Snapshot (фотография)

IX

Tony grinned to himself as he rested his feet in the white sand of the Carolina beach. Reclining his chair, the billionaire adjusted his designer sunglasses with his own tech embedded- a partnership with Ray Bans, soon to hit the market- and picked up a 750 ml bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey from the cup holder, quickly taking a drink.

"Lovely weather, isn't it?" He called to his security detail that was standing behind them in their black suits, standing stiff among the capricious plants that decorated the dunes. They were emotionless, constantly scanning the shore like he was about to be attacked any moment.n Groaning loudly, Tony took a shot, wondering why S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't have sent their fun agents. He checked his singular phone, deciding to call Pepper, but it was quickly snatched out of his hand and confiscated by an operative.

"Sorry, sir." Apologised the stoic agent without a bit of emotion in his voice. "No technology that communicates with a satellite."

"Am I grounded?" Tony griped, taking a swig from the glass bottle again and then letting out a belch. He offered the bottle to the nearest suit, who steadfastly ignored him. Rolling his eyes, Tony turned them to the surf. "It really feels like I'm grounded!"

Still, the agents ignored him. He groaned, rolling his head back to rest against the rim of the beach chair, squishing his toes around the sand. Why Pepper had insisted that he had to go into hiding was beyond him. He'd survived worse. Blinking sleepily, he suddenly became aware of commotion at the house.

"What's going on?" Tony questioned, beginning to push himself up from the chair. The security agent pushed him back down roughly, speaking into his ear piece. The billionaire grunted at the pressure.

"Sorry, Mr. Stark." He briskly commented before nodding to the other two agents and running up the boardwalk, their handguns drawn, looking like strange birds in their black suits on the sand.

Tony grumbled, wondering what was going on. Looking at the other two agents left, he determinedly pushed himself up, swaying a little, but marched forward to the wooden steps that connected the beach to his safehouse. He began climbing up, purposefully jogging up the steps as the shouts of his babysitting detail went in one ear and out the other.

"What is going on here?" He exclaimed when he laid his eyes on the sight in his front lawn. Three goons had pinned what looked to be a skinny kid around college age wearing bermuda shorts and a tank top.

"Geez, get off the kid." He grunted as he pulled the head of security off of the boy. "I doubt he could fit anything in those shorts. He's so skinny and his clothes are so form fitting I doubt that he could hide anything if he wanted to." The kid blushed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and looking downward. Tony turned his attention to the intruder, ignoring the agent's attempts to get his attention.

"So, what are you doing here, kid?"

"M-Ms. Potts hired me to cut the grass and keep the garden clean." He offered, stuttering slightly and still not making eye contact with Tony. "My name is Dustin Miller. I go to college in Charleston but I come out here once a week to keep an eye on the plants."

"Mr. Stark, I still have to do a background check-" The agent tried to step in, but Tony silenced him with a wave of his hand.

"No need. I can just contact Pepper."

"But-" He was interrupted by Tony again.

"Are you doubting her capabilities?"

"N-no, sir." Tony could be scary when he wanted to. Peyta continued to give his nervous routine, hunching his shoulders and breathing shallowly. It was working. Tony walked back into the house, waving his hand limply at Peyta, who took that as a signal to go about his business.

---------

"Noire has failed for the second time." A sponsor argued.

"It's part of the strategy." The trainer bantered back. The shadowy man at the head of the long table slammed his fist down, silencing all in the conference room.

"I have made my decision." His raspy voice eerily echoed. "Noire has fulfilled his usefulness."

"Sir-" The trainer tried to speak up.

"Do not interrupt me." The man's quiet fury was deafening. The trainer shakily seemed to shrink in his seat. The man barked instructions in Russian, and three different people stood up when he called their name.

"Your task is to eliminate Noire." The trio smirked at one another. "If you fail, you will be the one disposed of."

The assassins knew that if they completed this, they would be lauded by the trainers. They would have gotten rid of their biggest competitions, for Noire- whose true identity was unknown- was the greatest assassin to have graduated from the Red Room since Black Widow.