Chapter 6
Chapter 6
The group at the nearby table abandon their pretense of looking through the menus the moment Rhodes walks away, and Tony has been waiting for it, waiting for them to make a move, and the moment they do, the moment the first of them rises from the table, so does he.
He slams his elbow hard into the nose of the closest goon, causing the man to stumble backwards, eyes watering and hands clamping over the now bloodied face. Delivers a vicious follow-up blow to the man’s temple, dropping him to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
One, he thinks grimly and twists around to drive the heel of his boot into the side of another’s knee.
Two, he adds, allowing himself the tiniest of smirks at the dull sound of bone breaking even as the second assailant hollers and drops, clutching the knee in obvious pain.
He puts the guy out of his misery with a well-aimed kick to the head and turns just in time to duck out of the way of a chair swinging toward him. He intercepts the object by its legs, twists it sharply to the side, forcing the other guy to let go. Then lunges forward, smashing the back of the chair into the guy’s neck with everything he’s got.
Three.
He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and he spins around just in time to see one of the group slink away in the direction that Rhodes had disappeared to.
Shit.
He doesn’t bother with the mental tally anymore. He needs to finish this as quickly as possible. Goon number four reaches behind his coat for the gun tucked into his waistband, having apparently reached a similar conclusion. And Tony doesn’t have time for this – not in a crowded restaurant, not when the fifth man is probably already gunning for Rhodes.
He’s still holding the chair, so he swings it at the guy’s head hard enough to crack and splinter the wood. The man slumps wordlessly, an awkward heap at Tony’s feet, and Tony waits half a heartbeat to make sure the guy doesn’t so much as twitch before running full-speed after number five.
He bursts into the kitchen, nearly knocking over one of the workers. A cursory glance at the man’s terror-wide eyes that keep darting toward the back of the room tells him he was right not to bother checking the restroom first – he’s on the right track.
He pulls out his gun, hurries through the busy crammed space, nearly slipping on a spilled mess of pasta and broken glass left in the middle of the tiled floor.
Yes, definitely on the right track.
There’s a shout up ahead, a harsh demanding tone, and he rushes toward it, worried that he is already too late when his ears pick up a dull twang of a blow followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground. And skids to a stunned halt at the sight of the fifth goon sprawled in an awkward senseless heap by the back door and Rhodes standing over him with a cast iron skillet in his hand.
He blinks, shakes his head in amusement. “A skillet tenderized goon chop,” he remarks approvingly, squatting down next to the likely comatose would-be assassin to retrieve the man’s fallen weapon. “Nicely done, Chef Rhodey.”
“I’ve done ten years in the military,” comes a slightly clipped, slightly breathless response. “I’m not entirely helpless. And the name’s Rhodes.”
Tony dutifully ignores the correction. “Former military, huh,” he squints assessingly up at his charge. “Marines?”
Rhodes tosses the skillet, raises his hand to fix the glasses that got tilted a bit during his altercation. “Air Force,” he corrects, “fighter pilot.”
“A flyboy,” Tony hums, straightening back out, the assailant’s weapon held loosely in his hand. Dismisses with a casual shrug, “Impressive, but not a particularly useful skill in our current situation. You know how to shoot?”
“Yeah, I know how to shoot.” Rhodes sounds almost offended now, and Tony grins appreciatively.
“Here you go then, Platypus,” he holds the extra weapon out to him by the barrel, his grin growing wider when Rhodes takes it without hesitation, the weapon fitting into his hand with expert ease. He steps to the door, opens it the tiniest of cracks. “Stay close,” he says, making sure to catch the other man’s eyes. “Keep low. Cover fire only – don’t poke your head up for any reason. Understood?”
Rhodes looks like he wants to argue, brows knitted into a stubborn frown, and Tony can’t have that – can’t afford to have a goddamn politician (even one who may have seen combat) going all Dirty Harry on him. He grips the man’s shoulder, squeezes hard. “Look,” he says, drawing on what little patience he has and trying for placating, “your military training aside, you are an extremely high value target, and those guys out there – their goal is to take you out. My job is to keep you alive. Let me do it. Please.”
Rhodes regards him silently for a moment, then nods. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
And they’re off.
***
Just as he had predicted, there are more goons waiting outside. The good news is there are only four of them, milling about next to two black vans with tinted windows. The bad news – they spot them all too soon for Tony’s liking – about halfway to the relative safety of the car, and these guys, being outside, are not shy about using their weapons.
He throws out his hand behind him, blindly grabs a fistful of the pale blue fabric and yanks down, forcing Rhodes to duck behind the closest vehicle. He follows suit, wincing in mute apology to the car’s hapless owner, whoever they may be, as bullets pepper its other side. A momentary lull in gunfire has him up on his feet again, firing over the hood of the car and hissing at Rhodes to move while their assailants in turn duck behind one of the vans for cover. Rhodes obeys without hesitation this time, taking off at a low crouch, and Tony fires off a couple more shots, blowing out the vans’ tires, and runs off after him, making sure to keep himself between Rhodes and the shooters.
He unlocks the car on the run, yells at Rhodes to “Get in and get down”. Gets in himself, flinching as the driver’s side window shatters from the impact of a bullet, showering him with glass. He doesn’t wait for them to get in another shot. Slams the key into ignition, floors the pedal and peels out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell.
***
“How did they manage to track us down?” Rhodes straightens out slowly in the passenger seat, looks back over his shoulder at the restaurant parking lot they had long since left behind.
Tony shrugs, wincing as the movement pulls unpleasantly at his left shoulder. Spares Rhodes a sideways glance. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself,” he admits, barely able to hide his frustration. Because he missed something, he knows he did. He got rid of their phones, they’ve got a brand new credit card, a new car, made sure their movements couldn’t be traced. Hell, he even got Rhodes to get rid of his old clothes, so he would–
Shit.
He glances Rhodes’ way again, eyes narrowed in thought. “You wouldn’t happen to have something on your person that was a gift, would ya? Fairly recent? This year sometime?”
Rhodes frowns at the question, seemingly confused as to its relevance, but he obliges nevertheless, lifts up his left hand to show off an exquisite-looking Bulgari encircling his wrist. “Got this little beast about two months ago,” he says, and his eyes widen in sudden horrified realization as he stumbles breathlessly over the name of the giver, “from Obie…”
Shit, shit, shit
“Take it off,” Tony commands, squeezing the steering wheel harder as he berates himself for being stupid, stupid, stupid not to have thought of this sooner.
A sudden wave of sharp, stabbing pain that tears through his shoulder at the angry motion nearly makes him gasp out loud. He grits his teeth, loosens his grip on the steering wheel a bit, taking a couple of long steadying breaths through the nose. Spares a quick glance at the front of his shirt, unsurprised to see a steadily growing patch of wetness that spreads out from a small hole just below his collarbone. Of-fucking-course.
“Smash it,” he forces out hoarsely, because they need to take care of this first, this is important, his goddamn shoulder can wait. “On the dash… use your gun.”
Rhodes does as he’s told, drives the butt of the gun into the delicate clockwork until the beautiful timepiece is nothing but a mess of twisted metal and broken glass.
“Toss it,” Tony instructs, and what’s left of the watch is sent flying out the open window.
It’s not ideal. Stane or whoever else that’s pulling the strings already has part of their itinerary, they can figure out the rest soon enough even without the tracker. But it should at least buy them some time. Which, judging by the way his shoulder is now a constant painful throb in odd concert with the beat of his heart, they desperately, desperately need.
He thinks back to his original plan. His old house in Malibu. Another 20+ hours away. There’s no way he can get them there now. Not in this shape. They need a stopover, a safe place to rest and get patched up before he gets them back on their way. Luckily for them, they are about an hour away from one – a small safety harbor he himself helped create many years ago for those he swore he would give his life to protect. And he hates the idea of being the one to now bring danger to their doorstep. Would never even think about doing so if he were on his own. But he’s got Rhodes to think about – the man who is now also his to protect. He cannot, will not fail him now.
He flicks another troubled gaze at his bloodied shirt, looks up at the road sign for the rapidly approaching junction with US-54 and turns the car toward the exit ramp, sending a quick mental apology to those, whose lives he’s about to make a whole lot more complicated.
***
“I knew Stane as a kid. Did he ever tell you?” He doesn’t know why he’s volunteering this information now. Blames it on the blood loss. On the fact that the road flickers in and out of focus for him with ever-increasing frequency and they still have about 10 minutes left to go and he desperately, desperately needs to find a way to stay alert. Talking helps. Talking about anything really. He’s just not so sure that starting a conversation about his messed-up childhood with a guy he met only a couple weeks ago, a guy who probably only tolerates his presence out of necessity, is a good way to go. But his mouth no longer seems to listen to his brain’s admonitions, and he doesn’t think he has the wherewithal to fight that particular battle now.
“I… no…” Rhodes sounds equal parts confused and surprised. “I didn’t.”
“Used to come see my… Howard about his projects.”
A wave of dizziness assaults him out of nowhere and he grips the wheel harder to stay in his lane. The wound in his shoulder echoes dutifully, the surge of pain momentarily whitening out the road before him. But it helps, jolts him into greater awareness, buys him a few minutes more. Hopefully enough to reach the house. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision, his chest heaving with breaths that seem too shallow, too inadequate somehow.
“I used to … like it when he came. …Kept Howard’s attention away,” he admits, the words pouring out of him like liquor out of a bottle. And, god, he needs a drink – he would kill for one just about now. Drinking helps. Howard taught him that. He didn’t want to learn. He was too young, he thinks. But Howard said he needed to, so he obeyed. He wanted to be good, wanted his father to like him… or at least… at least not hit him so much. He left him alone when Obie was there, so that was nice… that was nice.
“Wh…what?”
He clamps his mouth shut at his passenger’s appalled gasp, flicks a pathetically hopeful glance to the side, wincing at the expression of stunned horror on the other man’s face. Shit. He didn’t mean to say any of that out loud, he really didn’t. Damn this blood loss.
“Stark, I–”
“S’fine,” he interrupts, turning his attention back to the road, hunching in on himself under the watchful, concerned stare he can feel burning a hole in the side of his face. “Whiskey under the bridge.” A hysterical giggle bubbles forth, and, boy, is he not helping himself here. He doesn’t even dare look Rhodes’ way anymore. Can’t bear the judgment, the pity he knows he’s gonna see in the man’s eyes.
The road winks out for a moment. Comes back veiled in a rapidly thickening gray haze. His left arm slips off the wheel, hanging a dead weight at his side. The fingers of his right one are growing colder by the minute and he can barely feel the leather in their white-knuckled grip. His time has run out.
“See that driveway up ahead?” He nods toward a simple gravel road framed by trees and thick overgrowth on both sides. “There’s a house… at the end of it. Friend of mine… Pep…Pepper.” He’s slurring, he can feel it, his tongue growing too heavy in his mouth. But he still needs to, he needs to…
“Stark?”
He can hear the worry in Rhodes’ voice, can feel the man’s hand gripping his shoulder – a strong solid anchor in an ocean of cold and darkness that’s slowly pulling him under. It’s nice that anchor, but it won’t be enough to keep him from floating away.
“Take the… take the wheel,” he manages on a soft, breezy exhale, as darkness rises higher to engulf him completely.
Rhodes’ anxious call of his name is the last thing he hears.