At 8 AM, when the alarm rang, Colonel Rhodes had already changed into his crisp uniform. His military cap was perfectly straight, his tie impeccably knotted, and even his leather shoes were spotless. He stood like an iron tower at the cabin door of Tony Stark's private jet—a modified Boeing 737-800.
When the clock struck 8:15, Colonel Rhodes looked at the empty runway and instantly understood: he had, once again, been stood up by Tony Stark. Uh, not really, because they were flying to Afghanistan on Stark's plane, so strictly speaking, it didn't count as being stood up. Thinking about this, Colonel Rhodes suddenly felt a wave of melancholy. This world was full of discrimination against sycophants. He decided that when Stark arrived, he wouldn't speak to him for five minutes.
When the time turned to 9 AM, Rhodes decided he wouldn't speak to Stark for half an hour.
When the hands of the clock settled on 10 AM, Rhodes decided that the next second, as soon as Stark appeared, he would call him "Dad" if he had to.
As for calling to rush him? Rhodes scoffed. Tony Stark only answered the phone when he wanted to; if he didn't want to, no amount of calling would help.
Rhodes waited until 11 AM. The flight attendants had already served lunch on the plane before Tony Stark, who had spent the night with a beauty and the morning tinkering with cars, leisurely drove his sports car to the airport.
"You're certainly early!" Rhodes finally broke his vow and initiated conversation with Stark.
"Relax, brother, this plane is fast. Just take a nap, and we'll be in Afghanistan!"
"I've already had a nap!"
"Then let's have a couple of drinks! Come on, don't be shy, quickly, quickly, girls, get the music and drinks ready!" Stark pulled Rhodes and practically dragged him onto the plane.
"No, no, no, this is business today, not a drop of alcohol!" Rhodes tried to break free.
"No negotiation?"
"None!"
...Five minutes later, Rhodes, with his shirt buttons undone, was clinking glasses with Stark, exchanging toasts and having a grand time. The thumping music even reached outside the cabin through the thick glass, and the flight attendants serving them lifted their skirts, revealing their slender waists and dancing provocatively... As Stark flew to the Middle East, at a Stark Industries mineral exploration camp in Afghanistan, over a dozen imposing heavy APC armored vehicles kicked up clouds of sand before coming to a steady stop in the center of the camp.
"Get out! Move it!" Arthur Morgan, dressed in a sand-colored combat uniform, jumped out and slammed his right fist twice against the armored vehicle's body. Then, four or five similarly dressed armed soldiers jumped out from the armored vehicle's rear hatch.
"Who's in charge?" Behind Arthur, a bearded soldier shouted at the crowd of people from Stark Industries who had gathered.
"I am. Are you here to deliver the goods?" A tall Black man emerged from the crowd, wearing only a white tank top, his dark skin glistening in the sunlight.
"Yes, the weapons you ordered!" Arthur pointed to the armored vehicles behind him, and then dozens of huge weapon crates were carried out of the armored vehicles by the soldiers.
"A thousand rifles, sixty rocket launchers, grenades, bullets—all desert-specialized versions. You can bury them in the sand for a day, dig them out, and they'll still work! It's just that you rushed us so much that some of these weapons are from our inventory, and others are ones we use ourselves, so they might look a bit old, but the quality is absolutely fine! Also, as per your request, we removed the fingerprint recognition device and the IFF friend-or-foe identification system. Go ahead and check them!"
"No choice, it's the boss's request, but it's impressive that you could gather everything within a day!" The Black man opened a crate, picked up a desert-camouflaged weapon, examined it, and then nodded in satisfaction.
"Excellent. Compared to your Gigantes' gear, our weapons look like expensive works of art, not tools for killing!"
"That's because you haven't seen our big guns yet!" Arthur kicked a crate with his foot.
"Alright, the goods have been delivered. We'll be taking our leave!"
"See you!" After the Gigantes convoy departed, the Black man, while instructing his subordinates to carry the weapons into the warehouse, pulled out his phone.
"Sir, it's me, Hamas. The weapons you requested have arrived. Is it as usual?"
"Good. It's worth paying triple the price. Take a few men, load the weapons into a car, and drive them around the mountains, understand?"
"Yes, sir!"
After hanging up the phone, Obadiah looked at the photo of him and Stark on his desk, a flicker of struggle on his face. Finally, he took a deep breath and made his decision.
"Mr. Hamael, I've prepared the goods you requested. You'll see them on the GPS, but I have one more request!"
"Of course, Mr. Obadiah, we are friends, so please, by all means, speak your mind!" A middle-aged man's voice with a thick accent came from the other end of the line.
"Kill Tony Stark!"
"Tony Stark?" The voice on the other end paused for a moment. "No problem!"
"Then farewell, my friend!" Obadiah hung up the phone. A short while later, his computer screen showed a large sum of money had been deposited into his offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
"Oh, Tony, Tony, you can rest in peace. I will make Stark Industries flourish!" Obadiah said, even shedding a few tears.
Meanwhile, the Middle Eastern terrorists Obadiah had contacted were muttering among themselves. Weren't Obadiah and Stark close uncle and nephew? Why would he want to kill him?
Even the terrorist leader was muttering. Wasn't Tony Stark America's most powerful arms dealer? Wouldn't killing him be a bit of a waste? The Ten Rings' goal was to dominate the Middle East. Perhaps, instead, they should kidnap him to build weapons?
Once this thought emerged, it quickly spiraled out of control. The leader pondered for half an hour and realized the plan was indeed feasible.
"Abdullah, pack up, we're going to the city!" The terrorist leader made up his mind and immediately called out to one of his more cunning subordinates.
"Boss, what are we going into the city for? Those Americans and their lackeys have a bounty on us!" A scrawny, short man asked, puzzled.
"We're going to dig for treasure! Remember to bring that tablet!"
"Treasure? Then shouldn't we bring more brothers?"
"No, we're just going to scout!"