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The moment Ethan crossed into Aurelian territorial waters, the fighter escort closed formation.
Six jets. Three on each side, close enough that their wingtip vortices rocked the armor. Not an honor guard. A cage made of metal and thrust, designed to ensure that if the armored figure in their center tried anything unexpected, six pilots would respond simultaneously.
The Aurelian Republic wasn't taking chances. One person in a suit of armor had already destroyed two of their jets and humiliated their military on live television. The fact that this same person was now voluntarily flying into their airspace didn't make anyone feel safer. It made them more nervous.
Because a man who walks into a trap on purpose either doesn't know it's a trap, or knows something the trappers don't.
Back in the Republic of Valoria, the Signal Bee's broadcast was pulling numbers that made every network executive in the country rearrange their schedules.
Ryan Calloway had pushed the feed to the main channel. Chancellor Thayer, recognizing an opportunity to apply pressure, personally ordered the full details of the situation released to international media. The Whitfield defection. The kidnapping. The fourteen dead Bureau agents. The Aurelian Republic's role in all of it.
In one stroke, the narrative shifted. The Aurelian Republic was no longer the aggrieved party whose technology had been "threatened." They were a superpower that had kidnapped a civilian school principal to extort a teenager.
With the entire world watching the live feed and the full story in every newsroom, the Aurelian Republic's freedom to act was severely constrained. You couldn't disappear someone when a billion people were watching in real time.
That was the theory, at least.
The comment sections were already on fire.
"The Aurelian Republic calls themselves the 'World Police'? This is how they police? By kidnapping teachers?"
"Mercer is out of his mind. Going alone into enemy territory — what can one person do against an entire nation?"
"To the person above: if YOUR family was kidnapped, could you stay calm?"
"Maybe with the armor he still has a chance..."
"Against a superpower? One suit of armor against a nation's military? Be realistic."
Inside the armor, the communication system chimed.
Unknown caller. Ethan answered without hesitation.
"Hello, Mr. Mercer."
Defense Secretary Callister's voice was warm. Practiced. The voice of a man who'd been briefed that the entire conversation was being broadcast to a global audience via the Signal Bee, and had adjusted his performance accordingly.
"A very warm welcome to the distinguished Mr. Mercer. We in the Aurelian Republic have great admiration for talented individuals such as yourself."
"Due to the, ah, unique nature of your vehicle, we've had to implement some minor security measures. I hope you understand. No offense intended."
The hypocrisy was so thick it could have been spread on toast.
But Ethan's uncle was in this man's custody, and burning bridges before Frank was safe wasn't an option.
"Mr. Callister, I completely understand. I'm looking forward to meeting you in person."
On the other end of the line, Callister allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
He'd dealt with Valorian operatives before. They were, as a rule, maddeningly stubborn. Even under extreme pressure, they clung to their secrets with a grip that bordered on pathological.
But this was different. Ethan Mercer was seventeen. A child. A genius, certainly, but still a child, with a child's emotional vulnerabilities and a child's inability to maintain composure under sustained professional pressure.
Callister had broken harder people than this. A teenager whose uncle was in custody? The methods practically applied themselves.
And the kid's tone was cooperative. Almost friendly. No hostility. No demands. No threats.
This was going to be easy.
Under fighter escort, the armor descended toward the East Coast branch of the Aurelian Department of Defense.
"Mr. Mercer, please land on the roof of this building. Our people are waiting to receive you."
Ethan looked down. The building was a mid-rise government facility, fortified but not ostentatiously so. The roof had been cleared and prepared.
Not subtly.
Through the armor's enhanced sensors, Ethan catalogued what was waiting for him. Approximately one hundred armed agents, deployed in a perimeter formation around the landing zone. Concealed positions at the roof's edges held heavy weapons: rotary guns capable of shredding light armor, and portable anti-aircraft missile launchers angled upward.
The six escort jets continued to circle overhead.
A cold smile formed behind the faceplate.
The loss of two fighters at the verification meeting really did scare them.
The weapons array assembled on that rooftop was designed to stop the Mark One. And against the Mark One, it might have worked.
But the suit Ethan was wearing wasn't the Mark One.
Same Mark III base technology. Upgraded materials. Integrated laser weapons. Improved reactor efficiency. Better shock absorption. And inside the suit, a pilot who was no longer a baseline human.
If Ethan wanted to fight, this rooftop would be clear in five minutes.
But he hadn't come here to fight. Not yet. Frank's safety was the priority. Everything else was secondary.
He descended slowly and touched down at the designated spot.
Under the stares of a hundred agents whose trigger fingers were doing their best to stay relaxed, the armor opened.
Ethan stepped out.
The agents exhaled collectively. The most dangerous weapon system on the planet was now empty, and the person who controlled it was standing on their rooftop in work clothes with his hands visible.
Several agents moved immediately, positioning themselves between Ethan and the armor. Others secured the suit itself, establishing a perimeter that ensured Ethan couldn't reach it without going through a wall of bodies and weapons.
Callister, watching via the building's internal cameras, felt his confidence solidify. The kid had voluntarily left the armor. That was either the act of someone who'd surrendered or someone who didn't understand what he'd just given up.
Either way, it worked in Callister's favor. Without the armor, Ethan Mercer was a teenager. Brilliant, valuable, but physically unremarkable. The kind of person who could be managed.
Across the world, the live broadcast showed Ethan stepping out of the armor, and the reaction was immediate and overwhelming.
"He LEFT the armor?!"
"Is he insane? With the suit on, he had leverage. Without it, he's just a kid!"
"He's meat on a chopping board now. Completely at their mercy."
"There are only two paths from here. He either keeps his mouth shut and becomes a hero, or he defects and becomes the most dangerous enemy the Republic has ever faced."
"I can't watch this. I can't watch this and there's nothing I can do."
In the Holloway living room, Linda sat in front of the television with her hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white, tears running silently down her face. Natalie was beside her, for once not speaking, her own eyes red.
At the Hargrove residence, Marcus watched the broadcast alone.
He hadn't told his father. He hadn't dared.
Edmund Hargrove despised betrayal of any kind. The Whitfield defection alone would have been enough to put the old man in a hospital bed. Adding Ethan's situation on top of it — the boy he'd backed, the genius he'd vouched for, the talent he'd called "heaven-sent," now standing on an Aurelian rooftop surrounded by armed agents with his armor confiscated — would be more than a ninety-one-year-old heart could take.
So Marcus watched alone, and said nothing.
But he knew the kid. Not as well as Frank or Linda did. But well enough.
Ethan Mercer didn't walk into traps by accident. He didn't give up leverage without a reason. And he didn't make moves that looked foolish unless the people watching didn't have all the information.
Marcus Hargrove, sitting in his father's apartment, watching a teenager voluntarily disarm himself inside enemy territory, stared at the screen and thought:
What are you planning, Mercer?
What do you know that they don't?