Chapter 90: Chapter 90

Los Angeles journalists were fucking swamped today, drowning in a tsunami of jaw-dropping scandals that hit one after another, each juicier than the last, practically choking them with the sheer volume of dirt to dig through.

Reporters and photographers were tearing through the city in their beat-up vans, racing from one chaotic scene to the next, their legs aching like hell from the relentless grind. Sweat-soaked and cursing under their breath, they chased every lead, desperate to capture the next big break before their rivals.

In the newsrooms, editors were hunched over their keyboards, fingers hammering away like machine guns, frantically churning out articles from the flood of raw intel streaming in from the field. Coffee cups piled up, and tempers flared as deadlines loomed like guillotines.

TV anchors, meanwhile, were glued to their studio desks, postponing their precious off-hours to broadcast live updates to a nation hanging on every word. Their voices dripped with urgency, delivering the latest shitstorm straight to America’s living rooms, keeping viewers hooked on the unfolding drama.

The Los Angeles Police Department had just dropped a bombshell of a story, and the media was ready to swarm the precinct like vultures when a hotter tip broke: billionaire playboy Tony Stark had been spotted at the hospital, visiting his close buddy, Colonel James Rhodes.

Tony Stark, that smug bastard, despised the press with a passion. If you were a hot female reporter, you might sweet-talk your way into an interview by flashing some charm or maybe a bit more, but for the guys? He’d just sneer and give them the cold shoulder, leaving them with nothing but a bruised ego.

So when Tony showed up in public today, it was like Christmas morning for the press corps. And with Rhodes, the sole survivor of the incident, being Tony’s best pal, the vultures smelled a massive scoop. This wasn’t just news—it was a potential career-defining exposé.

Media outlets split their teams like a well-oiled machine: one crew hightailed it to the police station to sniff out the latest on that clusterfuck, while the other raced to the hospital, hoping to catch Tony in a rare moment of vulnerability.

—

Special Care Ward

A doctor knocked and stepped into the room, his voice apologetic but firm. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Stark. We need to change Colonel Rhodes’ bandages now.”

“Fine, I was just leaving anyway,” Tony shot back, standing up. He locked eyes with Rhodes, his gaze intense as fuck. “You focus on healing up, man. That piece-of-shit Jason? I’m gonna handle his sorry ass.”

Rhodes, pale and bandaged, shook his head weakly. “Tony, listen to me. Jason’s not your average thug. Don’t fuck with him, I’m begging you.”

Tony smirked, his arrogance practically dripping off him. “Not your average thug? What, and I’m just some run-of-the-mill rich prick?”

With that, he slid on his obscenely expensive, badass shades and strutted out the door like he owned the damn hospital.

Happy, his loyal muscle, and a pack of beefy bodyguards closed ranks around him, escorting Tony through the sterile corridors, their eyes scanning for any hint of trouble.

Underground Parking Garage

The second Tony stepped into the garage, a swarm of reporters and tabloid hacks descended like a pack of rabid wolves. Cameras flashed, microphones jabbed forward, and long-lens paparazzi gear was aimed like snipers, all itching to get a piece of the billionaire.

Tony, flanked by his security, barely made it ten steps before the horde closed in. A dozen mics were shoved in his face, each reporter shouting over the others, their voices a chaotic mess of desperation and greed.

“Mr. Stark! Online sources claim the mastermind behind the kidnapping is Jason, America’s most wanted fugitive. What’s your take on that?” One reporter yelled.

Tony didn’t even glance their way, his face a mask of icy contempt. He signaled his bodyguards, who pushed through the crowd like bulldozers, clearing a path to his sleek Audi.

But just as his hand grazed the car door, a scrappy tabloid journalist with zero chill waved a phone in the air, shouting, “Mr. Stark! That bastard murdered dozens and fucked up your friend so bad he’s barely hanging on! Don’t you want to make him pay?”

Tony froze, his body tense as a coiled spring. Slowly, he turned, his eyes narrowing with a mix of irritation and raw, unfiltered rage. “You wanna know what I think?” He growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The idiot reporter, too dumb to sense the storm brewing, just nodded eagerly, oblivious to the shit he’d just stirred up.

—

Meanwhile, at a Black Organization Hideout

Jason, the man at the center of this shitstorm, was lounging at a dining table, savoring a lavish lunch like a king. Behind him, a massive flatscreen blared non-stop news coverage, the anchors’ voices droning on about the chaos gripping Los Angeles.

“Outraged by the LAPD chief’s cover-up, thousands of grieving families of fallen officers turned into a mob, storming police headquarters,” The anchor reported, her tone sharp. “They smashed computers, trashed offices, and beat the cops. The LAPD responded with lethal force, killing or injuring over seventy rioters before backup from other agencies quelled the uprising.”

“Security footage captured the families’ rampage, and those who got violent are now facing federal charges. The courts are gonna have a field day with this one,” She added, her voice tinged with grim satisfaction.

The anchor paused, her eyes flicking to a new script handed to her. A flicker of excitement crossed her face as she leaned forward. “Breaking news from Los Angeles: the sole survivor of the police rescue operation is Air Force Colonel James Rhodes, a close friend of the notorious playboy billionaire, Tony Stark.”

“Just moments ago, Mr. Stark visited Colonel Rhodes in the hospital and, upon leaving, shared his unfiltered thoughts on the incident.”

The screen cut to live footage of Tony, standing in the parking garage, his face a mask of cold fury as he addressed the mob of reporters. “I’ve got a little challenge for Mr. Walter,” He said, his voice dripping with venom. “And I just came up with it, so listen the fuck up.”

Jason, still chewing his steak, smirked darkly, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“My name’s Tony Stark,” Tony continued, his voice booming. “You’ve probably heard of me, you piece of shit. Half of America’s scared shitless of you, but me? I don’t give a fuck. You hurt my friend, and you’re gonna pay for it. This ain’t about politics—it’s about old-school, in-your-face revenge.”

“Mark this address down: Stark Industries Bank, Los Angeles headquarters. Three days from now, I’m giving every employee the day off, and I’m stashing one billion dollars in cash inside the vault. Yeah, you heard me—one fucking billion.”

“I know you lowlife scumbags probably can’t crack a bank vault to save your miserable lives, so I’ll do you a favor and leave the damn door wide open. You’re always whining about needing cash, right? Well, come and get it, tough guy. Three days from now, it’s all there for the taking.”

“But if you don’t show up, you’re just a spineless coward—a pathetic, sewer-dwelling rat who’s too chickenshit to face me. So, what’s it gonna be? Are you a man, or just a bitch hiding in the shadows?”

With that, Tony snatched the reporter’s phone and smashed it to the ground, the crack echoing like a gunshot. “Sue me, asshole!” He barked, before storming off.

—

Jason let out a low, guttural laugh, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Well, damn. Stark’s got a mouth on him, doesn’t he? That temper’s gonna get him fucked up one day.”

Christine, leaning against the wall, rolled her eyes. “Stark’s got a reputation in Hollywood for being a smug, loudmouthed prick. Don’t take his bullshit personally.”

Harley chimed in, shaking his head. “Yeah, it’s a trap so obvious it’s almost insulting. What kind of idiot falls for that weak-ass taunting? One billion or not, no one’s walking out of that bank alive.”

Jason wasn’t stupid. He knew damn well Tony had set a trap. If he showed up at that bank, he’d be staring down the barrel of every elite special forces unit in the country, probably with a few drones and tanks thrown in for good measure. It was a suicide mission.

But if he didn’t show, he’d be handing Stark a PR victory on a silver platter. Tony would parade around on every news channel, calling him a gutless punk, humiliating him in front of the world and rubbing salt in Rhodes’ wounds.

It was a classic no-win scenario—a fucking checkmate.

“One billion dollars…” Jason muttered, his fork hovering over his plate. “One fucking billion…”

Christine’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward, alarmed. “Wait, you’re not seriously thinking about going for it, are you? That’s insane!”

Harley jumped in, her voice frantic. “Babe, it’s a death trap! You walk in there, you’re done—fucking toast!”

Christine added, “If you’re that desperate for cash, I can launder some of the organization’s funds. It’s not one billion, but I can scrape together three, maybe five hundred million.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Three to five hundred mil? That’s it? What kind of rinky-dink operation are you running here? That’s pocket change.”

Christine shot him a withering look. “You think running a criminal empire is some get-rich-quick scheme? The overhead’s a goddamn nightmare. Every morning, I wake up and millions are already gone—poof! If a deal goes south, you’re bankrupt overnight.”

Jason barely acknowledged her, his mind racing. He was calculating the risks, weighing the odds of pulling off the heist of the century. One billion dollars in cold, hard cash. It was the kind of score that could set him for skill—or get him killed in a blaze of glory.

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