Marvelous Meditations #68

The house was alive with warmth and laughter, the air filled with the scent of roasted ham, cinnamon, and pine. A grand Christmas tree stood in the corner, draped in golden lights and ornaments, twinkling in the cozy glow of the fireplace.

Children ran about, their laughter blending with the hum of conversation, while holiday music played softly in the background.

Vice President Rodriguez sat at the head of the dining table, surrounded by family and close friends. His wife, dressed in an elegant red dress, poured wine into his glass while his young daughter, bound to a wheelchair, giggled at something her older brother had whispered in her ear.

Despite the festive atmosphere, the house was far from unguarded. Men in dark suits stood at strategic points throughout the room, their gazes sharp and ever-watchful. Even in a moment of celebration, security was paramount.

One of the agents approached the vice president, his expression unreadable.

"Sir," the agent said quietly, extending a phone toward him.

Rodriguez frowned but took the phone. "Thanks." He pressed it to his ear. "Hello?"

A familiar voice came through the line.

"Sir, this is Tony Stark."

Rodriguez leaned back slightly in his chair, his frown deepening. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

"We believe you're about to be drawn into the Mandarin campaign," Stark continued, his tone urgent. "We gotta get you somewhere safe as soon as possible."

Rodriguez exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he glanced around the well-secured room. "Mr. Stark, I'm about to eat honey-roast ham, surrounded by the Agency's finest. The president’s safe on Air Force One with Colonel Rhodes. I think we're good here."

A new voice cut in, firmer and more direct.

"Sir, this is Colonel Rhodes," Rhodey said. "They're using the Iron Patriot as a Trojan horse. They're gonna take out the president somehow. We have to immediately alert that plane."

Rodriguez stiffened slightly. His grip on the phone tightened. "Okay, I'm on it," he said quickly, already motioning for one of his aides to come closer. "I'll have security lock it down. If need be, they can have F-22s in the air in 30 seconds. Thank you, Colonel."

"Rhodes and Stark out."

Rodriguez slowly lowered the phone, placing it on the table beside his plate.

One of his security men stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Everything okay, sir?"

Rodriguez’s lips curled into a practiced smile, one that barely reached his eyes. "Couldn't be better."

Turning to his daughter, he walked up to her and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I love you, babe."

His daughter beamed at him, oblivious to the storm brewing beneath the surface.

Taking one last glance at his daughter’s severed leg—her small foot resting in a brace at the end of the prosthetic—Vice President Rodriguez swallowed hard, his face carefully blank. The weight of his choices pressed down on him, but he forced himself to exhale, slow and controlled.

With a slight nod to one of his Secret Service agents, he gave the silent signal to hold position. The agent, a man who had served at his side for years, gave an almost imperceptible nod in return, stepping back into the shadows of the warmly lit home.

Rodriguez turned and strode toward the exit, stepping out into the cold air. The distant sounds of laughter and clinking glasses faded behind him as the door shut, leaving him alone in the crisp stillness of the yard. He scanned his surroundings quickly and locked eyes on a figure standing a few steps away.

Nathan Cross stood there, his posture loose but his presence sharp, as if he were perpetually caught between rest and readiness. Dressed in dark, casual clothes, his short hair slightly tousled, he looked like any ordinary man at a glance. But his stillness told another story.

He was deep in thought, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the horizon, contemplating something beyond the vice president’s understanding.

Rodriguez cleared his throat.

Nathan turned to him, the flicker of a knowing smile playing on his lips. “All is well, I hope?”

Rodriguez hesitated for a moment before nodding. “It’s as you said… Stark just called to warn me about an attack on the president.”

Nathan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “And?”

Rodriguez sighed, rubbing his fingers together as if he could physically wipe away his hesitation. “Just like you and Killian before you asked… I won’t do a thing.”

He trailed off, his expression tightening. A silence hung between them before he finally asked, his voice lower, more uncertain, “Are you sure about this?”

Nathan raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. “Very.” His tone was firm, unwavering. “The time for second thoughts is long gone… You should know that too.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a faint glint of amusement in his eyes as he added, “All you have to do is turn a blind eye, and soon enough, you’ll be president—and your daughter will get the miracle medicine she needs.”

Rodriguez said nothing, but his jaw clenched.

Nathan turned, looking out toward the horizon. His voice was calm, almost casual as he continued, “And as a bonus, you won’t have to be beholden to a monster like Killian either.”

The words lingered in the cool night air, a quiet temptation wrapped in reason. The stillness between them stretched, but instead of ease, it carried weight. Rodriguez’s expression darkened, his brows knitting together as a flicker of unease passed over his face.

“But I’ll still be beholden,” he muttered, his voice edged with something that could have been defiance—or resignation.

Nathan exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a scoff and a chuckle. “Well,” he said, tilting his head, “unlike Killian, I’m not interested in building an empire or ruling from the shadows.”

He took a step closer, his posture relaxed, but his presence carried a gravity that made it impossible to ignore him. “Maybe a favor here and there,” he continued, his tone casual, like they were discussing a minor political maneuver instead of treason, “a social reform or two—but that’s about it. Nothing that would screw over the average American any more than your government is already doing.”

He gave a dismissive wave, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Like you, I have my own debts. And once they’re settled… we can pretend this conversation never took place...”

Rodriguez studied him carefully, searching for deception in his face, but Nathan’s gaze remained steady, unreadable. Still, the vice president’s shoulders eased slightly. There was still skepticism in his voice when he muttered, “I guess we’ll see.”

Nathan simply nodded, as if he had already anticipated the response. “In time, you’ll realize you made the right decision.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and turned away, his steps slow and deliberate as he walked toward the darkness beyond the glow of the house’s windows. Just before he disappeared from sight, he threw one last parting remark over his shoulder.

“I’ll be seeing you around, sir.”

Rodriguez stood there for a long moment, watching Nathan’s silhouette dissolve into the night. He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. His gut twisted—not with guilt, but with the unsettling realization that the choice had already been made.

Whatever the future held, he could deal with it later.

Right now, his only priority was helping his daughter live a normal life.

Morality and ethics be damned.

...

Bullseye’s head throbbed as he stirred, a dull ache radiating from the base of his skull. His instincts kicked in before his mind fully caught up—he tested his limbs, but they barely budged. His wrists and ankles were bound tight, and the hard press of wood beneath him confirmed he was strapped to a chair.

His memory was hazy, but fragments came back in sharp bursts.

He’d been in the middle of something—something entertaining. A casual bar game, maybe? Darts? Cards? Or was he toying with some poor bastard in a back alley for fun? Whatever it was, he never saw the hit coming.

One second, he was enjoying himself; the next, his world went black.

Now, he was here.

The air smelled of damp concrete, dust, and the faint tang of metal. A basement? A warehouse? Either way, someone had gone through a lot of trouble to get him here.

A door creaked open.

Footsteps. Steady, deliberate.

A figure stepped into the dim light—a tall man dressed in a simple suit, but it wasn’t his attire that stood out. It was the mask. A smooth, featureless, white expanse, devoid of eyes, a mouth, anything human. When he spoke, his voice came distorted through a modulator, a mechanical rasp that blurred any defining qualities.

"I have a job for you."

Bullseye blinked once, then exhaled a short laugh. "You knock me out, tie me up, and now you want me to work for you? Not exactly how business works, pal."

"This isn’t just any job," the masked man continued, undeterred. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

Bullseye cocked his head. "Oh yeah? What are we talking here? Heads of state? Billionaire CEOs? A guy who cut you off in traffic?"

There was a pause. Then—"The President of the United States."

That got Bullseye’s attention. He stared at the masked man for a beat, then grinned. "Shit. You don’t think small, do you?"

"The target is President Ellis. He’ll be aboard the USS Norco in two days. We want you to eliminate him."

Bullseye tilted his head back slightly, considering. He'd taken out high-profile targets before, but the President? That was a career-defining move. A goddamn legend-making hit.

Still, something felt off.

"That’s a hell of a job," he mused. "And one hell of a risk. Lot of heat. Lot of moving parts. What’s the payday?"

"Two million. Half up front, in cash. The rest after confirmation."

Bullseye let out a low whistle. "Two mil’s nice. But let’s be real—after this, I’ll be on every watchlist on the planet. Might as well retire. How do I know you won’t screw me over once I pull the trigger?"

The masked man leaned forward slightly. "Because you don't know who we are, and you never will... And if we wanted you dead, you’d already be buried."

Bullseye smirked. Cocky. He liked that.

After a long pause, he nodded once. "Alright. Two million. One now, one later. Deal."

Without hesitation, the masked man gestured toward the door. Two figures stepped inside, dressed in black tactical gear. One of them pulled a black bag from his belt.

Bullseye sighed. "Oh, come on. The bag? Really? I hate the bag."

They didn’t answer. The bag was pulled over his head, and the chair beneath him lurched as they lifted him up. He let himself go limp, knowing there was no point in resisting—not yet, anyway.

As they carried him away, the masked man remained still, watching silently.

When the door finally shut behind them, leaving the room empty once more, another figure stepped into the light.

Nathan Cross.

Rick Mason, the man in the mask, exhaled sharply and pulled it off, revealing his face. His expression was grim as he turned to Nathan, speaking in his normal voice now. "I guess there’s no going back now."

Nathan studied him for a moment before offering a small smile. "Having second thoughts?"

Rick let out a humorless chuckle. "We just plotted the assassination of the President of the United States. Of course I’m having second thoughts."

Nathan’s smile faded. "It’s the only way."

Rick’s jaw tightened. "Ellis isn’t a bad guy."

"No, he isn’t," Nathan admitted. "But we need the next President in our pocket. General Ross isn’t going to go down easy. If we want him gone, this has to happen."

Rick didn’t respond immediately. He just stood there, his fingers tightening around the edge of the mask.

Nathan clapped him on the shoulder. "Get some sleep, Rick. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us."

Rick nodded once, but as Nathan walked away, his grip on the mask only tightened.