"Man down!"
"Medic! Medic!"
"Get HQ on the line! We need backup now!"
"Connected! Armed choppers are airborne—ten minutes out!"
…
Outside, soldiers used the convoy as cover, forming a defensive line.
Inside the humvee, Tony and the general were still shell-shocked.
"Move! Get out!" Rhodes yelled, snapping them awake.
Staying in the vehicle was a death sentence. Tony reacted fast, shoving the door open and diving out.
The general followed, hustled by Rhodes and others to a roadside ditch for cover.
"When's the chopper getting here?" The general barked, face grim, crouched in the dirt.
Rhodes replied. "General, choppers are up. Ten minutes."
"Too fucking slow…"
*Boom!*
A shell screamed in, blowing several humvees sky-high.
Dirt rained down, coating Tony and the general, who were sweating bullets.
A second's hesitation, and they'd all be fucking ghosts.
"Those shells…" Tony's brow furrowed, a nagging suspicion rising.
Unless he was mistaken, that was a Stark Industries single-soldier rocket launcher.
Problem was, those were sold only to the military and allies. How the fuck did terrorists get them?
A face flashed in Tony's mind.
Obadiah.
That bastard!
Selling weapons to terrorists for profit? Fucking insane.
Wait.
Tony's gears turned.
Getting ambushed on his first day in Afghanistan? No way that's a coincidence.
But were they after him or the general?
This was a tight military op—only high-ranking officers knew the route. How did these fuckers find out?
A dark theory formed, but Tony had no hard proof yet.
In that split-second of thought, more shells slammed down.
Soldiers were blown to shit, casualties piling up fast. The defensive line collapsed.
The general's face turned ashen, watching his men drop.
Choppers were ten minutes out, but they wouldn't last five.
"General! Tony! We gotta run!" Rhodes grabbed them, pointing to the endless desert behind.
The general grimaced. "If they've got snipers, we're fucked out there."
Rhodes snapped, "Stay here, and we're captured—or worse."
As they argued, Tony made up his mind, eyes sharpening.
Ignoring the gunfire and explosions, he stood, thumb pressing the fingerprint scanner on his case.
"Tony! What the fuck are you doing? Get down!" Rhodes shouted, panicking.
He hadn't convinced the brass yet, and now his buddy was acting like a dumbass.
*Beep.*
The case unlocked. Tony tossed it to the ground, his face a mix of focus and thrill.
He hadn't planned to reveal this so soon, but fuck it—situation called for it.
"Rhodes! General! Eyes open. You're about to see the future."
The case split apart, transforming into two red-and-gold mechanical modules—one large, one small.
Tony stepped onto the smaller module, then leaned forward, pressing the larger one to his chest.
The modules sprang to life. The lower part wrapped his legs, starting at his feet. The upper part encased his chest, back, arms, and head.
It was straight-up sci-fi, pure mechanical badassery. The general and Rhodes, covered in dirt, stared like kids in a science museum, their minds blown.
"Stay covered!" Tony said calmly, his face still exposed.
The faceplate snapped shut, completing the Mark IV portable armor.
This suit was for emergencies—thin armor, no heavy weapons.
It was weaker than the Mark III in attack, defense, and mobility, but against these last-century terrorist fuckers? More than enough.
Tony bent his knees, arc pulses blasting from his boots, launching him into the sky.
In the dust cloud, Rhodes stood, staring at the shrinking dot that was Tony. "Iron Armor… he fucking did it."
The general shook his head, chuckling bitterly. "After the L.A. shit, everyone—us included—pointed fingers at him, called his armor a useless pile of scrap."
"But in just months, he cracked the power problem and built this. Tony Stark… a once-in-a-century fucking genius."
…
On the hillside, a 30-man terrorist squad hammered the convoy with rifles and launchers.
A sonic boom cut through the air.
The terrorists looked up as a humanoid suit crashed down, smashing the ground.
The bearded fuckers froze for a second, then shouted in their gibberish, unloading on the armor.
*Ding! Ding! Ding!*
Bullets sparked off the suit, 7.62mm rounds doing nothing.
The portable armor was thin but made of high-strength alloy. You'd need large-caliber anti-tank rounds or rockets to dent it.
*Pfft!*
Electromagnetic pulses flared, and Tony rocketed toward a terrorist, landing an uppercut to his chest.
*Bang!*
The guy flew 15 meters into the air, tumbling down the slope.
"Jarvis, lock all targets!"
"Yes, sir."
The smart helmet marked every enemy with red crosshairs, prioritized by threat level.
Tony raised his hands, palm repulsors firing full-power blasts.
Each shot sent two terrorists flying, their chests scorched with blackened holes from the high-heat beams.
A hidden terrorist grabbed a shoulder-fired rocket launcher, aimed, and fired.
*Pfft!*
The rocket screamed toward Tony, trailing flame.
"Sir! Incoming rocket! Evade now!" Jarvis warned, calculating its trajectory and plotting a dodge.
Tony didn't flinch, just tilted slightly.
The rocket zipped past, exploding into the ground.
Tony glanced at it—*Stark Industries* etched on the casing.
My fucking weapons. Obadiah, you piece of shit.
Knowing soldiers died to weapons meant to protect them lit a fire in Tony's gut.
He fired a repulsor, blasting the launcher out of the terrorist's hands.
The rocket exploded midair, shattering into shrapnel.
A goddamn killing machine had entered the battlefield, and the terrorists' morale tanked.
When even rockets didn't faze him, they lost all will to fight.
They tried to run. Tony wasn't letting them.
Electromagnetic pulses flared again, lifting him into the air.
His palm repulsors charged for seconds, then unleashed two full-power blasts.
Dust cleared, and two more terrorists were erased from existence.
Tony moved fast, hunting the next target.
Two minutes later, only one of the 30 remained.
The last guy was short, chubby, with a typical local beard—looked like a low-level leader.
Tony chased him down, ripped the car door off, and yanked him out, pinning him under his boot. "Answer me. One: who were you here to kill? Two: where'd you get your intel? Three: where'd your weapons come from?"
The guy, wincing in pain, babbled, "لا تقتلوني! نحن جماعة جهادية! قاعدتنا على بُعد 100 كيلومتر في الجبال. قائدنا هو"
Tony frowned. "English, motherfucker."
The guy, panicked, kept spewing gibberish.
"Jarvis, translate."
"Yes, sir."
Seconds later, Jarvis relayed, "Don't kill me! We're a jihadist group! Our base is 100 kilometers away in the mountains. Our leader is…"
Tony repeated his questions, letting Jarvis translate.
The guy paused, then said, "We were sent to kill the Stark. Route intel came from an airbase mole. Our weapons? Our leader bought them from Stark Industries."
Tony's face darkened.
The Stark? That's fucking him.
A mole in the airbase leaking classified routes? Had to be high-ranking.
And Obadiah, that bastard, was selling arms to terrorists behind his back. No fucking way.
Good thing Tony took the company back, or Obadiah would've trashed the Stark name for good.
"Why me?" Tony pressed.
"What?! You're the Stark?!" The guy looked shocked. "I don't know, I just follow orders. Our leader's at the base—you can still catch him!"
Tony's lip curled. "Good. Give me the exact location."
The guy rattled off coordinates in a panic.
Tony grabbed him, flew down the hill, and tossed him at Rhodes and the general's feet.
The U.S. soldiers gawked at the sleek Iron Man suit.
"Got a live one. Interrogate him," Tony said. "I'm going to wipe out their base."
"Mr. Stark, thank you for saving our asses," The general said, stepping forward sincerely.
"Need armed choppers for the base?"
"Nope."
Tony rocketed into the sky, heading for the mountains 100 kilometers away.
.
.
.
.
You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
500 power stones.
Top 50. All time.