The master bedroom of the mansion was a grotesque display of excess and confusion. Two women in bikinis were passed out on the silk sheets, their eyes rolling back as they looked at the intruders with drug-induced indifference. The sound of running water echoed from the adjacent master bath, suggesting someone else was in the middle of a morning soak, oblivious to the fact that the perimeter had been liquidated.
Leander didn't wait for a conversation. He snapped his fingers, and the metallic decorative trim from the headboard tore itself free. The silver strips whipped across the room, pinning the women's limbs to the mattress with surgical precision. Before they could even inhale to scream, two more pieces of metal flattened into gags, locking across their mouths.
"There's a guy in the bathroom," Leander said, his voice dropping into a low, focused register. "Short, beard, looks exactly like the face on the news. But his heart rate... it's not right. He's too calm. Or too high."
Tony leveled his captured rifle at the bathroom door, his brow furrowed. "We didn't hit a single Extremis guard on the way up here. This is the 'Mandarin's' inner sanctum? The security is a joke. I've seen lemonade stands with more protection."
Maya stood near the door, her eyes darting around the room. "This place was flagged as a high-security node in the AIM network, but it's mostly just... a stage. I think we're in the middle of a very expensive lie."
From behind the closed bathroom door, an inappropriate, gurgling sound of someone humming a show tune drifted through the air.
"Alright," Tony muttered, "I'm not waiting twenty minutes for him to finish his solo."
He kicked the door open. The barrel of his gun was inches from the "Mandarin's" face before the man even realized he wasn't alone.
The terrifying terrorist who had threatened the President on global television—the man who had supposedly orchestrated the destruction of the Stark estate—didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't breathe fire. He didn't even stand up. He just sat there on the edge of the tub, a half-eaten chicken wing in one hand and a remote control in the other, his hands shooting into the air with a look of pure, unadulterated panic.
"Oh! Bloody hell! What's all this then?" the man stammered, his gravelly, 'Mandarin' accent slipping into a thick, confused Liverpool brogue.
"Don't move!" Tony barked.
"I'm not moving! I'm a statue! I'm art!" the man cried, his voice trembling. "Take whatever you want! The jewelry is real, but the guns are props. They don't trust me with the pointy bits!"
Tony blinked, his confusion momentarily overriding his anger. "What?"
"Do you want the ladies? They're lovely girls, really, just a bit... distracted," the man said, looking at Tony with a pathetic, hopeful grin.
Leander, leaning against the doorframe, couldn't help it. A short, sharp laugh escaped his throat. "Tony, look at him. He's about as dangerous as a wet paper bag."
"You're not the Mandarin," Tony hissed, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He slammed a fresh magazine into his rifle, the metallic clack echoing in the tiled room. "Where is the real one? Where's the guy behind the videos? The guy who hurt Happy?"
The bearded man scrambled off the tub, nearly tripping over his own robe. He slumped into a chair, his face pale. "He's here, but he's not here, see? It's a performance. It's all theatre! I'm Trevor. Trevor Slattery."
"An actor?" Maya whispered, her eyes widening.
"Exactly! I'm a thespian!" Trevor said, gaining a tiny bit of confidence. "I was a big deal in Croydon! They hired me to play a part. They told me it was a role of a lifetime. They give me the house, the drugs, the surgeries... they even promised me a yacht! I just read the lines they put on the teleprompter."
"Killian," Tony said, his voice trembling with a dark, cold fury. "Killian built a puppet."
"Killian's the director!" Trevor confirmed, nodding frantically. "He's the one with the glowing skin and the bad attitude. He needed a bogeyman. He needed someone to take the blame for the 'accidents' his soldiers kept having."
Tony felt a wave of nausea. Happy had warned him. Happy had seen something wrong with Killian's people at the Chinese Theatre, and Tony had dismissed it as paranoia. Now, his friend was in a hospital bed because Tony hadn't been looking at the right shadow.
"Tony," Leander interrupted, his eyes glowing gold as he stared through the floorboards. "I found Rhodes. He's in a containment chamber in the sub-basement. He's alive, but he's out cold."
"Captured?" Tony's head snapped toward the floor. "What do they want with Rhodey?"
Tony didn't waste another second. He swung the butt of his rifle, catching Trevor Slattery in the temple and knocking the actor out cold. "Stay here, Trevor. Your scene is over."
They moved through the mansion like ghosts. Leander led the way, his telekinetic grip snapping the necks of three guards who tried to intercept them in the hallway. They reached the heavy, reinforced door of the underground chamber. With a flick of Leander's wrist, the locks groaned and shattered.
Inside, Colonel James Rhodes was strapped into a chair, looking like he'd gone ten rounds with a freight train. Leander stepped up and gave the Colonel a sharp, wake-up slap.
Thirty Minutes Earlier: The Docks
The logistics of the final act were already in motion. Most of the Extremis-enhanced soldiers had been loaded onto heavy-lift transport helicopters, heading toward a massive private marina that Killian had turned into a floating stage for his grand finale.
But the most important piece of the puzzle was already in the air. The Iron Patriot armor, now piloted by an AIM soldier using an external override, was screaming toward Washington's military airfield.
Air Force One sat on the tarmac, a gleaming symbol of American power. The President, looking weary from the "Mandarin" threats, stepped out of his armored limo. He looked up as a familiar trail of white smoke cut through the blue sky.
The Iron Patriot descended with a heavy thud, standing tall beside the Commander-in-Chief. The President smiled, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in days. "Colonel Rhodes. I can't tell you how glad I am to see that suit. I feel like I can finally breathe."
The armor snapped a perfect military salute, its mechanical voice synthesizer masking the pilot's true identity. "Secure and ready, Mr. President. Let's get you in the air."
As they boarded the plane, the President began discussing the tactical response to the Mandarin, unaware that his most trusted guardian was currently a hollow shell being piloted by his assassin.
The Mansion: Sub-Basement
"Ugh... Tony? Leander?"
Rhodes groaned as he blinked his eyes open, his military instincts kicking in. He tried to lunge forward, his hands coming up in a defensive posture, before his brain finally registered the faces in front of him.
"Rhodey, easy. It's us," Tony said, grabbing his arm.
"Where's your suit, Colonel?" Leander asked, helping him stand.
"Damn it... those bastards," Rhodes spat, rubbing his jaw. "They jumped me. They used some kind of thermal-overload tech to bake me out of the Patriot. Tony, how did you get here? Did you take out the army outside?"
"They're mostly taking a permanent nap," Tony said. "But Rhodey, we've got a problem. Killian's people have a guy who breathes fire. Like, literal dragon-breath."
"I know," Rhodes said grimly. "His hands can hit ten thousand degrees. He melted my HUD like it was wax. Tony... where's your armor? We need some serious firepower if we're going to catch them."
"It's on its way," Tony said, a small smirk playing on his lips. "It's just taking the scenic route."
Tennessee
Hundreds of miles away, in a quiet suburban garage, the Mark 42 armor finally finished its recharge.
The silence of the morning was shattered as the suit's right hand and left foot blasted through the garage window, showering the lawn in glass. Little Harley woke with a start, running to the window just in time to see his mother—who had been trying to get into the locked garage all morning—staring in shock at the splintered door.
BANG.
The main door didn't just open; it exploded outward as the remaining pieces of the suit ignited their thrusters. The chest piece, the helmet, the leggings—they rose into the air like a flock of steel birds, forming a perfect V-formation as they broke the sound barrier, heading south toward Florida.
Harley watched the gold-and-red streaks vanish into the clouds, a look of immense pride on his face. "Go get 'em, Big Guy."
The Mansion: Main Hall
Leander, Tony, and Rhodes made their way back up to the main level. Leander's eyes were darting around, his senses picking up the vibration of tires on gravel.
"Someone noticed the silent guards," Leander said. "There's about a dozen guys in SUVs heading this way. We've got about ninety seconds before this place gets loud again."
Rhodes immediately went into combat mode, scanning the room for weapons. He grabbed a pair of rifles from the wall display, weighing them in his hands before his face fell. He snapped the barrel of one over his knee like it was a dry twig. "Plastic. Props. Trevor's whole life is a lie."
"I've got you covered," Leander said.
He waved his hand toward a pile of discarded metal scraps in the corner—old prop swords, metal pipes, and gear cogs. Under his touch, the metal began to scream. It twisted and liquefied, the molecules restructuring themselves with a series of sharp, metallic clinks.
In five seconds, Leander handed Rhodes a black, sleek tactical rifle. It looked exactly like the one Tony was carrying, down to the last screw.
Rhodes took it, his eyes widening in shock. He quickly ran a combat check, pulling the slide back. His face darkened. "Leander... it doesn't move. The trigger is solid metal. It doesn't cycle."
"The materials are all wrong," Leander sighed, his eyebrow twitching. "I can change the shape, but I can't turn iron into a high-tensile firing pin and a smokeless powder propellant in five seconds. It's a paperweight."
He reached out, and the gun instantly collapsed into a jagged iron ball, which he hurled through a nearby window.
Rhodes shuddered, looking at Leander with a new level of wariness. He turned and scavenged a real sidearm from one of the downed guards at the door, then walked over to the sofa where Trevor Slattery was still slumped.
Rhodes kicked the sofa hard, sending Trevor tumbling to the floor. The actor woke up with a yelp, staring up at the barrel of a very real, very loaded 9mm.
"If you move so much as an inch," Rhodes growled, "I will turn your 'performance' into a tragedy."