Where the green grass grows ch 7

The Divided Front

The glass-and-steel elevator of the Kincaid Building glided silently up to the penthouse suite, but the mood inside the cab was pure friction. Dylan McKay stood with his hands jammed deep into his denim jacket pockets, his jaw tightly set as he watched the digital floor numbers tick upward. Beside him, Brandon Walsh adjusted the collar of his coat, a leather-bound reporter's notebook tucked into his breast pocket.

"Gina hasn't changed, Dylan," Brandon muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the doors. "She plays by her own rules. If we're going to get her to put a beat out on Jasper Vance and Colin, we need to make sure she understands the gravity of what we saw on that beach."

"I don't care if she's changed or not," Dylan said flatly, his voice carrying the weathered grit of his quiet Michigan years. "I care about keeping my son out of the crosshairs of whatever toxic garbage Colin is dragging into town. If Gina has the files, I want them."

The elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to reveal the minimalist, high-end expanse of Gina Kincaid’s private reception area. Gina was waiting for them, leaning gracefully against the edge of her massive mahogany desk, a glass of iced tea in her hand. A deceptive, welcoming smile touched her lips, though her sharp eyes were already calculating every movement the two men made.

"Dylan. Brandon," Gina purred, gesturing toward the leather armchairs opposite her desk. "The two crusaders of West Beverly, right on my doorstep. I must admit, when you called, Dylan, I thought it was a prank. What brings a Midwestern cannabis tycoon and a high-minded journalist into my dark corner of Hollywood?"

Dylan didn't sit. He walked straight up to the desk, slamming his palms lightly against the polished wood. "Cut the theater, Gina. We don't have time for the Hollywood routine. Before we came to the Beach Club last night, Jack and I were out on the surf line in Malibu. I saw Jasper Vance. And I saw him whispering in the ear of Colin Robbins."

Brandon stepped forward, his journalistic posture taking over. "Gina, Jasper's student rallies at CU have completely gone mainstream. He's building a massive political platform, but if he’s secretly aligned with an international grifter like Colin, it means his entire foundation is a lie. We need your agency to put out an official beat on both of them. We need to know what they're hiding."

Gina let out a sharp, melodic laugh, though inside, her heart gave a steady, predatory pulse. Her dual monitors behind her were still displaying the decrypted transaction sheets connecting the Vance Foundation directly to Colin's art galleries and Panama shell accounts. She already had them dead to rights. She had the cartel connection, the money laundering, and the physical diamond smuggling layout. But she wasn't about to give away her multi-million dollar leverage to a couple of old friends for free.

"Two bangs for the buck, baby," Gina thought to herself, a dangerous thrill washing over her.

She turned back to them, her face instantly morphing into an expression of deep, professional concern. "Colin Robbins," she sighed, shaking her head. "That man is like a bad penny that just won't stop rolling through Beverly Hills. Look, guys, because it's you, I'll share what my scouts have picked up. My agency has been tracking some unusual logistics. Colin has been moving a lot of heavy inventory through his private art galleries lately. High-end canvases, custom frames. Word on the street is he’s using those art openings to move unrecorded capital. If he’s talking to Jasper, it’s highly likely Jasper is using those galleries to funnel cash away from federal tax auditors"

Brandon immediately leaned in, his pen already flying across his notepad. "Art galleries? Which ones? Where is he storing the inventory?"

Gina smiled smoothly, reaching into a drawer and sliding a single printed sheet of paper across the desk. It contained the address of a standard, low-level storage facility near the Pacific Coast Highway. It was just enough information to keep them occupied, a trail of breadcrumbs to keep them hunting the perimeter while she kept the true prize—the cartel routing numbers and Noah Hunter's direct signatures—hidden safely in her encrypted drive.

"Start there," Gina said, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. "Keep your eyes open, but be careful. Colin is desperate, and a desperate artist is a dangerous animal. Let me do some deeper digging on Jasper, and I'll keep you posted."

"Thanks, Gina," Dylan said, taking the paper and studying the address. He gave her a long, searching look, trying to read the shadow behind her eyes, but Gina’s mask was flawless. "Come on, Brandon. Let's go find out what Colin is putting on those canvases."

As the elevator doors closed behind them, Gina’s warm smile instantly vanished. She spun around to her monitors, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she locked down the master files. "Run along, boys," she whispered to the empty room, a ruthless grin cutting across her face. "Keep the water muddy for me. I've got an oil empire to buy."

Meanwhile, a mile away in the sleek, executive penthouse of Hunter Oil, the atmosphere was entirely suffocating. Noah Hunter stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the hazy Los Angeles basin, his knuckles white around his glass of scotch.

The door to his office clicked open, and Colonel Gedeon stepped inside. The rugged intelligence expert looked completely unbothered by his confrontation at Pruit's restaurant, but his eyes were hard as flint.

"Gedeon," Noah said, not turning around. "What happened at the restaurant? Did you trace Ewing's local contacts?"

"The tail is blown, Noah," Gedeon said flatly, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet office. "Ewing spotted me before I could even order a drink. The man isn't just a Texas billionaire playing tourist. He knows exactly what an intelligence shadow looks like."

Noah turned around slowly, his face tight with sudden anxiety. "What did he say?"

"He told me to tell you that he sees you," Gedeon replied, stepping closer to the desk. "He said you're terrified of what happens when a real wolf enters your backyard. And then he dropped a line that you need to hear, Noah. He said, 'Oil companies don't belong in Cal.' He flat-out threatened to break you, and he said if anyone gets in his way, he'll break them too."

Noah let out a shaky breath, slamming his scotch glass down on the desk. The confident, smooth coastal executive mask was completely slipping. John Ross Ewing wasn't looking for a partnership or a standard business deal; he was launching a scorched-earth campaign to absorb Hunter Oil and drag it back to Dallas.

"He thinks I'm brittle," Noah muttered, his jaw tightening as a sudden, desperate surge of survival instinct took over. He looked up at Gedeon, his eyes turning sharp. "If John Ross wants to play a Texas game in my city, we’re going to give him a war. He’s looking for a hostile buyout because he thinks I have a weak spot. Gedeon, I want you to double your efforts. I don't care what it costs or who you have to pay. I want eyes on John Ross Ewing twenty-four hours a day. Find out where he's sleeping, find out his corporate vulnerabilities, and find out what his play is with this Hillcrest property. If he's coming to break me, I want the ammunition to bury him first."

Gedeon nodded slowly, his posture going rigid with military precision. "Consider it a combat zone, Noah. I'll get the dirt."