{Chapter: 47 - Barging Into Villa}
The bus aircraft descended silently through the dusky clouds, its engines humming like a predator stalking its prey. Beneath them lay Malta, a jewel of history nestled between the Mediterranean blues. The sleek jet coasted toward the private airstrip near Ian Quinn's luxurious villa—an opulent estate nestled between lush cliffs and manicured vineyards overlooking the sea.
The moment the plane touched the ground, Aiden unbuckled his harness and rose from his seat, his movements smooth and deliberate. Phil Coulson, ever the cautious leader, stepped forward. His face was tight with concern.
"Aiden, you have to be careful," Phil said, placing a hand on his shoulder, a gesture that carried both camaraderie and the weight of unspoken trust.
Aiden tilted his head slightly and gave a relaxed, almost amused smile. "Don't worry about me. These guys around here?"—he glanced toward the estate beyond the runway—"They're nothing more than mildly annoying mosquitoes."
Daisy stood nearby, adjusting the black jacket she wore over her slim-fitting dress. She glanced up, catching Aiden's gaze. For a brief second, their eyes met. He gave her a small nod and a smile that silently told her, I'll be fine.
Clapping his hands together, Aiden turned toward the exit ramp. "Alright, let the mission begin."
---
The entrance of Ian Quinn's villa was a spectacle of wealth and influence. Exotic sports cars lined the driveway—sleek Ferraris, vintage Rolls Royces, and custom Lamborghinis with matte finishes. Elegantly dressed guests walked under a canopy of imported white roses and golden chandeliers strung across poles, chatting while sipping champagne. The scent of gourmet hors d'oeuvres wafted in the air, mingling with faint cigar smoke and the perfume of millionaires.
Billionaires, media moguls, arms dealers, startup tech prodigies—everyone who was someone was here tonight. Bodyguards in tailored black suits formed a perimeter, armed with both earpieces and hidden firearms, their eyes scanning everyone with calm suspicion.
Aiden strolled toward the entrance, his presence like a silent ripple in a calm pond. His all-black outfit gave him a low-profile edge—combat boots, tactical pants, and a lightweight leather jacket that concealed more than it revealed. His eyes flicked toward the security checkpoint where a bouncer the size of a refrigerator stepped forward.
"Sir, please show me your invitation," the bodyguard said with stern professionalism, extending a hand.
Aiden tilted his head and offered a smirk, a glint of challenge in his eyes. "Invitation? I don't need one."
The bodyguard's brows furrowed. "Sir, I'm afraid we have strict entry protocols. No invitation, no entry. I must ask you to leave the premises immediately, or—"
"Or what?" Aiden interjected, taking a step forward. His voice was soft but carried an edge of amusement. "You'll make me leave?"
The guard's jaw tightened. Without a word, he reached out and gripped Aiden's shoulder, attempting to shove him backward.
Nothing happened.
He pressed harder. Still, Aiden didn't budge. His boots didn't even scrape the cobblestone driveway. The guard's hand shook slightly from the effort, veins bulging along his arm.
"What? Is that all your strength?" Aiden asked casually, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve.
Seeing their colleague struggle, three more guards joined the effort. Together, four fully grown men strained against Aiden like a pack of bulls trying to push a marble statue.
Guests began to take notice. Conversations paused. Drinks stopped mid-air. Lips separated, Laughter faded into murmurs.
With an expression of mild boredom, Aiden suddenly moved. He grabbed two of the guards by their jackets and, with the ease of tossing throw pillows, flung them over the velvet rope barriers and into the koi pond nearby. The sound of their splash echoed through the courtyard, drawing gasps from onlookers.
The remaining two guards barely had time to react before Aiden delivered a sharp roundhouse kick—precise, controlled, and powerful. The men were lifted off their feet and sent crashing through a buffet table, demolishing bottles of wine and sending lobster hors d'oeuvres flying like confetti.
Panic rippled through the crowd.
"What the hell—"
"Who is that guy?!"
"Is this some kind of demonstration?"
Champagne glasses shattered as guests scrambled for cover. A string quartet in the corner stopped mid-note as the violinist dropped his instrument.
Inside the grand villa, Ian Quinn stood in the center of the ballroom surrounded by foreign dignitaries and influencers. He held a glass of aged Bordeaux in one hand, his tuxedo crisp and flawless. As the commotion reached him, his sharp eyes narrowed and he strode toward the balcony to investigate.
Seeing Aiden striding into the courtyard like he owned the place, Ian's lips curled into a mixture of irritation and curiosity.
"Catch him!" Quinn snapped, his voice cold and commanding.
At once, more of his private security flooded the scene—ten, then fifteen men in full tactical gear, moving with trained precision. Each carried stun batons, tasers, and several with automatic rifles slung across their shoulders. Their movements were swift, surrounding Aiden from every direction like a net closing in.
And yet, Aiden didn't even flinch.
He exhaled slowly and concentrated.
Then, as if their minds itself froze, the armed guards stopped moving.
One by one, their bodies seized up, as if held by an invisible force. Weapons dropped to the ground with metallic clinks. Feet left the floor. They began to rise—slowly, weightlessly—into the air.
Gasps of disbelief erupted from the onlookers.
"What in God's name…?"
"Is he a mutant?"
"No, that's—he's levitating them?!"
The guards hovered several feet above the marble ground, their limbs flailing in the air like puppets with cut strings. Panic painted their faces, a dawning realization setting in—they were helpless, suspended by a force they couldn't see, feel, or fight.
Aiden stood motionless in the middle of it all, his eyes half-lidded, calm as a monk. Then he flicked his wrist casually, as though swatting away a fly.
The guards began to spin—slowly at first, like gears finding their rhythm, but then faster, whirling uncontrollably through the air. The scent of cologne and fear filled the atmosphere.
"Stop! Stop this now!" one of the guards shouted, voice rising above the panicked murmurs of the crowd.
But the plea meant nothing. The men collided mid-air with a brutal crash—limbs tangled, heads smacking into shoulders, bodies thudding against each other like meat bags tossed from a truck. A loud BAM echoed across the villa's stone walls. The impact sent them sprawling to the ground like discarded dolls, unconscious or groaning in agony.
Gasps rose from the elegantly dressed guests gathered nearby. Champagne glasses shattered against the ground. High heels clicked rapidly against the tile as partygoers scrambled to escape.
From the second-floor balcony, Ian Quinn, stared down at the chaos with disbelief. His lips curled downward into a cold, calculating frown. This wasn't some drunken gatecrasher. This was something else.
"Shoot him now!" he barked into his comm. His voice had a shrill edge of panic disguised beneath a facade of command.
Killing someone in Malta? That wasn't a concern for Ian Quinn. A few bribes, a well-worded statement to the authorities, and the entire incident would be wiped off the books. The Republic was known for its corruption, especially when it came to the powerful and well-connected.
But what truly worried him wasn't the mess—he could clean that up.
It was who Aiden was.
Why was he here?
And what he could do.
Even as Quinn turned to escape through the corridor behind him, confident in his escape plan, he stole one last glance at the mysterious man below.
Aiden didn't chase.
He didn't need to.
Gunfire erupted from the perimeter. Muzzle flashes burst like fireworks, accompanied by the rapid bang bang bang of semi-automatics. Dozens of rounds sped toward Aiden from every angle.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't move.
The bullets struck him with deadly precision—but the effect was almost laughable. Holes tore into his shirt and jeans, the fabric shredded like tissue paper. But his flesh? Untouched. No blood. No pain. Not even a scratch.
The guests who hadn't fled yet screamed. The wealthy, the powerful, the so-called elite—they had never witnessed anything like this.
Aiden glanced down at his torn clothes, sighed, and muttered, "Damn. I liked this shirt."
Then, with a wave of his hand, his telekinetic force wrapped around the bullets in mid-air, like invisible fingers catching raindrops. A second later, the bullets reversed course and rocketed back toward their sources.
Pffft! Thump! Crack!
Guards fell in quick succession—shot in the legs, the arms, the chest. Some were killed instantly. Others were incapacitated, their weapons clattering to the floor. The courtyard became a graveyard of broken bodies and empty shells.
Aiden exhaled deeply. "Telekinesis may not be Magneto-level metal mastery… but it gets the job done."
He flexed his fingers, watching a nearby wine bottle rise gently into the air. It twirled once in place before he set it down on a nearby table. With a quiet chuckle, he added, "At least now I don't have to dodge anymore. Super durability has its perks."
He remembered how he used to rely solely on his extremis-based regeneration. Sure, he could heal, but that didn't mean he enjoyed the pain. He wasn't some unkillable wise-cracking masochist maniac named Deadpool.
No—he preferred finesse.
And power.
Inside the villa, chaos reigned. Guests fled, stumbling over themselves in a rush to escape. Some jumped into ornamental fountains. Others broke expensive windows in their panic. Servants ducked behind statues and cowered beneath buffet tables.
Aiden, however, walked forward as if he were taking a stroll through a quiet park.
His watch buzzed softly, the light on it shifting from red to green. Aiden pressed a hidden button on the underside of the strap, instantly disabling the villa's power grid—and more importantly, sending the signal to Phil Coulson.
---
Outside, near a secluded transformer room behind the estate, Phil stood tense and alert. He had heard the gunfire earlier and had been waiting for confirmation. The green signal flashed on his handheld device, and without hesitation, he moved.
He stepped through the now-deactivated electric fence, heading toward the underground lab entrance.
Back at a small helicopter, May sat in the pilot's seat, eyes scanning the sky, fingers hovering near the throttle. Daisy, Fitz, and Simmons waited with bated breath, nervously listening through the comms. They weren't trained field agents—not for something like this. And someone had to stay back to keep their only ride out of here ready.
Phil was alone.
---
Meanwhile, Aiden was casually exploring the villa, admiring the craftsmanship of the marble columns, the detailed frescoes painted on the ceilings, and the gold-trimmed chandeliers above. He practiced lifting, lowering, and crushing, pulling, and pushing objects—chairs, decorative swords, vases—slowly improving his control.
He didn't need to help Phil directly. Not yet.
Phil would handle Ian Quinn and the doctor they were after. Aiden was the hammer meant for breaking bones, but Coulson was the scalpel for cutting out.
Let him do his work, Aiden thought, lifting a full dining table with a mere twitch of his brow. I'll clean up if things go sideways.
It would be better for him to not interfere now, and he would just barge in at the last moment.
---
Then it happened.
BOOOOOOMMMMM!!!
A massive tremor shook the foundation of the villa. Aiden's eyes snapped toward the floor beneath him.
Dust fell from the ceiling. Light fixtures swayed. Somewhere below, something had exploded.
Phil had found the doctor.
Aiden narrowed his eyes.
"Showtime," he whispered.
*****
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