It wasn't until they were about to leave that Daisy discovered something deeply embarrassing: Justin Hammer owned a private jet. A converted Boeing 767.
The envy hit her like a truck. Even this clown had his own plane. Should she buy one?
Flying under her own power and flying in a plane were two entirely different experiences. She'd asked Justin about the price with genuine curiosity, and the answer left a sour taste. A hundred and sixty million—and that was just the aircraft, before the interior fit-out.
The cabin wasn't as extravagant as she'd expected. Daisy guessed Justin had been strapped for cash for a while. He was no bottomless-wallet billionaire; owning the jet at all probably represented years of belt-tightening to keep up appearances.
Two pilots, five flight attendants, and a chef.
The attendants were striking enough to make even Daisy look twice, but Justin didn't spare them a glance. Another data point for the rumors that he was gay.
In all fairness, the interior was spacious. Bedroom, bathroom, dressing room, conference room—it felt like an oversized apartment. Plush wool carpet underfoot, brushed-metal ceiling overhead, plus a rear-projection screen and a surround-sound system that covered every remaining surface.
"Impressed?" Justin seemed to recover some swagger from whatever he saw in her expression. Legs crossed, the consummate showman wore his self-satisfaction like a second skin.
Daisy nodded. "It's nicer than anything I've flown in."
She wasn't lying. The Quinjet had no interior finishing to speak of, let alone creature comforts. Steel bulkheads, two rows of jump seats, done.
"May I have the pleasure of your company for dinner, my dear?" The plane took off shortly after, and once the crew had set the table, Justin extended what he evidently considered a suave invitation.
Daisy's eyes flicked toward the attendants, a wordless signal.
Justin took this as encouragement. Grinning, he snapped his fingers, waving the cabin crew out.
The moment they were alone, Daisy's eyes went wide. She stared past him, out the window, her expression theatrically shocked. "Look—it's Tony!"
Stark, outside the window? Justin whipped around. Nothing. Empty sky. He was still processing the possibility that Stark had already flown past when something seized him with terrific force, yanked him backward, and then launched him forward.
"Ah!—Mmph—" Before he understood what was happening, he was ten thousand meters above the earth. The thin air at altitude made breathing impossible. His face purpled, his eyes bulged with terror, but he didn't dare thrash—because Daisy was right there, smiling pleasantly, holding him aloft.
How was she flying? Was that his plane in the distance? Justin's thoughts collapsed into static. One second of his life had overturned everything he'd ever understood about the world.
Five porcelain-pale fingers gripped his collar, effortless, as though she were holding a pillow. Justin felt like he'd stumbled into a nightmare.
"Mr. Justin Hammer—do you understand? If you understand, nod. If you don't..." Daisy released three fingers, one by one, under his horrified gaze. Now only her thumb and forefinger held his collar.
The high-quality dress shirt groaned under his weight. Justin was certain the next second would be his last. He desperately wanted to grab her arm, but a motion that would've been trivial on solid ground was impossible up here. No leverage, no room to struggle. All he could do was spread his limbs wide and nod for his life.
Daisy wanted submission, not trauma. She didn't push it further. Her finger flicked, a portal opened, and she tossed him through. Two years of practicing spatial precision had made pinpoint targeting routine; locking onto a plane that hadn't even gone far was child's play.
Justin felt another burst of force punt him through a void, and the next thing he knew he was back in his seat. Exactly where he'd been sitting.
Daisy stepped through the portal a moment later.
She ignored the shell-shocked man entirely and helped herself to dinner. The chef had prepared a French meal: a pan-seared fish topped with herbs and tomato jus.
Daisy hadn't formally studied Western table etiquette, but agent training covered the basics. When she chose to, she could eat with perfect elegance.
She pushed the fish aside, soaked a baguette in the pan juices, and poured herself a glass of red wine. Unhurried, graceful.
Before long the chef sent out a plate of foie gras and a small dish of cured meats. She accepted everything, her manner warm and composed—a world apart from the woman who'd been dangling a man by his collar at cruising altitude three minutes earlier.
"You... you!" It took Justin until she'd finished eating to find his voice. A vicious cramp seized his calf, and the sharp pain confirmed he wasn't dreaming.
"Do you know why those shareholders gave up their stock so easily? Do you know why I understand all this technology? Do you know where my money comes from?" She fixed him with a calm stare. "You don't know any of it. So do your job, be a good assistant, and we'll get along fine. Understood, Mr. Hammer?"
Daisy dabbed her lips with a napkin, the white linen framing her vivid red lips. To any other observer it might have been an elegant tableau. To Justin, it looked like she was about to eat him next.
He wanted to run, but at ten thousand meters, there was nowhere to go. He wanted to scream for help, and then Daisy floated a fork to a stop ten centimeters from his eyeball. He didn't dare move.
"That's better. Our partnership has been quite pleasant so far, don't you think? Look—Hammer Industries is still yours. On the surface, at least. And if anyone gives you trouble down the road, I can step in. Everybody wins."
Daisy was working hard on her end too: maintaining the magnetic field on the fork for intimidation while simultaneously flooding his mind with psychic suggestion. Her current level of psychic ability only worked on the weak-willed. She'd spent the entire afternoon playing the role of the omnipotent puppet master, and the terror of the altitude drop had been the decisive blow that cracked his mental defenses, letting her slip in at the end.
Someone like Obadiah, or Ivan Vanko, would have been immune. Both men had wills like iron; no amount of shock would have made a difference.
Justin pressed himself as far back into his seat as the cushion allowed, but the fork hovered ten centimeters from his face, unwavering. He'd never been a tough guy. He barely had to think before choosing compliance.
"Yes, of course. Whatever you say. Our partnership has been going well..." He mouthed the words to himself like a mantra. As his resistance faded and the thought of submission took root, his perspective began to shift: Daisy's arguments actually made perfect sense. All he wanted was money and fame. If someone could deliver both, what was there to complain about?
His thinking drifted further and further along the path Daisy's half-baked psychic nudges had paved. The impulse to flee and call for help dissolved, replaced by a new conviction: having a powerful backer like this wasn't so bad after all.