Most powerful Hunter in Marvel Universe - Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Price of Freedom

The truck rattled across the desert terrain, each bump and jostle a reminder that they were still very much in hostile territory, still very much vulnerable despite the burning compound now miles behind them. Dawn was breaking properly now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would have been beautiful under different circumstances.

In the truck bed, Veer sat with his back against the cab wall, the rescued women huddled together on the opposite side, as far from him as the confined space allowed. He didn’t blame them. He was still covered in dried blood, still looked like some kind of nightmare made flesh. The fact that he’d freed them probably didn’t fully override the visceral horror of what he represented.

Through the rear window, he could see Tony and Ho Yinsen in the cab. They were talking, their voices muffled by the glass and the engine noise, but their body language spoke volumes. Tony kept glancing at his companion, then away, then back again, like he was trying to solve a puzzle that didn’t have clear edges.

And Ho Yinsen was crying.

Veer could see the older man’s shoulders shaking, his hand pressed to his face, tears running freely down his cheeks even as he seemed to be speaking. It wasn’t the hysterical crying of breakdown or the quiet weeping of relief. It was something else, something deeper and more complex.

Tony said something—Veer couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was light, probably attempting humor, probably trying to comfort his friend in the only way Tony Stark knew how. The defensive mechanism of sarcasm and jokes that kept genuine emotion at arm’s length.

Whatever Tony said made Ho Yinsen shake his head. His lips moved, forming words that Veer couldn’t hear but could somehow feel the weight of. And then Ho Yinsen’s hand moved to his chest, over his heart, and he spoke what looked like names. Carefully. Reverently.

The way you speak the names of the dead.

Tony’s expression changed. The attempt at levity drained away like water through sand, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Shock. Confusion. Grief. His mouth opened and closed several times without producing sound, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white even under the layer of grime.

Veer didn’t need to hear the conversation to understand what had just been revealed. Ho Yinsen’s family—the wife and children he’d spoken about during their captivity, the people who’d kept him going through months of hell—they were dead. Had been dead. Murdered by the same terrorists who’d held them captive.

And tonight, Veer had killed every single one of those terrorists.

The weight of that realization settled over him like a physical presence. He’d known from the movie plot that Ho Yinsen’s family was gone, that the gentle doctor who’d saved Tony Stark’s life in the original timeline had already lost everything that mattered. But knowing it as story trivia and understanding it as lived reality were entirely different things.

Ho Yinsen hadn’t been waiting to return to his family. He’d been waiting to die with their killers punished. And Veer had given him that, even if unintentionally. Every terrorist he’d killed, every life he’d ended in that compound and cave—they’d all been the murderers of an innocent woman and children whose only crime was being related to the wrong person.

Did that justify it? Did having a righteous cause retroactively absolve him of the act itself?

Veer didn’t know. He suspected the answer was more complicated than yes or no.

In the cab, Tony finally seemed to find words. He was speaking urgently now, one hand leaving the wheel to gesture, to reach out toward Ho Yinsen in a way that suggested comfort or apology or both. Ho Yinsen nodded, smiled through his tears, and said something that made Tony’s expression crack entirely.

For just a moment, the billionaire genius playboy looked like what he really was: a traumatized man who’d survived hell and just learned that someone he cared about had been surviving an even worse one.

The truck drove on toward Gulmira village, carrying its cargo of broken people toward something that might eventually become healing.

—

The village materialized out of the desert like a mirage made solid—low buildings clustered around a central market square, dusty streets that had probably looked the same for centuries, people beginning to emerge for morning prayers and the day’s work. It was simultaneously ancient and immediate, a reminder that regular life continued even when the world felt like it was burning down.

Tony pulled the truck to a stop near what looked like the village’s main gathering area. People were already staring—a military-style truck driven by foreigners, filled with blood-soaked passengers and traumatized women, was apparently unusual even in a region used to violence.

Ho Yinsen climbed out of the cab slowly, like his body had suddenly remembered it was exhausted. He stood for a moment, looking around with an expression Veer couldn’t quite read. Then he turned and spoke to Tony, gesturing toward a path leading away from the main square.

“I need to—” Ho Yinsen’s voice carried back to Veer, rough with emotion. “My family. Their graves. I need to tell them. That it’s done. That justice… I need to tell them.”

Tony nodded, understanding written across his features. “Take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere until—” He paused, pulling out a sat phone that had somehow survived the night’s chaos. “Until I call in the cavalry. Rhodes is going to lose his mind when he hears my voice.”

Ho Yinsen managed a small smile, then walked away down the path, his steps slow but purposeful. Tony watched him go, his jaw working like he was chewing on thoughts too complicated to voice.

The women began climbing out of the truck bed, some helping others, all of them moving with the careful deliberation of people still not quite believing they were free. Villagers approached, recognition and horror dawning as they realized what they were looking at. Women began calling out in local languages, and the freed captives were enveloped in embraces and exclamations and the kind of community care that happened in places where everyone knew everyone’s business.

Tony turned his attention to the phone, fingers moving across the keypad with increasing frustration. “Come on, come on. You’d think the military would have better satellite coverage in an active war zone.” He glanced up at Veer, who’d climbed down from the truck and was trying to brush off some of the dried blood with limited success. “How do I look? Presentable enough for a dramatic rescue reveal?”

“You look like you’ve been living in a cave for two months,” Veer said honestly.

“So, perfect for the ‘I survived against all odds’ photo shoot that’s definitely coming.” Tony’s fingers finally found the right sequence of numbers. He held the phone to his ear, and Veer watched his expression shift through several emotions as the call connected.

“Rhodes? Yeah, it’s me. No, I’m not a ghost. Well, technically I could be, but I don’t think ghosts need to make satellite phone calls.” A pause. “Afghanistan. Gulmira village. You know it?” Another pause, longer this time. “Yes, I’m serious. Yes, I’m actually—for Christ’s sake, Rhodey, when have I ever pranked you about being kidnapped?”

Even from several feet away, Veer could hear shouting from the other end of the line. Tony held the phone away from his ear, wincing. “Yeah, he’s taking it well,” he muttered to Veer.

The conversation continued for several minutes—Tony providing coordinates, describing their situation, occasionally defending his decision to destroy the weapons cache (“They were my weapons, I can blow them up if I want to!”), and ultimately promising to stay put until extraction arrived.

When he finally ended the call, Tony looked simultaneously relieved and exhausted. “Helicopter’s coming. ETA two hours. Rhodes is apparently ‘mobilizing every asset in the region’ and ‘preparing to have several heart attacks.'” He pocketed the phone and turned to find several of the rescued women approaching him.

The conversation that followed was halting, complicated by language barriers and trauma, but the gist was clear enough. These women had nowhere to go. Some had been kidnapped from other countries, others from nearby villages that might not be safe to return to. They needed help getting home, getting documents, getting lives back.

Tony listened, nodding along even when he clearly didn’t understand every word. Then he said, with the kind of certainty that came from having functionally unlimited resources, “I’ll take care of it. All of you. Documents, travel arrangements, medical care, therapy, whatever you need. You have my word.”

One of the women, braver or more desperate than the rest, asked something in broken English that sounded like “How can you promise?”

Tony pulled out his wallet—somehow still in his pocket after everything—and extracted a business card so worn it was barely legible. “Because I’m Tony Stark, and Stark Industries has more money than God. And more importantly, because you deserve better than what happened to you, and I’m going to make sure you get it.”

The women looked at each other, then at the card, then at Tony’s filthy, sincere face. Some nodded. Some cried. All of them seemed to stand a little straighter, like the promise of help had given them something to hold onto.

Veer watched this interaction with a strange feeling in his chest. This was the Tony Stark who would become Iron Man—not because of the armor, but because of this. This need to fix things, to help people, to use his resources and genius for something meaningful. The kidnapping would change Tony, the movie had shown that. But maybe it was already starting, right here in this dusty village with women who needed saving and a billionaire who’d just realized he could do more than build weapons.

As the women dispersed back into the care of the villagers, Tony turned and noticed Veer watching. “What? I said something wrong?”

“No,” Veer said. “You said something right. That’s probably worse.”

Tony snorted. Then his expression shifted to something more speculative. “Speaking of right—or wrong, depending on your moral framework—we should probably document this rescue for the people writing the check.”

He walked toward Veer, waving his phone. “Come on, let’s get a selfie. Proof of life, proof of rescue, proof that a mercenary covered in the blood of three hundred dead terrorists successfully completed his mission.”

Veer blinked. “You want to take a selfie. Right now.”

“Well, I can’t exactly send them a video tour of the burning compound, can I? This is the digital age, my friend. Pictures or it didn’t happen.” Tony held up the phone, angling it to capture both of them. “Smile! Or don’t. The blood-soaked thousand-yard stare probably sells the story better anyway.”

Veer didn’t smile. He stood next to Tony Stark, both of them looking like they’d survived the apocalypse, and let the photo happen. The click of the camera shutter seemed absurdly mundane given the circumstances.

Tony reviewed the image, nodding appreciatively. “Perfect. You look terrifying, I look like I need a month-long shower, and there’s enough dramatic lighting to make Michael Bay weep with envy.” He glanced at Veer. “You’re going to sell this online, aren’t you? ‘Selfie with Tony Stark immediately after rescue, please bid.’ I won’t even be mad, that’s solid entrepreneurship.”

“I’m sending it to my employer,” Veer said. “Proof of contract completion so they can start collecting payment from yours.”

“Wait, you don’t work independently?” Tony’s eyebrows rose. “You’re with an organization?”

“The Continental.” The name felt strange on Veer’s tongue, carrying weight he hadn’t fully processed yet. “They facilitate contracts, provide resources, take a cut of the payment. Standard mercenary organization stuff.”

Tony’s expression shifted to something more interested. “The Continental. As in the assassin hotel chain from… wait, that’s actually real? I thought that was urban legend. Mob mythology.”

“Very real.” Veer pulled out his own phone—thankfully still functional despite the night’s chaos—and began composing the message. “They have branches worldwide. Very professional. Very strict about their rules. And they take five percent of every contract, which means they’re getting five million of my hundred million.”

“Five million dollar finders’ fee,” Tony mused. “That’s actually reasonable by criminal organization standards. What about the weapons cache explosion? That’s extra, right? How much for the Michael Bay special?”

“That’s a private contract between us. They don’t get a cut of that.”

“Good.” Tony nodded decisively. “I’ll wire you an extra twenty million for that. Consider it hazard pay and a personal thank you for making sure those weapons never hurt anyone again.”

Veer’s fingers froze on his phone screen. “Twenty million.”

“Too low? I can go higher. I watched you tear through that compound like an avenging angel. Plus emotional damages for whatever trauma you’re definitely suppressing. Thirty million?”

“Twenty is fine,” Veer said quickly, before Tony could keep inflating the number into complete absurdity. “More than fine. Generous.”

“I’m a generous guy.” Tony’s grin was crooked, tired, but genuine. “Also, for the record, your organization’s name is terrifyingly ominous. The Continental. What’s next, The Intercontinental for overseas assassinations?”

Before Veer could respond to that—and he wasn’t sure how he would have—Ho Yinsen returned from his visit to the graves. His eyes were red but clearer, and he carried himself with something that might have been peace, or at least the beginning of it.

Tony moved to meet him, and they spoke quietly for a moment. Then both men approached Veer, who’d just finished sending the photo and contract completion notification to his Continental contact.

“So,” Tony said, “Rhodes is en route with enough military hardware to invade a small country. Should be here in about ninety minutes. You sticking around, or do you have other mercenary business to attend to?”

Veer considered. His instinct was to leave now, to return to the Continental branch in Kabul and collect his payment in person. But something in Tony’s tone, in the way his eyes kept scanning the horizon like he expected another attack any moment, made him pause.

“You want me to come with you,” Veer said. It wasn’t a question.

“I want someone who can rip through terrorists like tissue paper to stay within arm’s reach until I’m safely in California, yes.” Tony’s sarcasm couldn’t quite hide the underlying tension. “Call it paranoia from the guy who got kidnapped by his own military escort. I’m having trust issues.”

It was, Veer reflected, a completely reasonable position. In the original timeline, Tony had been attacked while under military protection. The betrayal ran deep. And now, even with rescue imminent, he was in hostile territory with limited defenses beyond one exhausted doctor and one blood-soaked mercenary.

“I haven’t been paid yet anyway,” Veer said. “Might as well see the job through to California. Make sure you actually reach home.”

Tony’s relief was palpable. “Excellent. I promise to be only moderately annoying during the flight. Ho, you’re coming too, right? Please say yes. I can’t handle military transport without someone to mock the food with.”

Ho Yinsen smiled, and it was the first genuine smile Veer had seen from him. “I have nothing left in Afghanistan now. Perhaps it is time to see America, this land of opportunity you Americans always speak of.”

“It’s mostly traffic and overpriced coffee, but the opportunity exists if you know where to look.” Tony clapped both men on the shoulders. “Great. We’re a team. The genius, the doctor, and the terrifying murder machine. We could have our own TV show.”

“I’m not a murder machine,” Veer protested.

“You killed three hundred people in one night.”

“Murder machine implies I enjoyed it.”

“Fair point. Reluctant murder machine. That’s even more marketable.”

They settled in to wait for extraction, finding shade near the village center. Villagers brought them water and simple food, which they accepted gratefully. Veer used some of the water to clean his hands and face, watching brownish-red liquid pool on the ground and being reminded that this was people. That had been people.

He pushed the thought away. There would be time for moral crisis later. Right now, he needed to focus on completing the job.

His phone buzzed. Message from The Continental.

Contract completion confirmed. Photo verification accepted. Happy Hogan (contractor representative) has been notified. Payment processing initiated. Funds will be available for withdrawal at any Continental location within 72 hours. Excellent work, Mr. Singh.

Veer showed the message to Tony. “Your security chief is apparently named Happy Hogan.”

“Best security chief in the business, despite the name that sounds like a children’s book character.” Tony pulled out his own phone again. “He’s probably losing his mind right now. Let me—”

But before Tony could dial, his phone rang. The caller ID made him grin. “Speaking of people losing their minds.” He answered. “Happy! Miss me?”

The voice on the other end was loud enough for Veer to hear every word. “TONY! Jesus Christ, Tony! You’re alive! You’re really—hold on, I’m getting Pepper. PEPPER! GET IN HERE!”

There was a commotion, the sound of rapid footsteps, and then a woman’s voice, tight with barely controlled emotion. “Tony?”

The change in Tony was instantaneous. The sarcasm fell away, the defensive humor evaporated, and what remained was something raw and vulnerable. “Hey, Pepper.”

“Tony.” The name came out half sob, half gasp. “Oh my God, Tony. We thought—I thought—”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I worried you.” Tony turned slightly away from Veer and Ho Yinsen, but not far enough to hide the way his voice cracked. “I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m coming home.”

“Are you hurt? Do you need medical care? Where are you?”

“Afghanistan still. Gulmira village. Military extraction is en route. I’ll be at a base within a few hours, then home as soon as they clear me to travel.”

Pepper Potts—because who else could it be—was crying now. Veer could hear it clearly, the sound of two months of fear and worry and suppressed grief finally releasing. “I’ll have the house ready. And the workshop. And every cheeseburger in California waiting for you.”

“God, I love you,” Tony said, and then froze like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—”

“I love you too, you idiot.” Pepper’s voice was thick with tears and laughter. “Come home. Just… please come home.”

They talked for several more minutes, Pepper asking questions about his health and his plans and whether he’d seen any news coverage. Tony deflecting most of it, promising details later, just wanting to hear her voice. Eventually the call ended with promises to update her the moment he reached the military base.

Tony lowered the phone and stared at it for a long moment. Then he became aware of Veer watching him with an expression that was probably too knowing.

“What?” Tony asked defensively.

“You have a girlfriend worried about you.”

“Pepper’s not my girlfriend. She’s my assistant. My extremely competent, patient-beyond-reason assistant.”

“Who you just told you love.”

“In a platonic, deep-respect, she-runs-my-life kind of way.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony’s jaw worked. His fingers tapped against his phone. Finally: “Okay, fine. Maybe I’ve been thinking about her a lot. Maybe when you’re locked in a cave thinking you’re going to die, you realize which person you kept thinking about wasn’t any of the models or actresses or whoever. Maybe spending two months in hell clarifies what actually matters versus what’s just… distraction.”

“That’s surprisingly mature and self-aware of you.”

“Don’t get used to it. The sarcasm will be back at full force once I’ve had a shower and a cheeseburger.”

Ho Yinsen, who’d been quietly observing this exchange, smiled softly. “It is good to love someone and know they love you back. Hold onto that, Tony. Not everyone gets a second chance.”

The words hung in the air, carrying the weight of Ho Yinsen’s own losses. Tony nodded, understanding. “I will. I promise.”

The sound of helicopter rotors saved them from further emotional vulnerability. Three military helicopters appeared on the horizon, approaching fast and low. They touched down in the village square, kicking up massive clouds of dust, and armed soldiers poured out in textbook formation.

And at the center of it all, looking like he’d aged five years in two months, was Colonel James Rhodes.

The reunion was everything you’d expect: Rhodes looking like he wanted to both hug Tony and punch him, Tony making jokes to deflect from his own emotion, both men ultimately grabbing each other in the kind of embrace that spoke of friendship forged over years and tested by crisis.

Veer, Ho Yinsen, and the rescued women were loaded onto the helicopters with military efficiency. Medical personnel immediately began examining everyone, asking questions, taking notes. Someone tried to separate Veer for questioning about all the blood, but Tony intervened with the kind of authority that came from being a billionaire who owned half the military’s weapons systems.

“He’s with me. The blood isn’t his. And before you ask, yes, it’s all from bad guys. Very bad guys who are now very dead bad guys. Moving on.”

Rhodes looked between Tony and Veer, clearly wanting to ask about a dozen questions, but settled for: “We’re going to have a very long debriefing when we get back.”

“Looking forward to it,” Tony said with absolutely no sincerity.

The helicopters lifted off, banking away from Gulmira village toward the nearest U.S. military base. Below them, the desert stretched endlessly, beautiful and terrible and indifferent to the human dramas played out on its surface.

Veer watched Afghanistan disappear beneath them and tried not to think about the three hundred and fifty-one lives that had ended to make this rescue possible. Tried not to wonder if the system was right now calculating how much closer he was to fully becoming Zeno Zoldyck.

Tried not to hear that approving voice in his head saying: Good work. The job is done. That’s all that matters.

He failed on all counts.

But at least Tony Stark was alive, heading home to the woman he loved and the life he was about to revolutionize. At least Ho Yinsen had survived to see his family’s killers punished. At least the women had been freed from a nightmare that would have continued indefinitely without intervention.

It wasn’t redemption. Veer didn’t kid himself about that. Three hundred and fifty-one deaths weren’t erased by saving a dozen lives, no matter how important those lives might be to the world’s future.

But maybe it was something. Maybe it was enough to keep him human, or at least to keep trying to be human, even as he merged further with a template designed to create the perfect assassin.

The helicopter carried them toward safety, and Veer closed his eyes against the morning sun and the weight of everything he’d become in a single night.

Behind his closed eyelids, numbers scrolled:

Template: Zeno Zoldyck (48.4%)

Contract: Completed

Payment: $120,000,000 (pending)

Bodies: 351

Humanity: ???

Some calculations, it seemed, didn’t have easy answers.