Ever since that impromptu “justice show” in Gulmira, the atmosphere between Tony Stark and Obadiah Stane had fallen into an eerie calm.
As if nothing had happened.
However, beneath the surface, dark currents were already surging to the point of breaking the dam.
Pepper Potts, under Tony’s authorization, quietly launched a top-level audit targeting Stark Industries’ internal finances.
This scalpel, wielded personally by Pepper, was precise and sharp, every slice hitting the company’s vital organs.
Everyone assumed this was Tony’s thunderous method to clean up the company’s chaos after his return, but only Pepper knew that this was more like a war without smoke.
Her target was directed straight at the complex, cobweb-like financial chains surrounding the shut-down weapons division.
Just one week.
Countless “ghost accounts,” “third-party shipping companies,” and “unreconciled R&D expenses”—like venomous snakes lurking in the gutters—were dragged out of the books alive by her hands.
All clues pointed implicitly to one person: the company’s second-in-command, Obadiah Stane.
Finally, just as Pepper’s auditing storm was about to tear away the last fig leaf, Obadiah could no longer sit still.
He personally came to Tony’s mansion in Malibu.
“Tony, you have to tell Pepper to stop.”
Obadiah unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat tiredly on the sofa, a look of earnest, elder-like concern on his face.
“She’s too wound up, kid.
She’s practically turning the whole company upside down.
The board already has major objections, and this will hit our stock price.”
“Just cleaning house, Obie.” Tony held a glass of whisky with his back turned, nonchalantly tinkering with parts on his workbench.
“You know how it is—while I was away these past few months, a lot of dirty rats snuck into the house.”
The warm smile on Obadiah’s face froze for a fraction of a second.
“Those were just normal operational overhead losses, Tony.
You have to learn to understand,” he said with heavier emphasis.
“I’ll handle the board.
Tell Pepper to stop.
This is for the good of the company, and for your own good.”
“For my own good?”
Tony turned around, a cold curve hovering at the corner of his lips.
“Just like in Afghanistan, Obie?”
With that single sentence, the air in the room instantly froze solid.
Obadiah’s pupils contracted sharply.
For the first time, an unmasked gloom surfaced on that friendly face.
He realized that the foolish Diviner had stripped away every bit of the disguise he thought was perfect.
The cards were on the table.
“Tony, I gave you a chance.”
He gave Tony a deep look, said not another word, turned, and left.
Watching the door slam shut, Tony raised his glass and drained the whisky in one gulp.
Negotiations broken.
The beast had hidden its blood, then bared its fangs, and now it had lost its final bit of patience, preparing to pounce.
And this was precisely what he wanted.
…
That night, Tony dialed Leon Hall’s encrypted line.
“The old fox is rattled.
According to your script, what’s his next move?”
“A beast trapped in its den will stop at nothing to seize the weapon it believes can turn the tide,” Leon Hall’s voice was calm and unruffled.
Tony chuckled, his eyes gleaming with the light of a hunter.
“You’re right.
Since he wants my ‘heart’ so badly, I’ll make one with my own hands and hand it over as a gift.”
Under Leon Hall’s suggestion, a wild “fishing” operation began.
Tony locked himself in the laboratory, for the first time not to build armor, but to manufacture a decoy convincing enough to fool anyone.
Using that old, primitive Arc Reactor as a base model, he crafted a brand-new, visually identical reactor out of the finest materials.
“Jarvis,” Tony’s eyes sparkled with mischievous amusement, “add a little spice to this beauty.
Put in a military-grade tracking chip and a short-circuit module.
Whenever I want, I can turn it into a piece of scrap metal.
Let him find the tracking chip—after all, they’re Stark Industries elites—the key is the short-circuit module.
Make that one discreet.”
The bait was set.
Late at night two days later.
A piercing alarm tore through the quiet of the Malibu beach!
“Sir!
The outer defenses of the estate have been breached!
Unidentified armed personnel are approaching at high speed!” Jarvis’s calm voice rang out in the workshop.
“Here they come.”
Far from panicking, Tony sat comfortably on the sofa in his bedroom on the other side of the estate, as if watching a carefully orchestrated movie premiere.
On the holographic screen in front of him, every surveillance feed inside and outside the mansion was displayed.
A team of well-equipped mercenaries, executing textbook tactical maneuvers, breached the mansion simultaneously from three directions.
No nonsense, no wasted movement—their target was crystal clear: straight for the underground lab!
The heavy alloy door of the laboratory was blown open by directional charges.
The mercenaries streamed in, heading straight for the display pedestal Tony had placed in the most prominent position.
There, the brand-new “heart,” radiating a faint blue glow, rested quietly on a velvet base.
The mercenary leader produced a specialized case and carefully secured the reactor inside.
“Target acquired!
Retreat!”
The operation was crisp and efficient; from breach to evacuation, the entire process took less than three minutes.
Gunfire erupted outside—part of the script Tony had deliberately added for the show.
Heavy firepower rained down on the mercenaries, though it suddenly seemed to suffer a momentary lapse in coverage.
During the evacuation, to cover their retreat, one squad member swept an alloy briefcase off the workbench—containing various lab reports and samples—straight into his pack.
It was a move to buy them a few precious seconds of confusion.
By the time the chop of police helicopter rotors echoed from afar, this phantom team of attackers had long since vanished into the night.
“Nicely done.”
Tony snapped his fingers in satisfaction as he watched the surveillance feed.
“Jarvis, trace the signal.
Let’s see where this ‘heart’ gets delivered.”
The plan was practically flawless.
He was even feeling a bit smug, preparing to pour himself a celebratory glass of champagne.
Right then, Jarvis’s voice sounded again—this time carrying a heavy tone uncharacteristic of a computer program.
“Sir, I suggest you first conduct an inventory of the laboratory.”
Tony froze, a bad premonition rising in his chest.
He strode over to the messy workbench, his eyes sweeping rapidly across it.
“Wait…
where’s that box?”
His gaze finally locked onto an empty spot.
“The A-7 alloy briefcase containing my analysis report on the [Whispering Leech Ashes] and all the samples…
where is it?!”
Jarvis replied calmly, “Sir, according to surveillance playback, during the retreat, an armed operative took it along with the case holding the bait.”
The smugness on Tony’s face instantly hardened.
That sickening feeling of shooting himself in the foot made him almost crush the glass in his hand.
“Shit!”
A furious curse echoed through the empty laboratory.