The early morning humidity of Miami was already starting to settle over the private airfield as Aldrich Killian's jet touched down. He stepped onto the tarmac, the sharp lines of his designer suit contrasting with the jagged, burning ambition radiating from his skin.
Inside a nearby hangar, the Iron Patriot armor sat bolted to a heavy-duty diagnostic rack. It looked like a captured god. Inside that metal husk, Colonel James Rhodes was a prisoner of his own technology. The suit was completely immobilized, its joints locked by an external override. Rhodey's only play was a stubborn one: do not, under any circumstances, initiate the exit sequence. As long as he stayed inside, he was a three-hundred-pound paperweight they couldn't use.
The AIM researchers surrounding the suit looked frustrated. They were hovering over tablets and thermal scanners, looking like monkeys trying to crack a coconut with plastic spoons. They could easily blow the suit into scrap metal, but that wasn't the goal. Killian didn't want the scrap; he wanted the symbol. He needed the "Iron Patriot" to be the face of his final act.
Killian walked into the hangar, his eyes sliding over to Eric Savin. The atmosphere between the two men was thick with unspoken failure.
"I heard about the Rose Hill mess," Killian said, his voice smooth but carrying a dangerous edge. "Savin, you lost a soldier. You let a target slip away. And somehow, Tony Stark is still breathing."
Savin stood his ground, though his jaw was tight. "He had help. And he's resourceful even when he's bleeding out."
"Resourceful is an understatement," Killian hissed. "Stark is alive. Pepper Potts is MIA with some 'bodyguard' who hits like a freight train. Maya is gone. All we managed to do was renovate Stark's basement with high explosives. It's embarrassing."
He turned his attention to the armor, where two technicians were currently attacking the Patriot's leg with a high-speed industrial chainsaw. Sparks showered the floor, but the alloy didn't even show a scratch.
Killian didn't yell. Instead, he flashed that perfect, predatory smile at the visor where he knew Rhodey's eyes were watching.
"Colonel. How's the air in there? Getting a bit stale?"
Killian pushed the technicians aside and stepped up to the armor's midsection. He didn't use a tool. He simply placed his bare palm against the Patriot's stomach plating.
Slowly, an orange-red glow began to bleed from Killian's skin. In seconds, the temperature spiked. The patriotic blue-and-silver paint bubbled, peeled, and turned to ash. The metal underneath began to hum, then glow a dull, cherry red. On the HUD inside, Rhodey saw a massive thermal warning take over his entire field of vision.
"We're going to get you out of that tin can, James. One way or another," Killian whispered.
Savin stepped forward, reaching out instinctively. "Boss, if you keep that up, you'll melt the internal servos. We need the suit functional for the broadcast."
"He's right," Killian mused, turning his head but keeping his hand pressed against the metal. "But you can patch a few wires, can't you? I have a helicopter to catch. The broadcast is the priority. If we don't have the Patriot, we don't have a show. And I am tired of bad news."
Inside the suit, Rhodey was dying. The internal cooling fans were screaming at max RPM, but they were just blowing hot air around the cramped cockpit. Sweat was stinging his eyes, and the air felt like liquid lead in his lungs. The holographic interface in front of him was glitching, the lines of code shivering and turning red.
"Are you coming out to play, or do I have to cook you medium-rare?" Killian asked, his hand glowing even brighter.
"Don't open... don't you dare open..." Rhodey gritted his teeth, his vision blurring.
But the suit had a mind of its own when it came to pilot safety. A sharp beep echoed in his ears. Emergency Protocol Activated. Thermal Threshold Exceeded. Forced Ejection Initiated.
"Damn it," Rhodey hissed.
The armor hissed as the seals broke. The plates slid open like a mechanical flower, and Rhodey didn't waste a second. As soon as his feet hit the concrete, he exploded into motion. He threw a haymaker that caught Savin square in the jaw, following up with a brutal kick to the chest that sent the henchman sprawling.
Rhodey didn't stick around to gloat. He turned and bolted toward the hangar exit. He had no intention of fighting a man who was literally glowing like a furnace. But he only made it five meters.
A roar of heat filled the hangar as a column of concentrated orange flame erupted from Killian's hand. It didn't hit Rhodey—it was a warning shot. The fire slammed into the far wall, instantly liquefying a metal staircase and turning the concrete into glowing slag.
Rhodey skidded to a halt, the heat singeing his eyebrows. He looked at the melted ruin of the stairs and then back at Killian. "You can breathe fire? Seriously? Okay, new plan."
Before he could pivot, Savin was back up. The Extremis soldier grabbed Rhodey by the shoulder with a grip like a hydraulic press. With a grunt of effort, Savin hurled Rhodey across the hangar. The Colonel hit the floor hard, his head bouncing off the concrete. Everything went black.
Killian's glow slowly subsided as he adjusted his cuffs. He looked around at his "kingdom" with an air of dark majesty.
"The day of victory is almost here," Killian said to the room. "By this time tomorrow, I'll be pulling the strings on the most powerful man in the West with one hand, and the world's most feared terrorist with the other. I'll own the war. I'll own the supply. I'll own the demand."
He glanced at the unconscious Rhodey, then at the damaged suit. "Fix the palm print on the belly, Savin. We have a President to kidnap."
The Teahouse in Miami
While the world's most dangerous conspiracy was unfolding at the docks, Leander Hayes was having a much better morning.
Maya Hansen was currently losing her battle with a plate of beef rice rolls. She was eating with a kind of desperate ferocity, her mouth stuffed with golden egg-yolk filling from the "swamp buns." She looked a mess, but she clearly didn't care. The portions were massive, and after her third bun, she leaned back with a muffled groan of satisfaction.
Leander, however, was eating with a calm, surgical precision. He savored every bite of the phoenix claws, the complex spices clearing the last of the "space fog" from his mind.
Yu Lei, the friendly waiter, returned to the table with a steaming bowl of fish porridge. "How are the claws? Best in the city, right? My master spends six hours just on the braising liquid."
Leander picked up a claw with his chopsticks, admiring the texture. "It's perfect, Yu Lei. Honestly, I haven't had anything this authentic since... well, since a very long time. It's exactly what I needed."
As the warm porridge hit his stomach, Leander felt his mood level out. The chaotic, jagged energy that had been buzzing under his skin since Rose Hill started to settle. The simple joy of a good meal was anchoring him back to Earth.
Maya tried a phoenix claw, chewed tentatively for a second, and then made a face. She pushed the plate away and stuck to the porridge.
Yu Lei laughed, leaning on the back of an empty chair. "See? I told you. Foreigners don't get the texture. They want everything sweet and sour or fried until it's a rock. If it doesn't have a pound of sugar in it, they think it's broken. I'd go crazy if I had to eat at a college cafeteria every day."
"You're a student?" Leander asked in Chinese.
"Yeah, doing the grind," Yu Lei sighed. "Working here to pay for rent because my parents back home think the streets in America are paved with gold. They sent me here to study, but the bank account didn't come with the plane ticket. But hey, at least I eat like a king." He looked at Leander's empty plates. "You done? Or are you ready for round two?"
Leander flashed a genuine smile—the first one that reached his eyes in days. "No problem. Bring the menu back. I think I can handle some shrimp dumplings and maybe another round of those buns."
"That's my man!" Yu Lei cheered, heading back to the kitchen.
Time seemed to stretch in the quiet teahouse. The sun was fully up now, and a few early-morning joggers and elderly locals started trickling in. The other waiters joined Yu Lei, and the room filled with the clinking of porcelain and the low hum of conversation. Leander sat there, enjoying the normalcy of it all. He wasn't the Golden Legend. He wasn't a weapon. He was just a kid having breakfast.
Maya, however, was watching the clock. She was watching the door. And she was watching the mounting pile of bamboo baskets on their table. Her eyes went wide as she did the mental math of the bill. Finally, she grabbed Leander's arm.
"Leander," she whispered urgently. "I think we're going to have to stay here and wash dishes for a month to pay for this. Do you have any idea how much dim sum you just inhaled?"
Leander didn't answer. His eyes narrowed, and he suddenly went very still. His gaze shifted from the table to the large glass window overlooking the main road into Miami.
Through the morning traffic, a beat-up, unremarkable car was cruising toward the city center. Most people wouldn't have looked twice, but Leander's vision zoomed in, piercing through the tinted windshield.
He saw a familiar face.