Chapter 87: Chapter 87

A/N:- Memorize had been taken down because official english version is coming soon.

Hours later, the blood-soaked road in South LA’s outskirts had been scoured clean, though the stench of death lingered like a ghost. Dozens of ambulances, their sirens screaming, tore through the city, weaving from the suburbs to downtown Los Angeles. The grim procession was a spectacle that turned heads, even in a city like LA. Residents, hardened by years of gang shootouts and freeway chases, stopped in their tracks, their faces etched with confusion. ’What the fuck is going on?’ They wondered, their eyes tracking the endless parade of emergency vehicles.

Armored vans had rolled out earlier like a goddamn invasion force, followed by armed helicopters slicing through the sky. Now, a fleet of ambulances—over a dozen, lights flashing, sirens blaring—streamed into the city, carrying a cargo of death. Was it a terrorist attack? A cartel war? A fucking alien invasion? The rumors spread like wildfire, whispered in coffee shops, shouted on street corners, and typed furiously into social media posts. Yet, for all the speculation, no one connected the dots to the recent high-profile kidnapping case. The idea that a handful of “mere” kidnappers could trigger this level of chaos was unthinkable. If that were true, the LAPD and feds were more incompetent than anyone dared to admit, their corruption laid bare for the world to see.

The ambulances, escorted by a phalanx of police cruisers, didn’t stop at public morgues. Instead, they veered into the underground parking garages of major hospitals, their grim cargo—over two hundred body bags—unloaded in secrecy. Officers stood guard, their faces stern, ensuring no prying eyes or cameras caught the transfer. The bodies were whisked to hospital morgues, where grieving families would soon arrive to claim their loved ones, unaware of the full horror that had unfolded.

—

Back at LAPD headquarters, the three—the LAPD chief, FBI bureau head, and military general—sat in the conference room, their faces ashen, the weight of failure crushing their spirits. They’d barely settled into their chairs when they fired off a detailed report to their superiors, their voices low and tense over secure lines. The response was immediate and unequivocal: a gag order, stricter than a noose. This wasn’t just a crime scene; it was a political landmine. Not a word of Jason’s involvement could leak—not to the press, not to their own teams, not even to their fucking spouses. The higher-ups were circling the wagons, and they knew why. One whisper of Walter’s name, and the entire government would be exposed as a laughingstock.

As the report climbed the chain of command, it ignited a firestorm of political maneuvering. Jason was a shark in a swamp, stirring up the already murky waters of bureaucracy and power. Cabinet members, senators, and Pentagon brass traded barbed calls, each trying to pin the blame elsewhere while shielding their own asses. The President himself was briefed, his face darkening as he realized the scale of the fuck-up. Walter wasn’t just a criminal; he was a catalyst for chaos, a man who could topple careers with a single move.

An hour later, they received their orders, delivered via encrypted channels. The directive was clear: report the casualty figures to the public—two hundred dead, no sugarcoating—but under no circumstances mention Jason Walter. The NYPD’s failure to keep him locked up was a scandal they couldn’t afford to revisit. They exchanged stunned glances, wondering what kind of backroom deals or bribes New York had coughed up to bury this. ’Fucking politics,’ The LAPD chief thought, his stomach churning. ’They’d sell their own kids to save face.’

But the orders didn’t stop there. The President had authorized a full-scale lockdown. The Army was mobilizing, sealing off Los Angeles and its surrounding cities—airports, docks, highways, every goddamn exit. SEAL teams were being deployed for a carpet-sweep search, a manhunt on a scale not seen since Bin Laden. Their authority was stripped, their roles reduced to figureheads as military high command took over. The general let out a bitter laugh. “They can have it,” He muttered. “Good luck chewing on that bastard Walter.” The others nodded, relief washing over them. Losing control was better than losing their jobs—or their heads—trying to catch a phantom like Jason.

—

The LAPD chief faced a packed press conference, the room a claustrophobic jungle of cameras, microphones, and shouting reporters. The air buzzed with anticipation, the media sharks smelling blood. Flanked by the FBI head and the general, the chief stepped to the podium, his face grim, his voice steady but hollow. “Today, Los Angeles was attacked by a terrorist organization,” He announced, the words slicing through the room like a blade. “Our mission to rescue hostages failed. Over two hundred law enforcement officers, federal agents, and military personnel lost their lives.”

The room erupted, reporters surging forward, their questions a chaotic roar. ’Terrorists? In LA?’ The chief held up a hand, silencing them. “We’re working tirelessly to bring those responsible to justice,” He said, dodging specifics. The lie was bitter on his tongue, but he stuck to the script. No mention of Jason. No hint of the truth.

The reporters didn’t care about the holes in the story—they’d just landed the scoop of the decade. Within minutes, headlines screamed across social media: ’TERROR ATTACK IN LA! 200+ DEAD!’ News anchors, their faces schooled into masks of grief, interrupted broadcasts to deliver the grim update, their voices trembling with rehearsed sorrow. The story spread like a virus, dominating X, TV, and every corner of the internet.

To the American public, the news was just another Tuesday. The past few months had been a parade of horrors—apartment bombings, mall shootouts, factory explosions, prison breaks. Their nerves were calloused, their outrage dulled. ’Terrorists in LA? Whatever.’ Most shrugged it off, scrolling past the headlines with the same apathy they gave celebrity gossip. It was always someone else’s problem, some distant tragedy that would never touch their lives. ’Let the cops handle it,’ They thought, sipping their coffee, secure in the belief that danger was a story for other people.

But for the families of the fallen, the news was a sledgehammer. Widows, parents, and children heard the reports and felt their worlds collapse. Tears gave way to fury, a volcanic rage that burned through their grief. Within hours, hundreds of them descended on LAPD headquarters, a furious mob wielding hastily made signs: ’JUSTICE FOR OUR HEROES!’ ’GOVERNMENT FAILURE!’ They screamed at the building, their voices raw with pain, demanding answers. ’How did you let this happen?’ ’Where’s the fucking accountability?’ And, most crucially: ’What about us? Our loved ones are dead—how the hell are we supposed to live now?’ The promise of compensation was a cold comfort when their husbands, wives, sons, and daughters were gone forever.

—

In Malibu, California, Tony Stark was holed up in his underground lab, the pounding beat of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” shaking the walls. He was elbow-deep in a car engine, grease smeared across his hands, his mind lost in the rhythm of machinery. The ransom call from that morning—a voice demanding a hundred million dollars—was a distant memory, dismissed as the yapping of some lowlife punk. ’Fucking bastards,’ He thought, wrenching a bolt loose. ’Not worth my time.’

The lab door slid open, and Pepper Potts stepped in, her sharp heels clicking on the concrete floor. She carried a tray of lunch—steak, roasted vegetables, a glass of bourbon—her professional skirt suit a stark contrast to Tony’s oil-stained tank top. “Lunch,” She said, setting the tray down with a practiced smile.

Tony didn’t look up, his focus on the engine. “Ten minutes late, Pep. What’s the hold-up?”

Pepper sighed, brushing a strand of red hair from her face. “I was cleaning up your mess from last night. You had quite the party—bed sheets, covers, all trashed. I had the staff swap out the whole set.”

Tony smirked, grabbing the bourbon. “You’re a saint, Potts. What would I do without you?”

“Crash and burn,” She shot back, her tone dry but warm. Their eyes met, a spark of something unspoken passing between them, the air charged with a familiar tension.

Before it could go further, JARVIS’s voice cut through the music. “Sir, there’s a news report you need to see.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a rag. “Fine, JARVIS. Throw it up.”

The lab’s massive screen flickered to life, showing the LAPD chief at the press conference, his face grim as he delivered the bombshell: ’Terrorist attack. Two hundred dead.’ Tony leaned back, sipping his bourbon, unfazed. Dead cops meant government contracts—more orders for Stark Industries’ weapons, drones, and tech. ’Tragic, sure, but business is business,’ He thought, his heart as cold as the steel in his hands.

Then the chief mentioned Rhodes. ’Heavy injuries. Hospitalized.’ Tony’s glass froze halfway to his mouth, his jaw tightening. Rhodes wasn’t just his military liaison—he was a friend, one of the few who stuck around despite Tony’s bullshit. That ransom call, the coordinates he’d traced and passed to Rhodes—it was supposed to be a slam dunk, a chance for Rhodes to score some clout. Instead, it had put him in a hospital bed, maybe worse.

Pepper’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with concern. “Tony, I’ll call Happy. He can drive you—”

“No,” Tony snapped, his voice like ice. He tossed the wrench aside, the clang echoing in the lab. “I’m driving myself.” Without changing out of his grease-stained clothes, he strode to his Audi R8, the sleek car gleaming under the lab’s lights. He slid into the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life with a throaty growl that matched his mood. ’You fucked with the wrong guy, Walter,’ He thought, his hands gripping the wheel. The R8 shot out of the lab, tires screeching as it tore onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

Pepper watched him go, her heart pounding. Tony was reckless when he was pissed, and this was personal. She grabbed her phone, dialing Happy. “Get a security team and follow him. Now. He’s not thinking straight.”

As the R8 vanished into the distance, Tony’s mind was a storm of guilt and rage. ’Jason Walter, you piece of shit. You just made this personal.’

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