The day of departure to Afghanistan arrived, the desert heat shimmering off the tarmac in a dizzying map of rising thermal currents and electromagnetic waves visible only to Tony's newly enhanced eyes.
Since the first gathering of the Tarot Club, Tony had lived a schizoid existence. By day, he was the flamboyant CEO, attending board meetings and dodging Pepper's attempts to organize his schedule. But by night, he had obsessed over his own physical lethality with a focus that frightened even him.
He had mastered a lethal, efficient blend of Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Muay Thai, pushing his body to the absolute breaking point, knowing his Perfect Super Soldier Serum would repair any torn ligaments or bruised ribs overnight. He had spent thousands of hours at soundproofed ranges, turning himself into a master marksman with every weapon system in the Stark catalog, from sidearms to anti materiel rifles.
To ensure he wouldn't be walking into a trap alone, he had siphoned millions from his personal offshore accounts to hire a "shadow" security detail. These were retired Tier 1 operators and Special Forces veterans who operated under total non disclosure and answered only to him.
By the time the second meeting concluded and the blueprints for the Mark III became a physical reality, Tony was a trained killer wrapped in the skin of a playboy. He had spent the last week integrating his Magnetism and Bullet Time into a suit of armor that was vastly more powerful than anything the world had ever seen. He was a man with a Plan A (the Armor) and a Plan B (his own hands) and both were ready to burn the desert down.
Tony sat in the back of the lead Humvee, feeling the resonant hum of the Mark III components stored in the reinforced crates in the trailing truck. They were labeled as "Medical Supplies," a dark irony that wasn't lost on him.
The convoy rumbled across the Kunar Province, kicking up plumes of choking dust. Beside him sat the young soldiers of the US Air Force, joking, playing music and taking pictures with the famous Tony Stark.
With his Eye Boy vision, Tony's sight zoomed in on the jagged ridgeline two miles ahead. He saw the heat signatures of the "Ten Rings" militants lying in wait, the cold steel of their Soviet era rocket launchers and the distinct shimmer of Stark Industries crates hidden under camouflage netting.
He subtly tapped a transmitter on his wrist, an encrypted channel to his hired mercenaries in the two unmarked jeeps trailing the military escort.
"Target group at twelve o'clock high. Ten targets. Stop the convoy. Now."
Suddenly, the lead jeep of his private security force braked hard, their tires screeching and kicking up a massive cloud of dust that blinded the following vehicles. The military vehicles were forced to a confused halt.
"What's the holdup?" one of the Air Force kids asked, his hand tightening on his rifle, his eyes darting nervously.
Tony pretended to look confused, playing the part of the eccentric billionaire perfectly. "Yeah, I was promised a cocktail at the base in twenty minutes. What are we stopping for? Is there a camel crossing? I didn't sign up for scenic stops."
Miller, his lead private security contractor, a man with eyes like flint, stepped up to the window with a grim expression. "Mr. Stark, we've got armed insurgents a mile out. They're moving heavy hardware, missiles, launchers, the works. It looks like they're set up for a full scale ambush."
Tony's eyebrows shot up. He managed to make his voice go slightly higher, feigning a tremor of genuine shock. "Wait, hardware? In this neighborhood? What kind of hardware are we talking about? Please tell me it's some cheap knock off stuff and not... well, you know. I'd hate to be upstaged by my own catalog."
"They have heavy ordinance, sir," Miller replied, playing along with the script seamlessly. "We need to evacuate."
"Right. Yes. Evacuating sounds like a fantastic business decision," Tony said, glancing at the military escort who were already scrambling into defensive positions, shouting orders. "I mean, I'm all for a light show, but I usually prefer to be behind the podium, not the target."
The military escort was embarrassed, but they followed the lead of the professional mercenaries who clearly had better intel. Before the terrorists could even realize their ambush had been spoiled, the convoy pulled a hard U turn and sped back toward the airfield.
Tony leaned against the seat of the Humvee, his fingers tapping a rhythmic code against his thigh. Without shifting his gaze from the nervous soldiers, he subtly flicked his wrist. From a concealed compartment in his watch, a micro drone slipped into the air.
Powered by his own Magnetism for silent propulsion, the drone zipped toward the ridgeline. The live feed streamed directly into the tactical visors of Miller and his elite mercenary team.
"Miller," Tony whispered into a sub vocal comms unit. "Convoy is turning back now. Escort the military boys to the perimeter. Once I'm clear, take the secondary team. Go back. Clean the slate. I want evidence, then I want them erased."
The mercenaries played their part perfectly. They escorted Tony and the embarrassed military detail back toward the safety of the airport perimeter. But as soon as the dust of the Air Force vehicles settled, Miller and six of his Tier 1 operators peeled off in their unmarked jeeps.
Back at the ambush site, the Ten Rings insurgents were still repositioning, shouting in frustration that their prize had slipped away. They never heard the mercenaries arrive.
Miller's team engaged with efficiency. They utilized the precise coordinates Tony had mapped out with his Eye Boy vision. Silenced high caliber rounds found heads before the terrorists could even chamber a round. When a group of insurgents tried to reach for a Stark branded rocket launcher, a mercenary moved with a speed that mirrored Tony's own training, clearing the trench with a combat knife and sidearm in a blur of motion.
In less than six minutes, thirty insurgents were dead. No one was left to tell the story. Miller walked through the blood stained sand, snapping high resolution photos of clear shots of the Stark Industries logos and the shipping manifests stamped on the crates.
Back at the airfield, Tony was nursing a drink he didn't really want, standing next to a frantic Rhodey. The Colonel was still apologizing, pacing a hole in the tarmac, his face a mask of fury and shame.
"Tony, I've got teams sweeping the area now, but we don't know how they got that close… intel said the sector was cold…"
Rhodey was cut off by the sound of Miller's jeep pulling up. The mercenary lead hopped out, his gear dusty. He walked straight to Tony and handed him a ruggedized tablet.
"Sir," Miller said, his voice loud enough for Rhodey to hear. "We went back to check the site for residual threats. You need to see this."
Tony took the tablet, his face hardening into a mask of righteous fury as he swiped through the photos. He let out a sharp breath, then shoved the screen toward Rhodey's chest.
"Is this a joke, James?" Tony's voice was dangerously low, trembling with a mix of performance and genuine anger. "Look at the serial numbers. Those are my Mark IV mortars. Those are my Jericho prototypes. Why am I looking at a terrorist camp in the middle of nowhere that's better equipped than a US Marine battalion?"
Rhodey's face went pale as he scrolled through the evidence, the blood draining from his lips. "Tony… I don't… this shouldn't be possible."
"'Shouldn't be possible'?" Tony barked, stepping into Rhodey's space, playing the betrayed genius to perfection. "I sell to you. I sell to the government. Are you telling me the military is undercutting me? Are you selling my tech to the people who just tried to put a hole in my head?"
"No! Tony, listen to me," Rhodey pleaded, his eyes desperate. "If these are legit, then we have a massive leak. A black market pipeline right under our noses." He gripped the tablet tight. "I'm taking this to Central Command. Right now. I will give you a clean detail of exactly where these came from, if it's the last thing I do."
Tony watched Rhodey scramble toward the command tent, his heart hammering with a mix of guilt and cold satisfaction. He had made the military look incompetent and his own company look compromised, all while keeping his own powers completely hidden in the shadows. He had turned a potential death sentence into a strategic victory.
Inside the cool air of the private hangar, Tony looked at his watch. Four hours until sunset. Four hours until the real work began.