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Tony Stark, full of fire and fury, surged forward like a man possessed—like some kind of gun god. He advanced with textbook tactics, gunning down anyone armed in his path. Shot after shot, it looked like he never missed.
In truth? It was Henry covering from behind—silently cleaning up any of Tony's missed shots or dropping enemies the young Stark didn't fully down. And if Tony's rifle ran low, Henry would quietly land the kill shots.
Strangely enough, the attackers hadn't gone on a killing spree. Most of the guests and staff had been herded into corners like quails, made to squat down and keep quiet.
Most of the earlier gunfire had been more warning shots than outright executions. Only a few out-of-their-minds partygoers—likely high as hell—had tried to resist, and they were swiftly put down.
In contrast, Tony and Henry were the real killers here.
Henry's shots were clean and non-lethal if possible. As long as emergency care was prompt, his targets would live—and even walk again.
Tony's aim? Less merciful. Some bullets found skulls. Others tore through torsos and left survivors wheezing on the ground.
Thankfully, Tony didn't have the habit of finishing people off. His priority was neutralizing threats, not body count.
Eventually, they cleared the entire first floor together. Anyone left breathing, Tony warned them: "Stark Security will be here soon. Stay hidden, stay low. Help is coming."
Still, a few bold ones grabbed fallen weapons and bolted for the exits. Couldn't blame them. No one wanted to be caught in a full-blown shootout—even if Tony Stark himself was leading the charge.
Henry couldn't stop Tony from running into danger, and Tony couldn't command strangers to stay put. In this chaos, everyone looked out for their own hide.
Stark just wasn't that kind of figure yet. He wasn't the symbol of hope or leadership he'd become someday. At best, he was just another rich brat with a gun.
The next decision—move upstairs or face the chaos at the poolside—wasn't really a decision at all.
Tony had already crept toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows and peeked outside.
What he saw at the pool made the choice for him.
Two groups of gunmen were controlling the crowd, one from the front, one from the back. Even the floating girls in the pool had been hauled out and herded to the side. Guests, escorts, staff—all squatting in fear, herded like cattle.
One group of shooters was shouting, interrogating the crowd, waving weapons.
Tony, now with only a pistol after discarding his empty rifle, asked, "You think you can handle one of those groups?"
Henry pulled the magazine from his gun, checked it, then slid it back in. "Two rounds left."
Tony didn't say a word. He already knew better than to expect much from his "backup."
Instead, he tried to think of a way to take down the gunmen without harming the hostages.
But he didn't get the chance.
Either the sound of their voices or the faint clack of Henry reloading had tipped someone off—one group of gunmen turned toward the house and opened fire through the windows.
To make things worse, a third group of shooters suddenly joined in—flooding the poolside like an unstoppable tide.
Shit just hit the fan.
Tony didn't even blink—he charged through the shattered glass, gun blazing at the closest group.
The sudden ambush startled all three shooter teams. The one closest panicked and split up, ducking behind cover as they returned fire.
The other two teams raised their weapons and opened up.
Tony's lucky shot dropped one man mid-run. The other two? Henry took care of them.
Together, the two scrambled behind a short planter box, barely large enough to shelter them both.
Bullets pinged and ripped across the planter's surface.
Even the future Iron Man had to curl up tight, and Henry did the same—placing himself closer to the danger, making sure Tony didn't catch any stray rounds.
Tony checked his magazine—empty. Only one round left in the chamber.
"You got ammo?" he asked.
Henry held up his pistol, slide locked open. Empty.
Tony growled, "Fuck."
Across the pool, gunfire finally stopped. Sirens could be heard in the distance—police or private security, hard to tell.
The shooters were getting nervous.
"Damn it!" one shouted. "Anyone find the target yet?"
Another barked at the hostages. "Where's Josh Hilton? Anyone seen him? Don't think those two idiots who charged in can save you! They're screwed too, you hear me? Screwed!"
The third group, the newcomers, had a calmer tone. "Doesn't anyone even know what the target looks like?"
"Fuck you! If we did, you think we'd be out here playing Twenty Questions?!"
One of them fired a shot into the crowd.
The newcomer shook his head. "Easy. No need to scare them. At least they're loyal. That's admirable."
"What the hell are you talking about?!"
Another gunshot—followed by a scream so sharp it could only belong to one man.
Henry winced. He recognized that pig-like squeal.
It was the chubby jerk from earlier. Of course.
Then came the voice of the shooter—clear, cold, leader-like:
"Josh Hilton. You've got some loyal friends. But unfortunately… that's not enough."
That was Hilton again. His voice rising like a pig at the slaughterhouse.
"You're lucky," said the gunman. "The client gave explicit orders: we had to tell you why before killing you."
"You're going to kill me?!"
"You really think we brought all these people just to put a bullet in your ass and walk away?"
"Please! I'm begging you! Spare me!"
"Begging me won't help. You've said too much. Too many people know. Our employer doesn't like losing control. You know that."
"I'll shut up! I won't say a word again! Please, just this once—"
"You're begging the wrong man, Hilton. We're not here to forgive. We're here to kill. Take my advice: pray to God."
"Wait!" Tony shouted, suddenly rising from behind cover.
But Henry yanked him down again, hard.
Two bullets flew just over their heads.
Clearly, the gunmen had been waiting for them to pop up.
A third shot rang out.
Hilton's screams fell silent.
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