What? Speak up, it's very noisy here!"
"We've found Tony Stark and are taking him back to the US military base!" Gideon shouted, almost shoving the communicator into his mouth.
"Oh, okay, just send him back. Remember to have Stark reimburse the bill. I'm busy here!" After saying that, Fisher hung up the phone. Are you kidding? Sending Stark home is more important than shooting with a girl? These subordinates really don't know how to act. He'll tell Komak, the commander of the Sons of Truth, to deduct this squad's year-end bonus!
Meanwhile, in the spacious cabin of a Black Hawk helicopter, Rhodes and Stark were looking at each other.
"What's your boss doing? I hear gunshots?" Rhodes was very curious.
"Isn't it the Rifle Association's event these past few days? The old man at the boss's house loves it, so they should be at the venue!"
"Rifle Association? Why do they never invite me to their events?" Stark was surprised as if he had heard a new term.
"Because they don't have models and rum there, but a bunch of tomboys and beer. And someone like you probably wouldn't be welcome!" Rhodes leaned against the cabin wall and scoffed.
"Why? It's not like I've never shot a gun!"
"No, no, no, you don't understand. The people who go there to shoot are all kinds of firearms enthusiasts. They're just there to experience the charm of shooting, not to show off their weapons!" Rhodes changed the position of his crossed legs and continued, "Besides, your top priority right now is to go back home and recuperate, not to attend any events!"
"Alright, I'm really craving a cheeseburger right now!"
..."What's wrong? Something with the company?"
"Nothing, it's just that Stark guy has been found!"
"Oh, I thought it was something big. Come on, continue!"
"Okay, here you go!" Fisher forcefully threw four ceramic targets filled with colored powder into the distant sky.
Then, his elderly father, standing beside him, raised his Mossberg M590 shotgun and quickly fired, reloaded, fired, and reloaded.
After four gunshots, four plumes of red smoke exploded in the air, and the onlookers immediately burst into cheers.
"Want to try one?" Fisher's dad asked, holding up the Mossberg.
"No, I don't like pump-action! Isn't semi-automatic better?" Fisher refused the Mossberg and took out his M1014 from a nearby box.
"Start, time it!" A staff member pressed the timer, and then Fisher rushed into the shooting range. The roaring shotgun shattered seven targets in a few seconds. Then, Fisher swept his coat, pulled a shotgun shell from the feeder attached to his waist, loaded it into the chamber through the ejection port, cocked it with a click, and shattered the last target.
"Seven seconds, 31!"
"How's that, not bad, right!" Fisher proudly blew on the still-steaming muzzle of his gun.
"It's not bad. Come on, let's go somewhere else!"
As an annual event for shooting enthusiasts, the Rifle Association naturally couldn't just have a free shooting activity. In fact, this could only be considered a warm-up.
Because strictly speaking, the first activity should be a weapons exhibition. Basically, all American light weapons companies would display their new products or some tactical accessories here, and some shooting enthusiasts would also bring out their 'wives' to show off to others.
The continuous tents on the lawn stretched for several kilometers, and there were hundreds of participating manufacturers. Although Fisher himself was just there to watch, it didn't stop him from appreciating other people's "wives."
The second item on the gun exhibition was the shooting segment. To liven up the atmosphere, the Rifle Association even pulled out an antique 88mm cannon from its inventory. Fisher even test-fired a round. Although the smoke raised by the muzzle ruined his several-thousand-dollar handmade shirt, he was satisfied.
After firing the cannon and enjoying a delicious Texas barbecue, Fisher, with nothing else to do, wandered around the nearby shooting range. In the CQB shooting range, he encountered someone he never dreamed of meeting.
Black side-parted hair, thick stubble, a sharp suit, plus agile movements and deadly accurate marksmanship—if it wasn't Keanu Reeves, who could it be?
To avoid mistaking him for someone else, Fisher specifically asked someone nearby about the man's name.
"Him? He's called John Wick. He seems to be an actuary, but his marksmanship and movements are very sharp, not at all like a middle-aged man!" A kind acquaintance gave Fisher a few pointers.
"John Wick?" Fisher carefully searched his deep memories for this name. It seemed like he was an assassin from some Continental Hotel.
At this moment, John Wick had completed the shooting event. He skillfully inspected his weapon, handed it to a staff member, and the audience who had watched him shoot gave him a warm round of applause. There were even a few eager guys who planned to go up and challenge him.
John Wick also intended to accept the challenge, but before he could agree, a middle-aged woman pushed through the crowd and grabbed his arm. That must have been his wife.
"John, don't get too excited and start a fight with people!" John Wick's wife, Helen, was an editor at a newspaper. Although she wasn't particularly interested in guns, she still accompanied her husband here to browse and see if there was any material to write an article about.
"Don't worry, nothing will happen!" John Wick smiled and patted his wife's hand. He was about to step up for a match when his phone suddenly rang.
"Excuse me, I have something urgent. I'll seriously consider your offer next time. I have to go now, excuse me!" Seeing a string of mysterious codes on his phone screen, John Wick apologized to the challengers and pulled his wife away, intending to leave.
"Mr. John Wick?"
"You are?" John asked, looking at the young man blocking his way.
"I am the CEO of Atlas Corporation!" Fisher handed over a business card. "I greatly admire your shooting skills, they're like art. Are you interested in becoming a spokesperson for our civilian weapons?"
"Spokesperson?" John Wick looked at the special gold-embossed font on the business card, quite intrigued. Being an assassin, you know, isn't as glamorous as ordinary people think—driving sports cars and assassinating targets from afar with a sniper rifle. From accepting a job, an assassin has to figure out the target's hobbies, travel patterns, number of bodyguards, security vulnerabilities, and so on. Most importantly, sometimes employers even require the assassination to be disguised as an accident. And being an assassin really isn't a glorious profession, so even Wick's wife only knew that her husband was an actuary at the Continental Hotel in New York, not that he was an assassin.
"Uh, I'm sorry, Mr. Fisher, I have some urgent business right now. I will seriously consider your proposal. I have to go now, excuse me!" John Wick carefully put away the business card, nodded to Fisher, and then quickly pulled his wife towards the parking lot.
Fisher, however, was unfazed. The only reason he called out to John Wick was because he was a big fan of Keanu Reeves in his previous life.
"Maybe I'll run into him again someday and get a photo!"
...Tony Stark's return to New York quickly caused a sensation. Various media outlets, like sharks smelling blood, gathered at Stark Tower, awaiting his arrival.
"I'm shutting down Stark Industries' weapons development department!"
Stark's words were like a stone dropped into a calm pond. Obadiah's heart suddenly constricted when he heard this, and he almost passed out.
Upon hearing this, the reporters' eyes lit up, and various questions popped out one after another.
"Mr. Stark, we heard you were attacked in the Middle East by weapons manufactured by Stark Industries. Is this true?"
"Mr. Stark, we heard you escaped by seducing the terrorist leader. Is this true?"
Obadiah frowned and looked at the reporter who asked the question. Discovering he was just a tabloid entertainment reporter, before he could even speak, two burly security guards threw the guy out.
But Stark himself completely ignored these reporters. After finishing his plans, he left the hall.
"Tony, listen to me. I know you've suffered a lot, but we don't have to shut down the weapon production line! This is the backbone of Stark Industries!" Obadiah was anxious. The weapons industry was his lifeline; he and Howard had founded it together. Now Stark wanted to shut it down with a single sentence. Obadiah even felt like snapping and strangling Stark right then and there.
"You know, Obadiah, what I encountered over there? Countless innocent people died from the weapons I developed. They could have lived very happy lives!" Stark stopped and turned to look into Obadiah's eyes.
"Then we can set up a foundation, donate some money. Didn't you want to establish a charitable foundation a while ago? I'll help you sort it out with the board. We can also contact Atlas to send mercenaries to eliminate those terrorists. All of these are possible, but shutting down the weapons development department is really unnecessary!" Obadiah even began to beg Stark to retract his previous statement.
"No, Obadiah, the weapons development department must be shut down!" Tony Stark's tone was firm and brooked no refusal.
"Alright, if that's what you intend!" Obadiah stood frozen, his eyes gradually turning cold. Then he turned and walked towards the building exit, simultaneously pulling out his phone.
"Prepare the plane, I'm going to Afghanistan. Yes, that's right, immediately, right now!"
Starting this month, three thousand words daily.