3

Tony watched as the bleak landscape of Afghanistan rushed past the Humvee’s window. The vehicle was cramped, sweaty, and hot—a far cry from the air-conditioned luxury Tony had known all his life. He adjusted the collar of his expensive suit and glanced at the soldiers riding with him. None of them seemed bothered by the heat or the bumpy road. Buried under their gear, all three soldiers looked alike to Tony.

“Oh, I get it,” Tony said after a time. “You guys aren’t allowed to talk. Is that it?”

“No,” Jimmy replied. “We’re allowed to talk.”

Ramirez flashed Tony a smile. “I think these boys are just intimidated.”

Tony nearly jumped. “You’re a woman!” he blurted.

The other soldiers chuckled.

Tony’s face reddened as he straightened up in his seat. “I would apologize for not realizing, but isn’t that what we’re fighting here for? The right of all people to be equal?” He smiled back at her, but Ramirez merely shook her head.

“Mr. Stark, sir?” Pratt asked. “Is it cool if I take a picture with you?”

“Yes. It’s very cool,” Tony said. Then he added, “I don’t want to see this on your page.”

Grinning, Pratt crowded next to Tony as Jimmy framed them in a digital camera. Tony unbuckled his seat belt and put his arm around Pratt’s shoulder. One of them was making a peace sign.

Just then, a huge explosion rocked the truck. Tony watched through the windshield as an enormous ball of fire knocked the Humvee ahead of them off the dirt road.

Tony slammed into the side of the Humvee. His gaze fell on the right side-view mirror just as the Humvee behind them blew up.

Trapped between two burning vehicles, Tony’s Humvee skidded to a stop. The sound of gunfire rattled the Humvee’s windows. Rhodey was right, Tony thought. We should have done this in Nevada.

“Stay here!” Pratt commanded. He, Ramirez, and Jimmy piled out of the Humvee, ready to fight. As they left, another explosion filled the air with dust.

Tony peered out the window, trying to see what was happening. The soldiers took up defensive positions, firing through the clouds of dust kicked up by the bomb. One of them ran into the billowing cloud, trying to secure the Humvee’s position.

As Tony ducked down, yet another explosion rocked the vehicle, shattering the window above his head. A shower of glass rained down on Tony’s two-hundred-dollar haircut. He knew he was doomed if he stayed in the Humvee. So he scrambled across the seat and out the far door.

Tony stumbled across the rugged landscape, looking for cover. Smoke stung his eyes and the sound of gunfire echoed in his head. The whole convoy had ground to a halt. They were trapped.

Something landed nearby with a soft thud—an unexploded rocket-propelled grenade. Tony gaped at the info stenciled on the side of the explosive: USM 11676—STARK MUNITIONS.

The enemy was shooting at him with weapons made by his company. Tony turned and ran. Please let it be a dud! he thought. Please let it be—

A blaze of blinding white light surrounded him as the grenade went off. The blast hurled Tony through the air and he landed hard on the ground. The air rushed out of his lungs, and the world around him faded away.

When Tony came to, he found himself tied to a chair in a dark cave. Ragged, makeshift bandages covered his body. Every part of him hurt—especially his chest. It was all he could do to stay conscious.

Two scruffy guards, armed with machine guns, stood nearby. On the other side of the cave, a video camera focused on a tall man who seemed to be the leader of these people. Tony realized the men must be insurgents—the rebel fighters who had attacked his convoy. The tall man read a prepared statement for the camera in a language Tony didn’t understand, probably Arabic or Pashto. Next to him stood a line of armed, hooded men holding up a banner showing ten interlocking rings—a sign Tony had seen before on the news. It was the symbol of a well-known insurgent faction.

The leader finished reading and thrust a huge knife into the air. The others cried their approval. The camera-man turned the camera toward Tony. The leader stepped forward, his knife gleaming in the semidarkness. Thankfully, Tony passed out.

When Tony opened his eyes again, he was in some kind of emergency room—though it didn’t look like a very good one. He was strapped to a bed and connected to numerous wires and tubes. Everything around him, even the medical equipment, looked dirty and ill-repaired. An aging man in a dirty doctor’s smock stood by a nearby sink, shaving. He didn’t notice that Tony had woken up.

Feeling thirsty, Tony reached for a pitcher of water on a nearby table, but the tubes and wires connecting him to the medical machines wouldn’t let him stretch that far. He grabbed hold of the wires and pulled, trying to rip them out. Somehow, he didn’t have the strength. His chest ached terribly.

The doctor noticed his efforts. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said in slightly accented English. His dark eyes strayed meaningfully down the wires to a nearby car battery. A chill rushed down Tony’s spine. Who were these people? What had they done to him?

He put his hand on his bandaged chest and remembered he was in the hands of the enemy. He’d been taken prisoner—and they’d done something to his heart. TSQADUTyI/gaWHIrnVAlW1jBMQU5pGEwGWSSH14koyoCUy5L8AMi7FR4MGgbqCiM