Chapter 536

Tony was behind the wheel, tearing down the highway with Evenson riding beside him. Somewhere along the way, he had also gotten in touch with the kid in Tennessee who had somehow managed to become Tony’s personal GPS and wise old guide.

They finally knew what those exploding bombs really were.

People.

And the man who had turned those people into living weapons was Aldrich Killian.

That meant Killian was connected to the Mandarin in some way. Either the two were working together, or Killian was the real power behind the curtain.

Either way, Tony needed to find them.

Revenge could wait. Settling the score could wait. First, he needed a location.

Fortunately, the JARVIS Tony had built was proving considerably more useful than the entire American government.

The government had thrown enormous resources at tracking the Mandarin down and had accomplished little more than feeding Colonel Rhodes a steady stream of fake locations. Rhodey had spent days flying around the world in the War Machine armor chasing ghosts.

JARVIS, meanwhile, had been sitting in a rundown warehouse charging itself.

From there, it had traced the Mandarin’s last broadcast transmission and pinpointed the real source.

Miami.

The problem was that Harley had just delivered some rather unfortunate news.

"The armor won’t charge."

Screeeeech!

Tony slammed on the brakes.

The car lurched to a halt.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t quite stopped before Evenson went through the windshield with a spectacular crack of glass.

He hit the pavement, bounced, and rolled several times before finally coming to a stop.

Always wear your seat belt.

You never knew when life was going to decide that gravity wasn’t doing enough.

An ordinary person probably would have needed an ambulance.

Or, depending on how that landing went, something a little more permanent.

Evenson simply got to his feet.

He brushed the dust from his clothes, shook the shards of glass loose, and muttered through clenched teeth, "Thank you, Kriya. Thank you, the Twins. And thank you, Melinda."

Thanks to those people, his demonic skin was practically always ready to trigger.

Evenson stalked back toward the car, thoroughly irritated despite being more or less unharmed. Getting launched through a windshield tended to put a damper on anyone’s mood.

Then he reached the driver’s side and stopped.

Tony was crouched beside the door.

And shaking.

Evenson blinked.

Seriously?

Tony was feeling guilty enough to have a breakdown over throwing him through the windshield?

"My armor..." Tony’s breathing was rapid, his pupils dilated. "I can’t... I can’t... I won’t..."

Evenson stared at him.

Then sighed internally.

Right.

Of course.

It had nothing to do with Evenson being catapulted through the windshield.

Tony’s anxiety had flared up again.

Something had gone wrong with the armor, and the thought of facing their enemies without it was clearly eating him alive.

As Tony’s doctor, Evenson probably should have put a reassuring hand on his shoulder and said something along the lines of, Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll protect you.

Instead, he stepped forward and punched Tony in the face.

Once.

Then again.

Tony went completely blank.

Evenson grabbed him by the collar, hauled him upright, and shouted directly into his face.

"Right now, the entire world probably knows about the mess you’ve made! If you can’t give this story a perfect, spectacular ending, think very carefully about what happens to you afterward!"

Tony sucked in a sharp breath.

A terrifyingly stern yet strangely affectionate face flashed through his mind.

Peggy Carter.

His eyes suddenly cleared.

"Don’t worry, my friend," Tony said, straightening. "I’ll handle it."

And just like that, he was back on his feet.

Evenson narrowed his eyes.

He’d figured it out.

All those fancy psychological techniques, therapeutic conversations, gentle reassurance...

Useless.

Apparently, Tony Stark’s preferred treatment plan was two punches and a credible threat.

Problem solved.

Tony started the car again and drove them at top speed toward the nearest town. They soon pulled up outside a department store.

Tony stood at the window, studying the merchandise inside.

Pipe wrenches.

Batteries.

Fertilizer.

An acetylene torch.

He was already calculating how his legendary engineering skills could turn the assortment into something lethal.

Evenson stared at him.

Then slowly turned his head.

"You cannot be serious."

Just before Tony entered the store, Evenson grabbed his sleeve and dragged him across the street.

He pointed at a sign.

Oliver’s Gun Shop

Quality Firearms Sold Since the Nation’s Centennial

Evenson looked at Tony.

"Being knowledgeable is good. Being able to build things is good. But could you please use the brain you were born with?"

He gestured toward the gun shop.

"There are gun stores everywhere, and you were about to buy fertilizer from a department store and turn it into weapons."

Tony opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Looked at the sign.

"...Huh."

He genuinely seemed confused about how he’d failed to notice the gun shop.

Evenson rubbed his forehead.

This man had an armor that could fly across the planet, an artificial intelligence capable of tracking the Mandarin, and a brain that occasionally forgot what a gun store looked like.

They stepped inside.

"Good evening, gentlemen."

The proprietor was a man of roughly sixty, with a pleasant smile and the practiced air of someone who had spent decades watching customers debate whether they wanted something practical or something that looked impressive.

"Take your time," he said. "Choose whatever weapon suits you. But remember, gentlemen, while you’re choosing your weapon, the weapon is choosing you."

Tony sniffed.

Rows of firearms filled the shop.

They were civilian semi-automatic weapons, but they were still considerably more practical than whatever homemade fertilizer contraption Tony had been contemplating.

He reached toward one.

Evenson stopped him.

"We need firepower," Evenson said pleasantly. "Real firepower."

The owner hesitated.

American law allowed civilians to own firearms, but automatic weapons were another matter entirely. Some less-than-scrupulous dealers nevertheless kept illegal weapons hidden away for customers willing to pay enough.

The proprietor gave Evenson a cautious look.

"Sir... this is a legitimate business. We don’t deal in anything illegal."

"Three times the price."

The man’s expression twitched.

Evenson continued, "We’ll pay three times the normal price."

It wasn’t his money.

Why pretend to be frugal?

The proprietor frowned.

For several seconds, he wrestled with his conscience.

Apparently, his conscience eventually lost.

He walked to the front door, flipped the sign to CLOSED, and drew the curtains.

Then he picked up what looked suspiciously like a television remote.

He pointed it toward the wall behind him and pressed a button.

A mechanical whir filled the store.

The wall rotated.

Behind it was an entirely different collection of weapons.

AK-47s.

M416s.

SCAR-Ls.

And plenty of other automatic weapons.

Tony’s eyes lit up.

He pointed at an M416.

"That one."

The proprietor raised an eyebrow.

"Fully equipped."

Tony immediately pointed at a compact submachine gun.

"That one too. Fully equipped."

Then he grabbed a P18C from a nearby display and placed it on the counter.

"That one. Fully equipped."

Evenson watched silently.

There was something almost beautiful about Tony’s complete lack of financial restraint when someone else was paying.

Twenty minutes later, Tony walked out of the gun shop looking like he’d just looted an endgame supply crate.

Level-three body armor.

Level-three helmet.

Level-three backpack.

A fully equipped primary weapon.

A fully equipped secondary weapon.

He was ready for war.

Evenson stared at him.

Tony grinned.

Today, the Mandarin was going to learn an important lesson.

Money couldn’t buy happiness.

But it could apparently buy an absurd amount of firepower.

And, in Tony Stark’s hands, that was close enough.