"Oh dear, oh dear, don't shoot! I'm an artist! I'm fragile!"
Trevor Slattery didn't just raise his hands; he practically tried to reach for the ceiling, his knees knocking together under his silk robe. "I had no idea people were actually getting hurt, mate. They told me it was all special effects and clever editing. I thought it was a bit of a niche indie project with a massive catering budget!"
Rhodes stared at the man, then looked over at Tony with a face full of pure, unadulterated disgust. "This? This is the 'Mandarin'? Tony, tell me this is a prank. Tell me there's a camera crew behind that curtain."
"My name is Trevor Slattery," the bearded man said, tentatively extending a hand toward the Colonel as if they were at a garden party. "I'm a graduate of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. Perhaps you've seen my Lear?"
Rhodes didn't shake his hand. He shoved his handgun forward, the cold steel clicking against Trevor's teeth. "I wish I could justify the paperwork it would take to put a bullet in you right now."
For a man like James Rhodes, a career military officer who had dedicated his life to the security of the United States, seeing this drugged-out puppet was an insult. This man was the face of the fear that had gripped the nation. And because of this theater, Rhodes had failed his mission, lost his armor, and let the President's security detail be compromised.
BANG! BANG!
Two rounds barked from Rhodes' pistol, burying themselves in the plush headboard inches from Trevor's ears. The actor shrieked, falling back into the pillows.
"What is Killian doing with my suit?" Rhodes growled, the barrel of the gun now glowing hot as he pressed it against the side of Trevor's head. "Answer me before I decide your final performance is a closed-casket affair."
"Ah! God! I don't know the technical bits!" Trevor wailed, the smell of burnt hair and gunpowder filling the air. "But I heard them talking! Something about a big show at sea! A massive ship, like a floating fortress! I can show you where it is on a map! Just don't ruin the face, I've got a pilot season coming up!"
"Keep talking," Rhodes commanded, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Trevor scrambled to grab a lukewarm beer can from the nightstand, taking a desperate swig to steady his nerves. "They mentioned the Vice President, too! Said he was the 'inside man' or something like that. Does that matter? Is that a big deal?"
Tony and Rhodes locked eyes. The magnitude of the conspiracy finally snapped into focus. Using the speedboat Trevor had mentioned, the trio—along with a very silent and terrified Maya Hansen—roared away from the mansion's private dock, cutting a white wake through the Florida surf toward the coordinates of the marina.
High Above the Atlantic: Air Force One
Inside the most secure aircraft in the world, the "Iron Patriot" stood like a silent sentinel in the assembly room. The President of the United States walked past, glancing at the blue-and-silver armor.
"Is everything okay, Colonel?" the President asked, noting the lack of response from the suit's external speakers.
Inside the armor, the AIM operative known as Eric Savin—operating under the callsign 'Seven'—smiled. He reached out and picked up a heavy, miniature bronze Statue of Liberty from a display shelf. With a casual, effortless flick, he hurled it across the room. It struck a Secret Service agent with the force of a cannonball, pinning him to the bulkhead.
Chaos erupted. The remaining agents drew their weapons and opened fire, the sound of 9mm rounds pinging off the Patriot's reinforced plating like hailstones on a tin roof.
In less than sixty seconds, the room was quiet.
Savin stepped over the bodies, grabbing the President by the lapels and hoisting him off the ground with one mechanical hand. He slammed the Commander-in-Chief against the wall, the Patriot's faceplate sliding open to reveal Savin's glowing, orange eyes.
"Mr. President," Savin purred. "It's a real honor to finally meet the man who's going to make me very, very rich."
"If you're going to kill me," the President gasped, his face turning purple, "just do it."
"Calm down, sir. That's not the Mandarin's style. We need you alive... for the opening act."
Savin forced the President into the hollowed-out interior of the Iron Patriot armor, the plates locking into place around the terrified leader. With a roar of repulsors, the suit blasted through the side of the fuselage, carrying the President toward the port base on a pre-programmed flight path.
As he tumbled through the air, Savin—now disguised in a stolen guard uniform—began methodically planting Extremis-laced thermite charges throughout the cockpit of the dying plane.
The Yacht: Miami Coastline
Tony Stark gripped the railing of the speedboat as it skipped over the waves. He had his phone pinned to his ear, his voice tight with urgency.
"Mr. Vice President, this is Tony Stark. Listen to me very carefully."
"Tony? My god, I heard you were—"
"I'm alive, but the President isn't going to be if you don't act now," Tony interrupted. "The Mandarin is planning a strike on Air Force One. You need to evacuate to a secure location immediately."
"I have my best detail here, Tony," the Vice President replied, his voice calm, almost too calm. "And Colonel Rhodes is already on the plane. I think we have the situation under control."
Rhodes snatched the phone from Tony's hand. "Sir, this is Rhodes. The Iron Patriot is a Trojan Horse. They've hijacked the suit and they're using it to kidnap the President. You have to ground that plane now!"
"I understand," the Vice President said after a brief pause. "I'll initiate the emergency protocols. We'll have Raptors in the air in thirty seconds. Thank you, Colonel."
As the call ended, a Secret Service agent stepped into the Vice President's office. "Sir? Is everything okay?"
The Vice President looked at his young daughter, who was sitting in a wheelchair nearby, her leg missing from the knee down. He looked back at the agent and gave a small, tragic nod. "Everything is exactly as it should be."
On the yacht, Jarvis's voice piped into Tony's ear. "Sir, the heavy machinery has arrived in Malibu. The rubble has been cleared from the underground vault."
"How's the 'House Party' protocol looking, Jarvis?"
"The team is at 92% charge, sir. Eager to stretch their legs."
"That'll do," Tony said. He stepped out of the Mark 42 armor, the pieces clattering onto the deck. He put on a pair of sleek, transparent tactical glasses—the neural synchronization link for his remote-controlled suits. "I'm going to go save the President. Rhodey, you take the boat. Keep the Mark 42 here for backup."
Leander stepped forward, his eyes already tracing the heat signature of the burning plane in the distance. "I can get there faster, Tony. Just give me a compass and a target."
Tony paused, looking at the kid who had just returned from the stars. He reached out, unlatched the helmet of the Mark 42, and handed it to Leander. "Jarvis is inside the HUD. He'll give you the vector for Air Force One. Try not to scratch the paint."
Leander slid the gold-and-red helmet over his head. It was his first time wearing Stark tech, and the sensory overload of the HUD was dizzying for a split second before his mind harmonized with the interface.
"I like the UI," Leander remarked. Then, with a flicker of blue light, he vanished from the deck of the boat.
"Tony... how did he do that?" Rhodes asked, blinking.
"Don't ask," Tony sighed, adjusting his glasses. "It's a long story involving a lot of space dust. And as for her," he pointed to Maya, "Leander thinks she's useful. I think she's a liability. But for now, she stays."
Tony donned the rest of his gear, his mind already calculating the logistics of the battle ahead. "Jarvis? Is it time?"
"The guests are arriving, sir."
Malibu Ruins
A massive crane finally lifted the twisted remains of the reinforced garage door. Below, in the darkness of the subterranean hangar, dozens of blue lights flickered to life.
A construction worker leaned over the edge, peering into the hole. "Hey, what is—?"
He didn't finish the sentence. A roar like a dozen jet engines filled the air as thirty distinct suits of Iron Man armor—the Silver Centurion, the Igor, the Shotgun—erupted from the ground, leaving trails of fire in the sky as they turned toward Miami.
Air Force One: 30,000 Feet
Leander appeared in the center of a pressurized cargo cabin, the metal walls groaning as the plane fought for altitude. He waved his hand, his telekinesis sealing the breach he'd created during his jump.
He kept the helmet on. It felt a bit ridiculous wearing just a Stark helmet with civilian clothes, but it kept his face off the black box recordings.
"Mr. Hayes," Jarvis's voice echoed in his ears. "Life signs detected in the forward cabin. One anomalous energy signature—Extremis level 7."
Leander moved through the door. Two Secret Service guards, panicked and confused, leveled their weapons at him. They froze when they saw the iconic Iron Man helmet.
"Stark?" one of them gasped.
"Not exactly," Leander said, his voice modulated by the suit. "There's a fire-breather on this bird. Stay back and let the professional handle it."
He didn't wait for a response. He kicked the door to the next compartment open and found himself face-to-face with Savin.
The AIM soldier was holding a parachute, his skin glowing with a violent, orange radiance. He looked at Leander—this kid in a hoodie wearing a billionaire's helmet—and laughed.
"You've got to be kidding me. Stark sent a fanboy?"
The two guards from the previous room rushed in, opening fire. The bullets hit Savin's chest, but the wounds simply glowed brighter before sealing shut in seconds.
Savin lunged. He was fast—inhumanly fast. He closed the distance in a blur, his glowing, superheated palms reaching for Leander