August , 1909: Los Angeles, California
The heat of the Los Angeles summer was a dry, sage-scented weight, a far cry from the humid press of the Boston coast. In the Los Feliz foothills—situated nearly ten kilometers from the burgeoning heart of Hollywood—stood a sprawling estate that commanded a sweeping view of the entire basin. From this height, one could see the dusty grid of Los Angeles stretching toward the south and the emerging silhouette of Hollywood to the west, all shimmering under a relentless sun.
It was a masterpiece of Spanish Colonial architecture—thick, white-washed stucco walls, arched loggias, and a roof of hand-pressed red clay tiles that glowed like embers in the afternoon sun. The Kingstons had purchased the twelve-bedroom mansion for $350,000, but the subsequent renovations had turned it into a fortified sanctuary. Vast, manicured grounds were enclosed by high stone walls, and a heavy wrought-iron gate guarded the entrance to a driveway lined with ancient olive trees.
Two guards stood at the gatehouse, their postures stiff and military. Both were veterans—discharged soldiers who had spent their youth in the Philippines before being recruited by Kingston Security Services. Here, they were paid an unheard-of five dollars a day and provided with high-quality uniforms, private living quarters, and three meals a day. It was a job men would kill to keep, and they took their duty with a religious solemnity.
"Dust cloud on the boulevard," the first guard noted, squinting through the heat haze.
A vehicle emerged from the dust, moving with a speed and silence that signaled its pedigree. It was a Kingston M-2 Model. While it retained the reliable 4-cylinder engine and the revolutionary electric self-starter of the M-1, the M-2 was a vastly more refined machine. It featured a newly developed forced-induction cooling system and telescopic hydraulic shock absorbers that allowed it to conquer the unpaved American West without rattling its occupants to pieces.
The car pulled to a stop at the iron gates. It was coated in the grime of thirteen states—red Missouri clay, Kansas dust, and the white salt of the Utah flats.
The guards stepped forward, blocking the path. "Private property, sir," the first guard said firmly. "No entry without authorization."
He observed the driver. The man behind the wheel looked like a ghost of the road. He was tall, with broad shoulders hidden under a stained leather driving duster. A thick, dark beard covered his jaw, and a month's worth of trail dust had turned his hair into a tangled, unkempt mess. His eyes, however, were sharp and focused.
"Tell Jack to come down to the gate," the driver said, his voice a low, raspy growl.
The guard's face flushed with anger. "Jack? You have a lot of nerve, stranger. Do you have any idea who you're talking about? You'll address him as Mr. Copper. He is the Personal Assistant to Michael Kingston himself—the scion of the Kingston family. You don't just 'order' a man like that to the gate."
The man in the car let out a small, tired smile. "Is the name 'Michael Kingston' really that great?"
The first guard stepped closer as if to confront him. The mockery in the stranger's tone felt like a personal insult to the hand that fed him. But the second guard, who had been watching the driver's hands on the steering wheel, noticed the steady, practiced grip and a heavy platinum signet ring. The 'K' was rendered in an elegant golden font, surrounded by a precise constellation of small red and blue diamonds. His heart skipped a beat.
"Wait," the second guard whispered, his voice failing him as he grabbed his partner's arm. He stepped forward, his eyes darting between the glint of the diamonds and the man's weathered, dust-covered face. "Sir... forgive me, but that ring... are you... are you Mr. Michael Kingston?"
He had seen that exact same 'K' design on Jack Copper's finger, though Jack's ring was plain platinum without the precious stones. Furthermore, the security detail had been briefed that Mr. Michael Kingston would be arriving in Los Angeles soon.
Michael didn't answer. He just tapped the steering wheel. "Just call Jack."
The first guard froze, the color draining from his face as he realized exactly who was sitting before him. The second guard practically dove for the wall-mounted telephone at the gate. He relayed the news in a frantic, hushed tone.
Exactly three minutes later, the iron gates swung open with a mechanical hum. Jack Copper—dressed in a crisp, dark suit that seemed to defy the California heat—emerged from the house, walking toward the car with a brisk, urgent stride.
"Mr. Kingston," Jack said, bowing slightly as he reached the door. "We weren't expecting you for another two days. I hope these men didn't cause any undue delays?"
Michael stepped out of the M-2, stretching his road-weary limbs. "No, Jack. They were just doing their job."
Michael paused, turning back to the first guard, who was now standing as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. Michael reached out and tapped the man's shoulder lightly, a playful but sharp glint in his eyes.
"Don't spend my name like pocket change," Michael said with a dry, tired smile. "If you use it to win every minor argument at the gate, it will lose its value when you actually need it. Understood?"
"Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir," the guard stammered.
Michael nodded and followed Jack toward the house. Back at the gate, the first guard let out a breath he had been holding for minutes. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.
"Thank God he didn't mind," the second guard said, leaning against the gatepost. "Where else are you going to find a job that pays five bucks and feeds you steak for dinner? You almost talked yourself into a ditch, Henry."
The first man nodded in silent relief. He closed his eyes for a moment, burning the image of Michael Kingston—dusty, bearded, and quietly powerful—into his brain so he would never make the same mistake again.
Michael walked through the arched entrance of his new home, the cool interior air hitting him like a blessing. The mansion was tasteful—a sprawling, H-shaped layout that maximized the cross-breezes from the Pacific. It was grand but avoided the monstrous, gilded "wedding cake" look of the New York elite. It felt like a home meant for the climate, with deep shaded porches and a courtyard filled with the sound of a splashing fountain.
Jack led him into a spacious study overlooking the courtyard. "How was the journey, sir? Three thousand miles by road instead of a luxury Pullman coach... the family was quite concerned."
Michael had started in Boston and navigated through New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Colorado, Utah, and Arizona before finally crossing into California.
"The family worries too much," Michael said, taking a seat. "I needed to see the real America, Jack—the rural heartland, not just the view from a polished train window. If we do not know the people, how can we possibly know what they truly need, or how to give it to them? I wanted to see the needs of the people with my own eyes."
Michael collapsed into a leather armchair, the dust still clinging to his duster. "And don't worry, the M-2 model is a beast. It didn't miss a beat, though the trails through the Rockies tried their best to break us. As for the experience..." Michael paused, staring out at the splashing fountain. "It was tiring, exhausting, and brutal at times. But it was also informative, exciting, and..."
He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a folded, travel-worn sheet of paper, handing it to Jack.
"...rewarding."
Jack took the paper, adjusting his spectacles. He saw a meticulously drafted list of names, townships, and specific geographical coordinates across five different states.
"What is this, sir?" Jack asked, his brow furrowed.
"Try buying those lands in those exact locations," Michael said, his voice regaining its sharp, analytical edge.
Jack scanned the list, his eyes widening. "Sir, there are fifteen distinct locations here. If I'm calculating the boundaries correctly, the total acreage seems to be around 150,000. This is a massive acquisition. If the market gets wind that the Kingstons are buying up these specific tracts, the prices will skyrocket instantly."
"I know," Michael replied. "That's why you'll use third-party shell companies. Use intermediaries who don't ask questions and have no visible ties to our name. Keep the purchases quiet and staggered. We buy them as barren scrubland, which is exactly what the owners think they are."
Jack nodded, not asking for further explanation. He had worked for Michael long enough to know that he was never wrong. Michael wanted these 150,000 specific acres because they sat atop the highest concentrations of oil and mineral resources in the country. Michael wasn't interested in owning millions of acres of useless dirt; he was targeting the prime veins—the maximum resources for the minimum footprint. These lands would ensure Kingston Oil and Kingston Mining maintained their lead for decades to come.
Michael watched Jack as the assistant organized the list. One of the most unpredictable burdens of the ultra-wealthy was the creeping paranoia—the inability to know whom to trust. Most men in Michael's position eventually became isolated, suspecting every smile of hiding a knife.
But Michael would never have that problem. His "Gift" wouldn't just find oil; it found intent. He knew the minute a person considered betrayal. He had made Jack a millionaire the previous year through well-timed investment tips, yet Jack chose to remain as his butler and assistant, preferring the proximity to Michael's vision over a life of idle leisure.
As Michael sat there, the Gift was silent—no alarms, no ripples of deceit. He could trust Jack implicitly. It was his most important backup, a psychological armor that allowed him to move with absolute confidence in a world full of vultures.
"I'll begin the filings through the Nevada and Delaware shells immediately, sir," Jack said.
"Good. Now, Jack," Michael said, closing his eyes, "first, get me a barber and a hot bath."
"Yes, sir. I shall arrange it at once." Jack withdrew, leaving Michael to the cooling breeze and a moment of hard-earned silence.