Twilight_Scribe
patreon
Chapter 79: The Late but Lawful Arrival of the American Police
🕑 Added 2025-07-02 17:04:21 +0000 UTC
The effectiveness of their suppressive fire and coordinated movement left no doubt—the third group of gunmen was nothing like the amateur cannon fodder they'd faced earlier. These guys were pros.
Tony wanted to stop them. But crouching behind the stone planter, he was clearly pinned down by a few well-placed warning shots. If Henry hadn’t yanked him back earlier, he’d already be sporting a new hole somewhere important.
The lead gunman shouted, “Target eliminated. Time to go. If we stick around any longer, the cops will be here. You really want to deal with the LAPD?”
One of the jumpier gunmen panicked. “What about the witnesses?! You want to shut them up for good?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” the leader snapped. “Our employer chose this kind of scene specifically to make an example. To send a message. If you kill everyone, who the hell’s left to get the message? And you know the risks here. Any one of these rich kids dies, and we’ll be the ones on every damn bounty board tomorrow. You kill everyone? We might not even live to see tomorrow.”
“Motherf—! So we’re just walking away?!”
“They’re not stupid. They know what they can and can’t say. And if they don’t, their daddies sure as hell do. If you wanna stay here and worry about it, go ahead. I’m out.”
“What about proof of the kill, huh?! My guys helped hold this side down. We want a cut!”
“Once our client sees the news, they’ll know the job’s done. You want a share? Make sure your guys live to claim it at the hotel. Your real problem ain’t me—it’s the people heading this way right now.”
The sirens—those blaring LAPD sirens—suddenly cut out.
They’d arrived.
Two of the gunman groups fired synchronized bursts into the air—three shots each, sharp and deliberate. Clearly a signal to regroup.
Then the leader raised his voice, calling toward the flowerbed: “Hey, you two heroes back there! We’re leaving. As long as you don’t pop up and try something stupid, we’ll all walk away peacefully. Cool?”
“The son of a—” Tony started to rise again, face twisted with fury.
Henry yanked him down again. Two more bullets zipped overhead.
“Motherf—!” Tony cursed through clenched teeth.
Realizing for the second time that he was not bulletproof, Tony Stark finally chose the smarter option—he stayed down.
Moments later, voices rang out loud and clear:
“LAPD! Drop your weapons! Hands in the air!”
Henry had already ditched his empty pistol and raised his hands high.
Tony did the same, casually tossing his sidearm and raising his hands halfway.
“I’m Tony Stark,” he announced. “I’m a victim here. I won’t be answering any questions until my attorney is present.”
With the heir of Stark Industries front and center, Henry didn’t face any serious trouble. He just had to wait on the scene until Tony’s legal team showed up.
Besides the police, ambulances and even FBI agents began arriving shortly afterward. But by far the largest response came from Stark Industries’ private security team—they just didn’t have arrest authority.
After all, everyone involved in this incident was either rich, famous, or otherwise “problematic.” And the line between victim and perpetrator wasn’t exactly clear-cut yet.
The LAPD officers, for all their street smarts, still looked out of their depth. Dealing with celebrities? That was one thing. Dealing with rich people’s kids? That was another beast entirely.
Because here’s the deal: celebs worry about reputation, endorsements, press coverage. Rich kids don’t give a damn. They’ve got lawyers and power backing every move.
And in this town, when a pop star gets in trouble, it’s a PR bonanza: tribute albums, memorial concerts, re-released classic films—it’s a whole business model. Someone dies? That’s a marketing opportunity.
But if rich nobodies from powerful families start getting killed at high-end parties?
That’s political dynamite.
So when the FBI stepped in, the head of the local precinct practically threw the case into their lap. The feds were better equipped for this level of mess anyway.
Ironically, things got easier for Tony Stark the higher up the investigation went. FBI agents knew how to deal with this social tier. Beat cops? Not so much.
So Henry and Tony found themselves sitting together at the back of an ambulance, protected by Stark security personnel, while a big paramedic fussed over them, checking for injuries.
The two young men sat quietly, watching as cops and federal agents scrambled around the crime scene. EMTs rushed to treat the wounded, while the dead remained where they fell—awaiting forensic teams for documentation before removal.
No one dared question Tony. He’d made it clear: no talking without his lawyer. LAPD didn’t want that kind of trouble.
Instead, the officers turned to the event staff. The party girls and catering crew didn’t have lawyers on speed dial, so they got grilled first. It was all about figuring out what had happened—and who actually mattered.
Compared to Tony, who sat calm and composed like he was at brunch, Henry looked like absolute hell.
His suit was soaked from the pool incident. He’d been running around all night, clothes wrinkled, shoes scuffed, hair a mess. If Tony was the picture of wealthy elegance, Henry looked like he'd just been mugged by a sprinkler system.
Then Tony turned, looked Henry up and down, and asked, “Why’d you help me?”
Henry blinked. “What?”
Tony elaborated, “Most of those people we saved bolted the second they had the chance. You stuck around. Didn’t do much, but you stayed. This is the third time we’ve run into each other, isn’t it?”
Didn’t do much?! Henry internally screamed: Excuse me?! If it weren’t for me covering your shiny billionaire ass, you’d be looking like a piece of Swiss cheese right now!
Before Henry could voice his rage, Tony threw out another question.
“Oh, right—aren’t you supposed to still be filming that movie? I thought it wasn’t done shooting yet.”
