The speedboat cut a sharp, foaming wake through the dark Atlantic waters as it drew closer to the silhouette of the Roxxon Norco. The massive oil tanker was a floating graveyard of rusted iron and shattered dreams, now transformed into a fortress for Aldrich Killian's burning army.
Leander stepped back onto the deck of the yacht after his "short trip" to Air Force One. He didn't look tired, but the faint golden residue in his eyes was pulsing with a rhythm that suggested he was ready for a real fight. He unlatched the Mark 42 helmet and tossed it back to Tony with the casual ease of a quarterback returning a ball after a touchdown.
Rhodes, who had been pacing the small deck with his stolen 9mm, looked at Leander with wide, desperate eyes. "Well? Tell me you didn't just go up there for the view. Did you get them out?"
"The crew is safe," Leander replied, leaning against the railing. "I dropped them off at a military airfield. They're probably giving their first statements to the Pentagon right about now."
"Great! That's... that's a win," Rhodes said, a massive grin breaking across his face. He let out a sharp, relieved laugh. "I knew we could count on the Legend."
"But I didn't save the President," Leander added, his voice dropping into a flatter, more serious tone.
Rhodes's grin vanished instantly, replaced by a look of utter horror. "What? Leander, if he's dead, the whole country—"
"He's not dead. Yet," Leander interrupted, pointing toward the Norco. "Killian's got him. He's on that ship, strapped into the Iron Patriot armor like a Thanksgiving turkey. They're planning a show, Rhodes. A public execution to kick off their new world order."
Leander's gaze shifted to the horizon. The sun had finally dipped below the water, leaving the world in a bruised purple twilight. "We're running out of time."
The four of them—Leander, Tony, Rhodes, and a visibly trembling Maya—reached the shadow of the massive tanker. The ship was a labyrinth of scaffolding and rusted cranes. Leander didn't bother with the ladder. He raised his hands, and a massive five-meter section of the ship's outer hull groaned, the rivets popping like gunshots as it tore free. He stepped onto the plate, and it rose into the air, carrying the group toward the main deck.
Such a blatant, loud entry didn't go unnoticed.
"Movement on the lower port side!" a guard shouted from above.
The security teams on the upper deck scrambled, leveling their weapons at the rising platform. Before the first muzzle flash could illuminate the dark, Rhodes reacted with the precision of a career soldier. He raised his handgun and fired three rapid shots, the bullets finding their marks from forty meters away.
"So much for the 'ghost' approach, Leander," Rhodes muttered, his voice tight as he reloaded. "I thought we were going to sneak in. Now we're basically a neon sign saying 'Shoot Here'."
"Sneaking is for people who can't take a punch," Leander countered.
As they reached the upper gantry, they all saw it. Suspended between two massive cranes over a hollowed-out section of the ship was the President, encased in the blue-and-silver Patriot suit. He was hanging over a sea of open oil containers, a sacrificial lamb waiting for the flame.
"God... they're going to burn him," Rhodes whispered, his knuckles turning white. "It's a Viking funeral. They're going to ignite the crude oil and watch him melt."
The air was suddenly filled with the wail of a siren. From the shadows of the containers and the heights of the scaffolding, figures began to emerge.
The Extremis soldiers.
They didn't climb down; they jumped. Men and women plummeted twenty or thirty feet, landing with bone-jarring impacts that would have shattered a normal human's legs. But they just stood up, their skin glowing with a sickly, reddish-orange heat that shimmered in the cool night air. These were Killian's masterpieces—wounded veterans turned into biological gods, each one possessing the raw strength of Captain America and the heat of a blowtorch.
"I'm starting to really miss my suit," Rhodes said, his lone handgun looking pathetic against a dozen glowing super-soldiers.
"You and me both, pal," Tony said, checking the power levels on his tactical glasses. "But why settle for one suit when you can have the whole family?"
The soldiers began to close in, their eyes burning with orange fire. Maya pressed herself against Leander's back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Even as the creator of the virus, seeing the finished "product" in a combat frenzy was terrifying.
Leander didn't move. He just watched the lead soldier—a man with a missing arm that had regrown into a charred, glowing limb—charge toward them.
"Tony," Leander said softly. "The guests are late."
"On the contrary," Tony smirked, tapping the side of his glasses. "They're right on time."
A single point of light appeared in the dark sky. Then it split into two. Then four. Then a dozen.
"Is that...?" Rhodes started.
"Merry Christmas, Rhodey," Tony said.
A swarm of streaks cut through the night, the roar of repulsors sounding like a choir of jet engines. It was the Iron Legion.
Leading the charge was the Mark XXXIII Silver Centurion, followed by a menagerie of steel. There were suits designed for deep-sea pressure, suits for heavy lifting, and suits that were little more than flying weapon platforms. They circled the ship, the glow of their arc reactors outshining the fires below. The situation was instantly flipped; the hunters had become the prey.
"Jarvis," Tony commanded, his voice ringing with authority. "Clean house. Target the heat signatures. Take them down."
"With pleasure, sir," the AI replied.
The massacre began.
The Mark XVII Heartbreaker leveled its oversized chest cannon and fired a beam of pure energy that vaporized an Extremis soldier's torso before he could even scream. Nearby, the Mark XXV Striker slammed its massive pneumatic hammers into the deck, creating a shockwave that sent three charging enemies flying into the sea.
The Mark XLI Bones lived up to its name, splitting into its component parts—arms, legs, and torso all acting as independent drones—weaving through the scaffolding to strike targets from seven directions at once.
It was beautiful and horrific all at once. The Mark XXXVII Hammerhead, a bulky deep-sea model, was swarmed by four Extremis soldiers who tried to tear its plating off with their bare hands. Realizing it was compromised, the suit's internal reactor went critical. It lunged forward, grabbing the soldiers in a crushing embrace, and plummeted into a massive oil barrel. The resulting explosion sent a mushroom cloud of fire into the sky, lighting up the marina for miles.
Flames licked the sky, and the scent of burning oil and ozone became overwhelming. The ship began to groan as the structural supports melted under the intense heat of the battle. One of the main gantry legs buckled, and the massive platform began to tilt dangerously toward the water.
"Jarvis! Level it out!" Tony shouted.
"Sending in the big guy, sir."
The Mark XXXVIII Igor, a suit five times the size of a standard model and built with the hunched posture of a titan, smashed through a cargo container. It crawled under the tilting platform, its hydraulic legs locking into the deck as it lifted a hundred tons of steel back into place.
Tony clapped his hands, and the Silver Centurion armor flew toward him, snapping onto his body in a blurred sequence of silver and red. He felt the power of the enhanced vibranium bayonets humming in his gauntlets.
"I'm going to find Killian," Tony said, his voice now metallic and cold. "Leander, clear the path!"
Tony blasted off, a silver streak heading toward the main bridge.
Rhodes watched him go, then looked at a sleek, black-and-gold suit that was hovering nearby. The Mark XX Python.
"Good evening, Colonel," the suit's internal speakers crackled. "The boss said you might need a lift."
Rhodes didn't hesitate. He jumped and hugged the suit's torso. "You're the best-looking thing I've seen all night, Python. Take me to the President."
As they flew off, Leander remained on the deck with Maya. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his fingers dancing in the air like a conductor. Every time an Extremis soldier tried to climb the stairs toward them, a metal spike from the ship's own railings would tear free and bury itself in their skull.
Leander looked at Maya, his golden eyes reflecting the raging fires around them. "Maya, you spent twenty years on this. Tell me something. If the instability—the 'exploding' part—wasn't an issue, what's the ceiling? How far can this power go?"