After a single night’s rest, Tony Stark wasted no time leaving Afghanistan.
Part of the urgency came from Tony himself. He wanted nothing more than to get back to the United States.
The other reason was far less sentimental.
The U.S. military wanted him gone just as badly.
His kidnapping had already ruined careers.
Stark Industries wasn’t merely the world’s premier defense contractor. It was one of America’s most influential corporations, a financial powerhouse whose political support carried tremendous weight during presidential elections.
Now its CEO had been abducted while under U.S. military protection.
Whether the President bore direct responsibility hardly mattered.
Public perception did.
If the administration failed to respond decisively, political opponents would seize the opportunity without hesitation. Impeachment might never succeed, but the investigation alone would become a nightmare.
As a result, disciplinary actions had already swept through the chain of command. Officers in Afghanistan had been reprimanded, senior generals faced inquiries, and even the Secretary of Defense had been summoned to answer uncomfortable questions.
No one wanted to discover what would happen if Tony Stark somehow disappeared a second time.
That afternoon, Tony’s private Boeing 737 lifted off from the American airbase in Afghanistan.
Inside the cabin, Tony lounged comfortably on a leather sofa.
He looked terrible.
His face was still decorated with bruises in every imaginable shade of blue and purple. His left arm rested in a sling.
None of it diminished his flair for style.
One leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey with melting ice balanced casually in his right hand, he looked across at Phil Coulson.
"So," Tony said, swirling the amber liquid, "you’re telling me I was rescued because of a dog."
Coulson glanced toward Habs, who lay peacefully on the carpet with his eyes closed, pretending to nap.
"That’s correct, Mr. Stark."
Tony took a thoughtful sip.
"I may have to redesign military satellite search systems when I get home."
It sounded like a joke.
It wasn’t entirely.
The United States possessed one of the most sophisticated satellite networks on Earth. Countless military satellites orbited the planet every day.
Yet none of that cutting-edge technology had found him.
Instead...
A dog’s nose had succeeded where billions of dollars of hardware had failed.
Humanity had been using dogs to track things since prehistoric times.
As an engineer, Tony found that deeply offensive.
He leaned forward and looked at Habs.
"Well, buddy, you saved my life."
"What do you want?"
"A beautiful girlfriend?"
"A lifetime supply of fresh beef?"
"An entire shipping container full of championship-grade dog food?"
Habs’ eyes narrowed into happy crescents.
His mouth stretched into an enormous canine grin that somehow radiated pure, uncomplicated joy.
Coulson cleared his throat.
"I believe..."
"...he’d like all of the above."
Tony laughed.
"Greedy."
"I respect that."
He lifted the whiskey toward his lips, then suddenly froze halfway through the motion.
"...Wait."
He lowered the glass.
"Did that dog just understand everything I said?"
"Of course."
Coulson answered without missing a beat.
Internally, however, he added the rest of the sentence.
He doesn’t just understand you.
He can hold a conversation.
Fortunately, fifty kilograms of premium beef and twenty bags of luxury dog food have convinced him to keep that particular talent to himself.
Otherwise, Habs and Tony would probably be discussing philosophy, engineering, and lunch plans before the flight was over.
"Interesting..."
Tony studied the husky again.
Remarkably intelligent for a dog.
Still...
A dog.
No matter how clever it became, it wasn’t enough to overturn his worldview.
Coulson smiled faintly.
"Wait until you meet his owner."
"Then you’ll understand what truly qualifies as extraordinary."
Tony raised an eyebrow.
"The dog doesn’t belong to S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"No."
"We borrowed him specifically to find you."
Coulson allowed just enough weight into his voice.
"Let’s just say calling in that favor wasn’t cheap."
The statement wasn’t exactly true.
Evenson had practically volunteered Habs for the mission. S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly owed him a favor now, but it hadn’t required any major political debt beforehand.
Coulson’s wording, however, accomplished exactly what he wanted.
If Tony believed S.H.I.E.L.D. had exhausted valuable connections to rescue him...
He would naturally feel indebted.
Tony caught the implication immediately.
He smiled.
"Then I’d like to meet this owner someday."
"I should thank him personally."
If someone else’s favor had been spent saving his life, Tony preferred to repay it himself rather than owe S.H.I.E.L.D.
"I’m afraid that isn’t possible."
Coulson spread his hands apologetically.
"Information regarding that individual requires authorization above my clearance."
That part, at least, was true.
Everything concerning Evenson Richter fell under Level Ten authorization.
Technically, Coulson already knew more than he was supposed to.
Besides...
If Tony met Evenson today, he’d probably write a generous check and consider the matter settled.
That would be far too easy.
Tony recognized the dead end and let the subject drop.
He returned to his whiskey.
Coulson, meanwhile, turned toward the window.
Not far from their aircraft, a military transport plane cruised through the sky.
Inside were the remains of the five mutates recovered in Afghanistan.
The surviving members of Sergeant Kobe’s squad were aboard as well.
Once they landed at another military airfield, S.H.I.E.L.D. would immediately assume custody of every body, every fragment, every survivor, and begin a full investigation.
While both aircraft crossed the Atlantic...
It was still two o’clock in the morning back in the United States.
At a military installation, a sentry had just begun his overnight watch at the outer security checkpoint, far from the main base.
Headlights emerged from the darkness.
A convoy approached.
One SUV.
Three military cargo trucks.
The sentry raised a hand, signaling them to stop.
He walked to the passenger-side window of the lead vehicle and knocked politely.
The window lowered.
A U.S. Army major sat behind the wheel.
"Identification, sir."
Without hesitation, the officer handed over his credentials.
The sentry examined them carefully.
Everything appeared legitimate.
He returned the identification.
"What’s in the trucks?"
"Supplies," the major replied evenly.
"Mostly ammunition."
"Ammunition?"
The sentry frowned.
"I wasn’t notified about any overnight deliveries."
"There must have been a communication error."
The major remained calm.
"We’re on a tight schedule."
"I’ll need to verify that."
The sentry turned toward the guard booth.
The major glanced into the back seat.
Another man sat there operating a laptop.
Without speaking, the man looked up and gave a subtle nod.
"One moment," the major called.
"I have the paperwork."
The sentry turned back.
"Paperwork?"
He accepted the document envelope and opened it.
Blank pages.
Nothing else.
Confused, he looked up.
The major already had a suppressed pistol aimed directly between his eyes.
Pfft.
The shot was barely louder than a cough.
A brief chill spread across the center of the sentry’s forehead.
Then...
Everything went dark.
Inside the base’s central surveillance room...
Every monitor showed the checkpoint exactly as it should have appeared.
The convoy had never arrived.
The sentry was still alive.
Still standing his post.
Still carrying out his duties with perfect professionalism.
Or at least...
That was what every camera insisted was happening.
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