Chapter 92: Chapter 92

Tony’s eyes darkened, a storm brewing behind them as he pieced together Jason’s game. That slippery bastard was playing him like a cheap fiddle. JARVIS needed a solid ten seconds of uninterrupted call time to pinpoint a signal’s exact location, but Jason—fucking Jason—kept every call under five seconds. The second he hung up, the trace failed, and when he called back, the satellite had to start from scratch. As long as he kept his calls short, Tony couldn’t lock onto his sorry ass.

’What a smug little prick,’ Tony thought, his jaw clenching. “All he’s got is these cheap-ass tricks.”

“Three days from now, you better wash that filthy ass of yours and be ready for me to kick it!” Jason’s voice taunted one last time before the line went dead. This time, he didn’t call back.

Tony sat in silence, his blood simmering, until a harsh laugh ripped from his throat. “Just a mangy dog barking from the shadows. Show your face in three days, and I’ll make damn sure you’re buried so deep no one’ll find your corpse!”

—

The Next Morning, Black Organization Hideout

At dawn, two black vans screeched to a stop outside the hideout. A handful of shady fuckers in dark trench coats stepped out, lugging heavy black suitcases. They exchanged a few hushed words with Christine, their tones dripping with deference, before slinking back into their vehicles and peeling out.

The crew gathered around as Christine cracked open the cases. “As requested,” She said, her voice cool as ice. “Guns, ammo, body armor, and detailed city plans, including every fucking sewer line around Stark’s bank.”

David snatched up an M16, eyeing it like a kid with a new toy. “Yo, boss, why’s it all M16s? No variety?”

Jason grabbed a box of bullets stamped with the Stark Industries logo, holding it up with a smirk. “Because only M16s can fire these 5.56mm M995 armor-piercing rounds.”

The crew looked confused, so Jason laid it out. “We fucked up that factory in the south suburbs, dropped two hundred SWAT guys like flies. Tony’s not an idiot—he’s talked to Rhodes by now. He knows the four of us shoot like we’ve got goddamn aimbots. If I were him, I’d kit out my guys with the best bulletproof gear money can buy—full-body armor, helmets, even fucking ballistic goggles. Regular rounds won’t do shit against that. You want to punch through? You need armor-piercing.”

David grinned, getting it. “Fuck yeah. I’m hitting the range to test these babies out!” He grabbed his M16 and a stack of ammo boxes, striding toward the shooting range with purpose. Even after years in warzones, his aim was already god-tier, but he still drilled every damn day.

“Me too!” Harley chirped, snatching a rifle and scampering after him, her excitement practically electric.

Jason shoved a few tables together, spreading out the Los Angeles city plans like a war general. “Alright, let’s map this shit out,” He said, his eyes gleaming with focus.

—

Malibu Beachfront Mansion

Tony’s private coastal paradise, usually a quiet retreat known only to a few top execs, was now a goddamn fortress. A swarm of heavily armed, black-clad security goons had turned the place into a warzone. To keep Jason from pulling some sneaky home-invasion shit, Tony had cranked the security to DEFCON 1. From the base of the cliff to the mansion’s rooftop, every inch was patrolled—hell, even the shittiest corners had guards posted. Three fucking tanks were parked at the front gate, and an armed chopper buzzed overhead like an angry hornet.

At 8 a.m., the underground garage door rumbled open. A convoy of Hummers flanked a beefy armored truck, rolling out toward Stark Industries’ main factory. Tony, who’d usually be tearing up the roads in a flashy sports car, was stuck sweating his balls off in the armored truck, crammed in with a bunch of muscle-bound security guys who smelled like gym socks and gun oil.

The ride was a suffocating two-hour slog, the air thick and rancid. By the time they pulled into the factory’s underground lot, Tony—wearing just a T-shirt—was drenched in sweat and ready to lose his shit. “Fuck this!” He muttered, leaping out of the vehicle. ’I’ve gotta put that bastard Jason in the ground fast, or I’m gonna be stuck in these rolling sardine cans forever.’

One of his lackeys jogged up. “Boss, the military’s here. They’re waiting in the conference room.”

“Alright, I’m on my way,” Tony said, wiping sweat from his brow and striding off.

—

Conference Room

A grizzled general with two stars on his shoulder and a head of silver hair stood waiting. Tony sauntered in, flashing a cocky grin. “Hey there, General. Good to see you.”

The general shook his hand, cutting straight to the chase. “Stark, you know why I’m here.”

“Lemme guess—Jason, right?” Tony replied, leaning back in his chair.

“Exactly. Word is you threw down a challenge, and that crazy bastard actually took the bait.”

Tony wasn’t surprised the military had caught wind of it. He nodded. “Yup. It’s on.”

“Good,” The general said, his voice hard. “Jason’s a walking disaster. Since he’s dumb enough to bite, we’ve gotta take him out now. Let him slip away, and it’s not just New York or L.A.—the whole damn country’s fucked.”

“General, we’re on the same page,” Tony said, his tone sharp. “If that asshole shows up, he’s not walking away. I’ll make sure of it.”

“No,” The general cut in, his eyes narrowing. “The military’s taking point on this op. Your guys just need to back us up.”

Tony laughed, shaking his head. “General, this is my fight. My challenge. I don’t need you or your boys crashing my party.”

The general’s face hardened. “Your fight? This isn’t a fucking game, Stark! This is about millions of American lives!”

Tony’s smirk vanished, his voice turning cold as steel. “Exactly why Stark Industries is handling it. No offense, General, but your people have been chasing Jason for years and got nothing but body bags to show for it. What is it, 0-8? You really think you’re in a position to call the shots?”

The general’s jaw tightened, but he kept his cool. “Fine. If you’re so confident, mind showing me how Stark Industries plans to deal with this bastard?”

Tony gestured toward the door with a smug grin. “Step right this way.”

—

Underground Firing Range

The range was a high-tech marvel, brightly lit and pristine, with three hundred jacked-up security guards lined up in ten perfect rows. Each one stood ramrod straight, their faces stone-cold, dressed in identical black tactical gear. Even as Tony and the general strolled in, not a single head turned. These were Stark Industries’ cream of the crop—handpicked, battle-hardened elites.

The general scanned the ranks, nodding approvingly. “Impressive. These guys ex-military?”

Tony grinned. “You’ve got a sharp eye, General. Most of ’em are SEALs—retired, but still the best of the best. The SEALs are the world’s deadliest special forces. With these guys on my side, those sewer rats’ll be pissing themselves and scurrying back to their holes.”

“If they’re SEALs, I’m not worried about their skills,” The general said. “What I want to see is the high-tech gear you’re arming them with.”

Tony clapped his hands, and one of his men hauled over a heavy suitcase, grunting with the effort. The thing looked like it weighed a ton.

The general raised an eyebrow as the case was opened, revealing a pile of sleek, black metal components that gleamed under the lights. He reached out, running a hand over the surface. “What the hell is this?”

Tony’s eyes lit up with pride, his voice dripping with confidence. “Patience, General. Wait ’til it’s assembled, and you’ll see.”

Ten minutes later, the parts were pieced together, and the general’s jaw dropped. Standing before him was a sleek, jet-black suit of powered armor—a fucking Iron Man prototype.

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