Chapter 15
Chapter 14
He wanted to go back right away, the moment the deceptively unremarkable reinforced steel door slid closed after the last of the entrants and he realized that neither Tony nor Pepper were among them. May Parker was the one who stopped him, pulled him, hand on his arm, away from the door with a quiet but firm, “You need to stay in here, Sir. Tony knows what he’s doing.”
Which wasn’t right. He was the President of the United States, for crying out loud. He shouldn’t be sitting in some high-tech bunker, waiting for things to blow over, while his people were taking the heat for him. Tony shouldn’t be the one cleaning up his mess. No one should. These men were coming after him, trying to stage a coup from within his own government (if Tony’s suspicions were correct). Which meant they were his oversight, his mistake to correct. It was the right choice to make.
And then the video feed on the state-of-the-art surveillance system that Harley, the self-identified hacker, booted up for them all to view, showed one of the men slamming the butt of his rifle into Tony’s injured shoulder, while another callously backhanded Pepper as she tried to rush to Tony’s defense.
And then it was no choice at all.
***
He shifts, trying to find a more comfortable position – a task made impossible with his hands tied behind his back. The gunman lounging in the seat across from him smirks knowingly, and James turns away from him, his gaze drifting over to the motionless figure of his bodyguard lying curled awkwardly on his side in the narrow aisle.
Stark’s face is downturned, damp dark curls obscuring James’s view. From this angle he can’t tell if the man is conscious, though he wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t. Not after the beating he took.
He knows the man is alive, can see the unsteady ragged movements of his chest. Though, of course, soon enough that won’t matter, because neither of them is likely to live to see tomorrow. He figures the only reason they haven’t both been killed yet is because Obie is likely wanting to be in on that particular ceremony. He’s fairly sure that’s who Justin is on the call with this very moment, hiding away in the executive suite behind them.
***
He had been nervous when he came out to confront Hammer and his men back at the farmhouse, faking bravado with a poor approximation of a John Wayne “Boom! Looking for me?” attitude. Nervous but determined. He was hoping, foolishly, naively, that by simply offering himself up to the senator, he would be able to negotiate the safety of the others.
It didn’t quite work out that way.
Oh, Justin had been overjoyed by his appearance, for sure. The man’s gleeful smile, when one of the gunmen pulled James’s unresisting arms back to slip zip ties around his wrists, physically hurt to look at. But James’s suggestion that the senator take him now and leave the others be was met with mocking, incredulous laughter.
“Come on, Justin,” he tried. “You got what you came here for. Let these people be and let’s go. The chopper’s waiting.” He nodded toward the open window where he could see the distinctive white top of the massive HMX-1 “Sea King”.
The senator placed a hand against his chest with an affronted gasp. “Leaving witnesses and taped evidence around? Surely you must be joking, Mr. President!”
James tried to argue that there was no need for these kinds of actions, that murdering innocent civilians was crossing a line that even someone like Justin shouldn’t dare cross. But he could see that those arguments were falling on deaf ears, even as he grew more and more desperate in his attempts at making the other man see reason. He couldn’t allow these people to get hurt because of him. This was precisely why he had wanted to leave here earlier. What he should have done despite Pepper’s reassurances. And now it was too late, and these people… all these people… Oh god….
“Would you really pass up the opportunity to settle the score with me, Justin?”
Stark’s voice, steady and commanding, cut through the growing maelstrom of panic, and he looked down to where his bodyguard stood kneeling on the floor, held fast by one of Hammer’s men.
“St- Tony, what are you doing?”
Stark didn’t even look in his direction, the focus of his sharp, laser-like glare solely on the senator.
“You want to get your own back, don’t you?” he pushed on, dangling the temptation before him like a forbidden fruit. “Blow off some steam on the guy who broke your nose and humiliated you in front of the ladies? You leave my friend alone and I’ll come with you willingly. Will let you fulfill whatever bloodthirsty fantasy you got cooked up in that perverted little brain of yours.”
“You’ll let me?” Hammer’s cheek twitched, lips twisting in offended fury, but there was an unmistakable excited sort of hunger in the bespectacled gaze.
Stark smiled up at him, cold and dangerous and infuriatingly calm. “Anything you want.”
The senator contemplated his offer a moment longer – mostly for show, James figured, if the way the man’s eyes burned with anticipation was any indication. Then he signaled to the gunmen, jerking his head toward the exit.
“Let’s move out, gentlemen.”
And just like that Stark was being hauled up off the floor and James found himself being frogmarched toward the door alongside him.
“Tony!” Pepper started after them, and Stark twisted in his captor’s grip, turning to look back at her.
“Don’t, Pep.” He shook his head to warn her off, his warning punctuated by the unequivocal shift of several of the weapons in her direction.
She stumbled to a halt, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “You promised me. You….” Her lower lip wobbled.
He smiled at her, and, strained though it was, it held none of the coldness that he had shown Hammer. “It’ll be alright, Pep, I promise,” he soothed. Then winked inexplicably as he was being dragged out of the kitchen. “Give Jay my love, would ya?”
And then they were pushed inside the helicopter. And Stark was being tossed roughly onto the floor. And Hammer… Hammer didn’t even bother waiting until they took off before he pounced on the man like a vulture on its prey, kicking and bashing and stomping and slamming.
Stark, true to his word, did not resist.
***
A sharp wheezing sound brings his attention back to the present, and he glances back down at his bodyguard, his brow furrowing in concern. Stark’s body is tense, head thrown back as his chest strains, fighting for each labored and seemingly inadequate breath.
James, mercifully perhaps, did not get to witness most of the beating. He had been pushed into a seat once it began, his view of the aisle blocked by the gawking gunmen. But he had seen enough, had glimpsed the tip of Justin’s fancy monk strap shoes slamming into Stark’s chest and back more times than he could count. Cracked or even broken ribs and a compromised lung would not be out of the realm of possibilities. And he suspects that the man’s current position – twisted on his side on the floor with his hands tied behind his back – does not do much to help ease his breathing.
“Hey.” He addresses the gunman before him. “Hey, can you help sit him up?”
The man raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him, then turns his head to stare out the window with an expression of demonstrative boredom. “He’ll be fine.”
James tries very, very hard not to snap at the crass dismissal, but it’s been a rough few days and he’s well past his limits. He presses his lips together, counts to ten in his head. “Look,” he begins, the sounds of Stark’s gasping breaths punctuating the urgency of his words, spurring him on, “just…”
He trails off as Stark’s body jolts suddenly, seizes, arching up off the floor, limbs rigid and strained. And then collapses back down limp as a ragdoll. His chest stops moving.
“Stark?” he calls, his throat seizing in panic. “Tony!”
He lurches toward him only to be shoved unceremoniously back into his seat.
“He’s not breathing!” he snarls, fighting against the restraining hand. “Help him!” And when his words don’t seem to register, he gambles with the only trump card he can think of, hoping that his suspicions are true, “Your boss wants us delivered alive.”
That seems to do the trick. The hand on his chest doesn’t budge, but the gunman lounging on the sofa across the aisle from him pushes reluctantly to his feet.
James watches, helpless, heart thudding nervously in his chest, as the man crouches down next to Stark’s still form. Watches as he leans in over him, placing a hand against the side of his neck.
And gasps in shocked surprise as Stark moves suddenly, quick as a viper, his arms, no longer restrained, shooting up to put the gunman in a headlock. One sharp, lightning-quick twist, and the man’s neck is broken, and Stark releases him, the dead man’s gun already in his hand and firing even before the gunman’s body hits the ground.
Stark is fast, dizzyingly, impressively so. But the strain of his injuries has clearly taken its toll, and the second shot misses the intended target by a breadth of a hair, and the last remaining gunman lets off a volley of his own, forcing the bodyguard to roll to the side to duck for cover behind the nearby seat.
Stark doesn’t stay down long, however, and only a second later his weapon barks again, and this time the bullet hits true.
James is up on his feet the moment the shooting stops, his only thought – getting to his bodyguard, because Stark hasn’t made a move to get up, continues to lie on his side behind the seat, breathing raggedly into the carpeted floor, his eyes squeezed shut. And James can see even from here how alarmingly pale the man looks; can see the way his hand trembles where it’s clenched around the grip of the gun. Stark needs help, desperately. And James’s hands are still zip-tied behind his back. And they are still thousands of feet in the air. And there are still hostiles aboard this helicopter, and…
Shit.
He’s already halfway to where Stark is lying when the sound of hurried footsteps behind him alert him to another’s presence, and he doesn’t have time to turn around in the narrow aisle before he feels the barrel of a gun jab into his back.
Hammer.
He’s pulled backwards, an arm snaking around his neck to keep him in place as the senator adjusts his grip on the weapon, raising it higher to press it against the side of James’s head.
“Get up, Stark,” he calls. “Get up and toss your gun.”
Stark shifts, one pain-glazed eye opening to stare up at the two of them. Then he nods, rolls to his knees with none of the fluid grace that marked his movements that day in James’s office, eons ago. He doesn’t attempt standing. Stays on his knees, swaying slightly from side to side.
“I said get up!” Hammer’s voice pitches into a near-hysterical screech, and James winces as the senator’s weapon digs painfully into his skin.
Stark’s gaze narrows warningly, but he does as he’s told. Plants one hand on the ground and pushes himself laboriously into a standing position. He doesn’t let go of the gun.
“Your weapon, Stark. Toss it. Now!” The barrel of Hammer’s gun digs harder still, forcing a pained hiss from James’s lips.
Stark’s mouth twitches, brown eyes flitting to James’s face. There’s a glint there that James recognizes, an urgent call to pay attention.
“Ever seen a platypus, Hammer?” Stark asks, seemingly a propos of nothing, and James feels his own eyes widen at the remembered moniker, his body tensing despite himself.
“I said...” The senator is virtually vibrating with tension, his control slipping fast. “…put down your goddamn weapon!”
“Weird creature, platypus,” Stark continues, unruffled, his eyes burrowing into James’s. “It’s like whoever designed it couldn’t figure out what they wanted it to look like. I mean, the thing’s got a body like an otter, a tail like a beaver, a bill like a fucking DUCK!”
James reacts at once, letting his body sag and dropping all of his weight onto the arm that encircles his neck. A gunshot follows instantly – a deafening bang above his ear that muffles all other sounds around him. There’s a sharp tug momentarily jerking him backwards, and then the arm around him disappears, the momentum nearly causing him to topple after it.
He wobbles in place, trying to keep his balance. Stands, blinking a bit owlishly at Stark whom he finds leaning over the body of the first gunman.
“Platypus?” he croaks out when the ringing in his ears subsides somewhat. “Really?”
Stark gives a careful, one-shouldered shrug. Straightens back out, holding up a bowie knife. “Figured you’d pay attention, seeing how bothered you got when I called you that.”
“I wasn’t bothered,” James denies out of habit, latching on to that bit of banter to regain his bearings, get his thumping heartbeat under control.
There’s an unmistakable spark of mischief in the other man’s eyes. “Does that mean I get permission to call you Platypus all the time now?”
He rolls his eyes. “I hate you, Stark. You know that? I really, really hate you.”
Stark barks out a laugh at that, walks over toward him knife held at the ready. “Turn around, Platypus, let me get those ties off you. We got more things to take care of.”
James manfully resists sticking his tongue out at him. Turns obediently around. Because Stark’s right – they are not out of the woods yet. They still don’t know how deep this conspiracy goes. They still have Obie’s men probably waiting to grab them the moment they land. The pilot is still…
He freezes as he feels a small shudder run through the helicopter’s frame, the familiar subtle shift of the autopilot engaging. The pilot!
“Stark,” he begins in warning, “the autopilot–”
And that’s as far as he gets before a strong shove sends him sprawling face down onto the floor just as the cabin door behind them splinters in a volley of gunfire.