“That’s all she’s got,” said Prototony. “Which is a lot more than what we’re about to have if I’m right about that missile the gunship has just fired.”

  Conroy felt his stomach sink. “What about that missile?”

  “Two words,” said Prototony Lite. “Electromagnetic pulse.”

  “Isn’t that three words?” asked Diavolo, but Prototony had already shut itself down to preserve whatever it could of the system before the EMP hit, leaving Inspector Conroy behind the wheel of a fifty-ton lump of aquaplaning metal.

  EMP, thought Conroy. Meaning that the wheel I am behind will momentarily become useless and this speeding boat will go wherever it’s pointed.

  Having realized this, Inspector Conroy pointed the Tanngrisnir where he wanted it to go.

  And just in time, because no sooner had he yanked the wheel than every electrical system on the yacht died and Diavolo felt about as in control as a barnacle on a whale’s back.

  Luckily, the captain’s chair seat belt had no electrical components, so Conroy was able to strap in before impact—at which point the grid above the captain’s chair, which Conroy had not noticed, dropped twenty-five gallons of compression gel that congealed around his frame, turning him into what looked like an enormous blob of mucous and saving him from certain death.

  It was quite possible that Leveque’s change of expression ranked among the fastest ever achieved. One millisecond he was smug and bloodthirsty; the next he was comically amazed, not to mention flying through the air in the wreckage of his crow’s nest. The amazed expression changed pretty quickly, too, into slack-jawed unconsciousness, as he was knocked out by a concussive charge that did not explode but rather clocked him on the temple with its timing mechanism. So to recap: he was clocked into concussion by the clock on a concussive charge.

  Stark’s yacht had rammed the Ajax at such a speed that the keel snapped right off its fins and literally boarded the second boat. This assault took the legs out from under Leveque’s crow’s nest so cleanly that the structure landed on the bridge of Stark’s yacht, crashing through the ceiling and smashing the computer banks and control panels.

  Conroy remembered Tony’s words—“Don’t put a scratch on my yacht”—and thought, Oops.

  It was a hysterical thought, really, as Conroy’s situation was so unbelievable that half of him thought he was lying in a coma somewhere and dreaming the whole adventure.

  If my eyes don’t deceive me, then I am sitting on the bridge of Iron Man’s yacht having double-deckered the Mandarin’s gunboat.

  There’s no way in the name of little green leprechauns that this is actually happening.

  But happening or not, he should proceed as though what he was seeing was reality, because if it was reality, then surely some terrorist type would be along to skewer him with something sharp any second.

  Perhaps you’re already skewered, Diavolo boy.

  Conroy moved his hand slowly through the compression gel, which stank to high heaven—something he would have to mention to Stark—and unlocked his safety belt. Then he poked a hole in the gel and wiggled himself out. Most of the blob collapsed onto the deck, but a slimy residue clung to Diavolo Conroy, pasting his blond hair flat to his skull.

  I feel like I got sneezed out by a giant, he thought, and when he caught sight of himself in an unbroken pane of glass, he realized that he also looked like he got sneezed out by a giant.

  Conroy checked himself as best he could and was relieved to find that, aside from a painful safety belt burn across his chest, he seemed remarkably undamaged. That was more than he could say for the boat itself, which was crumpled like a discarded candy wrapper.

  Now that Conroy had survived, his survival instincts kicked in. He searched for his printed weapons, which lay strewn around the deck, only to find that not one was operational.

  Of course. The EMP, he realized. He had coded the weapons to his thumbprints, so they had electronic components.

  All fried. All I have left is…

  Diavolo had printed two more things.

  A hurley and a small hard ball.

  For those unfamiliar with the Irish national sport of hurling, it could be fairly described as hockey meets martial arts. Two groups of players armed with wooden sticks push themselves to the limits of human physicality to put a small leather ball into the other team’s goal. On seeing a video reel of the All-Ireland final, famous Japanese writer Yukio Mishima was heard to describe the players as possessing “the spirits of samurai,” such was their skill with the hurling stick.

  Diavolo Conroy could fairly be said to have the spirit of a samurai and had been a rising star in the sport until he blew out his knee coming down from a six-foot midair clash with a two-hundred-pound fullback from Galway. Conroy was never happier than when he had a hurley and ball to fool around with, and he’d thought earlier that as long as he had a 3-D printer at his disposal, he might as well print up something to keep his hands busy.

  So he had run off the world’s first 3-D printed hurley and sliotar, as the hard little ball was called. Diavolo found the hurley now underneath a smashed monitor. The ball was nowhere in sight.

  Conroy picked up the hurley and felt instantly calmer.

  Feels pretty good, he thought. Even better than the real thing, to quote the U2 lads.

  He’d barely had time to twirl the stick when Freddie Leveque—or as Conroy instantly thought of him, big burly man who wants to kill me—came crashing through the ceiling with a wider range of weapons at his disposal than a Call of Duty character. Perhaps they were active and perhaps not. Diavolo wasn’t about to take any chances.

  “Stay where you are, bucko,” said Conroy. “You are under all sorts of arrest.”

  Leveque removed his helmet and shook his head to clear the stars he was seeing, then executed a backflip from a prone position, which Conroy would have thought impossible—but then again, a lot of impossible things were happening that day.

  “You would arrest Freddie Leveque wiz a stick?” said the man, and he grinned like a wolf that had spotted a hunk of unguarded bloody meat.

  Conroy did not think that particular smile boded well for him.

  “It’s not just a stick,” he said. “It’s a hurling stick.”

  “Well, in zat case…” said Leveque, reaching toward his thigh holster.

  Conroy moved pretty fast for a guy with a bum knee, and he rapped Leveque’s knuckles with the hurley. “Don’t do it, big boy. I will batter you into the middle of next week.”

  Leveque dropped the gun and danced backward, sucking his knuckles.

  “What is zis? We are not in ze schoolyard.”

  What would Stark say? Conroy asked himself, then said, “We’re not in the schoolyard, pal. We’re on my playground now.”

  Leveque frowned. “What is zis meaning? Playground? Zis is no playground. You are crazy.”

  He reached for a second weapon and Conroy whacked it clear out of his hand with the hurley, sending the pistol skittering across the deck.

  No longer wasting time on words, Leveque launched himself through the air, somehow bringing his knees up to bash Conroy in the chest and sending him staggering backward. As Conroy was staggering, Leveque managed to balance on the inspector’s chest, maintaining his own altitude and dishing out several punches to the Irishman’s shoulders and face.

  As he was being beaten backward, pain sensors flaring white, Conroy realized that the terrorist had some serious combat skills. I will have to dig deep to get out of this clash alive.

  Leveque, for his part, was outraged that a crazy Irish guy had somehow disabled the most advanced combat craft in the world. But he was grateful that the crazy Irish guy had survived so he could kill him.

  Leveque spotted an exposed overhead pipe and grabbed it. He ran up Conroy’s body, finishing the move by smashing the unfortunate inspector in the forehead with both heels. The Irish policeman dropped to his knees and skidded across the deck until he was brought up short by a jumbled pile of electronics.

  The barely conscious Conroy thought, This is it. I can’t take this guy. Good-bye, Shiv.

  But even thinking his darling wife’s name lit a spark of determination in Conroy’s heart.

  No. Shiv wants a family, and I will not leave her without one.

  Conroy still had his hurley in one hand, but it was of little use at this distance, and his enemy was reaching for a shotgun strapped to his back. Only a fool brought a stick to a shotgun fight.

  There must be something, Conroy thought desperately.

  And there was something, sitting there between his knees.

  The sliotar. The hurling ball. It was fate.

  “Rise up, men of Ireland,” said Conroy, blood dripping from his lips. “Rise up and be counted.”

  “More nonsense, mon ami,” said Freddie Leveque. “I am tired of zis.”

  And as the mercenary’s fingers found the shotgun’s stock, Diavolo Conroy launched into a sequence of moves he had completed so many times in his hurling career that they were named after him.

  When a player is fouled in hurling, they receive a free shot. The accepted upper scoring range for the free-shot taker is perhaps a hundred and thirty meters. Young Diavolo Conroy had developed a system of explosive movement from a kneeling position that added impetus to his swing and distance to the shot. His coach had nicknamed this style of free-taking the Diavolo Special, and for a while it had been quite popular on the youth circuit. This was the action Conroy’s body opted for now, when faced with the most dangerous enemy of his career.

  Leveque had eight shells in his pump-action shotgun.

  Diavolo Conroy had one ball. One chance.

  Leveque talked as he moved, which was a bad habit of his that the Mandarin had warned him would get him in trouble one day.

  “Mon dieu, c’est terrible. What a day. First zis Iron Man guy, and now zis little leprechaun policeman. Enough. C’est fini.”

  As he spoke, he yanked the shotgun from its magnetic holder on his back and pumped a round into the chamber. At this range the load would take the Irishman’s head clean off his shoulders, and perhaps then Freddie would feel a little better.

  I can still eliminate ze ministers, he realized. Zere is time.

  Leveque aimed the barrel at his enemy, who seemed to be making some kind of attempt to save himself.

  But what matter? Escape is impossible.

  Not impossible, as it turned out, but very difficult.

  From a kneeling position, Diavolo Conroy led with his chest, lurching forward in a movement that seemed almost apelike. He dipped his head, dropping his center of gravity, and whipped his hurl arm back until the tendons screamed.

  You’re getting old, Diavolo, he told himself. Old and stiff.

  With his right hand he scooped up the hard ball, slotting the ridges between his fingers, and then, pistoning his legs, he literally catapulted forward toward Leveque just as the man’s finger closed around the shotgun trigger.

  Time seemed to slow as Conroy threw the ball in the air, then whipped the hurl around to connect. It was a solid strike, and the ball sped straight and true, directly into Leveque’s eye socket. The Frenchman reared back as he pulled the trigger, causing his shotgun blast to pull high and over Conroy’s head.

  Leveque was out cold before he hit the deck. He was actually lucky not to be dead, as Conroy’s strike had put pressure on his eyeball, forcing it into his skull. Two more millimeters and his brain would have exploded. Freddie Leveque was out of the game, and Inspector Conroy had beaten the odds and survived.

  Conroy’s Diavolo Special took him across the destroyed deck, where he actually landed on top of Leveque.

  “This is awkward,” he said to the unconscious Frenchman, then gingerly plucked the hurling ball from the man’s eye socket and grimaced when he saw the mashed orb below, which seemed to be leaking some kind of fluid.

  Conroy rolled off Leveque and onto his own back. He thought about how much he wanted to see his wife and then about how teed-off Stark would be when he saw his boat.

  “Sure that fella is always going on how he’s a billionaire,” he muttered. “He can build himself another one.”

  London, England, one hour later

  It felt good being back in the red-and-gold rig, skimming over wave tops at high speed. Usually, Tony liked to break in new battle suits with a rigorous test flight, but there was no time for that now. The girl Saoirse was in danger, and in spite of the circumstances of their recent meeting, Tony could not help admiring the lengths she had gone to trying to rescue her sister.

  Spiking my AI, he thought. That was pretty darn clever.

  So he would follow the signal from the Party Pack’s helmet and rescue the Irish girl while Inspector Conroy went directly toward the Royal G, where the signal had been headed before it swerved off.

  “I have no choice, Tony boy,” the man called Diavolo (of all things) had told him back on the Tanngrisnir. “The Royal G is where most of the ministers are holed up. It can’t be a coincidence. My duty is there.”

  Tony had told him to call ahead and have the troops ready and he himself would follow on to the Royal G just as soon as he cleared up the Mandarin mess.

  The Mandarin won’t be at the attack site. He never is.

  No, it was more than likely that the Mandarin would be with the hostage if he had discovered Saoirse.

  Prototony cut in on his thoughts. “Hey, T-Star, we have an incoming call from the helmet. You wanna take it?”

  Saoirse, you smart kid, thought Tony. You got out.

  “Of course I want to take it,” he said. “Put it up.”

  “Could you say, ‘Put it up, P-Tone’? That would mean a lot.”

  Tony scowled. If this AI’s personality was learned from his own public behavior, then he could see why people thought he was irritating. And he knew people found him irritating, because Rhodey had told him so. His actual words were: “Tony, man, you are the most reviled person on the Internet. There are a couple of teenybopper bad boys who come close, but you, my man, are numero uno. You’re too showy. You know what you do, man? You flaunt. You’re a flaunter.”

  And then, because they’d been pitching a couple of balls at the time, Tony had chased Rhodey with a bat and somehow the wing mirror on Rhodey’s Trans Am had gotten smashed, and they hadn’t spoken for a week afterward.

  Tony didn’t have time to argue with Prototony; he barely had time to think about arguing with Prototony.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “Could you please put the call up, P-Tone?”

  “You got it, T-Star.”

  The heads-up display on the faceplate’s inner surface crackled, and a distorted face appeared.

  “Saoirse!” said Tony. “Thank goodness. What kind of crazy moves did you pull to escape that maniac?”

  But when the static settled, Tony saw that the face on the display was not Saoirse’s but the Mandarin’s.

  “Mandarin, if you’ve hurt her, I swear I’ll—” said Tony.

  “Ah,” said the Mandarin, “the vague threat. How trite. How cliché. How uniquely American, if you don’t mind me saying. A bankrupt vocabulary to go along with your bankrupt ideology. The land of the free? Not according to the health insurance figures.”

  Tony clenched his jaw so tightly it cracked, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Is that why you called me, Mandy? To give me a lecture on the evils of Western civilization?”

  “No,” admitted the Mandarin. “That was off topic, as you might say. No, Mr. Stark. I called you to deliver a message.”

  “Don’t tell me—stay away or the kid dies, right?”

  “No. Oh, no. Most certainly not. Come and find me, Mr. Stark. You shall not escape twice.”

  “So, what, you’re just calling to say hi?”

  The Mandarin smiled. “Yes, of course. Hi! But also, come alone or the child dies. You see, that is how to make a threat. State the consequences clearly.”

  “I’m coming, Mandarin. And let me clear up any fogginess regarding my vague threat. Whatever injury you have visited upon that girl, I shall visit the same injury upon you. Is that plain enough?”

  The Mandarin nodded as if considering that. “It is quite clever actually, as it forces me to examine my own actions. Well done, Stark. But though I relish our meeting, I feel we are unfairly matched. After all, you have your wonderful suit.”

  “You’ve got those mystical rings of yours.”

  “This is true. My rings are indeed powerful. But still, I think in the interests of fair play, I need to tilt the scales a little in my favor.”

  Tony knew he should shut down the call right away and follow the signal to its source—after all, his systems put his ETA at four minutes—but the curious side of him kept the line open.

  “‘Tilt the scales’…And how are you gonna do that?”

  “Like Genghis Khan, who was my direct ancestor, I shall use what we now call psychological warfare. The great Khan employed expert rumormongers to spread exaggerations concerning the number of ferocious Mongol horsemen in his army. Often his battles were won before his forces arrived on the battlefield.”

  “So, you’re gonna make up some lame story to throw me off my game? Seems a little counterproductive to give me the heads-up.”

  “There is no need for fabrications, Mr. Stark. I have some old news for you that should prove sufficiently disturbing to put you off your game at the very least. In fact, I imagine you will lose all perspective and come blazing in here without caution.”

  Prototony broke in on the conversation. “T-Star, I totally recommend cutting this bozo off. Nothing good can come from hearing him out. He’s playing you.”

  Tony knew the AI was right, but he was hooked.

  “Back off, Prototony. I need to hear this. What’s this old news, Mandy? Maybe I’m not as easily spooked as you think.”

  “I give you fair warning, Mr. Stark. If you choose to hear this news, your life will be forever changed—what little of your life is left. So I offer you one chance to preserve your blissful ignorance.”

  “Just spit it out, Mandy.”

  “Very well. This story concerns your old colleague Anna Wei. Or perhaps you were more than colleagues, eh, Tony Stark? The famous ladies’ man.”