suddenly arched, and a suppressed grunt escaped his throat. Lynn pressed down on him hard, lowering his head to say a sentence in his ear:
"Tony, it's me. Don't move."
Tony's eyelashes trembled, as if recognizing the voice in the dark, and the spasms gradually subsided.
Ethan's hands were very steady. Hemostats, tweezers, sutures—the movements went step by step. Sweat from his forehead dripped down the bridge of his nose, smashing onto Tony's chest, staining a small dark patch. The cabin occasionally bumped, and he would stop, waiting for the fuselage to steady before continuing.
"The shrapnel."
Ethan suddenly said, his voice carrying a trace of almost inaudible relief,
"Found it."
"Then take it out."
Lynn said.
"The position is very dangerous, right against the pericardium. I need him not to move at all. You hold him down, talk to me, and let him know someone is here."
Lynn lowered his head, looking at Tony's bloodless face, his voice dropping very low:
"That bottle of Macallan you owe me hasn't been returned yet. You said you'd take me to Hollywood to see supermodels, but you never fulfilled it. Tony, you are a person who breaks your word so many times that I can't even remember."
Tony's fingers moved slightly in his palm.
Ethan's forceps reached in, clamped that piece of metal, and pulled it outward little by little.
The cabin was so quiet that only the ticking of the instruments and Ethan's heavy breathing remained.
Then, a crisp sound.
The shrapnel fell into the tray.
On Tony's chest, the ferocious wound was re-stitched, and the bleeding stopped. Ethan cut the last thread, let out a long breath, and the whole person seemed to have been drained of strength. He leaned against the cabin wall, closing his eyes and panting for a long while.
"It's done," he said.
Lynn lowered his head, looking at Tony's face, which was gradually regaining a bit of color, and that icy hand slowly gained warmth in his palm.
Outside the window, a crack split open in the clouds, and sunlight poured in, illuminating the cabin.
[Ding! Rescue mission complete!]
[Host has successfully rewritten Iron Man's initial life-and-death tribulation!]
[Congratulations on unlocking a new template: Spider-Man Ultimate Agility Pure & Kind Template (Side-Effect-Free Complete Version)!]
The system prompt tone fell in his mind.
Lynn didn't pay attention, only holding Tony's hand, looking at the rolling sea of clouds outside the window.
Chapter 10: Visiting the Patient
When the Gulfstream touched down on the runway at a private airport in New York, dusk was just falling.
When the cabin door opened, a rush of damp cold air poured in, carrying the city's signature exhaust fumes and the damp chill of early winter, making it a completely different World from the dry, cracking winds of the Afghanistan gobi desert.
When Tony was being loaded onto the ambulance, he woke up once, his eyelashes fluttering as he opened his eyes to see New York's gray, overcast sky, and rasped out,
"I'm back," before drifting back into unconsciousness.
Private medical center, top-floor ward.
The ticking of the monitor echoed in the room, and the smell of disinfectant diluted the scent of blood.
Lynn leaned against the window, watching as Tony was wheeled in until the Nurse pulled the curtain shut, only then withdrawing his gaze.
From the end of the corridor came the sound of high heels stepping on the marble, hurried and chaotic.
Pepper practically ran over, her makeup smeared and her eyes red-rimmed; upon seeing Lynn, her footsteps paused, her mouth opened, and it took her a long time to squeeze out a sentence:
"He…"
"He's alive."
said Lynn,
"The shrapnel has been removed, the surgery was successful, he's just extremely exhausted and is sleeping."
Pepper's tears immediately started falling.
She turned her head away, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, took a deep breath, and turned back to say:
"This past month, I've been on the verge of breaking. That bunch on the Board of Directors has been probing for news about him every day—"
"Let them probe all they want."
said Lynn,
"What you need to do now is go home, sleep, and go to work as usual tomorrow. No matter what anyone asks, just say Tony is recovering from his injuries, and you don't know anything else."
Pepper looked at him, as if she wanted to say something, but swallowed it back.
She nodded, and just as she turned around, footsteps came from down the corridor again.
Leather shoes, unhurried, steady and powerful.
A tall, bald man appeared at the end of the corridor, impeccably suited with a benign smile. Seeing Lynn and Pepper, he opened his arms from afar:
"Lynn! Pepper! This is wonderful!"
"I heard Tony was back and rushed over from the Board of Directors immediately."
Obadiah Stane.
A veteran of Stark Industries, an old partner of Tony's father Howard, everyone in the circle called him "Uncle Stane" both to his face and behind his back.
He walked to the door of the ward, glanced at Tonythrough the glass, the concern on his face managed to absolute perfection:
"Good god, look at how much this child has suffered. What on earth is going on with the Military? Those good-for-nothings—"
"Mr. Stane."
Lynn spoke, his voice not loud, but it cut right across his words,
"Tony needs to rest, and the Doctor says he shouldn't be disturbed anytime soon."
Obadiah turned his head to look at Lynn, the slight smile on his face completely unchanged, but his gaze looked as if he were re-evaluating him:
"Ah, Lynn. Come to think of it, the two of us haven't seen each other in a long time. You child, you usually hide and avoid people, but this time… you moved pretty fast?"
"A younger brother welcoming his older brother home is only natural."
Lynn met his gaze, his tone flat,
"It's not a matter of fast or slow."
The two of them stood a meter apart, one with a warm smile, the other with an indifferent expression, yet the air somehow tightened a few notches.
Pepper stood in the middle, subconsciously holding her breath.
"Good, good, good, it's only right, only right."
Obadiah looked away first, patting Lynn's shoulder with a warmth carefully struck in his force,
"Then Uncle won't disturb Tony's rest. Later, when he wakes up, I'll come check on him again."
"Over at the company, everyone is waiting for him to return and take charge."
He turned and walked toward the elevator. After taking a few steps, he stopped without turning back, his voice as casual as if chatting about daily household matters:
"Oh right, Lynn, I heard people say you've been collecting information regarding the Middle East lately? You're so young, why worry yourself over so much. With me keeping an eye on your older brother, nothing will go wrong."
"Mhm."
said Lynn,
"Sorry to trouble Uncle Stane with your concern."
Obadiah waved his hand, stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed.
The corridor grew quiet.
Pepper finally let out a long breath, lowering her voice:
"Just now… the way you spoke to him, why did I feel like it was a bit weird?"
"What's weird about it?"
"I can't quite put my finger on it."
Pepper frowned,
"It just felt like you were guarding against him."
Lynn didn't answer. He looked in the direction where the elevator doors had closed, and after a few seconds, he spoke:
"Pepper, regarding the incident where Tony was ambushed in Afghanistan, the Military still hasn't figured out who sold the route intelligence to this day. Don't you find that strange?"
Pepper was stunned:
"You mean…"
"I don't mean anything by it."
Lynn turned around, pushed open the door and walked into the ward, his voice leaking through the crack in the door,
"You should go back and rest early. I'll keep watch here."
Inside the ward, the light from the monitor cast a pale green glow across Tony's face. He was sleeping deeply, yet his brow was slightly furrowed, as if he couldn't completely relax even in his dreams.
Lynn sat down by the bedside, looking at that much-thinner face.
He understood Obadiah's two sentences just now very clearly.
"Nothing will go wrong."
This was telling him not to stick his nose into other people's business.
And that line "why worry yourself over so much," rather than being concern, was more like a warning.
Lynn lowered his head, his fingertips gently tapping against the edge of the bed, his voice so low only he could hear it:
"Uncle Stane, you'd better hope I don't find out that route intelligence leaked from inside Stark Industries."
Outside the window, the lights of New York lit up one after another.
Tony tossed and turned in his sleep, mumbled something indistinctly, and grew quiet again.
Chapter 11 Awakening
On the third day after Tony woke up, he was already able to sit up and curse people out.
"I said, I'm fine!"
He slapped away the medicine tray in the Nurse's hand,
"I just had a hole blown in my chest, it's not like my brain was scooped out! Lynn! Control them!"
Lynn leaned against the doorframe, watching his older brother energetically bicker with the Nurse. He didn't answer, just waved his hand at the Nurse, signaling her to go out first.
The ward quieted down.
Tony took two breaths, leaned against the head of the bed, and stared at Lynn for a few seconds:
"Your complexion hasn't looked right these past two days. What have you been up to?"
"Jet lag."
Lynn said.
Tony clearly didn't believe it, but he didn't press further either, only letting out a hum:
"Fine. If you won't say, I'll find out myself sooner or later."
Eleven o'clock at night, Stark Industries Building.
There were hardly any people left on the downstairs street, only streetlights stretching the shadows of the parasol trees very long.
Lynn stood in the shadows across the street, looking up at the glass-curtained building.
On the top floor, the light in Obadiah's office was still on.
He was working overtime tonight.
Lynn took off his jacket, draped it over his arm, and leisurely turned into the fire escape on the side of the building.
No one paid attention to him; the security guard thought he was an employee working overtime, and in the surveillance footage, he was just a fuzzy figure with a casual walking posture.
At the end of the fire escape was an iron door leading to the interior of the building.
It was locked.
Lynn reached out, his fingertips pressing against the crack of the door, exerting a slight force.
The adhesive ability of the Spider-Man template.
His fingertips seemed to have grown onto the metal surface, and a subtle gripping force seeped from his fingertips into the gap. Under his hand, the doorlock made an extremely faint "click".
The door opened.
He didn't go in immediately, instead closing his eyes and waiting for two seconds.
Spider-Sense.
An indescribable alertness, like someone blowing a breath on the back of his neck.
The angle at which the floor's security camera would turn twenty seconds later, the night shift security guard's patrol route, the low-frequency humming of the cables in the elevator shaft... All kinds of information flooded into his senses, as clear as an unfolded map.
Hugging the wall and avoiding the blind spots of the surveillance, he slipped into the elevator shaft and climbed up along the cables.
Top floor.
The door to Obadiah's office was ajar, letting out a sliver of light.
Lynn groped along the base of the wall and stopped by the door. Voices came from inside, kept very low, but in this silent late night, every single word was as clear as if it were right in his ear.
"...The first batch of goods has already arrived at the port, proceed according to the original plan."
It was Obadiah's voice, carrying a coldness that had never been revealed in that warm tone during the day.
"You don't need to worry, Stark is just a cripple now, lying in the hospital unable to move. That younger brother of his, hum, a little master whose hair hasn't even fully grown out, can't stir up any trouble."
On the other end of the phone, someone seemed to say something.
Obadiah chuckled twice, his voice sinking:
"The technical data for the Arc Reactor was already in my hands long ago. Once he dies, or once he signs, all of Stark Industries will be mine to call the shots."
Lynn leaned against the outside wall, his fingertips pressing against the icy wall surface, his gaze turning cold little by little.
Arc.
It really was him.
He just wanted to listen to a few more sentences when suddenly, his Spider-Sense stabbed into the back of his head like a needle.
There was someone behind him.
Lynn didn't look back; his body reacted ahead of his consciousness, turning sideways and twisting his waist, pressing his entire body into the shadows of the corner.
Almost at the same second, a white beam of light from a flashlight swept over from the end of the corridor, illuminating the spot where he had just been standing.
It was the night shift security guard, patrolling along the corridor while looking down at his phone as he walked.
The white light flashed past, sweeping across the corner.
There was no one there.
The security guard muttered something and continued walking forward.
Lynn clung to the shadows, and only after the footsteps faded away did he slowly let out a breath.
He didn't stay any longer, retreating back into the elevator shaft the way he came. The cable felt ice-cold in his palm, and his palms were covered in sweat.
At one o'clock in the morning, Lynn returned to the ward.
Tony was already asleep, the green light of the monitor dancing across his face. Lynn sat down by the bedside, and after a long while, he heard himself speak, his voice very soft:
"The data for the Arc Reactor, he already got his hands on it long ago."
"Tony. That 'Uncle Stane' of yours is much dirtier than you think."
He took out his phone, the screen lit up, and the contacts list stopped on "Pepper". It hovered for two seconds before he pressed it dark again.
In the ward, there was only Tony's even breathing and the lights of New York late at night outside the window.
Chapter 12: Showdown
The next morning, in the hospital room.
Light leaked in through the gap in the curtains, shining on Tony's emaciated face.
He was staring blankly at the mechanical blueprints on his tablet when he heard a "clack" from the door lock, and looking up, he saw Lynn enter and lock the door behind him.
"What are you locking the door for?"
Tony asked,
"What shady business do you want to discuss with me?"
Lynn didn't answer, walking over to the bedside and placing a digital voice recorder on the cabinet beside Tony's hand, then pressing the play button.
A rustling white noise sounded for two seconds, followed by Obadiah's voice, low and carrying a chill that had never been shown during the day:
"I got my hands on the technical data of the Arc Reactorlong ago.
Once he dies, or once he signs, the whole of Stark Industries will be mine to run."
The recording was very short, stopping as soon as it finished playing.
The hospital room was quiet enough to hear the heartbeat of the monitor.
Tony stared at the voice recorder, the expression on his face fading bit by bit. He looked up at Lynn, his voice very soft:
"Where did you get this from?"
"That's not important."
Lynn said,
"What's important is whether what he said is true."
"He's my dad's brother."
Tony's voice was dry,
"He watched me grow up since I was in diapers."
"So what?"
Lynn looked at him,
"Him watching you grow up and him wanting your life, are those two different things?"
Tony didn't answer.
He lowered his head, looking at the unstitched scar on his chest, pressing his fingertips unconsciously and heavily, as if confirming something. After a long while, he spoke, his voice hoarse:
"The route for that trip to Afghanistan, only a few people knew about it.
The Military, the Board of Directors, I've always been unable to figure out how the Ten Rings Gang could intercept me so precisely."
"You figured it out now?"
Lynn asked.
"Yeah."
Tony raised his head, something extinguishing in those eyes, and something else igniting,
"That route was finalized at the Board of Directors meeting last Wednesday.
Not many people were present, but Uncle Stane, he hammered it down more eagerly than anyone else."
After finishing these words, as if he had exhausted all his strength, he leaned back against the head of the bed and closed his eyes.
The hospital room grew quiet again.
Lynn didn't rush him, just standing by the bedside, looking at the snow drifting outside the window.
After a long while, Tony opened his eyes, his voice regaining a bit of strength:
"He wants the technology of the Arc Reactor. He thinks I'm done for, and wants to take control of the Board of Directors while I'm in the hospital."
"He is indeed making a move."
Lynn said,
"Pepper told me last night that tomorrow the Board of Directors will propose a reorganization regarding the custody of your shares."
Tony sneered, the smile as cold as the snow outside the window:
"Wanting to take advantage of my hospitalization to marginalize me."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Discharge from the hospital."
Tony lifted the quilt, the movement pulling at his wound, hurting him so much that he bared his teeth, but he still propped himself up to sit,
"Tomorrow, I will go to the Board of Directors in person. I'd like to see if Uncle Stane dares to repeat that set of words to my face."
"In your current state, can you go?"
"I can go."
Tony looked up at him, his gaze carrying a fierceness Lynnhad never seen before,
"If I can't even guard my own company, why did I come back alive?"
Lynn looked at him and didn't advise him further.
He walked to the bedside, picked up the voice recorder, tucked it into his pocket, and turned to walk towards the door.
"Where are you going?"
"To handle your discharge procedures."
Lynn pulled open the door, paused, and without turning back,
"By the way, tomorrow at the Board of Directors, I'll go with you."
Tony was stunned:
"You go to the Board of Directors? Since when have you been interested in company matters?"
"I'm not interested in company matters."
Lynn said,
"But I am very interested in the person who wants to kill my brother."
The door closed.
Tony sat by the bed, looking at the closed door. After a long while, he chuckled softly, the smile carrying an indescribable flavor:
"Leon Stark..."
"Just how many things are you keeping from me?"
Chapter 13: Board of Directors (Part 1)
At 6:00 AM, Tony was already sitting by the hospital bed, slipping into a suit.
Halfway through buttoning it, he stopped.
He looked down at the raised scar on his chest. The gauze had been removed, and the new flesh was pink and slightly swollen.
He reached out and pressed it, inhaling sharply from the pain before continuing to button up.
Lynn leaned against the doorframe, watching him:
"Can you hold up going like this?"
"Even if I can't hold up, I have to."
Tony wound the tie around his neck and tied a crooked knot,
"They chose to hold the meeting today just because they calculated I wouldn't be able to get out of bed?"
Pepper stood at the doorway, clutching a document, hesitating to speak:
"Tony, how about... resting for two more days? As for the Board of Directors, Mr. Stane said he could temporarily preside over it first—"
"Of course he wants to preside."
Tony interrupted her, tugged at his tie, felt it wasn't tied right, and simply yanked it off to clutch it in his hand,
"If I don't go today, tomorrow that 'acting' title will be gone."
Stark Industries headquarters, tenth-floor conference room.
When the door was pushed open, the room was buzzing with discussion.
A room full of people saw Tony standing at the door, and their voices instantly cut off as if someone had choked them.
Tony stood at the doorway, his suit unbuttoned, tie clutched in his hand. His complexion carried the pallor of someone who had just recovered from a severe illness, but his back was straight as a ramrod.
"Morning, everyone."
He swept his gaze around, his eyes landing on the primary seat,
"Uncle Stane, holding a meeting this early, why didn't you notify me?"
Obadiah sat in the main seat. The trace of surprise on his face vanished in a flash, quickly replaced by a smile:
"Tony! Why are you out of the hospital? Didn't the Doctorsay—"
"The Doctor said I can go home to recuperate quietly."
Tony walked in, pulled out a chair, and sat down with a fluid motion. As he sat, his shoulders involuntarily tensed for a second, which he forcefully suppressed,
"Recuperation is recuperation, but as for the company's affairs, I still want to hear about them myself."
The air in the conference room grew subtly tense.
Obadiah's smile didn't change, but his gaze darkened a bit. He looked around the room and spoke:
"Tony, your body isn't fully recovered yet, and the content of today's meeting actually isn't urgent. It's mainly about the arrangement of the company's daily affairs during your recovery period. Everyone is discussing it to make a temporary plan."
"A temporary plan?"
Tony leaned against the back of the chair, raising his eyes to look at him,
"What kind of temporary plan?"
"Before you fully recover, the Board of Directors will authorize someone to temporarily handle daily affairs on your behalf."
Obadiah said it casually,
"With a company this big, it can't go a single day without someone running it."
"Authorized to whom?"
Obadiah didn't answer directly; he just smiled and looked at a few directors nearby.
Tony also followed his gaze over.
Those directors either lowered their heads to flip through documents or held coffee cups; not a single one dared to meet his gaze.
Tony withdrew his gaze and suddenly let out a laugh. That laughter was exceptionally clear in the quiet conference room.
"Uncle Stane."
He spoke, his voice not loud,
"During the half month I was lying in the hospital, how much do you know about that shipment of goods to Afghanistan?"
The hand holding the coffee cup paused for a split second.
The slight smile on Obadiah's face finally stiffened for a fraction of a second:
"Tony, regarding Afghanistan, the Military hasn't given a definitive word yet—"
"Whether they've given a definitive word or not, I know it in my heart."
Tony interrupted him, felt out a crumpled document from his pocket, slammed it onto the table, and pushed it across,
"This is last month's shipping manifest, along with several transfer records whose whereabouts are unknown. You know the ropes better than I do, help me take a look—"
"Where on earth were these goods sold?"
The conference room fell completely silent. That document lay on the table, and no one reached out to touch it.
Obadiah stared at the document for a few seconds, and the smile on his face faded bit by bit. He raised his head to look at Tony, his eyes lacking that layer of warm and thick disguise for the first time, becoming deep and heavy.
"Tony."
He said,
"If you have something to say, just say it."
"I don't want to say anything."
Tony met his gaze,
"I just want to tell you that I still call the shots in this company. The day my shares haven't been transferred out, this seat will never be someone else's to sit in."
"As for that 'temporary arrangement'—"
He stood up, his eyes sweeping over the people present,
"Scrap it. I don't need it."
He turned around and walked towards the door. Halfway there, he stopped and glanced back at Obadiah.
"Oh right, there is one more thing."
"What?"
"I plan to shut down the weapons manufacturing division."
Tony said,
"Starting tomorrow, Stark Industries will no longer manufacture weapons."
Inside the conference room, it was like a bomb had been thrown in. Someone stood up with a start, someone cried out "What?",
even those few directors who had kept their heads lowered abruptly raised their heads.
Obadiah's pupils violently contracted:
"You're crazy. Half of Stark Industries' revenue relies on weapons holding it up, and you're just chopping it off with a single word?"
"It's not chopping it off, it's a transformation."
Tony said,
"I won't walk down this path of weapons anymore."
He looked at Obadiah, his gaze startlingly calm:
"Uncle Stane, you know better than anyone else what kind of people the weapons we sold ended up in the hands of."
In the corridor.
The door closed behind them, blocking the arguing noises from the conference room inside.
Tony leaned against the wall. The moment that breath leaked out, his whole body visibly wilted, a layer of cold sweat oozing from his forehead. Pressing against the wound on his chest, he slowly slid down to sit at the base of the wall.
Lynn had stood beside him at some point without reaching out, looking down at him:
"Feel good?"
"Feels good."
Tony panted, forcing out a smile,
"Damn it... it hurts like hell."
"Serves you right."
Lynn said,
"You just had to act tough when you had a hole blown in your body."
Tony didn't answer. Leaning against the wall to recover for a long while, he finally spoke with a hoarse voice:
"He's panicked."
"Mm."
"I've never seen him panic like that."
Tony raised his head, his gaze landing on the emergency exit at the end of the corridor,
"Lynn, if he really..."
"He really is."
Lynn interrupted him,
"You listened to the recording and you saw the shipping manifest. He's panicking because you poked his sore spot."
Tony fell silent for a very long time. Only the buzzing sound of the air conditioning vent remained in the corridor.
"Me shutting down the weapons division," he suddenly said, "is equivalent to cutting off his financial path. If he gets desperate—"
"Then let him jump."
Lynn said,
"I'm waiting."
Tony looked up at him, watching him for several seconds before randomly blurting out:
"Where were you standing just now? Did he see you?"
"Probably saw me."
Lynn's tone was casual,
"The door was open, and I was standing right across the corridor."
"Then why didn't he ask you?"
"He doesn't dare."
Lynn said,
"If he were to ask me what I was standing there doing, it would be equivalent to admitting he's investigating me."
Tony stared at him for half a day, then cursed under his breath:
"... You people, you sure have a fucking lot of twists and turns."
"You two brothers aren't bad yourselves."
Lynn reached out and pulled him up from the ground,
"Let's go, home. It's time to change the dressing, the wound is bleeding through again."
Tony lowered his head, glanced at the dark patch seeping through his suit, cursed, and let Lynn support him as they walked towards the elevator.
Behind them, the door to the conference room opened a crack.
Obadiah stood behind the crack in the door, watching the backs of the two brothers walking into the elevator. The expression on his face was as cold as if it had been quenched in ice.
He took out his phone and dialed a number.
"It's me." His voice was lowered very quietly. "Advance the plan. That batch of goods, ship it out tonight."
Chapter 14: Closing the Net, Goodbye Black Widow!
At eleven o'clock at night, the Hudson River Pier.
Cranes were hoisting wooden crates labeled "Mechanical Equipment" onto the cargo ship, one after another, without stopping.
Lynn was squatting on the roof of the opposite warehouse, not moving.
The wind carried the sounds of the pier into his ears: the screech of crane cables, the shouts of workers, the rushing sound of waves crashing against the embankment, and further away, from the unclosed window of the pier office, a muffled phone call.
"... Yes, just tonight, leave as soon as the ship is loaded... On the buyer's side, the money has arrived."
It was Obadiah's voice.
Across a distance of more than a hundred meters and two floors, with the wind carrying the smell of diesel and smoke, Lynn heard every single word clearly.
His ultimate five senses had stretched his hearing to an outrageous degree; let alone a whispered phone call, he could even count the rhythm of that person's fingertips tapping on the tabletop.
He closed his eyes for a moment and ran through it in his mind again: inside the office, Obadiah, one; outside the door in the corridor, two bodyguards; on the path from the warehouse to the pier, night patrols, six, armed, with an interval of about forty meters and a fixed route.
Everything was in his head.
The assistant's voice came through the earpiece, kept very low:
"Boss, the cargo is still being loaded, and the people are still here. When do we make a move?"
"No hurry."
Lynn said,
"Wait until that batch of cargo is completely loaded onto the ship, and catch him red-handed so he can't deny it."
He flipped down from the warehouse roof. It was three stories high, but when he landed, his knees bent to absorb the impact, making almost no sound.
Walking forward along the shadows of the containers, he rounded a corner and bumped right into a night-patrol man in a suit.
The man froze and reached behind his waist.
Lynn didn't give him a chance to draw his gun. He lunged forward and punched the man right in the chest, with the force controlled just right—
not enough to be fatal, but enough to knock the wind out of a strong adult man instantly, causing him to double over and collapse.
He casually dragged the man behind a container, disarmed him, and checked the magazine.
The man's gun was heavy.
The sound of the bullet being chambered was exceptionally crisp in the night.
Lynn tucked the gun behind his waist and continued inward.
Along this stretch, he no longer detoured; his steps were fast and steady, and the gap between his front and back feet landing was a beat shorter than that of ordinary people—
that was the rhythm his body naturally adjusted to after his reaction speed was maxed out.
The door to the pier office was ajar.
Lynn stopped by the door and heard a lighter click from inside, followed by the smell of smoke.
Obadiah was smoking, his fingertips tapping on the tabletop: once, twice, three times.
He pushed the door open and went in.
Obadiah looked up, saw him, and his hand holding the cigarette paused for a moment. The mild warmth on his face quickly vanished, replaced by an unfathomable calmness:
"Lynn. In the middle of the night, why are you here?"
"To collect a debt."
Lynn leaned against the door panel and casually shut the door,
"Uncle Stane, do you have any idea what cargo you're loading on this ship tonight?"
"Whatever is loaded is written on the manifest." Obadiahpinched out his cigarette,
"Mechanical equipment."
"Mechanical equipment."
Lynn repeated those two words and suddenly smiled,
"Then what if I told you that I've already had people take apart the gun barrels inside that batch of 'mechanical equipment' one by one and count them?"
Obadiah's expression stiffened for a second.
"You..."
"The goods you sold to the Ten Rings Gang packed thirty-seven boxes."
Lynn interrupted him,
"Of which twenty-four boxes are munitions—bullets and explosives—enough to arm half a camp.
And that transfer record, Uncle Stane. When you made your move, why didn't you think that the person you hired a hitman to kill was my biological brother?"
The color on Obadiah's face drained away bit by bit.
He fell silent for a few seconds, then suddenly moved—his right hand jerked open the drawer, pulled out a pistol, and pointed the muzzle at Lynn.
"You know too much." His voice turned cold, as if a layer of skin had been peeled off,
"That brat Tony has a hard life; consider him lucky. You won't be so lucky."
The gunshot rang out.
The moment the bullet left the barrel, Lynn's body had already moved first.
He sidestepped, and the bullet grazed his left arm, scorching a charred mark on his sleeve and stinging sharply. But that was it; he lowered his head and glanced. The bullet had brushed past his skin and flesh, drawing a line of blood droplets. As soon as it seeped out, the skin and flesh at the edge of the wound contracted back at a speed visible to the naked eye. In a matter of seconds, the bleeding stopped, leaving only a faint, healing red mark.
Super-speed cellular self-healing.
He frowned, rubbed the red mark against his sleeve, and looked up at Obadiah.
"You..." Obadiah held the gun, his finger hooked on the trigger, but he couldn't pull it down again,
because Lynn had already closed in front of him, grabbed his gun-bearing wrist, lifted it upward, and with another shot, shattered the light overhead.
In the darkness, Obadiah felt a sharp pain in his wrist, and the gun slipped from his hand. Immediately after, numbness hit his knees, and his entire body was forced down to kneel.
"What the hell, are you even human?" He panted heavily, struggling to raise his head.
Lynn ignored him. He picked up the gun and waved it in front of him:
"I am human. Just a bit more resilient than you."
Footsteps approached from outside the door, and several bodyguards rushed in. Seeing their boss pinned to the ground with a muzzle pressed against the back of his head, they froze at the doorway, neither advancing nor retreating.
"Don't move, all of you."
Lynn didn't even raise his head,
"Your boss's life is in my hands. Whoever moves, I'll shoot him first."
The assistant's voice came through the earpiece:
"Boss, the perimeter is secured. Police and Militarypersonnel will arrive in five minutes."
"Did you hear that, Uncle Stane?"
Lynn looked down at the half of Obadiah's face exposed and flushed red,
"Your batch of goods, buyers, and transfer records—not a single one is missing. Five minutes from now, you won't be a founding veteran of Stark Industries, but a suspect in hiring a hitman."
"... You little brat, you hid yourself so deeply."
Obadiah lay flat on the ground, squeezing out a sentence from his throat.
"Likewise."
Lynn let go of his hand and stood up,
"The persona of the good uncle you hid for thirty years is quite deep too."
The sound of sirens grew closer from afar.
Lynn stood at the office door, watching Obadiah get handcuffed and escorted out.
As he passed by him, Obadiah turned his head sideways, still wanting to say something.
Lynn didn't give him a chance to speak:
"In prison, think carefully about whether it was worth it."
The wind was still blowing. The cargo ship stopped loading, police figures moved back and forth under the lights, and the sounds of walkie-talkies rose and fell.
Lynn stood for a moment, took out his phone, and made a call.
It rang twice and connected.
Tony's voice carried the hoarseness of someone woken up:
"In the middle of the night—"
"Done."
Lynn said,
"Obadiah has been caught. Caught red-handed."
The other end of the line was silent for a few seconds:
"What did you say?"
"Your good uncle is in."
Lynn switched the phone to his other ear,
"Sleep soundly. We'll talk about the rest at the Board of Directors meeting tomorrow."
"Lynn, don't hang up yet—"
He hung up the phone, stuffed it back into his pocket, and stood at the edge of the pier watching the river water lap against the shore—black, shimmering with fragmented light.
The matter was done.
He didn't return to the estate. He drove around New YorkCity and, on a whim, stopped under that old building.
The unbranded wooden door was still the same. Pushing the door open, the charred aroma of cigars and the scent of whiskey rushed over him, with jazz playing softly.
In the corner of the bar, in that seat, sat a red-haired woman with a glass of vodka in front of her.
Hearing the footsteps, she raised her head and saw him. A flicker of light crossed her green eyes:
"It's you. Long time no see."
"Long time no see."
Lynn sat down next to her and tilted his chin at the bartender,
"A martini, not shaken."
"Done with your busy work?"
"Done."
Lynn took the glass and took a sip,
"And you?"
"Just got back."
Natasha said,
"The mission is over, and I wanted to find a place to stay. I didn't expect to run into you again."
The two didn't speak again, each drinking their own alcohol. The saxophone dragged out a lazy tail note.
"You don't look too good."
Natasha said suddenly,
"Just finished something big?"
"Sort of."
Lynn swirled his glass,
"Got someone put away, so I'm a bit tired."
Natasha glanced at him without pressing further. She finished her last sip of wine, put down the glass, and stood up to straighten her skirt hem:
"Change places? My hotel room balcony has a view of the entire Manhattan."
"Are you asking me out?"
"You can put it that way."
She was already walking towards the door without looking back,
"Come or not, up to you."
Lynn put down his glass and followed.
On the top floor of the hotel, outside the floor-to-ceiling windows were lights spreading to the horizon, dense and numerous, like someone had crushed an entire galaxy and scattered it over New York.
As soon as the door closed, Natasha turned around, grabbed his collar, and pinned him against the door panel.
She didn't speak, staring at him first.
Those green eyes in the dim light were like a cat's, carrying an indescribable meaning—
there was scrutiny, and also something else.
Lynn let her pin him without struggling, lowering his head to meet her gaze:
"In such a rush?"
"Cut the crap."
Her voice was a bit hoarse,
"I don't want to sleep alone today."
With that, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
The kiss came fast and heavy, carrying a reckless drive, as if all the words held back along the way were poured out in this single moment.
Lynn was stunned for a moment, then gripped her waist, pulling her into his arms.
There was a scent on her body—
a chilling breath mixed with alcohol and tobacco. Up close, one could still smell that faint underlying layer of leather and metal belonging to her line of work.
Lynn closed his eyes, his acutely sensitive tactile sense making every inch of touch under his fingertips excessively clear:
the skin on the back of her neck was slightly cool, her shoulder blades tensed tight as if ready to exert force at any moment, yet softening bit by bit in his palm.
In the gap when the kiss parted, she took a breath, her voice carrying a hint of a smile:
"Where are you putting your hand?"
"Checking if you're carrying a knife."
Lynn chuckled low, his fingertips brushing across her waistline,
"Habit."
"Then you better check carefully."
She hooked her arm around his neck, leading him toward the bedroom,
"If you miss anything in your check, don't blame me later."
The sheets were cool, but warmed up as someone pressed against them.
The lights outside the window, separated by a layer of gauze curtains, gathered the room's light into a dim, hazy glow.
Her breath fell beside his ear, fast and shallow. Lynn's fingertips slid down her spine, able to feel the trajectory of every inch of her muscles—
the lines forged by years of training were powerful when tense, and unexpectedly soft when relaxed.
"Your heartbeat is so fast."
She said, her fingertips tapping the old scar on his chest.
"Yours isn't slow either."
She let out a laugh, the sound brushing against his earlobe, tickling him.
Everything that followed carried a sense of not caring about tomorrow.
Her movements were very proactive, carrying that fierce edge learned from the battlefield,
but Lynn's reaction speed was half a beat faster than hers.
Every time she wanted to roll over and take the initiative, she was casually pressed back by him. After a few times, she bit him on the shoulder and cursed him:
"What the hell kind of person are you?"
"A member of the Stark Family."
Lynn's voice was buried in the crook of her neck, muffled,
"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you."
When rain began to fall in the latter half of the night, the two had already changed through several positions tossing about, neither thinking of sleeping.
Her fingernails left a few shallow marks on his back, and his fingertips left a few red prints on her waist sides, both carrying a sense of neither willing to admit defeat.
The endurance brought by ultimate physical fitness was vividly displayed at this moment.
By the end, she was almost exhausted of strength, lying flat on his chest panting, cursing him with a hoarse voice:
"You... did you take some kind of drug?"
"Born with it."
Lynn stroked her hair,
"Regretting it?"
"Regret my ass."
She buried her face in his neck,
"It's just... my legs are weak."
The rain outside the window fell heavier and heavier, pattering against the glass.
The two huddled together, neither speaking again, only hearing each other's breathing gradually calm down.
After a long while, she spoke, her voice already carrying sleepiness:
"Lynn."
"Hmm?"
"How many things are you keeping from me, anyway?"
"Plenty."
He closed his eyes, "You can dig them out slowly."
She didn't speak again. After quite a while, her breathing finally became completely even. Lynn opened his eyes, looking at her profile as she slept leaning against his shoulder, her eyelashes still carrying a trace of moisture.
He reached out and pulled the quilt that had slipped to her shoulders back up.
The rain outside the window was still falling.
When dawn broke, Natasha had already left, leaving a trace of her hair's scent on the pillow.
Pressed on the nightstand was a note with a phone number written in hasty handwriting.
Lynn looked at it for a moment, put it in his pocket, got up, and took a shower.
On his phone screen were a few unread messages.
The first was from the assistant: Obadiah has been handed over to the prosecutors, and Stark Industries' announcement will be issued tomorrow morning.
The second was from Tony: I remember you hanging up on me last night; come to the company at noon and explain things clearly to me.
The third had no contact name, an unfamiliar number, with only one sentence:
[Mr. Lynn, apologies for the intrusion. I am Agent Coulsonof S.H.I.E.L.D., and I'd like to chat with you about some matters regarding the flow of weapons from Stark Industries. If convenient, please return the call.]
Lynn, wiping his hair, looked at the third message on the screen and blinked.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
It's here.
Chapter 15: Goodbye, Maria Hill
The place Coulson chose was a small coffee shop on the corner of Seventh Avenue, sandwiched between a shoe repair shop and a flower shop. Its sign was faded with age, and most of the customers coming and going were office workers from nearby office buildings taking a break.
When Lynn pushed the door open, the wind chimes at the entrance rang once,
a surge of steaming coffee aroma mixed with the scent of butter rushed over him, and the roaring sound of the coffee grinder vibrated low against the floor.
Two people were sitting by the window in the corner.
A middle-aged man in a black suit with meticulous hair,
holding a cup of black coffee in his hand, stood up when he saw Lynn enter, revealing a just-right smile:
"Mr. Lynn? I am Coulson. Please sit."
The other was a woman.
Short hair, neat, wearing a dark turtleneck sweater, sitting with a straight posture, with a cup of already cold Americano in front of her.
Her motion of lifting her eyes was very light, yet her gaze was as steady as a nail, landing on Lynn's face and pausing for a moment.
Lynn recognized her.
He sat down opposite Coulson, his gaze lingering on the woman's face for an extra second:
"... Long time no see."
The air grew quiet for a split second.
The trace of a professional smile on Coulson's face paused unusually; he looked at Lynn, and then at the woman beside him:
"You two... know each other?"
"We don't."
The woman spoke, her voice flat, her gaze already shifting back to her coffee,
"He mistook me for someone else."
Lynn didn't reply; he picked up the water brought by the waiter and took a sip.
Coulson looked at this one, then at that one, wisely choosing not to press further.
He put down his coffee cup, took a photo out of his inner suit pocket, placed it on the table, and pushed it across.
The photo showed a pier; in the night, a few figures were moving wooden boxes onto a truck.
"This was taken by us last week at a pier in New Jersey."
Coulson said,
"The things inside the boxes are weapons produced by Stark Industries, standard-issue rifles, ammunition, and a batch of experimental missile parts.
According to the ledger records, these items should have been destroyed three months ago."
Lynn looked down at the photo without reaching out to touch it:
"And then?"
"And then, we traced this batch of goods and uncovered a very interesting situation."
Coulson looked into his eyes,
"The source of this batch of goods points to an internal project within Stark Industries... codenamed 'Project Ark'. And the final person in charge of that project was ObadiahStane."
"Wasn't Mr. Stane arrested a couple of days ago?"
Lynn pushed the photo back,
"Conspiring in murder, multiple crimes punished together, it's all been reported on the news."
"What the news reported was only the kidnapping case."
Coulson said,
"But over at the Military, a special report was also forwarded to us regarding the process of Tony Stark being rescued in Afghanistan. The report says it was a 'private rescue', with no details and no names."
He paused:
"Mr. Lynn, Tony Stark was rescued inside a heavily armed stronghold of the Ten Rings Gang.
We watched that stronghold for half a year and couldn't even figure out its internal layout. Yet someone rescued him overnight and wiped out half the stronghold along the way."
The grinding sound of the coffee grinder in the coffee shop stopped, quiet enough to hear the sound of traffic on the street outside the window.
"Do you think,"
Coulson laid his words bare,
"this is something a 'lucky' person could pull off?"
Lynn leaned back in his chair, spinning the cup of water in his hand, not rushing to answer.
The sky outside the window was overcast, and the cold wind blew the awning at the flower shop's entrance bulging and deflating.
Amidst the aroma of coffee, there was a hint of dry, cold winter air drifting in from the doorway.
"Agent Coulson."
Lynn spoke,
"If you want to know something, just say it. Isn't it exhausting to beat around the bush like this?"
Coulson smiled, not annoyed at all:
"Straightforward. Then I won't beat around the bush.
We want to confirm two things.
First, besides the Ten Rings Gang, are there any other connections for the buyer of Obadiah's batch of goods?
Second..."
He looked at the woman beside him,
"We would like to ask Mr. Lynn to do something for S.H.I.E.L.D.."
"Do something for you?"
Lynn raised an eyebrow,
"An idle person like me who isn't even qualified to run a coffee shop, what can I do for you?"
"You are too modest."
Coulson's smile remained unchanged,
"How could someone who can single-handedly wipe out a Ten Rings Gang stronghold be an idle person?"
Lynn didn't take up that thread.
He put down his water cup, looked out the window, and after a moment said:
"The first matter, I can tell you:
the buyer is strictly the Ten Rings Gang line, Obadiah has no other buyers in his hands.
He is greedy, but his greed has a sense of proportion, knowing that too much cargo makes it easy to leak."
Coulson nodded, signaling him to continue.
"The second matter."
Lynn withdrew his gaze,
"You guys at S.H.I.E.L.D. want me to do something—you at least have to tell me what you guys do, right? You can't expect me to risk my life for a 'department' of unknown origin."
Coulson looked at him, was silent for a few seconds, and suddenly smiled:
"Let's not talk about this today. You're right, talking about cooperation on the first meeting is indeed a bit too rushed."
He stood up, took a business card out of his pocket, placed it on the table, and tapped his finger on it:
"This is my number. If you change your mind, contact me anytime."
"I'll see you out."
The woman who had been silent all along suddenly spoke and stood up.
Coulson glanced at her,
didn't say anything, nodded, and walked toward the door first.
Lynn sat in his seat, watching the woman stand still in front of him. With her back to the light, her facial features were well-defined,
her brows and eyes carried a business-like coldness, but when those eyes looked at him, they were a bit different from when she looked at Coulson—
it was hard to tell whether it was guardedness or something else.
"What I said just now about not knowing you,"
she said,
"was to save face for you."
"Then thank you."
Lynn looked up at her,
"Hill."
Maria Hill's eyebrows twitched slightly, as if she hadn't expected him to call her by name.
She was silent for two seconds, then suddenly spoke, her voice lowering a bit:
"Last time in Berlin was an accident.
As for what happened that night, I'll pretend it never happened."
"I'll pretend it never happened, huh."
Lynn said, "You were the one who brought it up first."
Hill was choked up for a second, and the trace of coldness on her face almost slipped. She took a deep breath, turned around to leave, walked two steps, then stopped without looking back:
"I'm staying at the Four Seasons Hotel tonight, room 1608."
"... What do you mean?"
"What do you think?"
She pulled open the door, the wind chimes rang once more, and cold wind poured in,
"If you're a man, don't pretend you don't understand."
The door closed, the wind chimes swayed a few times and slowly grew quiet.
Lynn sat in his seat, looking at the swaying wind chimes at the door. After a long while, he lowered his head and smiled slightly, picked up the business card and the remaining half cup of water together, and stood up.
His phone vibrated once.
A message, from Tony:
Come to the company at noon, don't stand me up again. Also, I heard people from S.H.I.E.L.D. came looking for you? When did you hook up with them?
Lynn replied:
We'll talk later.
He stuffed his phone back into his pocket, pushed open the door, and walked into the dry, cold winter air of New York. The wind poured into his collar, he shrank his neck slightly, and looked down at the business card in his hand.
S.H.I.E.L.D..
Hill.
Four Seasons Hotel, 1608.
He whistled, tucked the business card away, and walked toward where he parked.
The sky over New York was grey and gloomy, looking like it was about to snow.