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Norman's office occupied the top floor of Oscorp Tower. "Office" was generous — four-fifths of the space was a private laboratory crammed with equipment, instruments, and prototype hardware that would have made most university research departments weep with envy. The remaining fifth served as a workspace and meeting area.
Norman Osborn wasn't Tony Stark. Few people were. But the lab alone made it clear he was far above the average corporate executive — a genuine scientist, brilliant enough to design technology that most engineers couldn't even conceptualize. Kade found himself wondering whether the Goblin Glider existed yet, and whether the AllSpark could activate it.
Then he caught himself. Harry was six. The glider might not have been built. And suggesting Norman put on a green mask was... probably not helpful right now.
Norman punched a sequence on a wall panel. Steel shutters dropped over the windows and doors. Soundproofing engaged. Light seals locked. The lab became an airtight vault.
"All right. No one can listen in here." Norman turned to Kade, all pretense of composure gone. "Tell me about Harry."
Kade didn't stall. He took off the Tactical Optics and held them out. "Put these on."
Norman looked at the plain black glasses with obvious confusion, but he put them on.
For a moment — nothing. Then the display activated.
A Mercedes-Benz, filmed from above — traffic camera footage, spliced together in near-real-time. Norman recognized the car immediately. It was the vehicle he'd had custom-armored for Harry's transport.
The Mercedes was driving through streets that didn't match its price tag. Narrow, dirty, littered — the kind of neighborhood where a car like that drew attention for all the wrong reasons.
The footage was patchy. When the car left one camera's range, there was a gap before the next picked it up. Wherever this was, the surveillance infrastructure was thin. Broken cameras, dead zones, blind spots.
Hell's Kitchen. The worst neighborhood in New York.
That was one of the reasons Kade had told Norman not to act rashly. In Hell's Kitchen, calling the police was almost pointless. If law enforcement could keep order there, people wouldn't be dying every other day.
The footage continued. The Mercedes stopped outside a derelict underground parking structure. Armed men emerged from the shadows — six, maybe seven, all carrying weapons openly. The driver, the nanny, and Harry were forced out of the vehicle at gunpoint.
The driver appeared to know the armed men. He dropped to his knees, begging. Pleading for something.
A gun was pressed to his forehead. A muzzle flash.
The footage was silent, but Norman flinched as if the shot had been fired next to his ear. The driver crumpled. If that bullet had been aimed at Harry instead —
But the kidnappers had no intention of harming the boy. Not yet. Harry and the nanny were bundled into a different vehicle, which pulled into the parking structure and vanished from the camera's view.
No more footage.
"What happened?" Norman's voice was tight. "Where did they go?"
"The parking structure has no cameras inside. And it's underground — satellite can't see through it either." Kade spread his hands. "My surveillance capability is extensive, but it needs something to work with. No cameras means no eyes."
Norman breathed. Once. Twice. Three times. Slowly, he reassembled himself.
"You tracked them this far. You clearly have resources. You must have some kind of plan."
"Knowing the address isn't enough," Kade said. "In my previous career, I participated in over ten hostage rescue operations. Success rate was less than fifty percent."
Norman stared at him.
"One time, we breached a building where the kidnapper had strapped explosives to the hostage. He held the detonator in his hand — or so we thought. The real trigger was pressure-sensitive, built into the sole of his shoe. The moment we tackled him and his feet left the ground, the bomb went off."
Kade let that sit.
"You can't predict what people like this have prepared. Charging in blind gets hostages killed. The smarter play is intelligence gathering — find out who they are, what they actually want, and where the psychological leverage is. Negotiation saves more lives than bullets. That's why every military and police force in the world employs hostage negotiators and psychologists. They're not just there for decoration."
"But where do we even start?" Norman's frustration was boiling over. "They called once — a disposable number, untraceable. No demands. No leads."
"I have a lead," Kade said. "Someone connected to this kidnapping is currently in a hospital."
"A hospital? Who?"
"One of your people. The security guard who got shot protecting Harry at the entrance."
Norman's face went blank with disbelief. "That's impossible. He saved Harry's life."
"Did he?" Kade said. "Think about it. The kidnappers' goal was to take Harry alive. Why would the shooter fire at the boy? The bullets were aimed at the bodyguard — a clean headshot, professional work. The shooter had no reason to target Harry."
Norman opened his mouth. Closed it.
"So why did your guard throw himself in front of the nanny?" Kade continued. "He wasn't protecting Harry from the shooter. He was directing the nanny into the car. 'Get in — the car is armored.' And the nanny, panicking, did exactly what he told her. She put Harry into the getaway vehicle herself."
Silence.
"The guard was nervous before the shooting even started," Kade said. "He tried to clear bystanders from the entrance. He knew what was coming. And when it happened, he played his part perfectly — took a few rounds to his body armor, looked like a hero, and put the target exactly where the kidnappers needed him."
Norman's hands were shaking. Not from fear — from rage.
"Then let's go," he said through his teeth, "and pay our respects to the man who saved my son's life."