Karl's abilities had long since been exposed during the Battle of New York and the London incident. Only his civilian identity had been suppressed by S.H.I.E.L.D. The public knew his face—but not who he really was.
As for Steve, he was Captain America. A super soldier.
The real question was whether Sam understood that either of them actually needed breakfast.
Sam looked at them with clear—and somewhat clueless—eyes.
Steve sighed.
Karl gave him a look that practically said seriously?
---
Breakfast was surprisingly hearty: toast, milk, fried eggs, and a large bowl of salad. A classic American spread.
They ate while discussing their next move.
"Anyone with the authority to launch a missile domestically has to be Alexander Pierce," Natasha said, tearing off a piece of bread. "And he's not acting alone. If Zola's algorithm was on that ship, then everyone aboard is compromised."
"Sitwell," Steve said immediately. "He was on that ship. We find him."
Karl had already told them Sitwell was HYDRA. That made him the most accessible lead.
Storming Pierce directly would be faster—but Natasha was concerned about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s archives. Destroying headquarters outright could erase critical intelligence.
Without those files, S.H.I.E.L.D. would truly cease to exist.
She had no desire to go back to living as a rogue spy.
"Found him."
Tony removed a bead from his bracelet and tossed it onto the table. A hologram sprang to life, displaying Jasper Sitwell's full profile.
"He's having dinner again with that garbage senator," Tony muttered. "Knew that guy was dirty."
The image showed the same overweight senator who once tried to force Tony to surrender the Iron Man armor.
HYDRA, almost certainly.
"The problem," Tony continued dryly, "is that we're wanted fugitives planning to kidnap a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. official in broad daylight, downtown D.C. Sounds totally reasonable."
He personally didn't care about witnesses—but the aftermath would create complications.
"Then don't go," Sam said suddenly.
He stood, disappeared briefly, and returned with a stack of documents, dropping them on the table.
"Consider this my résumé."
Steve flipped to the first page.
A photo of Sam in tactical gear.
"Steve," Natasha said, recognizing the operation, "you never mentioned he was airborne rescue."
She remembered the mission—an anti-terror operation. Air support had been impossible due to low-altitude defense systems. The team had relied on high-altitude insertion.
"You used stealth parachutes?" she asked.
"No," Sam said calmly. "We used this."
He opened the next file.
Karl didn't bother looking—he already knew.
Tony, meanwhile, had JARVIS pull Sam's complete military history within seconds.
Projected on the table was a compact jetpack with folded metal wings integrated into the frame.
The Falcon flight pack.
"This looks like an Osborne prototype," Tony said dismissively. "I've seen similar designs. This one's… primitive."
Compared to an Iron Man suit, it might as well have been a toy.
"That thing hasn't been retired yet?" Tony added, scanning performance specs. "Feels like a museum piece."
"I thought you were just a pilot," Steve admitted, squinting at the projection.
Sam smirked. "Not exactly."
"But I can't ask you to do this," Steve said after a moment. "You're retired. No need to jump back into this."
"Helping Captain America isn't reason enough?" Sam replied with a grin.
Steve hesitated—then nodded.
"Where is it?"
Tony expanded the projection. A large red marker pulsed.
"Fort Meade military base. Last remaining unit stored there. Twelve-inch reinforced steel vault. Heavy security."
Satellite feeds provided a crystal-clear view of the facility.
"That's nothing," Tony said casually. "I don't even need to go in person."
Sam frowned. "And how exactly are you planning to—"
"JARVIS. Deploy Marks 20 through 30. Retrieve the pack."
"Confirmed, sir. Units deployed from orbital platform. Target: Fort Meade."
---
Low Earth orbit.
Stark satellites locked onto the target. Ten Iron Man suits were launched simultaneously, streaking through the atmosphere.
Within ten minutes, they were hovering above Fort Meade.
The base scrambled anti-air defenses immediately—but conventional systems were no match.
The suits advanced with overwhelming superiority. Weapons installations were dismantled, radar arrays destroyed, infrastructure neutralized.
Soldiers opened fire.
The bullets did little more than scuff the paint.
Ten minutes later, the Iron Legion stood before the secured vault.
Sensors confirmed it—twelve inches of reinforced steel on all sides.
Then—
BOOM.
A massive silver suit smashed straight through the wall.
This model was bulkier than the others, equipped with battering-ram assemblies mounted on both arms—designed specifically for demolition.
Inside the reinforced chamber, the Falcon pack rested quietly, untouched.
Not for long.
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