Marvel: The Villain Chapter 370 Stretcher

Norman slipped away from the White House before the lockdown was fully finalized, humming a strain of Beethoven as he drove back to the Vice President’s villa.

"Sir!" A maid stepped forward eagerly to take his coat.

Since learning that this uninvited guest was a high-ranking member of the Joker Organization, everyone in the household had treated him with a terrifying level of reverence. Even after all these years, the name of the Joker carried a legendary weight. That specific brand of fear and power seemed etched into the very DNA of every American. Even without using his telepathy to puppet their minds, these people were utterly submissive and profoundly respectful.

"Sir, would you like me to prepare lunch?"

Norman shed his disguise, his mood buoyant. "Not hungry yet. Draw a bath for me."

"Of course, sir." The maid hung his clothes and headed to the second-floor bathroom.

Norman went to his room, grabbed a change of clothes, and entered the steaming bathroom. The maid hesitated at the door. "Sir, do you require assistance with your bath?"

"No, no. You can go now." Norman waved her off dismissively. If she had been a lithe, beautiful maid, he wouldn’t have minded a bit of decadence, but this woman... her waist was as broad as her shoulders. Norman simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Soaking in the perfectly tempered water, Norman closed his eyes with a satisfied smile. Today was truly a day for celebration! If it weren’t for the fact that he needed to keep his cover for a while longer, he’d have loved to sit in the middle of the street and give a solo piano recital.

After scrubbing himself clean, Norman donned a bathrobe and returned to the study. He sank into a rolling office chair, pulled a communicator from a hidden compartment, and pressed the activation key, establishing an encrypted channel. This specific frequency had been set up by Chloe herself; its security was so absolute that even Tony Stark had no hope of detecting it.

As the line connected, Norman said triumphantly, "Mission accomplished!"

Christine’s voice crackled through the speaker. "It’s the digital age; half the world already knows. Congratulations, Norman. Beautifully done."

Norman chuckled. "The Vice President is under my thumb. His family is currently touring Europe—make sure you ’receive’ them properly."

"I know," Christine replied. "The task has already been assigned."

"Excellent. If that’s all, I’m cutting the link."

"Wait a moment," Christine interrupted.

"Is there something else?"

"I want to talk to you about Hydra."

"Hydra... hmph!" Norman smiled. "Alexander Pierce is dead, and most of their high-level plants in the government have been bagged. What’s left to talk about?"

"The head of the snake may have been cut off, but they still have dozens of branches and hundreds of thousands of low-level personnel across the globe. Just yesterday, the head of their Sokovia branch reached out to us."

Norman’s interest piqued. "You’re saying the Hydra remnants want to defect to us?"

"Bingo. The leadership is gone, and the rank-and-file just want to survive. It’s understandable. We had a small meeting yesterday, and the consensus is to absorb Hydra’s remaining assets. Our overseas influence was largely dismantled three years ago; rather than building from scratch, it’s easier to just occupy the nest and take over their remnants. What’s your take on the proposal?"

Norman thought for a moment. "Sounds lucrative. I’m in."

"Since you agree, I’ll need you to pull the strings to get the imprisoned Hydra members out of custody," Christine said.

"For me, that’s child’s play. Send over the files."

"Done. I’ll send the full Hydra dossiers. They still have a significant sleeper presence in the U.S. All of them are at your disposal."

"Understood. Over and out."

After hanging up, Norman downloaded the massive data dump Christine sent. It took him two full hours just to skim the executive summary. In that moment, he finally understood how Hydra had managed to wage a shadow war with SHIELD for so long. There were over fifty thousand Hydra members embedded in the United States alone—highly trained combatants, renowned scientists, and spies hidden in every branch of the military and government.

If it hadn’t been for the Project Insight disaster wiping out their top tier, Hydra’s influence in America would have rivaled both the Republicans and Democrats.

Norman focused on the D.C. data. The numbers there were grim. Most of the local members worked at the Triskelion and were currently being fed state meals at FBI headquarters. There were fewer than four hundred members left who hadn’t been compromised, and they were mostly grunt-level tactical units.

Norman closed his laptop and lay on the bed, his mind churning.

As night fell and the sky turned ink-black, the Vice President returned home, his body heavy with the exhaustion of a grueling day.

At the sound of the door, the maid walked to the foyer, her voice cold and demanding. "Why are you only just getting back? The Master told you to report to his study immediately."

The Vice President froze, it taking a full beat for reality to sink in. He was no longer the master of this house. In just three days, his status had shifted from "Owner" to "Guest"—and an unwelcome one at that. In the political arena, he practiced Social Darwinism—survival of the fittest, the strong devouring the weak. But being relegated to the bottom of the food chain in his own living room was a bitter pill to swallow.

"I understand," He said, shedding his coat and hanging it up.

"Be quick about it. Don’t keep him waiting," The maid barked before retreating to her room.

The Vice President looked around the familiar, yet now alien, surroundings. He let out a depressed sigh and headed up to the second-floor study.

"Enter!"

The Vice President pushed the door open to find Norman sitting on the sofa, sipping coffee.

"You asked for me, sir?"

Norman nodded and gestured for him to sit opposite. "I have a plan. I’m going to need your cooperation."

The Vice President sat down. "I’m listening."

Norman slowly laid out the plan he had spent the afternoon perfecting.

"Well? Any difficulties?"

The Vice President shook his head. "None. But sir, you..."

Norman laughed, waving a hand. "Don’t worry about me. Before I joined the DEA, my dream was actually to be a stage actor."

"Then I’ll start making the arrangements tomorrow," The Vice President said.

*

Three days later, FBI Headquarters.

The internal purge of SHIELD was still in full swing. With nearly ten thousand staff members to vet, the investigation was a logistical nightmare. In addition to mandatory overtime, the FBI had established a special tip-line, soliciting information from the public to speed up the process.

Since the line opened, the three hundred phones in the room hadn’t stopped ringing for a single minute. Operators in cramped cubicles worked twelve-hour shifts, their vocal cords feeling like they were being shredded by the end of the day. While some valuable leads had come in, the vast majority were noise. But every lead had to be investigated; there was no other way.

"Thank you for the information. Goodbye."

An operator with deep dark circles under his eyes hung up, only for the bell to chime again instantly. He sighed and picked up, repeating the script for the thousandth time.

"Hello, this is the FBI Special Tip-line."

"Hello. I have urgent information for you."

"Go ahead."

"I’m a homeless man. No job, no place to stay. I sleep in the parks or abandoned factories on the outskirts."

"I was sleeping last night when I was jolted awake by gunfire."

"The shots were close to where I was staying—an old, abandoned manufacturing plant. Some of the buildings had lights on in the middle of the night."

"I got dressed and crept closer. The place was crawling with strangers. They all had guns, and there were lookouts posted. I didn’t dare get too close; I turned around and left immediately."

The story was specific and grounded. The operator sat up straight, tracing the caller’s location. "Where exactly is this factory located?"

"It’s in the western suburbs..." The man gave the address.

"Understood. Anything else to add?"

"No. Just... please send the police. Get those bad guys. I can’t even sleep with one eye closed out here."

"Thank you for your service. Goodbye."

The operator hit a button to temporarily block incoming calls and began furiously typing the report to his superiors.

Twenty minutes later, two riot vans carrying over a dozen SWAT officers tore toward the target location. A kilometer out, the vans pulled over. The officers set up a perimeter and launched a surveillance drone.

The drone hovered over the plant, switching to thermal imaging. The factory was a hive of activity—a rough estimate suggested three to four hundred people. Armed sentries were clearly visible at the entrances and on the rooftops.

The tip was real.

The SWAT team didn’t take chances. They contacted HQ for heavy backup. Meanwhile, the two squads fanned out to take the high ground and monitor the sector. Hundreds of armed gunmen in the capital’s backyard was a code-red situation. Amidst this era of chaos, the order was clear: total neutralization.

Neutralizing an armed force of that size required more than just the FBI. They needed the military.

An hour later, dozens of military trucks carrying over a thousand soldiers arrived, supported by three attack helicopters. The troops spread out, sealing every exit. At the commander’s signal, the roar of gunfire shattered the silence.

The dozen lookouts on the perimeter were taken down instantly. The gunfire woke the hive, and the gunmen inside returned fire.

The moment the engagement started, the commander realized these weren’t ordinary thugs. They were using high-grade military hardware that wasn’t available on the black market. They even had MANPADS; one of the attack helicopters was struck by a rocket and spiraled into a fireball.

The enemy was stronger than expected, but the battle was decided the moment the perimeter was sealed. The military had a ten-to-one advantage, superior terrain, and air support. For the three hundred hostiles inside, there was no way out.

The tide turned quickly. Using armored vehicles as mobile cover, the soldiers squeezed the factory from all sides. As the suppressed fire decimated the defenders, a squad of Iron Man drones arrived to provide the finishing blow.

The drones ignored the hail of bullets, breaching the main floor and ending the fight in under five minutes. A dozen survivors were taken prisoner.

As the smoke cleared, the commander entered the facility, discovering massive stockpiles of supplies and munitions. Based on the signs of habitation, these people had been here for at least a week.

The commander wondered.

Suspecting a deeper mystery, he ordered a full sweep of the grounds. After several hours of searching, they found a hidden basement. Inside, chained and covered in bruises and scars, was a man.

It was the most wanted man in the country: the former SHIELD Head of Logistics, Norman Stansfield.

*

Tony and Steve were in the lounge, drinking tea and talking strategy.

Suddenly, Jarvis’s voice interrupted. "Sir. They’ve found Norman."

Both men bolted upright, staring at each other in shock. They had expected the hunt for Norman to take months, if not years. To have him surface after only three days was a miracle.

"Patch in the feed!" Tony commanded.

"Certainly, sir."

A holographic screen flared to life in the center of the room, showing a live feed from a Guardian drone on-site. The background was an old, battered factory surrounded by dozens of riot vans, armored personnel carriers, and a sea of soldiers and SWAT. They were cleaning up the battlefield, moving bodies and crates.

An ambulance screeched to a halt. Several soldiers carried a stretcher toward it.

"Jarvis, zoom in!" Tony barked.

The camera zoomed, focusing on the man on the stretcher.

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