Where the green grass grows ch 10

The Malibu Warehouse Raid

The screech of Gedeon’s tires echoing down Hillcrest Drive was still ringing in Gina’s ears, but she didn’t waste a single second watching the street war unfold. While John Ross was focused on the silver SUV, Gina utilized the chaos to slip off the side of the brick porch. She rounded the corner of the Walsh house, cut through the shadows of the backyard, and vanished into the neighboring alleyway. Her custom portfolio remained clutched tightly to her chest. She had no intention of letting John Ross use her hard-earned leverage for his own goals anymore. She realized she could completely cut out the middleman, blackmail Noah Hunter directly, and take a massive piece of the oil empire for herself.

Miles away from the high-society espionage, tucked deep within the rugged, winding shadows of the Malibu canyons, a single industrial structure sat hidden behind a chain-link fence. The sign on the rusted corrugated steel read Robbins Fine Art Storage.

Dylan McKay parked his dark truck a quarter-mile down the canyon road, killing the engine and headlights. He, Jack, and Brandon Walsh approached the perimeter fence on foot, moving quickly through the heavy coastal fog.

"The main gate is locked down with an encrypted commercial keypad," Jack whispered, pulling a compact tablet from his pack and connecting a high-speed bypass cable directly to the gate's junction box. His post-college tech skills were flawless. "Give me ten seconds. I’m injecting a diagnostic loop into the security gateway."

"Hurry up, Jack," Brandon urged, looking anxiously up at the dark canyon ridges. "If Gina's lead was accurate, this place isn't just a gallery warehouse. It's a federal crime scene waiting to happen."

A sharp electronic beep echoed through the quiet canyon, and the heavy iron gate clicked open. "We’re in," Jack said, slipping the tablet back into his bag. "I’ve bypassed the interior motion grid for exactly twenty minutes."

Dylan led the way, his jaw tight as they slipped through the side bay door of the darkened warehouse. Inside, the air smelled heavily of industrial turpentine, fresh oil paint, and raw timber. Rows of towering wooden crates and wrapped canvases lined the concrete floor.

At the far end of the facility, beneath a single overhead halogen lamp, stood Colin Robbins and Jasper Vance. They were working frantically, surrounded by heavy shipping crates destined for the Scott Scanlon fundraising auction.

"We need to move faster, Colin," Jasper snapped, his hypnotic campus leader voice completely replaced by a sharp, manic panic. "The Beach Club inventory was short. If David Silver or Dixon Wilson run a full digital audit on those delivery logs, the Feds will be crawling all over the coast before sunrise."

"I'm securing the cargo as fast as I can!" Colin shouted back, his hands shaking as he used a heavy electric screwdriver to detach the thick, structural wooden frame of an oversized expressionist canvas.

As the frame pulled away, Dylan, Jack, and Brandon watched from behind a stack of crates as a cascade of brilliant, uncut diamonds and neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar cartel bills spilled onto the work table beneath the hollowed-out borders of the art piece.

Jack let out a silent breath, his eyes wide. "Look at that..." he whispered.

"They aren't just laundering money through the charity," Brandon muttered, his investigative instincts tracking the shipping manifests on the table. "They are physically running high-grade cartel wealth directly past customs under the brushstrokes of high-end art."

Dylan stepped out from the shadows, his voice slicing through the empty warehouse like a razor blade. "The exhibition is officially over, Colin."

Colin spun around, his face turning entirely pale as he dropped the screwdriver with a loud clatter against the concrete. "Dylan? Brandon? What the hell are you doing here?"

Jasper didn't flinch. He stepped in front of the table, shielding the exposed jewels and cash with his body, his eyes turning dangerous. "You're trespassing on private property, McKay. You have absolutely no idea what kind of global forces you are interfering with. This capital isn't yours to judge."

"I don't care about your global forces, Jasper," Dylan said, taking a slow, commanding step forward while Jack quietly initiated a video recording on his phone to capture the physical proof. "I care about the wreckage you're bringing into my town. You used Kelly, you used the Beach Club, and you used Scanlon's campaign to fund a blood trade. You're done."

"We're going to the Feds, Colin," Brandon said, holding up his reporter's notebook. "We have the Beach Club security logs, and we have the physical cargo right in front of us. There isn't an elite lawyer in Beverly Hills who can write you out of this timeline."

Jasper caught Colin's eye, throwing a subtle glance toward the rear loading bay doors. "You think a couple of West Beverly alumni can stop a revolution?" Jasper sneered, suddenly slamming his hand down on the light switch, plunging the entire warehouse into pitch-black darkness.

"Jack, watch the exit!" Dylan shouted as the sound of scrambling footsteps and roaring van engines erupted through the dark facility.