Happy stood stoic and
sunglassed, with the limo nudging his leg like a cat wanting to be
petted. Dummy and Butterfingers doused each other with fire
extinguishers. She sketched in the entire board of directors as
various animals, and didn’t bother to be merciful. Rhodey
again, perched on the back of a soaring fighter jet.
Three of the Legal team from Stark Industries, singing karaoke
badly. Virginia herself once more, standing next to a car that
had just a pair of legs sticking out from under it; she put a wrench in
her hand and left it ambiguous as to whether she was helping the hidden
figure or planning on doing him damage.
Her college roommate chasing her husband with a butterfly net.
Tony on one knee, offering a bouquet of flowers to his Tesla
Roadster. Butterfingers stalked by a small kitten.
Eventually her hand cramped, and Virginia capped the pen and returned
to the cot, feeling much better.
She leaned back against the wall behind her cot and wondered how long
the recording--and her hair--would take to reach Tony.
Not more than a day, I think. They
won’t want to wait too much longer.
Every day they held her, after all, was another chance for something to
go wrong, another chance of discovery or error.
She wished that she could have sent some secret message along with that
missive, some reassurance that she really
was all right. Because Tony
had to be blaming himself for this.
He feels responsible for the
people killed by his weapons. What will this do to him?
There were times when her boss drove her crazy--many of them, in
fact. But Virginia was still very fond of him...fonder than she
should be, she knew. And she hated to see him in pain.
I’m okay, Tony,
she thought in his direction, knowing it was foolish but doing it
anyway.
Just get me out of
here.
The day inched past with agonizing slowness. The abduction team
sifted through the tips that flooded in, reporting few of interest, and
most of those petered out quickly. Tony finally retreated to his
workshop around noon and started pulling his ruined Shelby to pieces--a
project he hadn’t had time to get to for months, and one that
fortunately didn’t require much concentration. He
wasn’t sure if the thing was worth salvaging or whether he should
just recycle it for parts, but it occupied at least part of his mind
and kept him from hanging over the abduction team’s shoulders and
making acid remarks.
Rhodey had finally agreed to take a nap, assigning Happy the position
of unofficial interface between Tony and the team. The chauffeur
clearly felt out of place hanging around the mansion instead of
retreating to his own snug little cottage at the gate, but he was
equally clearly unwilling to leave until there was news of
Pepper.
But it was Jarvis who broke into Tony’s rhythm of screwdriver and
hammer. “Sir, Agent Donovan just received the fingerprint
results from Pepper’s phone.”
Tony straightened from his crouch, setting down the hammer.
“Yeah? What’s the word?”
Jarvis activated the nearest computer screen. “The prints
belong to one Gordon Nyblom, a convicted felon.” A mug shot
appeared on the screen, along with a list of offenses--Jarvis had
apparently hacked straight into the communications line the team was
using. Tony thoroughly approved. “He has priors for
armed robbery, assault, passing on stolen goods, and the like, but
nothing related to kidnapping.”
Tony came closer for a better look. Nyblom was just a kid,
really--barely in his mid-twenties, a weedy-looking guy with eyes that
didn’t quite look at the camera. “He’s gotta be
a minion or something. No way is he running this
thing.”
“I quite agree.” Jarvis’ tone was firm.
“I believe Agent Donovan is having a cross-check run on his known
associates.”
“Is there a last known address?” Tony glanced
longingly at the suit assembly platform, itching for a reason to put it
on and go kick some ass.
“It is three years out of date,” Jarvis replied
apologetically. “Mr. Nyblom has since served six months for
drug possession. The odds of him being at that address are slim
to none.”
“Check it anyway,” Tony ordered. “If he has
relatives there, they may know where he’s gone.”
“Checking now.” Jarvis paused. “The
address no longer exists. The apartment complex in question was
torn down last year and replaced with a car dealership.”
“Fuck.”
Tony kicked angrily at the maintenance creeper nearby.
“Dead end.”
“For the moment.”
Tony sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Keep tabs on
Donovan and his crew. Anything relevant comes through, I want to
know about it right away.” He wouldn’t put it past
the agent to pull a fast one and leave Tony out of the loop on any
on-the-ground investigation. Not that Tony could blame him,
really; probably the last thing Donovan wanted to deal with was Iron
Man tagging along on a rescue mission.
Tough. He’s
getting me anyway. Tagging wasn’t
quite the right word, either; with Jarvis’ aid, Tony had every
intention of being out in front as soon as they had a direction.
No way am I leaving Pepper’s safety
up to strangers.
He went back to the smashed car, prying off piece after piece and
having Dummy catalog and arrange them. The vehicle wasn’t
quite as damaged as it had first appeared, but it was still going to
take a lot of work to get it anywhere near its former condition.
Some people would just buy another, Tony mused as he banged and levered
and scraped his knuckles. It would certainly be easier. But
he preferred the opportunity to restore, to coax the car back to its
former glory.
He’d done it with most of his vintage cars. Buying them
whole had its pleasures, but that just made them things he owned.
Restoring them made them
his.
When he knew them inside and out, he knew exactly how to treat them,
how to get the most out of them and push them to their perfect
peaks.
He hadn’t had a lot of time lately to indulge the hobby, but then
he wasn’t in a hurry, either.
His hand slipped as he reached underneath the chassis, and Tony swore
as he felt a sharp edge gash the back of his hand. He pulled it
out and flexed it; blood smeared bright across his skin, but the sting
was already fading.
Out of habit Tony lifted his hand to his lips to lick the blood away,
something he’d done since he was a child. It made Pepper
fuss at him, but it also lessened the pain slightly--and, he liked to
think, cleaned the injury somewhat. When she pointed out that
human mouths were filthy, Tony would always riposte that they were
his germs already, and did that
mean she had a dirty mouth, Potts, because he’d really like to
hear it...
Besides, at this point he was used to the taste of engine grease.
As he’d thought, it was hardly more than a scrape. Tony let
himself slide from a crouch to a seated position on the cold garage
floor, giving the wound a few minutes to clot; he didn’t want
blood all over his car parts. His head ached, and he let his eyes
slip closed.
He didn’t want to imagine what it would be like if they
didn’t get Pepper back safely, but his mind presented him with
the idea nonetheless, relentless and compelling. Tony saw himself
retreating, spending more and more time in his workshop, letting others
run his company. Going out in the suit to mend his mistakes;
coming back to an empty home and no one to scold him for taking
risks.
Interviewing other assistants; none of them lasting more than a year or
two, unable to deal with his coldness or his demands. Driving off
Rhodey with cruel words.
A bitter man, drinking himself to death in his own basement, no one
left to talk to but his AI.
It’s not going to
happen, he thought with grim determination.
We’ll get her back.
Exhausted, he leaned back against the wall.
Jarvis’ sharp voice and the pound of a fist on glass woke him
from an uneasy sleep. Tony sat up straight, startled, and focused
on Happy banging on the door on the other side of the workshop.
“Open it, Jarvis,” he ordered, scrambling to his feet
despite muscles cramped and aching with lactic acid.
The lock beeped and Happy practically tumbled through the
doorway. “They’ve found something,” he
gasped.
Tony ran across the floor. “What? What is
it?”
“Don’t know.” Happy held the door for him out
of sheer reflex, and jogged behind as Tony leaped up the stairs.
“Donovan says they got a call--not from the kidnappers, from
somebody else.”
The agent was waiting at the top of the stairs, snapping off orders to
Cross and Shaw, who nodded and headed towards the front door as Tony
skidded to a halt. Rhodey was struggling up from the couch,
bleary-eyed and worried. “What did you find out?”
Tony demanded.
“Do you know a Mr. and Mrs. Pointreaux?” Donovan asked, his
gaze intent.
Tony frowned at the non sequitur. “A little, yeah,
why?” The Pointreaux were a wealthy couple who lived on the
other side of town, the husband a generation older than Tony;
he’d encountered them from time to time at fundraisers and the
like, but hadn’t had more than a few casual conversations with
them--mostly about charitable giving.
“Mr. Pointreaux says he needs to see you at once concerning Ms.
Potts’ abduction.”
Under his cool exterior, Tony thought, Donovan looked baffled.
But Tony didn’t have the time to wonder. “Then
let’s go.”
He whirled and headed for the front door.
“Pointreaux’s place?” he demanded.
“Yes--Mr. Stark, we can--”
“I’ll meet you there.” He ignored
Donovan’s attempt to call him back. “Rhodey, get your
ass over here!”
Happy was right behind Tony. “Sir, I can
drive--”
“Not fast enough.” Actually, Tony didn’t think
Hogan was well enough to drive anything, but he wasn’t going to
say that just now. “Rhodey, keys.”
Rhodes flanked him with a sardonic look as they left the house.
“What makes you think you’re driving my truck?”
“None of mine have room for three, and you drive like an old
woman.
Keys, or I go
back and take the suit.”
Rhodey rolled his eyes, but tossed Tony the keys he dug out of his
pocket. Tony caught them and beeped open the truck, sparing a
passing thought for the sheer
usefulness
of that threat--it always seemed to work somehow. Swinging
himself up into the driver’s seat, he gave Rhodes and Happy
barely enough time to pile in before roaring down the driveway.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, Tony saw Donovan and two of his agents
heading for their own vehicle, but he didn’t slow down, just
spared a hand to punch on the GPS. “Jarvis, you with
me?”
“As always,” the AI replied in the tinny tones of the
device. “I am plotting the most efficient route to the
Pointreaux home as we speak.”
“Good.” Tony accelerated as they neared the gates,
Jarvis swinging them open just as he expected. Beyond, the
driveway was clear, the lingering reporters held back by SI security,
and Tony blasted past without slowing.
The route planned by Jarvis was designed to avoid traffic--not the
shortest route, but the fastest. Tony concentrated on his
driving, pushing past the speed limit at every opportunity but not
taking any flashy risks. He didn’t have the time or the
patience to get pulled over right now.
It was when they were racing up the coastal road that Happy grunted
from the back seat. “This is where they got us,
sir.”
Tony didn’t slow, but he made a mental note of the spot,
innocuous in the afternoon light. Next to him, Rhodey
frowned. “I’m getting a bad feeling about
this.”
“Yeah? I’ve had a bad feeling since yesterday,”
Tony snapped, knowing Rhodes didn’t deserve his short temper but
too angry to bother reining in his tongue. Rhodey merely
snorted.
The drive from Tony’s home to the Pointreaux mansion would
normally have taken almost half an hour; between Jarvis and
Tony’s driving, they made it in about seventeen minutes.
Tony parked the truck in front of the grand home, which was as big as
his own but much more conventionally ostentatious, and jumped
out.
Rather to his surprise, a late-model coupe zoomed up just behind the
truck and stopped, disgorging Donovan and Shaw. The diminutive
woman, Cross, swung up out of the driver’s seat, a tiny smile on
her lips, and Tony had to admit himself impressed at her skills.
He ran up the steps to the front door, which opened as he reached it,
revealing a tall woman in a dark uniform and Gerard Pointreaux himself,
looking worried.
A medium-height, fit man in his late fifties, Pointreaux gestured them
inside past his butler. “I’m glad you’re
here. Tony--I’m so sorry about Ms. Potts--”
He held out a hand, and Tony shook it automatically. “You
said you had something for us?”
“Yes, come this way.” He led them all through a
high-ceilinged entrance hall to a large study. “Are these
the people in charge of the investigation?”
“I’m Special Agent Frank Donovan.” The agent
shook Pointreaux’s hand as well. “These are Agents
Cross and Shaw.”
Tony jerked a thumb at his friends. “Jim Rhodes, Harold
Hogan. What have you got?”
Pointreaux moved to the polished table in the center of the room.
“This was delivered here a few hours ago.” He
gestured at the items sitting in the middle of the glossy expanse--an
ordinary shipping envelope, a CD in a plastic case, and a flat square
box that looked as though it might once have held jewelry.
“I played the disc, and then I had to do some checking of my
own. You’ll see--let me play it for you.”
He reached for the CD, but Donovan grabbed his wrist. “If
we may. Alex--”
Agent Cross was already pulling on a pair of latex gloves. As
soon as they were in place she removed the CD from its case and went to
the elaborate sound system in the open cabinet across the room.
As she closed the CD drawer, Pointreaux picked up the remote also on
the table, and pressed a button.
The familiar whirr of the reader reached Tony’s ears, and then a
harsh male voice spoke.
“Mr.
Pointreaux. I’m sure by now you’ve noticed that your
wife is missing. Don’t worry, she’s fine, and
she’ll be returned to you unharmed as soon as you deliver fifty
million dollars to the return address on the envelope. You have
until noon tomorrow.”
Baffled, Tony opened his mouth, but the voice continued.
“Just so you know we’re
taking good care of her--”
A brief pause, and then a woman’s voice, low and trembling just
slightly.
“I’m...I’m
all right. They haven’t hurt me.”
Tony’s augmented heart seemed to stop.
Pepper.
“I want to come
home.”
He couldn’t see. A sparkling mist filled his vision, and
Tony felt as though his arc implant were trying to burn itself a bigger
hole in his breastbone. As though at a distance, he heard the man
again.
“You heard the
lady. Be smart, and you’ll get her back safe.”
Pepper--
“Tony.
Tony!”
A hand squeezed his arm. “Tony, you okay?”
He blinked, and saw Rhodey peering at him, alarmed. Tony shook
him off, glaring, his mind spinning. “What the
hell?”
Pointreaux gestured helplessly. “That was my question
too. Sylvia left on a business trip yesterday morning. It
took me almost an hour to reach her when I received this, but she is
safe in Brussels and has no idea what this is all about.”
Donovan rubbed his jaw, eyes flickering with thought.
“Incredible as it may seem, the wrong woman appears to have been
abducted.” He lifted his gaze to look across the study, and
they all turned. Above the fireplace hung an oil portrait of Mrs.
Pointreaux--a woman in her late thirties, with a well-styled cloud of
curly auburn hair.
It seemed impossible as well, but Tony knew that the coastal road was
the fastest route between the Pointreaux mansion and the nonprofit
where Sylvia volunteered. And that the couple owned a limousine
that was almost the same model as his own.
“What’s in the box?” he asked abruptly.
Pointreaux winced. Agent Cross picked it up and carefully lifted
off the lid, blinking down at the contents and then tilting it so they
could all see.
A coil of sleek strawberry hair, fastened at one end with an elastic
band.
Tony’s gorge rose. He couldn’t tear his eyes from it,
so smooth and familiar, the long strands glinting in the study’s
muted light. The end just beyond the elastic was ragged, and a
tiny corner of Tony’s mind remarked that Pepper would be furious
to see her always-tidy coiffure so ruined.
The haze was returning. Tony spun on his heel and half-ran for
the front door, barely making it through and to the sculpted bushes
next to the steps before he lost what little was in his stomach.
