Where the green grass grows ch 13

The Handshake on Hillcrest

The heavy padlocks on the side bay door of Robbins Fine Art Storage had been violently sheared off, but as Dylan McKay and Brandon Walsh stepped back inside the Malibu warehouse with two local federal agents, there was no shock on their faces. The single overhead halogen lamp was still buzzing, casting a stark white circle over a completely bare concrete floor. The cash, the uncut diamonds, the shipping manifests—everything was gone.

"They moved it all, just like we figured," Brandon said, lowering his flashlight without a hint of surprise. "We knew the second Jasper slammed the power grid and fled into the dark last night, he’d spend the early hours of the morning hauling every single asset out of this building. I already had federal surveillance units stationed at the canyon exits to box in Colin's panel vans the moment they hit the road."

Dylan stood in the center of the empty facility, his hands jammed deep into his denim jacket. His eyes narrowed as he looked at a sleek black digital router left blinking in the corner of the workspace. "Brandon, check the transit logs. Did the surveillance units intercept the vans?"

Brandon tapped his screen, his expression suddenly freezing as the data refreshed. "No... they didn't. The vans never even made it to the highway. Dylan, look at this. The local network grid for the warehouse was accessed remotely from a penthouse IP address in Hollywood less than an hour ago. The master files, the routing encryption—it’s all been legally reassigned."

A cold, heavy realization settled into Dylan's chest. They had completely anticipated Jasper's frantic evacuation after their standoff, but they had severely underestimated who was pulling the strings from the shadows. "It wasn't the cartel that beat us to the highway," Dylan said quietly, his voice hard as flint. "It was Gina. She let us focus on Jasper's physical flight so she could use our digital footprints to force her own corporate buyout. She completely played all of us."

A few miles away, tucked into the prestigious canyon shadows of 953 Hillcrest Drive, the atmosphere was vastly different. John Ross Ewing stood behind the pristine kitchen island of the classic two-story house, pouring two fingers of premium Texas bourbon into a heavy crystal tumbler.

The heavy front door clicked open, and Gina Kincaid walked into the residence. She looked radiant, her sharp heels clicking against the hardwood flooring, carrying a fresh, notarized corporate ledger folder in her hand. She didn't wait to be invited inside; she walked straight up to the kitchen counter and dropped the folder right next to his glass.

"You look comfortable, John Ross," Gina said smoothly, leaning against the counter. "Though I hope you haven't unpacked too much. Your stay in California just got significantly shorter."

John Ross picked up his tumbler, swirling the amber liquid. "Well now, darlin', an Ewing is always comfortable when he's holding the winning hand. My investigators tell me you skipped out on our little porch party yesterday. I assume you brought the leverage to crush Noah Hunter?"

"I did better than that," Gina smiled, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, brilliant triumph. "I skipped the middleman. While you were busy playing street wars with Teddy's private security, and while Dylan and Brandon were busy waiting for Jasper to panic and move his physical assets, I went straight to Noah's penthouse. I dropped the cartel money-laundering files on his desk and gave him an ultimatum." She tapped the ledger folder. "Noah Hunter cracked. He signed fifty-one percent of his personal majority shares in Hunter Oil over to me to keep his name out of a federal indictment. I own the company, John Ross."

John Ross froze, his glass halfway to his mouth. For a rare, fleeting second, the legendary Texas oil tycoon was completely speechless. He stared at the notarized signature pages inside the folder, a slow, deep chuckle building in his chest until it turned into a wide, genuinely captivated grin.

"Well, I'll be damned," John Ross drawled, shaking his head in absolute admiration. "A Beverly Hills private eye completely out-maneuvered me and bought the entire damn company right out from under my nose. Gina, you just out-Ewinged an Ewing. That is beautiful."

"I don't play for cheap retainers, John Ross," Gina purred, sliding the folder closer to him. "I play to win. I have the majority stake, but I have absolutely no interest in running an energy corporation. I’m offering you a buyout. Ewing Energies takes the fifty-one percent majority, absorbs the infrastructure, and handles the assets. For a very handsome premium, of course."

"Name your price," John Ross said instantly, not hesitating for a single second as he poured a second glass of bourbon and pushed it toward her. "You’ve earned every single penny of it. But I’m not just buying your fifty-one percent majority stake, Gina. A woman with your specific brand of cold-blooded ruthlessness shouldn't be wasting her time digging up Hollywood divorce dirt. Once this transaction clears, Ewing Energies is officially moving Hunter Oil's entire corporate footprint out of California. I want you on the payroll. Name your title."

Gina picked up her glass, her eyes locking onto his with an unyielding, calculated ambition. "Senior Vice President of Corporate Intelligence. And I want full autonomy."

"Done," John Ross smiled, clinking his glass firmly against hers. "Welcome to the family. We are taking this operation back home to Texas, straight to where the green grass grows."

The heavy double doors of the Hillcrest living room opened, and Noah Hunter walked into the space. The proud, smooth coastal executive looked completely defeated, his shoulders slouched as he looked at the two powerhouses finalizing the destruction of his kingdom. He had been waiting in the study, knowing his destiny was no longer in his own hands.

"So that's it?" Noah asked, his voice hollow as he stared at John Ross. "You're ripping my family's legacy completely out of this state?"

John Ross turned to him, his expression turning cold as iron as he took a slow sip of his drink. "Your family legacy was floating down a cartel river, Noah. Gina just saved you from a federal penitentiary. You’re still a forty-nine percent shareholder in the new subsidiary, but make no mistake about it—you don't run the show anymore. We’re moving the assets to Dallas. And since you own forty-nine percent of the company, you're coming with us."

Noah looked at Gina, then back at John Ross’s unyielding stare. Realizing he was bound to his forty-nine percent stake and had no other choice, Noah let out a long, defeated breath. He knew he had to go along. "When do we fly out?"

John Ross adjusted the brim of his Stetson hat, a ruthless, triumphant grin stretching across his face as he looked around the classic Walsh house one last time. "The private jet is fueled and waiting at LAX. Drink up, everybody. Next stop, Dallas."