Richie Hood tapped the ashes off his cigar into the tray, a contemplative look in his eyes as he glanced across the desk at Lynn Hall.
"I've got three years left until retirement," he said with a quiet chuckle. "But honestly? I'm done waiting."
"Twenty-five years in the field, my body's wrecked. When it rains, every bone in me feels like it's rusting from the inside out."
"I've already talked to the Director. I'm stepping down next year. I'll stay on as a consultant, just to keep a desk warm."
As he reached for the coffee pot, Lynn beat him to it—pouring himself a cup and filling Richie's mug with water instead.
"Skip the caffeine tonight. If we're going by office hours, you might still catch a few hours of sleep before morning."
Richie accepted the water with a grin, shaking his head. "You know, back when I was your age, I once went three days straight on two hours of sleep… all for a single op."
"Can't do that now. These days I'm just hoping my granddaughter finishes college, lands a decent job, and—God willing—gets married before I kick the bucket."
He took a sip, then suddenly looked at Lynn more seriously. "Listen, if you want my seat when I'm out, you'll have to handle the other three Assistant Directors first."
"Every one of them clawed their way to D2—they're no amateurs. You're the best among them, no question. Your only disadvantage is your age."
"When I step down, I'll put in a word with the Director… but you're still going to need to win the others over—or push them aside."
"I understand," Lynn replied with a polite nod.
In the FBI's internal structure, there were 19 operational ranks. Special agents ranged from S1 to S15. Above that, it shifted into management.
Sean, for example, was an S14-level senior field agent. Lynn himself held a D2 rank—Assistant Special Agent-in-Charge.
Above him stood the D3 Executive Deputy Director, then D4—like Richie Hood—who served as the Special Agent-in-Charge for his division.
And above all of them? James Duke, Director of the FBI's New York Field Office.
Of course, there were other administrative titles—Deputy ADs, Section Chiefs, Senior Inspectors—but those were mainly bureaucratic. For now, they weren't Lynn's concern.
Richie Hood's high favorability toward him—Level 7—wasn't just due to camaraderie. It was built on something more solid: mutual interest.
After all, before Lynn arrived at the New York field office, many of their little "unspoken arrangements" hadn't existed.
---
After leaving Richie's office, Lynn returned to his personal rest suite within the building. He showered, lay down, and mentally reviewed the day's events.
Only when he was absolutely certain nothing had been missed did he allow himself to close his eyes.
That was his routine. Every night since joining the FBI.
It was the only way to survive.
---
The Next Morning — Director's Office
"So you're saying the Brooklyn bombing case is closed?" Director James Duke leaned back in his chair, visibly pleased as he listened to Lynn's report.
"I knew putting you on it was the right call," he said with a nod. "Always knew I could count on you."
"You're too kind, sir," Lynn replied smoothly. "But there's one more matter I need to bring to your attention."
He laid out the full confession from the two Middle Eastern suspects—the bombs they made, their involvement in the Los Angeles terror attack two years ago, and most critically, the possible whereabouts of Tony Stark.
"You're telling me Tony Stark, who's been missing for two and a half months, is likely being held by this militant group in the Middle East?" Duke said, closing his pen and sitting forward.
"After Stark went missing, the military, CIA, even S.H.I.E.L.D. launched investigations. If we recover him before any of them…"
He trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly.
Then he asked, "Lynn, how long has the FBI Director been in his position?"
"This is his eighth year, sir."
Since J. Edgar Hoover's retirement, FBI Directors had ten-year terms by law. That meant the clock was ticking.
James Duke's face settled into a calculating expression.
"Lynn Hall," he said at last, "I'm officially ordering you to mobilize your team and tactical unit. You're going to the Middle East. Find Tony Stark—and bring him home."
"No matter what, you must recover him."
"Yes, sir," Lynn responded without hesitation.
As he turned to leave, hand on the doorknob, Duke added casually, "Assuming this mission succeeds, we'll need to look into promoting you. And Richie… well, he's not getting any younger."
"Thank you, Director."
Duke smiled faintly. "No need for that. When you get back, I'll introduce you to a few… friends from the Brotherhood."
Lynn paused for just a fraction of a second before nodding again. "Understood, sir."
Only after Lynn had left the room entirely did Duke lean back in his chair, lost in thought.
Becoming the next FBI Director wouldn't be easy. Not without undeniable accomplishments to back the bid.
Especially since the Bureau itself was split by factions—and that seat had plenty of contenders.
But if Lynn did manage to bring back Tony Stark…
That could be his stepping stone.
As for Tony Stark himself?
To Duke—and most of Hydra, for that matter—Stark was more asset than person. Sure, the man was a genius. Developed cutting-edge weaponry. Built his fortune on innovation.
But compared to his father, Howard Stark? Tony was just a reckless playboy.
Which meant James Duke had no problem turning him into a pawn for his own legacy.
He picked up a private cell and dialed a number.
---
One Hour Later — En Route to the Middle East, Onboard a Quinjets
"Boss, are we sure about this?" Sean asked from across the Quinjet. "What if Stark's not actually there? The Director could hang us out to dry for this."
Before Lynn could answer, a sharp voice cut through the cabin.
"Shut it, Sean. Say one more jinxed word and I'll sew your mouth shut myself."
It was Alice—no-nonsense, steel-eyed, and one of Lynn's most trusted agents.
Sean gave a sheepish grin. "Relax, it's just… this is kind of a big deal. I mean, you're my goddess and all, so I'll shut up now."
Alice rolled her eyes.
Lynn chuckled. "No need to stress. Everyone here's one of us."
He glanced around the cabin. Every agent and field op aboard had a favorability rating between 6 and 7. His people. Loyal.
Then his gaze shifted to the two Middle Eastern men, seated near the rear—nervous but silent.
"If you two help us locate the group that took Tony Stark," Lynn said, his voice calm but resolute, "then I'll grant one of you the right to return home."
The men exchanged glances—hope flaring in their eyes for the first time in years.
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