At Stark Industries' main gate, a heavily armed security team was patrolling.
A low engine rumble caught their attention.
Several team members hopped the barrier, spotting two large trucks barreling toward the gate at breakneck speed, like they were out of control.
"Shit! Trouble!" One shouted, alarmed.
Nearby patrol teams rushed over.
Watching the trucks charge closer, a guard gripped his gun. "They're aiming for the factory, Captain. Should we engage?"
Attacking meant taking responsibility. If the trucks were just drunk drivers, they'd face court.
But hesitating could cost the initiative—or lives.
The trucks were less than 100 meters away, seconds from impact. Time was short.
In a flash, the captain gritted his teeth. "Fire! I'll take the heat!"
"Roger!"
Nine guards dropped to one knee, chambering rounds.
Then, from the first truck's passenger seat, a pale middle-aged man hefted a heavy machine gun, aiming at the gate with a cold grin.
Rat-tat-tat!
He opened fire, the gun spitting flames, shattering the truck's windshield. Glass sprayed everywhere.
Shards sliced the man's face, neck, and arms, drawing blood.
He didn't flinch, like pain didn't exist, his eyes only growing wilder.
The machine gun's roar unleashed a storm of bullets toward the gate.
"Watch out!" The captain yelled, diving to the ground and rolling into the roadside grass.
"Argh!"
"Shit!"
Some guards were too slow, taking hits to the chest and gut.
Stark's full-body armor stopped the 7.62mm rounds, but the impact felt like a punch.
These guards were seasoned, scattering to cover—diving, rolling, or ducking.
After the initial surprise, which left a few lightly injured, the gunfire achieved nothing.
Rat-tat-tat!
The machine gun kept blazing, hot brass raining down, scorching the man's arms and legs.
Stark's elite security wouldn't go down easy. The suicide squad knew this.
Their goal wasn't to wipe them out but to breach the line and hit the administrative building.
Click-click!
Hundreds of rounds from a belt emptied, the barrel glowing red, smoking.
Ammo gone, but they'd bought time.
Boom!
The trucks smashed through the gate's iron barrier, charging into Stark Industries.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Hiss!
In the dark, the drivers missed the spike strips.
All tires burst, hissing loudly.
The drivers didn't care, steering toward the administrative building.
From 100 meters up, Jason watched, smiling.
As they say, the reckless fear the bold, and the bold fear the fearless. These death-defying squad members unleashed unnatural strength in their final moments.
Even Stark's elite guards had to back off.
Step one was a success. Now, how would Stark respond?
The trucks passed, leaving chaos.
The captain scrambled up, radioing the security chief.
In Stark Industries' security control room, the chief was stunned by the intrusion report.
He rushed to the console, hitting the highest alert level.
A piercing alarm echoed through Stark's campus. Patrolling guards froze, staring at flashing red lights.
The chief sat, broadcasting on all channels: "Emergency! Two trucks breached the main gate, heading for the admin building. Estimated 20-plus hostiles, armed with heavy weapons! Repeat, heavy weapons!"
His voice blared through Stark's loudspeakers, reaching every guard.
"Shit! Trouble!"
"Move! Now!"
Guards, faces grim, sprinted toward the admin building, guns in hand.
After alerting the teams, the chief dialed Tony Stark for orders.
Two trucks meant at least 20 enemies with heavy weapons—a serious threat.
Not that they couldn't win. With their numbers and gear, 200 terrorists would still lose. But he feared restraint would cost lives.
For the factory's sake, light weapons—rifles—were ideal for fighting.
But that guaranteed casualties, at least ten guards.
The chief dreaded that.
Heavy weapons or vehicles—rockets, armored cars, drones, choppers—could minimize or eliminate losses.
But heavy weapons in the factory would cause massive damage.
The chief wanted the second option, but he wasn't the boss. He needed Tony Stark's call.
…
Malibu, L.A., seaside villa.
Since miniaturizing the Arc Reactor, Tony had poured everything into Iron Man suit development.
He was convinced it was the only way to crush the Joker Organization.
Driven by obsession, he worked day and night, barely eating or sleeping.
In his basement lab, suit progress had stalled for months.
Tony sat at his workbench, using holographic tech to build and scrap virtual models endlessly.
Barring surprises, tonight was another all-nighter—his new normal.
"Sir, incoming call from security control," Jarvis announced.
"Patch it through."
Tony scratched his head, frustrated, and chugged coffee.
"Mr. Stark! Trouble! Two trucks just forced the gate, heading for the admin building. They've got heavy weapons, 20-plus hostiles!" The chief reported.
Tony frowned. "Twenty guys? Your teams can handle that."
The chief rushed, "Yes, but to avoid casualties, I request heavy weapons and assault vehicles—"
"No way!" Tony cut him off. "Heavy weapons in the factory? You know how much damage that'd cause?"
A single day's shutdown could cost millions.
The chief pressed, "Mr. Stark, light weapons mean casualties—"
Tony interrupted, stern. "I'm clear: no heavy weapons."
He paused, then added, "You can use armored cars. That'll keep your team safe."
"But—"
"Suppress them. Keep them out of the admin building," Tony said, checking his watch. "I'm heading out. Hold them for ten minutes."
He hung up, jumped from his chair, and strode to the suit assembly area.
The smart floor shifted, robotic arms extending to fit the Mark III Iron Man suit onto him.
*
Stark Industries, security control room.
The chief wasn't happy with Tony's call. It risked his men's lives.
But what could he do? Tony was the boss, the capitalist. A grunt couldn't win.
…
Stark Industries campus, the trucks kept moving.
Tires flat, they crawled on wheel hubs, painfully slow.
Screech!
Metal groaned. The hubs couldn't take the weight, collapsing.
The trucks skidded, sparking, then stopped.
The drivers couldn't accelerate or steer.
"Trucks are done! Get out!" A voice barked.
Twenty-plus suicide squad members, loaded with heavy backpacks, leapt out.
The packs held weapons, ammo, C4, and short-barreled rocket launchers.
Ironically, many were Stark Industries products.
Using their own weapons against them.
Click!
Rounds chambered.
.
.
.
.
You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
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