Carlos gave him a look, then clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"I figured you had it under control."
James just smirked. "Always do."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Philip was on a high.
Ever since the day he met James and Carlos Gibson, his career had been a constant climb. Every job James tossed his way, Philip handled to perfection. The rewards followed.
Now, he wasn't just a lawyer. He was the Director of the Legal department for League Games. Running his own team. Living in a tax bracket he never dreamed of.
Most small companies couldn't even afford to keep a lawyer on standby. In America, the law was a maze of state-by-state traps. Unless you had money or a backing, you were always a few steps from ruin. But James didn't play small. He was building an empire, and Philip had a front-row seat.
So when James called today, Philip was already moving.
The three lawyers stationed in New York were dispatched to the 56th Precinct immediately. Philip wasn't sloppy. He knew where his boss lived. Knew the jurisdiction boundaries. Knew exactly which precinct would get the fallout.
Then, with his own team of twelve, he boarded the next flight to New York.
Hollywood stars usually filled these flights.
But today, it was a legal hit squad.
Meanwhile, back at the 56th, James was escorted into an interview room.
Three of his lawyers were already waiting.
The sheriff, seeing the line-up, felt his palms get clammy. The police didn't hate rich people. They hated the lawyers rich people brought with them. Three was bad enough. But he suspected this wouldn't be all.
And he was right.
James sat down. The lawyers flanked him. Across the table, the sheriff and a recorder sat stiffly.
The air was tense.
"Mr. Gibson, can we begin?" the sheriff asked, trying to sound casual.
One of the lawyers leaned in, whispered to James.
James didn't bother hiding his response. "No need. Let's get on with it."
The sheriff nodded, flipping open a folder. "Name?"
"James Gibson."
"Age?"
"Twenty-six."
"Occupation?"
"Chairman of League Games. Shareholder of Stark Industries."
The sheriff's pen froze.
A Stark shareholder alone was bad news. That came with legal walls that no precinct could breach. But League Games? That name had been all over the media. Global contracts. Expansions. A hundred billion dollar valuation wasn't far off.
James wasn't some spoiled celebrity kid. He was a rising titan.
The sheriff pressed on. "Can you tell us what happened today?"
James recounted the incident—calm, blunt, with no embellishments. Then flipped the question back. "Can you tell me why it took the NYPD half an hour to respond?"
The sheriff fumbled. "T-Traffic. Y-You know how New York is."
James's response was a dry chuckle. "Sure. New York traffic. Of course."
Everyone knew there were patrol cars within every few blocks. The excuse was garbage.
The sheriff shifted tactics. "Mr. Gibson, your sister fired three shots. Whose gun was it? Do you have a Firearm Carry Permit?"
James smiled. Predicatable move.
"The guns are mine. All registered. It wasn't appropriate to carry them during a school incident, so I secured them in my vehicle as a fallback for my sister. Do you need to see credentials?"
The sheriff nodded, stalling for time. "Yes. That would help."
James handed over his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued standard civilian ID.
The sheriff left the room, walked straight to his office, and slammed the door.
He called his contact immediately. "I did you a favor here, but you didn't tell me it was James Gibson. The lawyers are already crawling in. What am I supposed to do?"
"Relax. Even if this gets messy and you lose your badge, you'll walk away with a payout—maybe even a promotion if you play it right. You're thinking too big. Keep it simple. Gibson's sister fired a gun. That's the headline. Illegal firearms and child endangerment. Make it stick. Run his licenses. I promise, you'll find exactly what you need."
The line went dead.
The sheriff pulled up the NYPD system, scanning for James Gibson's firearm registrations.
Nothing.
Two blanks. No permits. No purchase records.
A slow grin crept onto his face.
Unregistered firearms. That was no small charge. Enough to drag anyone into a legal quagmire. But paired with child endangerment—leaving a weapon accessible to a minor? Now that was a story he could work with. The headlines would write themselves. He didn't care what Gibson had been fighting against outside; the moment his sister pulled that trigger, he got no escape.
Feeling bolder, the sheriff returned to the room.
"Mr. Gibson," the sheriff began, voice calm but coiled with intent, "both of your firearms are unregistered. That makes you illegally armed. And leaving a loaded weapon within reach of a child? That's child endangerment."
He leaned in, smirking.
James leaned back, unimpressed. "So you're telling me my permit is fake? That's your play?"
He let the silence hang for a moment, then continued, voice low and cutting.
"And as for child endangerment—you're really going to sit there and pretend my sister wasn't about to be murdered? That giving her a way to survive is a crime now? You'd rather she waited for your people to show up and zip her body into a bag?"
The sheriff faltered—just for a breath. Then forced his composure back. "We'll need to investigate further. Could take a while."
James's stare didn't waver. "No, it won't. You're done here. I'm leaving. You can wait for my lawyer's letter."
He stood. His lawyers moved with him, sharp and deliberate.
The sheriff's hand twitched. He couldn't physically stop them—not without crossing a line—but he needed a lifeline. Something. Anything.
"Mr. Gibson, we still need to address the issue of the guns—"
James cut him off, flicking another ID across the table. It slid to a stop inches from the sheriff's hand.
"Look at that."
The sheriff picked it up. His face was drained of color.
Level 4 S.H.I.E.L.D. identification. Embedded security clearances. No forgeries, and no counterfeits. This wasn't a badge—it was a federal hammer.
And he had just tried to charge the hammer with illegal possession.
[Hydra's influence is confirmed within NYPD infrastructure. Recommend: strategic withdrawal. Philip's secondary team will arrive in four hours.]
James didn't need the reminder.
It was time to escalate to another level.