191. Mach Ten and Thirty Seconds. (Patreon)

Natasha POV:

When Tony asked me to track Pepper, I honestly thought he was joking.

Tony jokes when he’s scared. He deflects with humor, layers it thick, buries the panic under sarcasm and bravado. I’ve known him long enough to recognize the pattern. So I smirked, crossed my arms and told him that if he wanted relationship counseling, I wasn’t licensed.

Then Parker launched a Winter-Class Stealth Prowler.

That was the moment I stopped smiling.

The Winter class wasn’t a toy. None of the Prowlers were. It wasn’t even military in the conventional sense. It was Parker Industries’ private, cutting-edge nightmare reserved exclusively for the Parker family and Spartan-IV deployment teams. Not Avengers. Not SHIELD. Not even world governments.

Just Peter Parker.

That told me everything I needed to know about how serious this was.

Tracking isn’t exactly my strongest skillset. I’m an infiltrator, an assassin, an intelligence officer. I excel at reading people, breaking defenses, slipping into places I’m not supposed to be. But I know enough. Enough to understand what I was sitting in.

The cockpit sealed around me with a soundless precision that felt more surgical than mechanical. No wasted space. No unnecessary interfaces. Everything was intuitive, almost disturbingly so. The HUD lit up as soon as my biometrics synced. No confirmation prompt, no hesitation.

Part of me the SHIELD agent, the trained operative wanted to try hacking the thing. Even just a peek. The data inside a machine like this would be invaluable.

The rational part of me shut that thought down immediately.

Peter Parker didn’t just rival Nick Fury in paranoia he surpassed him. And unlike Fury, Parker had the resources, the technology, and the will to back it up. More importantly, neither Fury nor I could say with confidence that SHIELD’s upper echelons weren’t compromised by HYDRA anymore.

There have been too many attempts lately.

Too many leaks targeting F-302 StarHawk Mk. II schematics and every single attempt ended the same way.

A Spartan-IV operative.

An ARC-920 Railgun.

Hypervelocity steel-coated explosive tungsten slugs tearing through reinforced concrete like paper.

The ARC-920 Asymmetric Recoilless Carbine was a masterpiece of brutality. Elegant in the way only overwhelming force could be and, as always, Parker Industries regulated it so tightly that even the Pentagon had to beg.

I wrapped my fingers around the Prowler’s yoke as the bio-signature tracking radar spun up.

Prototype tech.

Long-distance.

Deep-layer biometric resonance.

Heartbeat, neural pattern, metabolic rhythm.

Pepper Potts.

Ping.

There it was.

Outside Miami, Florida.

My breath caught just slightly.

“Found you, Pep.” I murmured.

The Prowler didn’t ask for confirmation. It didn’t warn me. It didn’t count down.

It went.

The city blurred beneath me as the craft accelerated. Mach 3, Mach 5, Mach 7 until the world outside became abstract streaks of color and curvature.

Mach 10.

I leaned into the harness, jaw clenched, eyes steady.

Whatever had taken Pepper.

Whatever Tony wasn’t saying out loud.

I was coming for it.

President Ellis POV:

The screen flickered to life again.

Static. Distortion. That same sickening mix of terror and cheap theatrics that had been haunting us for weeks now. I felt the familiar knot tighten in my chest even before his voice filled the room.

The Mandarin.

“Mr. President.” He said calmly, almost pleasantly.

The image stabilized, and there he was. Robes, rings, the carefully cultivated myth of power. The camera zoomed out, revealing a man lying on the floor beside him, hands bound, face wet with tears.

“Only two lessons remain,” the Mandarin continued, “and I intend to finish this before Christmas morning.”

He placed the barrel of the gun gently against the man’s head.

“Meet Thomas Richards. Good man, strong name. But not a strong job.”

The man sobbed. The sound cut through the Situation Room like a blade.

“Thomas here is an accountant for the Roxxon Oil Corporation. Once the second-largest oil conglomerate in the world until Parker Automobiles and Parker Energy kicked them off their throne.”

My stomach dropped.

“But I’m sure he’s a really good guy,” the Mandarin went on, conversational. “I’m going to shoot him in the head, live on your television, in thirty seconds.”

“No!” Thomas screamed. “Please no!”

“The number for this telephone is already in your cell phone,” the Mandarin said, smiling beneath the beard. “Exciting, isn’t it? Imagining how it got there?”

My phone vibrated on the table.

“America,” he continued, “if your president calls me in the next half-minute, Tom lives.”

He leaned closer to the camera.

“Go.”

Chaos erupted around me.

“How did he hack the president's phone?” Someone demanded.

“We can’t allow terrorists to dictate...” another voice cut in.

“I have to make this call.” I said, standing.

“I’d strongly advise against that, sir.”

I ignored him.

“This is the right thing to do.”

My fingers trembled as I dialed.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

No answer.

The Mandarin waited.

Then he fired.

The sound echoed through the speakers, sharp and final. The screen cut to static.

“There’s just one lesson left, President Ellis,” the Mandarin’s voice returned, cold now. “So run away. Hide. Kiss your children goodbye.”

I felt hollow.

“Because nothing,” he continued, “not your army, not your red, white and blue attack dog, can save you.”

The feed went dark.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Silence swallowed the room.

“Tell Rhodes,” I said quietly, my voice steadier than I felt. “Find this lunatic. Right now.”

“Sir,” A military aide said, “we tracked the broadcast signal. Possible point of origin in Pakistan. The Patriot is ready to strike.” I didn’t hesitate. “Send him right now!!!”

“Yes, sir.”

As orders were relayed and the machinery of war spun up, one thought burned in my mind—clear and undeniable.

This wasn’t just terrorism anymore.

This was personal and someone, somewhere, was about to answer for it.