The vents that Vanger had cut into the Party Pack were to be his undoing. These openings were not part of the original Iron Man schematics and therefore did not show up on any systems check. So Vanger, oblivious to the danger, fired ahead gung ho with his pressure build, convinced that his only option was to unleash hellfire and scorch through whatever was blocking his pipes. Unfortunately for him, his nozzles still had gunk in the tubes and his cooling and pressure vents were completely encased in a second skin of armor, so the Party Pack quickly grew hotter than any party should ever be. In fact, in less than ten seconds the temperature rose at such a screaming rate that the entire jerry-rigged flamethrowing apparatus virtually ate itself and exploded, which at that point was a relief for poor Cole Vanger, who at the very end realized he was not as fond of flames as he had thought.

  It was not smooth sailing for Tony Stark, either. He was ejected from the back of the suit twenty feet over the slate-colored water, with little in the way of insulation other than some retro-trendy sports gear and inflatable leg casts. In the ten seconds it took poor unfortunate Cole Vanger to superheat, Tony dropped into the ocean with a remarkable lack of elegance for one who was usually so coordinated. One unkind reporter would later describe his tumble as a “fall from grace,” which would make Rhodey almost bust a gut laughing when he saw the meme. Then Tony would take offense and they’d wrestle and knock over a costly Guggi brass-rimmed bowl. But Tony was not thinking about taking offense during the fall; he was realizing that he had never seen his own butt from that angle before and maybe he should do a few glute exercises if he survived. Then he was in the water, watching semiconscious as Vanger went supernova overhead and groggily thinking, Pretty colors, before the icy temperature shocked him alert and the thigh-high leg casts bobbed him up to the surface.

  So no, it was not smooth sailing for Tony Stark. It was more like smooth floating.

  Tony lay there for a few moments, savoring not being dead and ignoring the hundreds of Iron Man fans shooting photos of him from shore.

  One rangy blond man jogged to the center of the bridge while everyone else was racing off. He hung over the railing, which was sagging dangerously, and pointed the funnel of a bullhorn at Tony.

  “Mr. Stark, is it yourself?”

  Tony was not sure how to answer this question. “Ah…yes. I am myself.”

  “I thought as much, unless you were someone else, which you were earlier, by the way. Inspector Conroy here. Irish security service. I suppose you could say that between the pair of us, we saved the day.”

  Tony chuckled and it sent waves of pain traveling down his legs.

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “That other fellow who was you before, he was a bit moody, wasn’t he? With all the whooshing and what have you.”

  “Moody. That’s one word for him. And he certainly did like his whooshing.”

  “And I’ll tell you another thing,” continued Conroy. “You’re a brave man, taking a dip in that water. Sure the bacteria in there is off the charts. You’ll have it coming out of both ends for weeks.”

  Tony realized that Ireland was quite different from other countries, and he found he liked this Conroy person instinctively, even though they were carrying on a normal conversation in the middle of this most abnormal set of circumstances. He also saw how the inspector was taking stock of the situation and speaking tersely into a radio while also chatting with Tony, and he thought that maybe this guy was a whole lot sharper than his chitchat suggested.

  “You do see that my legs are broken, Inspector?”

  Conroy winced. “I saw that, all right. More bends on them than old winter twigs. I was distracting you—that’s a technique, you know. Hostage negotiators love that one. Can’t get enough of it. Magicians, too. Like that Blaine fella.”

  “You’re doing it again, right?”

  “Right you are, Mr. Stark. Let’s just me and you have a little chin wag until the lifeboat gets here. Couple of minutes is all.”

  Tony thought that a little “chin wag” with the charming inspector would be quite delightful, and then he remembered that this affair was far from over.

  He coughed, clearing the remaining water from his throat, and asked quietly, “Prototony, you still in there, or did you hightail it back to base?”

  The question was picked up by the built-in microphone in Tony’s earpiece.

  “Still in your ear, T-Star,” said the AI. “You know P-Tone wouldn’t abandon you unless absolutely necessary.”

  “How far away is the yacht?”

  “I’ve already called her in. Two minutes, max.”

  “Good. Order more painkillers. And coffee. And some thermal underwear. Maybe a cheeseburger.”

  “Okay, boss. Anything else?”

  Tony thought of the Mandarin, who had caused all this mayhem, and he shivered with cold and rage.

  “Yeah. Switch on the 3-D printer. I need some new hardware.”

  The whistle of Conroy’s bullhorn took Tony’s attention away from his own ear.

  “Who are you talking to there, Tony boy?” asked the inspector. “Hearing voices, are you? I’d say that’s the pain. Pain makes a man hear and see strange things. I broke my nose once and I thought I saw the Road Runner. And sure that fella’s a cartoon character.”

  Tony smiled. “I want that guy on the payroll,” he said to Prototony. “I could listen to him all day.”

  “But not today, T-Star?”

  “No, not today,” said Tony, thinking now about Saoirse. He had left her at the Mandarin’s mercy—not that he’d had a choice, but that didn’t make him feel any better about it. “I’m on a mission today.”

  “What kind of mission?”

  Tony flicked his eyes sideways to see the Tanngrisnir slicing through the water on automatic pilot.

  “I’m not sure yet,” he said grimly. “Either rescue or revenge.”

  Seventy seconds later, the Stark yacht drew alongside its owner, dipped a robotic scoop into the river, and bore the billionaire playboy philanthropist toward Dublin Bay.

  “Would you look at that?” said Conroy to no one in particular. “The fella has an enormous scoop on his yacht. Money to burn, I suppose.” Conroy was halfway to shore before it occurred to him that he had possibly asked the wrong Tony for Taylor Swift’s contact details.

  “Chance missed, Inspector,” he admonished himself. “Golden opportunity shaken off.”

  Then something else occurred to him: if he let Tony Stark sail out of this complicated situation, the higher-ups would have his guts for neckties.

  “Hold on there now, Tony boy,” he called, running back toward the yacht. “I know we’re friends and so forth, but there are serious questions to answer here. Like how come one of your suits just attacked the convention center?”

  At this point the beleaguered bridge sagged alarmingly and the cables rippled like jump ropes, and Inspector Conroy found himself alone on a bridge that was about to collapse into the River Liffey.

  Diavolo, boy, he thought, this is one of those sticky situations you were trained for. Some quick thinking is called for.

  Diavolo Conroy’s mother had often repeated the old chestnut, “Up here for thinking, Diavolo,” pointing at her head, “and down there for dancing,” pointing at her feet. Conroy had always thought she was stating the obvious, but right now he could see that it was a time for dancing rather than thinking. His feet took on a mind of their own and danced him between the raining blobs of molten metal and around the fallen cables and down the sloping walkway that had dipped to such an extent that it more or less formed a gangway for Conroy to step onto the roof of the Tanngrisnir’s forward cabin.

  It was such a bizarre way to escape deadly danger that Diavolo Conroy could barely believe it had actually happened.

  “You’re probably in shock, so you are,” he said to himself, and then he smoothed back his sandy hair and climbed down a ladder to the main deck. Just in time, as it turned out, for if he had still been up top when Tony Stark opened the throttle, he would have been blown off the roof like an insect.

  On board the Mandarin’s boat, the mood was grim to say the least. The only permitted communication with the outside world was an old rabbit-eared television tuned to an Irish news channel. And while the news was riveting, it certainly was not the news the Mandarin and his shrinking crew had been hoping for.

  The Mandarin permitted himself an explosive moment of rage, punching a hole in the television screen and causing quite an impressive shower of sparks and a minor explosion.

  “The devil take you, Tony Stark,” he said, and his crew shrank back against the galley walls, moving themselves out of arm’s reach.

  Spin Zhuk did not shrink far enough, and the Mandarin pinned her against the refrigerator, his fingers encircling her neck.

  “The girl is dead?” he said.

  “Yes, chef,” said Spin. “One shot. You heard it.”

  “We all heard a shot, but you know the procedure. A kill must be confirmed by photographic evidence. You produced no photograph.”

  “She was just a child, and I did not consider her a threat.”

  The Mandarin’s fingers tightened. “This girl hacked Iron Man, and you did not consider her a threat?”

  Spin’s voice rasped on the way out. “And anyway, the waves were taking her, and her head was blown almost clean off. I swear it, chef.”

  The Mandarin stared deep into Zhuk’s eyes and the Ukrainian driver could swear that her memories were an open book to this man. His green-eyed gaze seemed to bore into her and filet the truth from her lies. But eventually, he released her neck and stroked her trembling cheek.

  “But of course, Spin. My dear Spin. You have always been my most loyal soldier. You have never let me down. I am—what is the word?—testy. Yes, that is it. Testy. We must proceed without Mr. Vanger.”

  “You are speaking of plan B,” said Freddie Leveque.

  The Mandarin whirled on him. “No, Freddie. The term plan B implies some inferiority in the strategy. I prefer to call it our contingency plan. We know from our sources that five of the seven ministers will stay at the luxury golf estate, the Royal G. This is where we will strike. The attack will not be so public, but at least my reputation will be mostly intact, as will our mission. The other two ministers—Russia and Argentina, I believe—can be picked off at a later date. Freddie, you will enjoy this responsibility.”

  “I will enjoy zis,” said Leveque.

  The Mandarin frowned. “In the name of heaven, Freddie, learn to pronounce your T-Hs. You are almost forty years old. I will give you two weeks; after that there will be consequences.”

  Leveque’s face lost its usual cocky grin. He was already on shaky ground, having been outfoxed by Tony Stark, and now the chef was taking issue with his pronunciation.

  “Of course, chef. I will do zis…dis…this immédiatement.”

  “Very well,” said the Mandarin, seemingly mollified. “I thank you, and my ears thank you. And now, it seems obvious that Mr. Vanger will not be coming back, so take us out, Miss Zhuk.”

  “Yes, chef. Out we shall go.”

  “Full stealth every inch of the way. Low speed and no jets. If a fisherman sees us, I want him to think we are a breaching whale. There is plenty of time.”

  “Yes, zere is time,” said Leveque, and then, “There is time. Mon dieu, this will be difficult.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said the Mandarin. “But a lot less difficult than eating with your mouth sewn shut, eh, mon ami?”

  Leveque instinctively pawed at his lips to ensure they had not already been sewn shut, then simply nodded his understanding, unwilling to risk another sentence. The Mandarin did not make specific threats lightly. Freddie Leveque had personally witnessed his knocking a person’s block off. It had taken him three swings with a sledgehammer, but he had managed it. Leveque would never forget the chef’s comment when the job was done.

  “I am surprised,” the Mandarin had said, slightly bemused. “I had assumed ‘knocking someone’s block off’ to be a figure of speech, but it seems to have its roots in reality. Impractical, certainly, but possible. Interesting, n’est-ce pas, Freddie?”

  And even Freddie Leveque, who was known for his quick temper and violent outbursts, had been shocked.

  So when the Mandarin threatened to sew Leveque’s mouth shut, Freddie was absolutely certain he would do it, even over something as trivial as bad pronunciation. And Leveque was equally certain that there would be no anesthetic involved.

  When Spin Zhuk had sworn to her boss that the waves had taken Saoirse Tory’s body, the wheelwoman had been lying, as far as she knew. But in actuality there was some truth to her words, for the waves had borne Saoirse’s body away, inasmuch as they had carried off the Mandarin’s stealth gunboat, in which Saoirse was now hiding.

  And why in the name of heaven and all other postmortal states would the Irish girl hide out on the craft of a ruthless assassin who had often reiterated his desire to see her dead at the very least?

  Here follows the logic: Saoirse reasoned that the Mandarin and his troops would scour the island looking for her, but they would never think to search their own boat. After all, what kind of lunatic would hide out inside the mouth of a shark, so to speak? Also, there was the chance that she could steal the boat and leave the entire bunch on the island to be rounded up by the authorities.

  So when the blowholes temporarily dislodged Spin Zhuk from the earth, Saoirse ducked into a ravine and skipped through the familiar shadows, flanking her bamboozled would-be captor. With every step the familiar crags bolstered her confidence, and the ghost of her grandfather guided her path.

  Twenty-eight seconds, girl. You snatched my record. Watch your feet now. There’s dark weed on that rock. And up there, to your left, a handhold. Remember? I showed you that on the day you lost your knife to the ocean.

  Even imagining her grandfather was enough to soothe Saoirse’s fevered mind.

  I could stay down here, she realized, in the network of ravines, and they would never find me.

  It had been her grandfather who had taken the young Saoirse off for long summer days hiking the island, exploring the drumlins and gullies, watching the pollack bump their noses against the harbor wall and the tiny crabs scuttle around on the seabed like harried businesspeople on their way to work. It had been her grandfather, too, the mariner, who had told her about Fourni and the struggles of the people in their daily lives. Because of Granddad Francis she had involved her entire school in fund-raising to build the orphanage in Port Verdé. Because of her grandfather she had designed the translator app that had paid for most of the project. Because of him she had visited Port Verdé herself and met the young girls who had been helped by her school’s efforts. And because of her efforts she had known her grandfather was proud of her before he died.

  So no, she would not hide in the gullies.

  The man she had known as Joseph Chen had tricked her. He had made her an accomplice to murder, and she would stop him or die trying. Which was why Saoirse Tory chose to abandon the trails and hidey-holes of her younger days and reenter the fray.

  The gunboat, she thought. Perhaps I can radio the coast guard. And if I can steal the craft, then the Mandarin will be stranded on Little Saltee until the authorities arrive.

  The boat was an unfamiliar model, but Saoirse had been around seafarers all her life and was pretty confident she could figure out the controls.

  After all, she thought, I flew the Iron Man suit.

  With this daring—and some might fairly say insane—plan in mind, Saoirse took the moral high road, which was the actual low road that led through the granite crags to the small harbor hewn by medieval chisels from the solid rock.

  Her determination was almost derailed by the sound of a single shot that she for an instant thought was aimed at her, but she quickly realized that Spin Zhuk must be signaling to the others that she had escaped.

  Time is ticking on, Saoirse girl, said her granddad in her ear. Those fellas will be coming ’round the mountain any second. If you’re set on this plan, then make your move.

  To which the ghost of Tony Stark added, Yeah, Friday. Let’s see what you’ve got under the hood.

  So Saoirse left the cover of the rocks and sprinted down the short pier, thinking, Now Stark’s in my head? I suppose turnaround is fair play, as Granddad always said.

  The gunship seemed unguarded, and in all honesty it did not seem much like a gunship. Freddie Leveque had pronounced it gunsheep in his French accent, which Saoirse thought now was appropriate.

  A wolf in gunsheep’s clothing. Ha-ha.

  At first glance the gunship appeared to be nothing more sinister than a large fishing trawler, which was only sinister if you happened to be a fish. It wasn’t factory-ship big, maybe fifty feet from stem to stern with a sleek profile for a work vessel, but nothing too unusual—until one looked a little closer and realized the hull was reinforced with armored plating and the cabin roof bristled with enough porcupine-quill antennae to hack the CIA, which they had, twice.

  For now the boat was unguarded, though Saoirse knew it would not be for long, so she would have to jump through this window of opportunity while it was open a crack.

  She jumped through the metaphorical window, which was an actual door, and was relieved a second time to find no one on the bridge. She hopped onto the stool by the main control panel and ratcheted it up until she was level with the console.

  “Moron,” she said to the console, which wasn’t fair, because the console was definitely not a moron. In fact, it was a high-tech surveillance and navigation system with two-thousand-bit encryption, which was virtually unbreakable. But as far as Saoirse was concerned, the key word was virtually.

  Iron Man was considered absolutely secure, and I broke into that system.

  And perhaps Saoirse would have managed it—she certainly had the smarts—but she was outfoxed by the thumbprint scanner on the power button that would wake the computers from sleep. That and the sound of footsteps on the dock.