Marvel: Open Up, It’s the FBI

Lynn Hall had been waiting.

Waiting for James Duke to finally drop the act—to look him in the eye and openly say, "Welcome to Hydra."

After all, the breadcrumbs were all there.

The order to eliminate Kevin Robert.

The Brotherhood recruitment.

The ornate Hydra-insignia pin Duke gifted him.

And most recently, the generous black card "gift" from a centuries-old vampire family.

If all of that wasn't a trap, then Lynn didn't know what was.

But James Duke still refused to show his hand.

Instead, he played the role of the "concerned superior," spewing nonsense about "political pressure from long-lived bloodlines in the government" and "sensitive global diplomacy."

Please.

Since when did the FBI bow to political pressure from other branches?

The Bureau was under the Department of Justice, and it had spent years making enemies in the government and military alike by kicking in doors and hauling off corrupt high-level officials.

Lynn wasn't buying any of it.

If he had telepathy, if he could hear what Duke was really thinking, he'd have said:

> Boss, I swear I'm your most loyal pawn. I'm not even that righteous!

But alas, no mind-reading. Only masks and silence.

So, Lynn left Duke's office with a casual nod—and the black card still in his pocket.

---

Back at his office, Lynn fired up his laptop and entered the account number tied to the card.

$10 million.

Ten million U.S. dollars.

For an ancient vampire clan, that was probably pocket change.

But for Lynn Hall? It was an unexpected windfall.

He had originally planned to invest more into Stark Industries stock, wait for the inevitable tech boom, then cash out and buy that penthouse overlooking Central Park he'd been dreaming of.

Now? He could do it immediately.

Thanks for the gift, Hydra. Truly generous of you.

---

Elsewhere — Malibu Beach, inside Tony Stark's cliffside villa.

"Tony, I really don't get what you're doing lately."

Pepper Potts dropped a stack of reports in front of him as he lazily sipped his black-green vegetable juice.

"Stark Industries stock is finally stabilizing, but it's still down seventy-three percent from before," she said. "Obadiah Stane's been doing everything he can to keep the board from tearing you apart."

"Meanwhile, the media is crucifying you for permanently shutting down the weapons division."

Tony didn't look up. "Pepper, tell me something."

"...What?"

"The weapons I've built over the years—do you really believe they've made the world safer?"

She blinked. "Of course. Aren't they meant to defend the country? To protect civilians and keep the peace?"

"That's what I used to believe too."

He turned to face her, a rare seriousness in his eyes. "But do you have any idea how many innocent lives have been taken by my creations?"

"Tony..."

"I don't even know the number. No one does. But I know it's higher than I can stomach."

He turned on the TV.

Footage played of war-torn villages in the Middle East—displaced families, burning buildings, armed militants marching with Stark-branded weapons.

Tony continued, voice low. "They didn't have arc reactors keeping shrapnel out of their hearts. They didn't get rescued. They just died."

Pepper went quiet.

"This isn't your fault," she said after a long pause.

"Of course it is," he said bitterly. "I designed the weapons. Even if I didn't pull the trigger."

She could tell he was spiraling again. Ever since his return from captivity, guilt had gnawed at him like acid.

Every time she tried to absolve him, it only made it worse.

So she changed the subject.

"You know, the cover model in the latest GQ issue isn't bad," she teased. "Maybe I can throw you another party. Invite her personally."

Tony smirked. "As tempting as that sounds, I've got two things I'd rather do."

"Oh?"

"First, I want two cheeseburgers."

"That can be arranged."

"Second... I want to find out how my weapons ended up in the hands of terrorists. And who set me up in the desert."

Pepper stiffened. "That... might be harder."

"Want me to hire a private investigator?" she offered.

Tony scoffed. "What, some gumshoe in a trench coat? I don't think they can crack a conspiracy buried under military clearance."

He picked up his phone. "But I do know someone who might."

Pepper blinked. "You mean—Lynn Hall?"

"That's right. The FBI agent who pulled me out of that cave."

"I remember," she nodded. "You really trust him?"

"I do."

"So... not quite Rhodey-level trust, but getting there?"

"Don't push it," Tony smirked. "But yeah. I want to invite him over for dinner. See if he's willing to work with me."

Pepper raised an eyebrow.

She'd known Tony for years. It was very rare for him to see someone as an equal, much less trust them with something personal.

She stood up. "If you're inviting Agent Hall to dinner—and you're planning to ask for his help—then two cheeseburgers on a paper plate won't cut it."

She grabbed her tablet. "I'll make sure the table is set properly. And I'm opening a bottle of that twenty-year-old red from your wine cellar."

"Pepper, that bottle was—"

She gave him a look.

Tony sighed, hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine. But just so you know, dining with me is a privilege. Most people would kill for a seat at my table."

She rolled her eyes and walked off.

Tony leaned back, phone in hand.

"Come on, Hall," he muttered with a grin. "Let's see if you're as sharp in a tux as you are in the field."