Within moments, no survivors remained at the checkpoint.
The M1A1 Abrams tank positioned in the center of the compound proved utterly useless.
Jason tossed several grenades into the ammunition depot and vanished in a blur of motion.
Seconds later, a massive explosion obliterated the entire outpost.
That same night.
In an abandoned factory on the city's outskirts.
CIA agents conducted a transaction with local Afghan operatives.
The agents tossed several stacks of crisp green currency across the table. In return, the Afghans produced a duffel bag filled with neatly packaged "brick-shaped" parcels.
Both parties maintained a practiced efficiency—minimal conversation, the exchange completed in seconds.
Just as they prepared to depart, the single bare lightbulb illuminating the space shattered, struck by a projectile from the darkness.
"You backstabbing sons of bitches!" one agent shouted. "Trying to rob United States government agents? You're signing your own death warrants!"
"No, sir, we didn't—"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Chaos erupted—shouts, screams, pleas for mercy. When emergency lights finally activated, the lead agent spat contemptuously at the bodies sprawled across the floor.
"Pathetic. You think you can double-cross Americans? You're not nearly ruthless enough. Let's move out!"
As he turned to leave, he noticed a shadow passing through the periphery of his vision. Simultaneously, he realized one of his companions had vanished.
What the hell?
The remaining operatives immediately went on high alert, weapons raised, scanning the darkness.
Whoosh!
Another man disappeared.
What the fuck is happening?
"Open fire! Shoot anything that moves! Kill the bastard!"
BANG! BANG!
Gunfire erupted throughout the abandoned factory.
If anyone had been listening carefully, they would have noticed the distinct pattern—shots from six weapons became five, then four, then three...
Until silence fell.
Deep within a hidden cave, terrorists celebrated.
They had just completed an attack against civilian targets.
"Hurry up and contact Mossad! Tell them to wire the payment, or we'll take our services to MI6. They've been eager to work with us!"
Before they could place the call to claim credit, an uninvited guest breached their sanctuary.
Blood and carnage followed.
Only in their final moments did they comprehend the true agony of exsanguination, the genuine terror of mortality.
The legend of the Death Devil or Marg Sheytaan began spreading across the land.
Bagram Air Force Base.
A collection of senior U.S. military officials gathered in Afghanistan reviewed surveillance footage.
The screen displayed intelligence on the "Marg Sheytaan" who had rapidly gained notoriety—photographs and video clips captured by chance.
When a clear frontal image appeared, collective gasps filled the room.
A devil?
"I consider myself a strict materialist," one officer objected. "I question the authenticity of this footage. How could an actual devil exist in our world?"
Another nodded in agreement. "Though I'm a devout Christian, I refuse to believe some supernatural entity is responsible for these massacres. Perhaps it's some type of advanced combat suit or armor?"
General Pulver, Director of Intelligence, rose with a grave expression. "I'm afraid this entity is quite real, gentlemen. We have substantial evidence confirming its existence. Denying this reality is not a prudent approach."
The conference room fell silent.
"Jesus Christ," someone whispered. "Is this God's punishment upon us?"
"Impossible! We're God's chosen people—white Anglo-Saxons. Why would God punish us?"
The sole Black general in attendance fixed the speaker with a pointed stare but remained silent, conscious of his junior rank.
Admiral Glenn, the ranking commander of U.S. forces in Afghanistan, clapped his hands for attention. "According to intelligence reports, the Death Devil isn't exclusively targeting American forces. Let's avoid unfounded speculation. I've assembled you here to formulate a response strategy. Pulver, share Intelligence's assessment."
"Yes, sir!"
General Pulver stood. "Ladies and gentlemen, based on our analysis of available data, we've developed several theories. Since U.S. military personnel, CIA operatives, Afghan National Army units, and various armed groups have all been targeted, we believe the Death Devil isn't specifically focused on American forces, but rather on all groups sharing a particular... characteristic."
"What characteristic?" someone demanded.
Pulver hesitated. "Possibly... guilty."
"What?"
"I emphasize 'possibly,'" Pulver clarified quickly. "In areas where the Death Devil has operated, some Afghan National Army units were attacked while others were spared. Similar patterns exist among local militias. In one documented case, the entity infiltrated an Afghan National Army base, eliminated half the personnel, then departed without harming the remainder. Comparing victims with survivors, we've identified potential commonalities..."
"That's preposterous! No American servicemembers have been spared. Are you suggesting all U.S. forces are guilty? That's absurd! What about our cooks, clerks, and technicians who've never left the base—are they guilty too?"
Silence descended on the conference room.
Finally, someone sighed. "But they are foreign soldiers occupying another nation's territory..."
No one responded immediately.
"So we're all guilty?"
"This isn't the devil's jurisdiction—it's God's!"
"Kill it! Find a way to destroy this thing!"
"The sanctity of American military power and white hegemony cannot be violated. Unleash everything—aircraft, artillery, armored divisions. We're the most formidable fighting force on Earth!"
Admiral Glenn rapped his knuckles sharply against the table. "Gentlemen! I convened this meeting to develop actionable strategies. Neutralizing this threat is clearly our priority. The question is: how do we accomplish this?"
Pulver quickly interceded. "Based on current intelligence, we believe this Death Devil may not be as formidable as initially assumed. Regarding U.S. forces, it has never engaged medium or large base more than a hundred personnel. It primarily targets checkpoints, guard posts, and temporary outposts manned by dozen or fewer individuals. It appears to possess extraordinary reconnaissance capabilities, allowing it to detect and intercept many impromptu operations. Therefore, to minimize casualties, I recommend consolidating dispersed personnel immediately. They can temporarily redeploy to Bagram or other major bases. As for neutralizing the Death Devil, we can form a specialized hunter-killer team based on its observed behavioral patterns..."
Jason listened to the live broadcast as the generals debated strategies for his elimination.
These commanders likely never imagined that the Death Devil's primary intelligence-gathering method was simple—eavesdropping.
After years of unchallenged dominance in Afghanistan, they had grown complacent. Electronic surveillance wasn't even on their radar of concerns.
The U.S. military wasn't alone in its fear of the "Death Devil." Various armed factions throughout Afghanistan trembled at the mention of the entity.
During his recent campaign of systematic elimination, Jason had accidentally encountered a terrorist cell affiliated with the Ten Rings.
They were subordinates of the bald commander, Raza—the same man who had orchestrated Tony Stark's abduction.
Talk about serendipity.
Jason eliminated most of them, while the few survivors fled in terror to seek protection from their leader.
Soon, they unwittingly led him directly to the cave where Stark was imprisoned.
Under cover of night, when the guards were at their most fatigued, Jason silently infiltrated the compound.
Several layers of iron gates blocked his path, but he came prepared.
Alessa, the poison master, had equipped him with several specialized chemical compounds.
By igniting one particular vial, the resulting vapor would induce profound unconsciousness in anyone who inhaled it.
He successfully reached a massive iron door and peered through its small observation window. Inside, Stark slept soundly, soft snores escaping his lips.
A smile curved Jason's mouth. The key to my payday is right in there.
With a practiced eye, he identified electrical wires running from behind the door toward a distant monitoring station.
After a quick analysis, he located the surveillance system and attached a small device designed to freeze the video feed on a specific frame.
The timing was perfect—late night, with both Stark and his fellow captive Yinsen sleeping. Guards would not question their lack of movement.
Jason deployed the sleep-inducing compound for both men, deepening their natural unconsciousness before slipping into the chamber.
He extracted another vial and waved it beneath Stark's nostrils.
This specialized hallucinogen, when combined with the earlier sedative, could compel subjects to unconsciously reveal secrets during sleep.
"Stark," he whispered, "did you build a backdoor into the Jericho missile system?"
The Jericho—Stark's devastating cluster bomb demonstration for the military.
Three prototype units had been created. One was expended during the demonstration; two remained sealed in a nearby U.S. military arsenal close to the demonstration site.
Now that would make for an exciting payday.
The firing procedure for such a weapon would undoubtedly be complex, requiring multiple authorization codes and command confirmations.
Unless...
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