The day of departure to Afghanistan arrived, the desert heat shimmering as a complex map of rising thermal currents and electromagnetic waves visible only to Tony's enhanced eyes.
Since the first Tarot Club meeting, Tony had lived a double life. He had obsessed over his own physical lethality. He had mastered a lethal blend of Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and Muay Thai, pushing his body to the limit knowing his Perfect Super Soldier Serum would repair any torn ligaments or bruised ribs overnight. He had spent thousands of hours at private ranges, turning himself into a master marksman with every weapon system in the Stark catalog.
To ensure he wouldn't be walking into a trap alone, he had used millions from his personal offshore accounts—completely bypassing Stark Industries' financial oversight—to hire a "shadow" security detail. These were retired Tier 1 operators and Special Forces veterans who operated under total non-disclosure.
By the time the second meeting concluded and the blueprints for the Mark III became a reality, Tony was a trained killer. He had spent the last week integrating his Magnetism and Bullet Time into a suit of armor that was vastly more powerful than anything the world had ever seen. He was a man with a plan A (the Armor) and a Plan B (his own hands), and both were ready to burn the desert down.
Tony sat in the back of the lead Humvee, feeling the hum of the Mark III components stored in the reinforced crates in the trailing truck.
The convoy rumbled across the Kunar Province. Beside him sat the young soldiers of the US Air Force, joking and taking pictures. They saw a dusty road; Tony saw a kill zone.
With his Eye Boy vision, Tony's sight zoomed in on the ridgeline two miles ahead. He saw the heat signatures of the "Ten Rings" militants, the cold steel of their Soviet-era rocket launchers, and the distinct shimmer of Stark Industries crates hidden under camouflage netting.
He subtly tapped a transmitter on his wrist—a private channel to his hired mercenaries in the two jeeps behind the military escort.
"Target group at twelve o'clock high. Ten targets. RPGs ready. Stop the convoy. Now."
Suddenly, the lead jeep of his private security force braked hard, their tires kicking up a massive cloud of dust. The military vehicles were forced to a halt.
"What's the holdup?" one of the Air Force kids asked, his hand tightening on his rifle.
Tony pretended to look confused, playing the part of the eccentric billionaire perfectly. "Yeah, I was promised a cocktail at the base in twenty minutes. What are we stopping for? Is there a camel crossing?"
Miller, his lead private security contractor, stepped up to the window with a grim expression. "Mr. Stark, we've got armed insurgents a mile out. They're moving heavy hardware—missiles, launchers, the works. It looks like they're set up for a full-scale ambush."
Tony's eyebrows shot up. He managed to make his voice go slightly higher, feigning a tremor of genuine shock. "Wait, hardware? In this neighborhood? What kind of hardware are we talking about? Please tell me it's some cheap knock-off stuff and not... well, you know. I'd hate to be upstaged by my own catalog."
"They have heavy ordinance, sir," Miller replied, playing along with the script. "We need to evacuate."
"Right. Yes. Evacuating sounds like a fantastic business decision," Tony said, glancing at the military escort who were already scrambling into defensive positions. "I mean, I'm all for a light show, but I usually prefer to be behind the podium, not the target."
The military escort was embarrassed but followed the lead of the professional mercenaries. Before the terrorists could even realize their ambush had been spoiled, the convoy pulled a hard U-turn and sped back toward the airfield.
Tony leaned against the seat of the Humvee, his fingers tapping a rhythmic code against his thigh. Without shifting his gaze from the soldiers, he subtly flicked his wrist. From a concealed compartment in his watch, a micro-drone—no larger than a desert hornet—slipped into the air.
Powered by his own Magnetism for silent propulsion, the drone zipped toward the ridgeline. The live feed streamed directly into the tactical visors of Miller and his elite mercenary team.
"Miller," Tony whispered into a sub-vocal comms unit. "Convoy is turning back now. Escort the military boys to the perimeter. Once I'm clear, take the secondary team. Go back. Clean the slate. I want evidence, then I want them erased."
The mercenaries played their part perfectly. They escorted Tony and the embarrassed military detail back toward the airport. But as soon as the dust of the Air Force vehicles settled, Miller and six of his Tier 1 operators peeled off. They moved like ghosts.
Back at the ambush site, the Ten Rings insurgents were still repositioning, frustrated that their prize had slipped away. They never heard the mercenaries arrive.
Miller's team engaged with terrifying efficiency. They utilized the coordinates Tony had mapped out with his Eye Boy vision. Silenced high-caliber rounds found heads before the terrorists could even chamber a round. When a group of insurgents tried to reach for a Stark-branded rocket launcher, a mercenary moved with a speed that mirrored Tony's own training, clearing the trench with a combat knife and sidearm in a blur of motion.
In less than six minutes, thirty insurgents were dead. No one was left to tell the story. Miller walked through the blood-stained sand, snapping high-resolution photos of clear shots of the Stark Industries logos and the shipping manifests.
Back at the airfield, Tony was nursing a drink, standing next to a frantic Rhodey. The Colonel was still apologizing, pacing a hole in the tarmac.
"Tony, I've got teams sweeping the area now, but we don't know how they got that close—"
Rhodey was cut off by the sound of Miller's jeep pulling up. The mercenary lead hopped out, his gear dusty but his expression iron-cold. He walked straight to Tony and handed him a ruggedized tablet.
"Sir," Miller said, his voice loud enough for Rhodey to hear. "We went back to check the site for residual threats. You need to see this."
Tony took the tablet, his face hardening as he swiped through the photos. He let out a sharp breath, then shoved the screen toward Rhodey's chest.
"Is this a joke, James?" Tony's voice was dangerously low, "Look at the serial numbers. Those are my Mark IV mortars. Those are my Jericho prototypes. Why am I looking at a terrorist camp in the middle of nowhere that's better equipped than a US Marine battalion?"
Rhodey's face went pale as he scrolled through the evidence. "Tony… I don't… this shouldn't be possible."
"'Shouldn't be possible'?" Tony barked, stepping into Rhodey's space, playing the betrayed genius to perfection. "I sell to you. I sell to the government. Are you telling me the military is undercutting me? Are you selling my tech to the people who just tried to put a hole in my head?"
"No! Tony, listen to me," Rhodey said, "If these are legit, then we have a massive leak. A black market pipeline right under our noses." He gripped the tablet tight. "I'm taking this to Central Command. Right now. I will give you a clean detail of exactly where these came from, if it's the last thing I do."
Tony watched Rhodey scramble toward the command tent, his heart hammering with a mix of guilt and cold satisfaction. The seed was planted. He had made the military look incompetent and his own company look compromised—all while keeping his own powers hidden in the shadows.
Inside, Tony looked at his watch. Four hours until sunset, he thought.
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