Deep in the tangled underbrush of a South LA woodland, Jason's crew ditched their suv, the vehicle's battered frame hidden beneath a canopy of gnarled trees and dense foliage. The air was heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked asphalt they'd left behind. They were lying low, waiting for Christine's contacts from the Black Organization to extract them. In the meantime, they swapped disguises—prosthetic masks, wigs, and stolen clothes—transforming into new faces to slip through the tightening net of law enforcement. The distant wail of sirens had faded, but the weight of the manhunt pressed down like a storm cloud.
Avril sat slumped against a tree, her wrists bound by cold steel handcuffs that bit into her skin. Her head hung low, her once-vibrant eyes dull with resignation. On the drive, Jason had laid out the truth, his voice casual but brutal: the kidnapping wasn't just a job—it was orchestrated by Christine, aka Vermouth, a criminal mastermind and leader of a terrorist syndicate. The revelation had hit Avril like a freight train. 'She's one of them,' She thought, her stomach twisting. 'A fucking monster in a movie star's skin.' The realization crushed any lingering hope of escape. These weren't petty thugs; they were a machine, and she was a cog they'd never let go.
Jason peeled off his stifling prosthetic mask, the latex pulling at his skin as he tossed it aside. The cool air hit his face, a small relief in the suffocating tension. He pulled out his phone, the screen glowing as he logged into social media. The top headline screamed across the news section: a photo of the LAPD chief, his face grim at the press conference, announcing the "terrorist attack." Jason's lips curled into a sneer. "Fucking cowards," he muttered, his voice dripping with contempt. "Two hundred bodies, and these spineless pricks pin it on some bullshit 'terrorist group.' Anything to hide the truth."
A spark of inspiration flared in his mind. 'They want to play cover-up? I'll shove their lies down their throats.' Exposing the government's deception was more than a middle finger—it was a chance to skyrocket his reputation, to cement his legend as the untouchable Jason. He turned to Avril, his voice sharp. "You. Get over here."
Avril flinched, her body trembling as she forced herself to her feet. She shuffled toward him, her heart pounding, expecting the worst. 'This is it,' She thought, bracing for violence or something darker. Jason grabbed her, pulling her close, his arm looping around her waist. Her face paled, her body stiffening as he pressed his cheek against hers. She didn't resist—resistance was pointless. From the moment she'd been taken, she'd known this might happen. 'If it's a forest instead of a bedroom, so be it,' She thought, her mind numb. Survival meant playing along, no matter the cost.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the fuck are you two doing?!" Harley's voice cut through the clearing, shrill and indignant. She sprinted toward them, her boots kicking up dirt, her eyes blazing with a mix of jealousy and confusion.
Click. Jason snapped a selfie, his face pressed against Avril's, then shoved her away with a casual flick of his wrist. Avril stumbled, her expression a mix of bewilderment and—strangely—a flicker of disappointment. It wasn't Stockholm syndrome or some twisted attraction. In her mind, if Jason wanted her body, it was a bargaining chip, a way to stay alive until her looks faded. She'd studied men like him—charmers, predators—and knew how to play the game: a sultry smile, a coy giggle, maybe some practiced moves to keep him hooked. But Jason's indifference, his complete lack of interest, threw her off. 'He doesn't even want me,' She thought, a bitter sting of rejection mixing with her fear. 'What kind of monster doesn't even care?'
Jason ignored her, his focus on his phone as he sent the photo to Christine. "Get this to your tech guys," He said, his voice calm but commanding. "Post it all over social media. Make the caption juicy—something that'll grab every fucking eye out there. I want the world to know we did this."
Christine nodded, her fingers already typing a message to her contacts. She understood the play: this wasn't just a taunt; it was a declaration of war, a way to burn the government's lies to ash and elevate their infamy. 'He's not just a criminal,' She thought, her respect for Jason deepening. 'He's a goddamn legend in the making.'
Hours ticked by, the forest's stillness broken only by the rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird. Finally, two sleek black Mercedes sedans rolled up, their engines purring softly as they stopped at the edge of the clearing. The team, now disguised—Jason with a new prosthetic mask, Harley in a brunette wig, Christine in oversized sunglasses, and David in a stolen cop uniform—piled into the cars. Avril, still cuffed, was shoved into the trunk of one sedan, her eyes hollow as the lid slammed shut. The vehicles pulled away, heading for a Black Organization safehouse buried deep in the city's underbelly, a fortress where no cop or fed would dare tread.
---
Meanwhile, Tony Stark's Audi R8 tore down Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean glittering to his left, the wind whipping through his hair. Behind him, two gold-trimmed Rolls-Royces followed, their engines growling as Happy and a team of burly security guards kept pace. The spectacle drew stares from passersby—tourists snapping photos, drivers craning their necks. 'Who's the rich asshole with the entourage?' They wondered, oblivious to the storm brewing in Tony's mind.
An hour later, the R8 screeched into the hospital's underground parking garage, tires squealing on the polished concrete. Tony stepped out, his grease-stained blue T-shirt and tousled hair a stark contrast to his usual polished persona. His face was dark, his jaw set, the weight of Rhodes' injury pressing down like a vise. Happy and six black-suited bodyguards spilled out of the Rolls-Royces, their eyes scanning the garage for threats. "Boss, I'll clear the way," Happy said, his voice gruff but loyal.
Tony nodded silently, his mind elsewhere. The drive had cooled his rage, but only just. He wasn't stupid—running solo into a hospital with enemies like his was begging for a bullet. Better to let Happy's team play human shield.
Escorted by the guards, Tony navigated the hospital's sterile halls, the antiseptic smell stinging his nose. At the top-floor VIP ward, he flashed his ID at the military sentries posted outside Rhodes' room. They stepped aside, and Tony slipped in, closing the door softly behind him.
Rhodes lay in the hospital bed, his body swathed in bandages, looking like a mummy in a bad horror flick. He stared out the window, his eyes fixed on the endless blue sky, as if searching for answers in the clouds. Tony approached, his usual swagger replaced by a rare moment of vulnerability. He'd expected to be pissed, to want to tear the world apart for what happened to his friend. Instead, a chuckle escaped his lips. "Jesus, Rhodey, you look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower."
Rhodes turned his head, his expression weary but fond. "Knew you'd give me shit the second you walked in," He said, his voice hoarse from pain and medication.
Tony sat on the edge of the bed, his smile fading. He took a breath, his voice low and serious. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't think—"
Rhodes cut him off, his tone sharp. "Save it, Tony. I'm the one who should be sorry."
Tony blinked, caught off guard. "The hell you talking about?"
Rhodes' face twisted with guilt, his eyes dropping to the bedsheet. "I fucked up. They grabbed me, and… I told them it was you who tipped me off about their hideout."
Tony's face froze, his muscles locking as the words sank in. He forced a laugh, trying to brush it off. "No big deal, Rhodey. You're alive—that's what matters."
Rhodes shook his head, his voice urgent. "Listen to me, Tony. He had a message for you. Said nobody screws him over and walks away clean. He's coming for you. You need to watch your back—your house, your office, your damn commute. Get more security, hire some mercenaries, whatever it takes."
Tony scoffed, leaning back, his arrogance flaring. "What, I'm supposed to hide behind a bunch of sweaty goons because some punk made a threat? I'd choke on their BO before he gets to me."
Rhodes' eyes darkened, his voice low and serious. "Tony, this isn't some street thug. The guy who did this—wiped out two hundred elite operatives like they were nothing. You think a 'punk' could pull that off?"
Tony's smirk faltered, his mind racing. "So you know who he is."
Rhodes turned away, his lips sealed. One word about Jason Walter, and he'd be facing a military tribunal. He wasn't about to risk his career—or his life—on a slip-up.
Tony's phone buzzed, breaking the tension. Pepper's face appeared on the video call, her eyes wide with panic. "Tony, it's bad. Check social media—now. The kidnappers posted a photo."
Tony hung up, his fingers flying across his phone as he opened Facebook. The internet was on fire, a single image dominating every feed: Jason Walter, his face pressed against Avril's, her expression hollow and terrified. The caption was a middle finger to the world: "Foolish sheep, your government blames this on 'terrorists.' Truth is, me and my Joker Organization did this. Avril is ours. Save her if you can, or she's mine forever—my personal prize."
He shoved the phone at Rhodes. "Look at this shit. Your 'terrorist' cover story just got blown to hell."
Rhodes stared at the screen, his eyes blazing with rage. "FUCK!" He roared, his voice cracking. Jason had just burned their lies to the ground, exposing the government's failure to the world. 'That bastard's ruining everything,' He thought, his fists clenching. 'He's playing us all.'
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