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While Kade was planning a rescue in Hell's Kitchen, Obadiah Stane was taking a phone call in his penthouse on the other side of Manhattan.
"Mr. Stane. James Wesley. The goods are ready for pickup."
The voice on the line was precise, polished — the kind of corporate efficiency that Stane recognized and respected. Wesley spoke like a man who ran boardrooms, not back alleys. Every time they dealt, Stane found himself wanting to poach the man for his own operation.
But James Wesley was the personal secretary — and most trusted lieutenant — of the president of United Global Investments. The president himself was a ghost. No public appearances, no photographs, no digital footprint. Wesley handled everything. The fact that the company not only functioned but thrived under this arrangement spoke to Wesley's extraordinary capability.
He wasn't the kind of man you could buy. Stane had tried.
"James, I'll have someone collect tonight. The two blocks in Hell's Kitchen — I'll have the transfer contracts drawn up. Come by tomorrow to sign."
"Excellent. Though I'd recommend being careful with the transport. Hell's Kitchen has been... restless lately."
Wesley wasn't talking about the gangs. He was talking about the masked vigilante.
"Don't worry," Stane said. "My people aren't ordinary."
"Then — what's the handoff signal?"
"When your men see mine, have them light a cigarette."
"Light a cigarette?"
"That's right."
Stane hung up and stared out at the New York skyline.
The kidnappings weren't just about Harry Osborn. He'd taken Justin Hammer's father as well.
The plan was simple in concept, brutal in execution. With Tony shutting down Stark Industries' weapons division, billions of dollars in defense contracts were about to hit the open market. Every arms manufacturer on the planet would be scrambling for the scraps. Stane intended to devour them all — but only if the two biggest competitors stayed out of the fight.
Oscorp Industries. Hammer Industries. Either one could match Stane's connections and undercut his prices. If both entered the bidding, his new venture was dead before it launched.
So he'd taken insurance. Norman Osborn's son. Justin Hammer's father. Leverage to ensure both companies stepped aside while Stane built his empire from the ashes of Stark's.
The new company would be a partnership with AIM — Advanced Idea Mechanics. Killian's people had the research capabilities and the infrastructure. Stane had the contacts and the reputation. Together, they'd fill every gap Tony had created.
If Stane could have avoided this — the kidnappings, the threats, the bridge-burning — he would have. Osborn and Hammer weren't stupid. The moment those contracts were reassigned, they'd know exactly who was responsible. This was a declaration of war against two of the most powerful corporations in the country.
But what choice did he have?
Stark Industries was his. He'd built it alongside Howard Stark from nothing. Poured decades of his life into it. And Tony — brilliant, reckless, ungrateful Tony — had decided to burn it all down on a whim.
"Tony. This is all your fault."
Stane's fist hit the desk. The impact-sensitive surface flickered to life, projecting a video feed: Tony Stark in his workshop, wearing mechanical gauntlets on both arms, testing a repulsor beam that blew a hole through a concrete target wall.
Stane had recorded this footage himself — carefully, painstakingly circumventing JARVIS's surveillance to capture a single clip without being detected. Any longer and Tony's AI would have flagged the intrusion. The only reason it had been possible at all was that Tony trusted Stane completely — trusted him enough to let him walk freely through his home, his lab, his life.
"Shuts down weapons manufacturing with one hand. Builds the most advanced personal weapon system on Earth with the other. You're just like your father, Tony. A hypocrite."
Stane's expression hardened into something ugly. Then he made one more call.
"Killian. Send your people to collect Osborn's son and Hammer's father. By tomorrow, both of them will be begging to stay out of the weapons market." A pause. "And whatever grudge you're carrying with Tony — that's between you and him. As long as it doesn't interfere with our partnership, I don't care what you do."
He hung up and collapsed into his chair. In the darkness of his office, Stane's eyes burned with a light that had nothing to do with ambition and everything to do with hatred.
In a warehouse somewhere in New York, a tall man with a buzz cut and a lazy grin lit a cigarette.
He didn't use a lighter.
One finger pressed against the tip. A flicker of red light — there and gone — and the cigarette was burning. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smoke with the contentment of a man without a care in the world.
His phone buzzed. A text message. He read it, then laughed — and exhaled.
The cigarette left his lips, tumbling through the air. It disintegrated before it traveled half a meter. The paper, the tobacco, the filter — reduced to ash in an instant. Even the nicotine didn't have time to become smoke before it was gone.
The man walked out of the warehouse. Several large men — none of them friendly-looking — fell into step behind him. They loaded into two black SUVs, which pulled away from the curb in silence.
From Manhattan's glittering heart, the two vehicles drove toward the dark.
Toward Hell's Kitchen.
Kade and Matt arrived at the underground parking garage on foot, moving through streets so poorly lit they were practically invisible.
The sign above the entrance was barely legible: WESLEY RENTAL CARS.
A front company. Had to be. The name wasn't subtle — but then, in Hell's Kitchen, subtlety was optional.
They held position a hundred meters back. Matt tilted his head, listening — sifting through layers of ambient noise to isolate what was happening inside.
A full minute passed before he spoke.
"Three guards at the entrance. But I can't tell if they've got infrared sensors or tripwire alarms on the approach. I wouldn't recommend going through the front door blind."
"So if we can confirm there's no alarm system, we can take the entrance directly?"
"Three men isn't a problem. And there's a long corridor between the entrance and the main structure — completely empty. Once I'm inside, I can pinpoint exactly where the boy is being held."
Kade nodded. Confirming the alarm situation was a job for a fifteen-centimeter robot that could disguise itself as a piece of trash.
He glanced at his shoulder.
Masque was already gone.