Where the green grass grows ch 4

Texas Tornado

The pristine, sun-bleached parking lot of the Beverly Hills Beach Club looked like a luxury car showroom, but the moment a sleek, midnight-black Cadillac Escalade pulled into the VIP lane, it commanded the space. The door swung open, and out stepped John Ross Ewing. Impeccably tailored in a sharp western-cut suit, a silver belt buckle gleaming in the California sun, he adjusted his Stetson hat with a slow, deliberate confidence. He didn’t just walk into Beverly Hills; he arrived like a storm front moving across the plains.

Noah Hunter was waiting for him on the private upper deck of the club, overlooking the rolling Pacific surf. Two powerhouses of the oil world, cut from entirely different cloth—Noah representing the modern, smooth coastal executive, and John Ross carrying the ruthless, old-school grit of Southfork.

"John Ross," Noah said, standing up and extending a hand as the Texan approached. "Appreciate you making the flight out on short notice."

"Noah," John Ross replied, his voice a smooth, dangerous Texas drawl as he gave a firm handshake. "When a Hunter calls about an international play that could reshape foreign assets, an Ewing doesn't sit around waiting for the evening news. Besides, I always did like the view out here."

They sat down, and Noah laid out the parameters of Jasper Vance's pitch from the night before—the geopolitical shifts, the targeted investments in the revolution, and the promise of tripling Hunter Oil's capital when the dust settled.

John Ross listened quietly, swirling a glass of bourbon that Dixon Wilson had personally sent up to the deck. He didn't look impressed. In fact, a calculating, predatory smile began to stretch across his face. He didn't see a partner in Noah; he saw blood in the water. To a Ewing, a man asking for advice on a volatile gamble was a man showing weakness.

"It’s a hell of a story, Noah," John Ross said, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. "But if you're asking me whether you should jump into bed with a bunch of campus radicals and international cartel money, it tells me you've lost your grip on the wheel. Hunter Oil is a proud name, but you're hesitating. And hesitation in our business gets you buried."

Noah’s posture went rigid, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't invite you here to lecture me on my grip, John Ross. I invited you for a strategic perspective."

"And I'm giving it to you," John Ross smiled, his eyes turning cold as ice. "My perspective is that Hunter Oil is ready for a changing of the guard. I'm offering you a buyout. Ewing Energies will absorb your West Coast infrastructure, secure your domestic leases, and handle the Vance situation ourselves. You get a nice, pretty retirement package, and you don't have to worry about the sharks circling your waters."

Noah let out a cold, sharp laugh, slamming his glass down on the table. "You think I'm weak? You think because I’m looking at the board before I move my pieces, you can just slide in and take my company? The answer is no, John Ross. Hunter Oil isn't for sale. Not to you, not to anyone."

John Ross stood up slowly, adjusting his Stetson with absolute composure. He didn't look angry; he looked amused.

"Well, now, I always respect a man who stands his ground," John Ross drawled softly, tapping the brim of his hat. "But California has a habit of making people soft, Noah. You think about that offer. It won't stay on the table forever."

As John Ross walked away, his boots clicking rhythmically against the wooden deck, his smile faded into a calculating glare. He pulled his smartphone from his breast pocket and hit a speed-dial number as he stepped into the elevator.

"Yeah, it’s me," John Ross muttered into the receiver, his voice dropping to a low, commanding rumble. "Noah turned down the buyout. He's trying to play tough. I need you to dig into everything he's been doing in Beverly Hills. Check his personal life, check his corporate taxes, and find out exactly what his connection is to this Jasper Vance kid. I want dirt, and I want it by tonight. If he won't sell to me willingly, I'll make sure he doesn't have a choice."

He paused at the elevator doors, looking out across the palm trees lining the avenue, a ruthless grin cutting across his face.

"Oh, and by the way," John Ross added smoothly into the phone. "Get me that house on Hillcrest. Yeah, (the original Walsh house) Buy it, lease it, I don't care what it takes. I'm going to be here a while."