Chapter 7: Old Business
Eleanor read the situation in about two seconds. Her expression went serious, she moved closer to Matthew, and she unclipped her watch and wrapped it around her fist without making it obvious.
Matthew, for his part, looked entirely relaxed.
"You're right," he said pleasantly. "We should sort out what I owe."
He looked at Pete with polite curiosity. "Actually, I've been trying to remember the exact number. Why don't you remind me?"
Pete was not particularly sharp, and did not hear anything in the question worth worrying about. Even if he had, he would not have taken it seriously. The soft, easy target he had been lending money to a few months ago did not turn into a problem overnight. That was not how this worked.
"You borrowed twenty thousand over three years," Pete said. "While you were in school. That right?"
"That's right."
"So how much have you paid back?"
"Thirty thousand." Matthew spread his hands. "I paid back the principal. I overpaid by any standard interest rate on the market. I haven't come to ask for the difference back, which I could, and you're the one standing here asking me for more money. Does that seem right to you?"
From somewhere in the ring of gang members behind Pete, a quiet voice: "Boss, he's got a point."
Pete turned and looked at the man.
"He doesn't have a damn point." He waved the comment away and turned back. "Matthew, do you seriously think the Magia Gang runs on bank rates?" His voice went flat. "After what you've already paid, you still owe us twenty thousand. That's the number. That's final."
A pause. His hand dropped to the side of his tracksuit, patting something underneath the fabric that sat heavy and unmistakable.
"You can choose not to pay. You know what that looks like."
Matthew clocked the shape immediately. A firearm.
Eleanor moved without hesitation. She stepped in front of Matthew, putting herself between him and Pete.
"Sir," she said, quietly. "He's armed."
"I see it."
The standoff had about three more seconds of silence in it before it was interrupted.
"Well, well." A familiar voice, loose and faintly mocking. "If it isn't Mr. Lawrence and Ms. Ross. You two look like you could use a hand."
Tony Stark walked into the circle of gang members with Happy at his shoulder, both of them with the easy confidence of people who had decided they were not especially worried about the situation.
They had been close enough to catch most of the conversation. Tony had not actually been planning to intervene, it was not his business but Happy had mentioned on the way over that he knew Eleanor. That changed the plan.
"You know Tony Stark?" Eleanor murmured to Matthew.
"No. Do you?"
"No. But the man with him, I know him. From when he was boxing."
It was a longer story than it looked. Theodore Lawrence's estate had included, among many other things, a boxing promotion company. Happy Hogan had been one of the company's fighters at the time, unremarkable, not making the numbers the company wanted. When the company had been ready to drop his contract, Eleanor had pushed through a substantial funding allocation that changed that decision. Happy had eventually left the ring for private security work with Tony Stark, but at the point when it had mattered, someone had kept him from being written off. He had not forgotten.
Which was why he had recognized Eleanor from behind in the street.
Matthew processed this and filed it away.
Pete, meanwhile, was not happy about the interruption. His expression, already dark, got darker.
"Mr. Stark," he said, "if you're here to chat, I'd suggest finding somewhere else to do it. We're in the middle of something."
"In the middle of something." Tony's tone was light, and carried the particular quality of amusement that came from finding a situation beneath contempt. "You are."
He looked at Pete for a moment, then pulled a ring off his finger and held it out. Simple gesture.
"This is worth around two hundred thousand. Whatever you're owed, it's not two hundred thousand. We're done here." He kept his eyes on Pete. "I'm going to take this gentleman with me now."
Pete looked at the ring. He looked at the man next to him. A brief, low exchange.
When he looked back up, the expression on his face had reorganized itself into something that passed for polite.
"Of course, Mr. Stark. Take your friend."
He pocketed the ring.
Then his eyes went to Matthew, and the politeness went elsewhere.
"Matthew. We'll see each other again." Flat. Certain. "When we do, I expect you to pay what you owe. In person. You know what happens if you don't."
The words sat in the air for a moment.
Everything around them went quiet, even the traffic seemed to dial down.
Matthew listened to Pete's confident send-off and felt something that was not quite anger. More like amusement at the fundamental misunderstanding of the situation.
He hadn't said he was leaving.
Nobody had asked Pete for permission to set the terms here.
"Mr. Stark," Matthew said, turning to Tony, "this really has nothing to do with you. Please, go ahead. And genuinely, thank you for the assist."
Tony opened his mouth.
Three Umbrella vehicles pulled up to the curb.
The doors opened and a substantial number of very large men stepped out. They moved through the group with the brisk, practiced efficiency of people who had done this before and found it straightforward. Pete's crew was on the ground before anyone had properly registered what was happening. The ones who tried to resist got an elbow for their trouble and went quiet.
Thirty seconds, start to finish.
Pete, face against the concrete with a knee in his back, had not yet worked out what had happened.
"Hey! Hey! Get off me! You've got the wrong guys! I didn't do anything to Stark! I was looking for the Matthew kid! You got the wong guys!!"
The man on top of him did not move.
Matthew crouched down to Pete's level, reached into the pocket of Pete's tracksuit, and retrieved the ring. He wiped it on Pete's sleeve, stood up, and flicked it across to Happy in a clean arc.
"They arrived this fast," Matthew said, looking down at Pete conversationally, "because you were looking for trouble with me."
He straightened up. His expression, to anyone watching, was perfectly pleasant.
"Ross." He glanced at her. "The research division is still looking for volunteers for experimental drug trials, isn't it? These gentlemen seem to be in excellent physical condition." He surveyed Pete and the crew. "Very suitable for that role."
His tone did not change at all.
"Take them."