Where the green grass grows ch 6

Oil Companies Don't Belong in Cali

The desk lamps in Gina Kincaid’s penthouse office were the only lights burning in the building. It was past midnight, and the glowing screens of her dual monitors cast a pale, blue wash over her face. Spread out across the desk were thousands of pages of digitized tax filings, corporate restructurings, and bank ledgers belonging to Hunter Oil.

Gina dragged her mouse down a long column of anonymized charitable contributions, her eyes narrowing as she found what she was looking for. She paused on a line item from three months prior. It was a massive, seven-figure wire transfer.

Hunter Oil donation to the Vance Foundation for Justice.

Gina leaned back in her chair, a cold, knowing smile creeping onto her lips. She tapped her pen against her chin, staring at the screen. "It seems innocent enough," she muttered to the empty room. "A major energy corporation throwing millions at a trendy campus activist foundation to look socially responsible." She saved the file to an encrypted drive. "But everyone has something to hide, Noah. Let's see where the money actually went."

Meanwhile, across town at Pruit's, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to Gina's quiet office. Ray Pruit’s upscale, grit-and-glamour restaurant was packed with the Beverly Hills elite, the air thick with the smell of wood-fired steaks and expensive wine.

John Ross Ewing sat at a secluded corner booth, cutting into a prime rib with absolute precision. He didn’t look up from his plate as a shadow fell over his table. He had noticed the rugged, unassuming man in the khaki jacket trailing his Escalade through the canyons earlier that afternoon. John Ross was an Ewing; he knew what a tail looked like.

Colonel Gedeon stood smoothly by the edge of the booth, his posture perfectly relaxed but his eyes completely vigilant. Before Gedeon could even blend into the background, John Ross dropped his knife and fork against the porcelain plate with a sharp clink.

John Ross looked up, a slow, predatory grin stretching across his face as he stared directly into the eyes of the elite intelligence expert. "You know, friend, out in Texas, when a man follows me around this close, I usually invite him to a firing range. But since we’re in California, I figured I’d just let you watch me eat a decent steak."

Gedeon didn't flinch. His expression remained a hardened mask as he took a step closer, realizing his cover was blown but refusing to give an inch of leverage to the Texan. "You're a long way from Southfork, Ewing."

John Ross wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, leaning forward as his eyes turned to cold flint. "And you're a long way from whatever military sandbox Noah pulled you out of. Go back and tell your boss that I see him. Tell him I know he's terrified of what happens when a real wolf enters his backyard." John Ross stood up, tossing a hundred-dollar bill onto the table, adjusting his Stetson as he looked around the lavish, high-society restaurant. "Oil companies don't belong in Cal, friend. This state is soft, and the people running it are brittle. I'm going to break Noah Hunter, and if he gets in my way, I'll break him too."

Back in the penthouse, Gina Kincaid was completely deaf to the corporate posturing happening across town. Her focus was locked on the digital web she was weaving. Following the money trail from the Vance Foundation, she bypassed three separate shell accounts based in Panama, tracking a series of massive payouts disguised as "high-end facility acquisitions."

When she finally cracked the destination accounts, a name popped up that made her sit completely upright: Colin Robbins.

The funds weren't going to school supplies or student grants. They were being routed directly into Colin’s private art galleries. Gina immediately recognized the play. She picked up her encrypted satellite phone and dialed a secure number, routing the call through a contact who handled high-level intelligence in Mexico.

"I need a validation on Colin Robbins," Gina said, skipping the pleasantries. "He's running high-end canvases across the border. Who is signing the customs manifests on the other side?"

There was a heavy pause on the line, followed by the clacking of a keyboard. When her contact spoke, his voice was hushed. "Robbins isn't just selling paintings, Gina. Our assets in the intelligence community have been tracking those specific gallery shipments. He's acting as a financial mule. He is working directly for the cartel networks operating under the guise of South American freedom fighters. They are using his gallery openings to launder cash and move loose jewels right past federal border checks."

"Boom," Gina whispered, a dangerous grin spreading across her face as she disconnected the call. The puzzle pieces had just slammed into place. Noah Hunter's corporate money was funding Jasper Vance's organization, and Jasper was using Colin Robbins to launder international cartel funds through fine art.

Right as she began compiling the data into a single, devastating file for John Ross, her personal cell phone began to buzz on the desk. The caller ID showed Dylan McKay.

She swiped the screen and put it to her ear. "Dylan. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Gina, I'm here with Brandon Walsh," Dylan’s voice came through, urgent and sharp. "We've got a major situation brewing out here, and we need the best in the business. We need you to put a beat out on Jasper Vance and Colin Robbins. Find out what kind of operation they're running behind closed doors."

Gina let out a sharp, melodic laugh, leaning back in her leather chair as she looked at the complete financial map of the cartel ring glowing on her screens.

"Two bangs for the buck, baby," Gina purred smoothly. "You guys are officially a day late and a dollar short, because I already have them dead to rights. Let's talk."