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The security guard was a big man — ex-military build, close-cropped hair, a jaw like a cinder block. He positioned himself directly in Kade's path and didn't move.
"I'm here representing Stark Industries. I have an appointment with Norman Osborn — you can check with the front desk."
The guard looked Kade up and down. T-shirt. Jeans. No briefcase, no visitor badge, no suit.
"Oscorp Tower has a dress code," the guard said. "Business attire. You're not getting in looking like that."
Fair point — Kade's only suit was currently in the wash, sacrificed to sewer water. But the guard's hostility felt disproportionate. He wasn't just enforcing policy. His eyes kept flicking to something behind Kade — quick, nervous glances toward the street. His shoulders were set too tight.
"The front desk is right behind you," Kade said evenly. "Takes ten seconds to verify my appointment."
"I said leave." The guard's voice dropped to a snarl.
Kade was calculating the minimum force needed to move this man out of his way when a black Mercedes-Benz pulled up to the curb outside the tower.
The guard's attention snapped to the car instantly. Every trace of aggression toward Kade vanished — replaced by something that looked a lot like fear.
Kade stepped aside. Watched.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit emerged from the passenger side first. Earpiece. Scanning eyes. Hands held loose and ready. A professional bodyguard — the kind trained to take a bullet for their principal without flinching.
The bodyguard checked the perimeter, then opened the rear door. A woman stepped out — mid-thirties, conservatively dressed, the practiced calm of a career nanny. In her arms: a boy.
"Commander," Violet said through the link. "We've seen that child before."
Kade didn't recognize the kid immediately — he wasn't great with children's faces. Then the boy spoke.
"Theresa, do you think Dad will like my present?" He was clutching a green monster mask — handmade, paint still slightly tacky, clearly his own work.
"Mr. Osborn will love it," the nanny said with a warm smile.
"But he's leaving again. For a whole month."
"It's okay, Harry. Next time he's home, we'll all go to Central Park together."
Harry.
The WoW convention. The boy with the plastic greatsword. The spinning Whirlwind Slash. And the thin, pale father who'd sat on the bench and complained about having kids.
Norman Osborn's son. Harry Osborn. Six years old, visiting his father before a month-long business trip.
Kade's mind had barely begun connecting the dots when a sound cut through the ambient noise.
A gunshot. Suppressed — a flat, mechanical thwip that most people wouldn't recognize as a firearm.
Kade recognized it instantly.
The bodyguard's head snapped sideways. A burst of red mist erupted from his temple. He crumpled — dead before he hit the pavement.
Screaming. The nanny grabbed Harry and pulled him against her chest. Kade's eyes were already moving — scanning, tracking — and he found the shooter in under a second. Crouched behind a decorative planter thirty meters away. Suppressed pistol. Professional stance.
Kade was reaching for his weapon when someone beat him to it.
The security guard — the same one who'd been trying to throw Kade out — launched himself forward in a diving tackle, putting his body between the shooter and the nanny. He was shouting: "Get in the car! The car is armored!"
Theresa didn't think. She obeyed — muscle memory and panic doing what rational thought couldn't. She threw herself into the back seat with Harry still in her arms and pulled the door shut.
The guard took several rounds to the torso but stayed upright. Body armor. No blood.
The Mercedes was already moving — pulling away from the curb, accelerating hard. Within seconds it had cleared the tower entrance and was merging into traffic.
The shooter, seeing the target vehicle retreating, stopped firing. Instead of pursuing, he turned and sprinted toward the densest cluster of pedestrians — using the crowd as cover. Panicked civilians scattered in every direction. By the time Oscorp's internal security team reached the entrance, the shooter had vanished.
From the outside, it looked like a botched assassination attempt. One bodyguard dead. One security guard wounded but alive. The target — Harry Osborn — apparently safe inside an armored vehicle.
But Kade's instincts were screaming.
The guard. The guard who'd been nervous before the shooting started. Who'd tried to get Kade away from the entrance. Who'd known the car was armored. Who'd positioned himself perfectly to direct the nanny into the vehicle.
A guard who was expecting this.
"Violet," Kade said quietly. "Track that Mercedes. Don't lose it for a second. Blitz — follow at distance. Stay out of visual range."
"Yes, Commander." Both voices, in unison.
Three hundred meters back, the unmanned SUV's engine rumbled to life and pulled into traffic. With Violet hijacking SHIELD's camera network, losing the Mercedes wasn't a concern — every traffic camera, intersection feed, and satellite uplink between here and the city limits was now feeding real-time data to Kade's Tactical Optics.
The car should have gone to the nearest police station. Or circled back to Oscorp Tower. Or stopped and waited for backup.
It did none of those things.
The Mercedes was heading away from Oscorp. Away from any police precinct. Away from safety.
Violet ran a route projection.
The car was heading toward Hell's Kitchen.
Somewhere between Oscorp Tower and the highway, Norman Osborn's phone rang.
He answered it.
The voice on the other end told him what they had. And what they wanted.
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