The tunnel seemed to go on forever.
Marcus shuffled along behind the guards, keeping his head down, his shoulders hunched. Every few steps he'd stumble slightly, catching himself with exaggerated clumsiness. Playing the part. The exhausted slave, terrified and out of his depth, being dragged toward something he didn't understand.
The reality was quite different.
His enhanced senses catalogued everything. Six guards total—three ahead, three behind. All carrying AK-47s, standard Soviet-era hardware. The tunnel walls were rough-hewn stone, probably carved out over months or years. Electrical wiring ran along the ceiling in haphazard loops, powering the occasional bare bulb. The air was stale, recycled, with an underlying chemical smell that suggested they were near some kind of workshop or fuel depot.
Every twenty feet or so, there was another tunnel branching off. A maze. Good to know for when he eventually needed to disappear.
They turned a corner, and the tunnel opened up into a larger space. This was different from the slave barracks—this was operational territory. More guards here, maybe a dozen, lounging against walls or sitting on crates, all of them armed. They looked up as Marcus passed, eyes tracking him with casual indifference.
Just another slave. Nothing to see here.
The lead guard stopped at a heavy iron door at the far end of the cave. It looked like it had been salvaged from something—shipping container, maybe. The metal was scarred with old rust and bullet holes.
That's where they're keeping Stark, Marcus realized.
The guard knocked. Three times, pause, then twice. A signal.
The bolt scraped back, and the door swung open.
The room beyond was smaller than Marcus expected. Maybe twenty feet by fifteen, carved out of the rock and reinforced with steel plates. Emergency lighting threw harsh shadows across everything. Medical equipment was scattered around—a surgical tray, an IV stand, monitoring equipment that looked like it had been stolen from three different hospitals. Everything was stained with blood and cave dust.
And in the center of it all, Tony Stark lay on a makeshift operating table.
Marcus took it all in with a single glance. Stark's chest was wrapped in layers of gauze, already seeping through with blood. His skin was gray, his breathing shallow. The arc reactor prototype was visible through the bandages—a crude electromagnet jury-rigged to a car battery, wired directly into the wound.
Alive, Marcus noted. But barely.
Dr. Ho Yinsen stood beside the table, exhaustion carved into every line of his face. His hands were trembling slightly—fatigue, adrenaline crash, maybe both. When he looked up and saw Marcus, surprise flickered across his expression.
An Asian kid? Yinsen's face said. This is who they sent me?
Marcus had seen Yinsen before, of course. You couldn't spend two weeks in the slave camp without noticing the quiet doctor who'd been there for months, who tried to help when he could, who spoke softly to the guards in their own languages and sometimes negotiated for better conditions.
They'd never spoken. Marcus had made sure of that. No connections, no relationships, nothing that would make him memorable.
Until now.
Raza stepped into the room behind him, and the temperature seemed to drop five degrees.
The Ten Rings leader surveyed the scene with cold, calculating eyes. He looked at Stark—still unconscious, still bleeding—then at Yinsen, then at Marcus. Measuring. Assessing the value of his investments.
"The man has been brought here for you," Raza said in English, his accent thick and harsh. His hand rested casually on the pistol at his hip. "You will save Stark. Or I will shoot you all."
The threat hung in the air for a long moment.
Then Raza turned and walked out, his guards following. The iron door slammed shut behind them with a heavy clang that seemed to echo for far too long.
And just like that, Marcus was alone in a room with Dr. Ho Yinsen and Tony Stark.
Perfect.
Yinsen stood there for a moment, clearly trying to process the situation. His eyes kept flicking to Marcus, then to Stark, then to the security camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.
He's wondering if I'm actually any help, Marcus thought. Or if I'm just another problem he has to manage.
Time to establish credibility.
Yinsen stepped forward first, speaking in careful English. "Hello. Do you... do you speak English?"
Marcus looked up, letting relief show on his face. "Yes! Thank God. I was worried—" He cut himself off, glancing at the door like he expected the guards to come back. "I speak English. And Arabic. A little Pashto, not much."
The relief on Yinsen's face was genuine. "Good. That's good. Communication will help." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to collect himself. "I'm Dr. Yinsen. I've been treating Mr. Stark, but as you can see..." He gestured at the unconscious billionaire. "The situation is complicated."
"I'm Marcus," Marcus said quietly. He moved toward the table, keeping his movements hesitant, uncertain. "I told them I had medical training. I hope—I mean, I studied medicine for a few years, but I never finished my degree. I'm not sure if I'll be much help, but—"
"Any help is better than no help," Yinsen interrupted. His voice softened slightly. "That man who just left? He meant what he said. If Tony Stark dies, we die. So we're going to keep him alive."
Marcus nodded, swallowing hard like he was processing the threat. "Okay. Okay, I can do that. What... what do you need me to do?"
"First, I need you to look at his injuries and tell me what you think." Yinsen's tone had shifted—less desperate, more professional. Falling into the familiar rhythm of medical training. "I'll explain what I've done so far."
Marcus approached the table, and for the first time, he let himself really look at Tony Stark.
The man was a mess. Pale, clammy, breathing fast and shallow. The chest wound was the obvious problem—a gaping hole packed with gauze and held together with crude sutures. But there were other injuries too. Bruises covering his arms and torso. Lacerations on his face. Dried blood caked in his hair.
The great Tony Stark, Marcus thought. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Right now you're just meat on a table, trying not to die in a cave.
He kept his face neutral, concerned but not shocked. Reached out and gently touched Stark's wrist, feeling for a pulse. Weak, thready, but there.
Yinsen started explaining. "The primary injury is from the explosion. Shrapnel from the missile—dozens of small fragments embedded in his chest cavity. I removed what I could, but there are too many pieces. They're small, less than a millimeter some of them, and they're in his bloodstream now."
Marcus frowned, leaning closer to examine the wound. "Moving toward his heart."
"Exactly." Yinsen looked impressed. "They're being carried by blood flow. Within hours, maybe days, some of those fragments will reach his heart. And when they do—"
"He dies," Marcus finished quietly.
"Yes."
Marcus straightened up, thinking fast. He knew the solution, of course—he'd known it before he even walked into this room. The arc reactor. The miniaturized power source that would become iconic. But he couldn't just know that. He had to arrive at it naturally, in a way that wouldn't make Yinsen suspicious.
Show enough skill to be useful, he reminded himself. Not enough to be threatening.
He glanced at the crude electromagnet setup that Yinsen had already rigged—a car battery wired to a coil of copper, held in place with medical tape. "You've already thought of using magnetism to slow them down."
"It's buying us time," Yinsen admitted. "But not enough. The field isn't strong enough, and the battery will die eventually."
Marcus chewed his lip, looking at Stark's chest, at the wound, at the monitoring equipment. He could feel Yinsen watching him, measuring his competence.
Finally, he spoke. "What if... what if we put the electromagnet inside his chest? Directly in the wound cavity. It would be much more effective—stronger field, closer to the fragments. We could make it more permanent, give it its own power source."
Yinsen went very still.
Marcus looked up, worried he'd shown too much. "I mean—I don't know if that's even possible, I just thought—"
"No," Yinsen interrupted, his voice strange. "No, that's... that's brilliant, actually." He stared at Stark's chest, his exhausted brain suddenly spinning through possibilities. "An internal magnetic field. It would counteract the blood flow, hold the fragments in place indefinitely. We'd need to build something small enough to fit in the cavity, powerful enough to generate the required field strength..."
He trailed off, already moving, grabbing paper and a pencil from a nearby table. His hands were shaking less now, purpose overriding exhaustion.
Marcus watched him sketch out rough calculations, feeling a cold satisfaction settle in his chest.
Hook, line, and sinker.
"We can use the palladium from the missiles," Yinsen muttered, writing faster. "High-yield energy output, compact form factor. If we configure it correctly..." He looked up at Marcus, and for the first time, there was something like hope in his eyes. "This could work. This could actually work."
"Then let's do it," Marcus said firmly. Playing the part of the determined assistant, ready to save a life. "What do you need from me?"
Two Hours Later
Marcus's hands were covered in blood.
They'd started with the external electromagnet—building a stronger version first, testing the concept. It had taken an hour of scavenging parts from around the cave, soldering circuits together with equipment that barely worked, arguing over polarity and field strength.
The result was crude but functional. A disk of copper coils wrapped around a palladium core, powered by a repurposed car battery. When they activated it and held it against Stark's chest, the monitoring equipment showed an immediate change. The fragments in his bloodstream slowed, held in place by invisible magnetic force.
But it wasn't enough. Too weak, too external. The fragments deeper in his chest cavity were barely affected.
"We need to go internal," Yinsen said finally. "There's no other way."
Marcus nodded. He'd known they'd reach this conclusion. "How invasive?"
"Very." Yinsen looked at Stark's chest wound, at the crude sutures holding it together. "I'll need to open him up again. Clear space in the chest cavity for the device. It'll be risky—he's already weak from the previous surgery."
"But if we don't do it, he dies anyway."
"Yes."
They looked at each other for a long moment. Two men who barely knew each other, about to perform highly experimental surgery in a cave with improvised equipment, while terrorists watched through cameras and threatened to shoot them if they failed.
Just another Tuesday, Marcus thought darkly.
"You should lead the surgery," Yinsen said suddenly.
Marcus blinked. "What? No, you're more experienced—"
"I've been operating for fourteen hours straight," Yinsen interrupted. His voice was steady, but Marcus could see the exhaustion in every line of his body. "My hands are shaking. My focus is shot. You're fresher, your technique is steadier, and frankly—" He smiled slightly. "—that electromagnet idea was brilliant. You have good instincts."
Shit.
Marcus hadn't expected this. Leading the surgery meant more visibility, more scrutiny, more chance of revealing just how skilled he actually was. But refusing would be suspicious. A real medical student desperate to save lives wouldn't turn down the chance to help.
Fine, he decided. I'll just have to be very, very careful about how competent I appear.
"Okay," Marcus said quietly. "I'll do it. But I'll need your help. I'll handle the incisions and the device placement, but you guide me through anything I'm uncertain about. Deal?"
Yinsen nodded. "Deal."
They spent another thirty minutes preparing. Sterilizing instruments as best they could with industrial alcohol and boiling water. Laying out the tools they'd need. Building a smaller, more refined version of the electromagnet—this one barely larger than Marcus's palm, with a compact palladium core wrapped in copper coils.
Finally, Marcus pulled on a pair of surgical gloves—stained, reused, but better than nothing—and stepped up to the table.
Tony Stark lay before him, unconscious and dying.
Here we go.
Marcus picked up the scalpel.
The first cut was always the hardest.
Not technically—Marcus's hands were steady, his control perfect after eighteen months of training. But mentally, emotionally, the weight of cutting into human flesh never quite went away. Even knowing he was saving a life, even knowing Stark would survive this, there was something visceral about breaking skin, parting tissue, exposing the vulnerable machinery beneath.
He made the incision clean and precise, following the line of Yinsen's earlier sutures. The wound opened easily—too easily. It hadn't had time to heal at all.
Blood welled up immediately. Marcus grabbed gauze, pressing down, applying pressure while he worked. Beside him, Yinsen was already there with suction, keeping the field clear.
"You have good hands," Yinsen observed quietly. "Steady. Confident."
Too confident, Marcus realized. He deliberately fumbled the next movement, hesitating before making the second cut. "Sorry—it's been a while since I've done this. Training exercises, mostly. Never on a real patient."
"You're doing fine," Yinsen assured him. But Marcus could feel the doctor's eyes on him, watching, evaluating.
Dial it back, he told himself. Show competence, not mastery.
He worked slowly, methodically, expanding the chest wound to create space for the device. It was delicate work—Stark's chest cavity was a mess of damaged tissue, old sutures, and barely-healed trauma. One wrong move could puncture a lung, sever an artery, or send Stark into shock.
Marcus's enhanced vision picked up details a normal person would miss. The subtle color changes in tissue indicating oxygenation levels. The faint tremor in blood vessels suggesting pressure points. The exact depth of safe cutting before hitting vital structures.
But he couldn't use all of that information. Not without revealing himself.
So he pretended to struggle. Asked Yinsen for advice on angles. Paused to check references on medical diagrams Yinsen had sketched out. Made small, deliberate mistakes that he then corrected.
All the while, his real mind worked three steps ahead, calculating the optimal path, the safest approach, the best outcome.
It was exhausting in its own way—playing dumb when you were smart, playing uncertain when you were confident. Like running a race with weights strapped to your legs.
"Retractor," he said, and Yinsen handed it to him without hesitation.
Marcus carefully widened the incision, exposing the chest cavity. Stark's heart was visible now, beating weakly, struggling to keep the man alive. The shrapnel fragments glittered in the harsh light—dozens of tiny metal specks embedded in tissue, slowly working their way deeper.
"Beautiful and terrible," Yinsen murmured. "His own weapon, killing him from the inside."
Marcus didn't respond. He was focused on the task, on the careful work of creating a stable pocket in Stark's chest where the electromagnet could sit. It needed to be deep enough to be effective, shallow enough to not interfere with breathing, positioned correctly to maximize magnetic field coverage.
Time blurred. Marcus fell into a rhythm—cut, cauterize, suture, check. Yinsen worked beside him, anticipating needs, offering suggestions, gradually relaxing as he saw the quality of Marcus's technique.
"Where did you study medicine?" Yinsen asked at one point, his voice curious.
Shit. Should have prepared a backstory.
"Small school in the Midwest," Marcus said vaguely, not looking up from his work. "I dropped out before finishing. Family issues." He let his voice roughen slightly, suggesting pain he didn't want to discuss.
Yinsen accepted that with a quiet nod. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine. I got by." Marcus sutured another blood vessel closed, his hands moving with practiced ease. Then he caught himself and deliberately made the next suture slightly uneven. "I just... I never thought I'd be using these skills in a place like this."
"None of us expected to be here," Yinsen said softly.
They worked in silence after that, the only sounds the beep of monitoring equipment, the hiss of suction, the quiet clink of instruments.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Marcus reached the critical moment. The chest cavity was prepared. The space was ready. Now they needed to implant the device.
"Hand me the electromagnet," he said.
Yinsen carefully passed over the device they'd built—a compact cylinder of copper coils wrapped around a glowing palladium core. It hummed faintly with power, already generating a weak magnetic field.
Marcus held it up to the light, checking the wiring, the connections, the power source. Everything looked solid. This was it. The arc reactor that would keep Tony Stark alive for years to come. The technology that would eventually power the Iron Man armor.
And Marcus was about to install it with his own hands.
The irony, he thought. Stark will never know a slave saved his life tonight.
He carefully lowered the device into Stark's chest, positioning it precisely in the cavity he'd created. The electromagnet settled into place with a soft click, nestled between ribs, surrounded by tissue.
Marcus sutured it carefully, anchoring the device so it wouldn't shift. Yinsen watched, occasionally offering guidance, but mostly just observing with growing respect.
The final step was connecting the external power source—a compact battery pack that would keep the electromagnet running continuously. Marcus wired it carefully, double-checking every connection.
"Power it on," Yinsen said quietly.
Marcus flipped the switch.
The device hummed to life, louder now, vibrating slightly against Stark's ribs. On the monitoring equipment, they could see immediate changes. The shrapnel fragments stopped moving. Held in place by invisible magnetic force, suspended in tissue, no longer drifting toward the heart.
Stark's vital signs stabilized. Heart rate steadying, blood pressure rising slightly, breathing becoming deeper and more regular.
Marcus let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"It's working," he said, and he didn't have to fake the relief in his voice.
Yinsen was staring at the monitors, his expression caught between disbelief and triumph. "It's actually working. My God." He looked at Marcus, and there was something new in his eyes. Respect. Maybe even awe. "You did it. You actually did it."
"We did it," Marcus corrected, stepping back from the table. His gloves were soaked through with blood, his arms aching from holding steady for so long. "I couldn't have done this without your help, Doctor."
"Call me Yinsen," the older man said with a tired smile. "I think we've earned first-name basis after that."
Marcus smiled back, carefully peeling off his gloves. "Alright, Yinsen. I'm Marcus."
They shook hands, and for a moment, the pretense fell away. Two men who'd just saved a life together, exhausted and relieved and cautiously hopeful that they might not die today after all.
Then Marcus remembered the cameras, the guards outside, the very real threat hanging over all of them.
Don't get comfortable, he reminded himself. This isn't friendship. This is survival.
Three Hours Later – Dawn
The surgery was finally complete.
Tony Stark lay on the table, chest freshly sutured, new dressings applied, the arc reactor glowing faintly through the bandages. He was still unconscious, but his vital signs were stronger now. Stable. The crisis had passed.
Marcus and Yinsen had cleaned up as best they could. Disposed of the bloodied materials, wiped down the instruments, organized the medical supplies. Neither of them spoke much. Exhaustion had settled over both of them like a heavy blanket.
Finally, Yinsen collapsed into a chair in the corner, his head falling back against the wall. "I need to sleep. Just... just for a few hours."
Marcus nodded. He was tired too—not physically, his enhanced body could handle this easily, but mentally. Hours of pretending to struggle, of carefully moderating his performance, of being constantly aware of cameras and guards and the need to maintain his cover.
He found another chair and sat down, closing his eyes. But his mind kept working, cataloging, planning, thinking ahead.
Phase one complete, he thought. I've established myself as useful. Medical skills, language abilities, problem-solving. Yinsen trusts me, or at least doesn't distrust me. Stark is alive, which means the timeline is still intact.
Now I just need to maintain this cover for three months until Stark builds the armor. Stay useful but not threatening. Help when needed but don't attract too much attention. And slowly, carefully, eliminate the guards on my list.
He opened his eyes slightly, looking at Yinsen. The doctor was already asleep, snoring softly, his face relaxed for the first time since Marcus had met him.
Good man, Marcus thought. Shame you're going to die when Stark escapes.
Unless...
He pushed the thought away. He wasn't here to save anyone. He was here to survive, to escape, to get home. Yinsen's fate was sealed by the story, and Marcus wasn't about to risk his own life trying to change it.
Sorry, Doc. But you're not my problem.
Marcus closed his eyes again and let himself drift, listening to the sound of Stark's breathing, the hum of the arc reactor, the distant echo of guards moving through tunnels.
Three months. Just three months.
He could do this.
Meanwhile – Afghan Desert, 200 Miles East
Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes was living every military officer's nightmare.
Somewhere in this godforsaken desert, Tony Stark was missing. Possibly dead. Probably captured. And Rhodes had exactly zero leads on where to even start looking.
He stood in the command tent, staring at maps spread across a tactical table, trying to make sense of scattered intelligence reports and eyewitness accounts that contradicted each other more often than they aligned.
"Sir, the search grid for sector seven is complete," a young captain reported, looking like he hadn't slept in thirty hours. "No sign of the convoy wreckage beyond what we already recovered."
Rhodes nodded grimly. They'd found the Humvees—or what was left of them. Burned out, torn apart by explosives, bodies everywhere. Tony's security detail, all dead. But no sign of Tony himself.
Which meant either his body had been vaporized in the blast, or someone had taken him.
Please let it be the second one, Rhodes thought. Please let him still be alive.
"Expand the search radius," he ordered. "I want aerial reconnaissance over every cave system, every settlement, every suspicious structure within three hundred miles. Use thermal imaging, ground-penetrating radar, whatever it takes."
"Colonel, that's going to take weeks—"
"Then we start now," Rhodes cut him off, his voice hard. "Tony Stark is out there somewhere, and we're going to find him. I don't care how long it takes."
The captain saluted and hurried off to relay orders.
Rhodes turned back to the map, his jaw tight. Tony was his friend. More than that—Tony was brilliant, irreplaceable, infuriating, and absolutely vital to about a dozen weapons development programs that the U.S. military desperately needed.
And I'm the one who convinced him to do that demonstration, Rhodes thought, guilt twisting in his gut. I told him it would be safe. I told him we had the area secured.
He'd been wrong. Catastrophically wrong.
Hold on, Tony, he thought, staring at the vast emptiness of the Afghan desert on the map. Just hold on. I'm coming for you.
Washington, D.C. – Homeland Strategic Defense Attack and Logistics Support Bureau
Nick Fury stood in his office in the Triskelion, looking out at the Potomac River through reinforced windows, and tried to calculate just how badly this complicated his plans.
Tony Stark was missing. Possibly dead. Definitely unavailable.
And that was a problem.
"We've confirmed the convoy was hit by a well-coordinated ambush," Agent Phil Coulson reported, standing at attention behind Fury's desk. "Improvised explosives, RPGs, small arms fire. Professional work. The attack was designed to capture, not kill."
"Which means someone wanted Stark alive," Fury said, not turning around. "Question is why."
"Ransom? Stark Industries has deep pockets."
"Maybe." Fury didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe someone wants access to his brain. His weapons designs. His knowledge." He turned to face Coulson, his one good eye sharp and calculating. "What's the status of the search and rescue operation?"
"Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes has mobilized significant resources. Air Force, Army, Marines—they're conducting sweeps across a three-hundred-mile radius. But the terrain is difficult, and we're working with limited intelligence on terrorist cell locations."
Fury nodded slowly, thinking. Tony Stark was valuable. Not just for his weapons development—though that alone would justify a massive search effort—but for other reasons. Reasons that Coulson didn't have the clearance to know about yet.
The Avengers Initiative was still in its infancy. Just a concept, really, scribbled in classified files and discussed in closed-door meetings. But Fury had been building a list of potential candidates. People with unique skills, abilities, or resources that could be valuable if—when—the world needed a team of extraordinary individuals.
Tony Stark had been near the top of that list.
Was being the operative word.
"I want updates every six hours," Fury said finally. "And get me everything you can on this terrorist group that hit the convoy. Names, locations, connections. If Stark's alive, I want to know where they're holding him."
"Yes sir." Coulson hesitated. "Should we send in our own team? We have assets in the region—"
"Not yet," Fury interrupted. "Right now this is military jurisdiction. Let them handle the ground search. But keep our people on standby. If Rhodes needs support, we'll be ready."
Coulson nodded and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Fury turned back to the window, his expression unreadable.
Howard would never forgive me if I let his son die, he thought grimly. Assuming Tony's not already dead.
But something in his gut told him Tony Stark was still alive. Captured, maybe. Injured, probably. But alive.
And if Fury knew anything about Tony Stark, it was that the man was a survivor. Arrogant, reckless, brilliant, and impossibly stubborn.
Hold on, Stark, Fury thought. Don't make me write your eulogy just yet.
Virginia "Pepper" Potts stood in Tony's office on the top floor of Stark Tower, looking at the city lights spread out below, and tried very hard not to cry.
Tony was missing.
Missing. The word felt surreal. Tony Stark didn't just go missing. He was always there, always present, always impossible to ignore. Even when he was on the other side of the world, you knew exactly where Tony was because he was usually doing something newsworthy.
But now? Nothing. Radio silence. Just a burned convoy and a lot of very worried military personnel telling her they were "doing everything they could."
It's not enough, she thought, hugging herself. It's never enough.
Her phone buzzed. Another call from a board member, probably, or a reporter, or one of Tony's many "friends" who were suddenly very concerned about his welfare now that it was headline news.
She ignored it. Let it go to voicemail. She'd been fielding calls for twelve hours straight, giving the same careful non-answers, projecting calm professionalism while inside she was screaming.
Tony, you idiot, she thought, anger and fear mixing together. You just had to do that demonstration personally, didn't you? Couldn't send someone else. Had to be the center of attention as always.
But underneath the anger was something deeper. Genuine fear. Because Tony, for all his faults, was... important. To Stark Industries, yes. To national security, obviously. But also to her.
She wouldn't call it love. Not out loud, anyway. That would be unprofessional, inappropriate, and frankly terrifying given Tony's reputation. But she cared about him. Deeply. In ways she didn't like to examine too closely.
Please be alive, she thought, closing her eyes. Please just be alive. I don't care if you're hurt or captured or scared. Just be alive and we'll figure out the rest.
Behind her, the office door opened.
"Pepper? You should go home. Get some rest."
She turned. Obadiah Stane stood in the doorway, his expression carefully composed into sympathetic concern. He'd aged well—silver hair, expensive suit, the look of a man who'd built an empire through calculated charm and ruthless business sense.
Tony's mentor. His father's old business partner. The man who'd helped raise Tony after Howard's death.
And right now, the acting CEO of Stark Industries in Tony's absence.
"I'm fine," Pepper said, forcing a smile. "Just trying to keep things running smoothly."
"You're doing an excellent job," Obadiah assured her, walking into the room. "Tony's lucky to have you managing things while he's... while we wait for news."
While he's missing, you mean, Pepper thought. While he might be dead.
But she didn't say that. Instead she nodded, accepted Obadiah's sympathy.
"Keep me updated," Obadiah said, patting her shoulder. "Any news at all, I want to know immediately."
"Of course," Pepper said quietly.
He left, and she was alone again in Tony's office, surrounded by his things, his projects, his life.
Come home, she thought, looking out at the city. Please, Tony. Just come home.
Stark Industries Executive Suite
Obadiah Stane closed the door to his private office, locked it, and let the carefully maintained mask of concern slip from his face.
Then he picked up his secure phone and dialed a number he'd memorized years ago but never written down.
It rang three times before someone answered.
"Why the hell is Stark still alive?" Obadiah snarled without preamble.
The voice on the other end was calm, almost amused. "Plans change, Mr. Stane. Opportunities arise."
"I paid you to kill him, not take him hostage!"
"You paid us for our services. We decided those services would be more valuable if we kept Mr. Stark alive." A pause. "He's a weapons genius. There are many buyers for such knowledge. The price for an assassination is, shall we say, insignificant compared to what we could gain from his expertise."
Obadiah's knuckles went white around the phone. "You're blackmailing me."
"We're renegotiating our arrangement." The voice stayed calm, reasonable. "Mr. Stark will build weapons for us. When we've extracted sufficient value from him, we'll complete your original request. Everyone benefits."
"Except Stark has friends. Resources. The U.S. military is tearing Afghanistan apart looking for him."
"Let them look. We are well hidden. And if they do find us..." The voice trailed off, implying unpleasant consequences for everyone involved.
Obadiah closed his eyes, thinking fast. This was bad. Worse than bad. If Tony somehow survived, if he escaped, if he came back with stories about who'd ordered the hit...
But if he dies there, Obadiah thought coldly, if those terrorists kill him after getting what they want, then I'm in the clear. No witnesses. No evidence. Just a tragic casualty of war.
"How long?" he asked finally.
"Weeks. Maybe months. We'll keep you informed."
The line went dead.
Obadiah stood there in his office, still holding the phone, and felt the weight of what he'd set in motion.
He'd arranged to have Tony Stark killed. His business partner's son. The man he'd helped raise. And now that plan was spiraling out of control, taking on a life of its own.
I should stop this, part of him thought. I should tell someone. The military, the FBI, someone who could actually rescue Tony before it's too late.
But the other part—the part that had clawed his way to power over decades, that had built Stark Industries into what it was, that had always lived in Howard's shadow and then Tony's—that part whispered something different.
Let it play out. If Tony dies, you get everything. If Tony lives but comes back broken, traumatized, unable to lead... you still get everything.
Either way, you win.
Obadiah put the phone down carefully and walked back to his desk. Outside the window, New York City glittered with a million lights, indifferent to the small human drama playing out in this office.
I'm sorry, Tony, he thought, and he almost meant it. But business is business.
And I've come too far to stop now.
(End of Chapter 13)
300 Powerstones for extra chapter
500 Powerstones for extra chapter
1000 Powerstones for extra chapter