Antony immediately patched through to Ashley again.
"Ashley, initiate Hurricane Protocol."
"…Sir?" Ashley paused on the other end of the line.
"I want every 'friend' we have embedded at CNN, Fox, and Reuters awake right now. I don't care what excuse they use—fuel leaks, abnormal jet streams, migrating birds at cruising altitude—whatever it takes. I want at least ten news helicopters saturating the airspace east of Florida within the next hour."
…
10,000 meters above Florida
Antony hovered silently in the stratosphere, drifting through thin clouds.
He wasn't wearing his iconic red-and-blue suit.
Instead, he'd changed into a Vought-designed stealth flight suit, nearly invisible to radar.
High-sensitivity tactical earpieces were fitted snugly into his ears.
"Ashley," he murmured calmly into the comms, as if ordering coffee, "are the cameras in position?"
"Sir," Ashley replied from Vought Tower's command center, her voice trembling with excitement, "thirteen news helicopters have entered the perimeter under the cover of 'extreme weather reporting.' All of them are equipped with top-tier long-range optics. Once you give the word, we can cut to a global live broadcast within five seconds."
"Good."
"And one more thing," Ashley added. "Our S.H.I.E.L.D. contact just confirmed final intel. President Matthew Ellis's Air Force One will enter your interception window in three minutes. War Machine is confirmed aboard."
"He would be," Antony chuckled softly.
"Target acquired," Ashley said.
Antony didn't even need the update.
His X-ray vision had already pierced the cloud cover, locking onto the distinctive silhouette of the Boeing 747 dozens of kilometers away.
"Track my position," he said calmly. "Go live in twenty minutes."
The channel cut.
Like a silent meteor, Antony accelerated—keeping just enough distance to shadow Air Force One without being detected.
-----
One hour earlier
The Iron Patriot armor descended smoothly onto the runway in front of Air Force One.
Inside the armor was not James Rhodes—
—but Eric Savin, Aldrich Killian's right-hand man.
Unaware of the deception, President Matthew Ellis stepped forward and saluted.
"Colonel Rhodes," the president said warmly, "with you here, I feel safer than anywhere else in America."
Inside the armor, Savin said nothing—only nodded.
Secret Service agents remained completely unsuspecting as they escorted him aboard.
Once Air Force One reached cruising altitude, Savin glanced at the onboard clock and began walking toward the presidential conference cabin.
The agents relaxed. Some even pulled out their phones, clearly intending to grab selfies with "Iron Patriot."
They never stood a chance.
Savin shoved them into a side compartment and pressed his glowing red palm against the alloy door seams.
The metal instantly fused shut.
He continued forward.
Inside the conference room, President Ellis and his senior advisors were mid-briefing.
One bodyguard turned, confused.
Savin killed him without hesitation.
"Rhodes?! Have you lost your mind?!" someone shouted.
Secret Service agents opened fire.
They were elite.
But their bullets only sparked uselessly against the Iron Patriot armor.
Three minutes.
That's all it took.
The room was cleared.
Blood. Smoke. Silence.
President Ellis and his vice advisor cowered beneath the table, shaking.
The table was flipped.
The advisor was executed on the spot.
Ellis, to his credit, grabbed a fallen pistol and fired.
Bang.
Savin slammed him against the cabin wall.
"Ah—!" the president cried out.
Savin removed the helmet.
Ellis's breath caught.
That wasn't Rhodes.
"Kill me if you're going to!" Ellis snarled, forcing courage into his voice.
"Relax, Mr. President," Savin sneered. "Your stage isn't here."
He dragged Ellis forward and forcibly stuffed him into the hollow internal compartment of the Iron Patriot armor.
Clang.
The armor sealed shut.
Coordinates were entered.
WHOOSH—!
The Iron Patriot suit detached from Air Force One and rocketed away into the sky—carrying the President of the United States inside.
"Goodbye, Mr. President."
Mission accomplished.
Savin secured the remaining crew in the rear cabin and prepared to parachute out.
Then—
He glanced sideways.
And froze.
Outside the aircraft window—
Bathed in sunlight—
A black silhouette hovered calmly in the air.
Floating.
Motionless.
Staring at him through three layers of reinforced glass.
"…That face—"
Savin's heart skipped.
"Homelander?!"
What the hell was he doing here?!
Outside, Antony flashed him a flawless, eight-tooth smile.
"Damn," Antony thought.
"Perfect timing."
…
Antony had seen everything.
With X-ray vision.
The President had been canned and launched.
"Well done, sweetheart," Antony smiled.
Then—
He ripped off the stealth suit, revealing the iconic blue bodysuit and star-spangled cape.
BOOM—!!!
He smashed straight through three layers of alloy plating—
—and hovered in the center of the cabin.
Electric arcs crackled.
Wind screamed.
The American flag cape snapped violently behind him.
"Sorry to interrupt," Antony said lightly, his voice cutting through the roaring air.
"But the in-flight service on this plane… looks absolutely terrible."
Savin froze.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
"You—"
"Shh." Antony raised a finger. "Where's the President?"
Savin laughed.
"You think you won?" he sneered. "You're too late, hero!"
His body began to glow.
Extremis virus—full output.
He charged like a living furnace, fist blazing with heat capable of melting steel.
"I'll burn your pretty blond face off!!"
He swung.
The punch landed squarely on Antony's face.
THUD.
Silence.
Savin's grin vanished.
His fist smoked.
But Antony's face—
—not a scratch.
Not even a twitch.
"…What?"
Antony spoke slowly.
"That's it?"
"Your temperature's about… three thousand degrees?"
He smiled.
"You tried.
But it's still not enough."
Savin finally felt fear.
This man's skin—
—was way too damn thick.