BANG!
The sound echoed off the canyon walls of Broadway like a cannon shot.
A horse rearing a carriage near the curb whinnied in terror, its hooves clattering on the cobblestones. Pedestrians ducked, covering their heads.
"Good heavens!" Junior shrieked, jumping back into the doorway of 26 Broadway. "It's an anarchist bomb!"
"It's an engine, you fool," Senior grunted.
He didn't flinch. He stood on the sidewalk, leaning on his cane, staring at the black metal beast idling at the curb.
It was a Ford Model T.
But to the eyes of 1908, it looked like an alien insect. It was boxy, ugly, and sat high on spoked wheels that looked too thin to support its weight. It vibrated violently, shaking like a wet dog.
Black smoke puffed rhythmically from the tailpipe. Chug-chug-chug-chug.
The smell hit them instantly—acrid, burnt gasoline. It smelled like power.
A young man in a grease-stained duster cap jumped out of the driver's seat. He patted the hood.
"She backfired, Mr. Prentice!" the driver yelled over the noise. "Fuel mixture was a bit rich! She's purring now!"
Jason walked down the steps. He approached the car.
He didn't look at it with affection. He looked at it with ownership.
"Open the door," Jason commanded.
The driver scrambled to open the rear passenger door. It was essentially a wooden bench with leather padding.
"After you, sir," Jason said, gesturing to Senior.
Senior looked at the vibrating machine. He looked at the smoke. Then he looked at the terrified horses nearby.
He smiled.
"It scared the horses," Senior rasped. "I like it."
He handed his cane to the driver and climbed in. He sat stiffly on the bench.
"Junior! Get in!"
Junior looked like he was being asked to climb into a coffin. "Father, really, the vibration is bad for your digestion—"
"Get in or walk home!"
Junior scurried into the seat next to his father. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over his nose to block the fumes.
Jason climbed into the front passenger seat.
"Take us around the block," Jason told the driver. "And don't be gentle."
The driver grinned. He adjusted the throttle lever on the steering column.
"Hold on!"
He released the handbrake and stomped on the pedal.
The car lurched forward.
It didn't glide like a carriage. It jerked. It roared.
They shot out into traffic.
"Good Lord!" Junior yelled as they swerved around a slow-moving ice wagon.
The sensation of speed was visceral. They weren't going fast—maybe twenty miles per hour—but without the rhythmic trot of horses, it felt unnatural. It felt relentless.
The wind whipped their faces. The engine roared beneath them.
Jason turned around in his seat to look at Senior.
The old man wasn't scared. He was mesmerized.
He was watching the pedestrians stop and stare. He saw the envy in the eyes of the carriage drivers stuck in the slow lane. He saw the raw, brute force of the machine.
"It doesn't get tired," Senior shouted over the engine noise.
"Never!" Jason shouted back. "It runs as long as you feed it!"
"Feed it what?"
"Gasoline! Oil! Grease! Rubber!"
Jason pointed at a dray horse struggling to pull a heavy load up the incline of Broadway.
"That horse eats oats and sleeps eight hours a day. This machine eats oil and works twenty-four hours a day. It is the death of the old world, sir!"
Senior nodded slowly. His eyes were locked on the future.
He didn't see a car. He saw a billion thirsty mouths opening up all over the world, begging for the black blood that Standard Oil pumped out of the ground.
"Faster!" Senior yelled to the driver. "Make it go faster!"
The driver laughed and pushed the throttle. The Model T roared, passing a sleek private carriage owned by a rival banker.
Senior waved his hat at the stunned banker as they flew past in a cloud of blue smoke.
For the first time in years, John D. Rockefeller Sr. looked alive. He looked dangerous.
They circled back to 26 Broadway. The car shuddered to a halt at the curb.
The silence that followed when the engine cut was deafening.
Senior sat there for a moment, vibrating with the aftershocks of the ride.
He climbed out. He refused the driver's help.
He stood on the sidewalk and looked at the car.
"Buy the rubber plantations," Senior said. His voice was low, intense.
"Already in negotiations with the Congo," Jason said.
"Buy the steel mills. Buy the patents."
Senior turned to Jason. He grabbed Jason's lapel, pulling him close.
"And buy more of this company. I don't want fifteen percent. I want control."
"Henry Ford won't sell control," Jason said. "He's stubborn."
"Then starve him," Senior whispered. "Control his supply. Squeeze him until he begs us to take it."
Jason smiled. The old wolf still had teeth.
"I'll start the paperwork."
They walked back into the lobby of 26 Broadway like conquering heroes.
Junior was trailing behind, dusting soot off his coat and muttering about the noise ordinance. But Senior was energized.
They took the elevator up to the executive suite.
The office was buzzing. The ticker tape machines were chattering away. The secretaries were moving fast.
But the mood shifted the moment they walked through the double doors.
The chatter stopped.
A young secretary stood in the middle of the room. She was pale. Her hands were shaking.
She held a thick, cream-colored envelope.
"Mr. Prentice?" she squeaked.
Jason stopped. "What is it?"
"A courier just delivered this, sir. From... from Washington."
She held out the envelope.
Jason took it.
It was heavy. The paper was expensive linen.
The seal on the back was embossed in red wax.
The Seal of the President of the United States.
The room went dead silent. Even Senior stopped moving.
Jason broke the seal. He pulled out a single sheet of typed paper.
He read it.
His face didn't change, but his eyes went cold.
To Mr. Ezra Prentice,
Standard Oil of New Jersey,
I have reviewed the filings for 'Future Holdings.'
You think you are clever, sir. You think that by breaking the trust into pieces, you have satisfied the law. But I see what you are doing. You are not dissolving the monopoly; you are feeding it a new diet.
You are attempting to corner the market on transportation before it is even built. You are buying the roads, the fuel, and the vehicles.
This is not competition. This is tyranny.
Consider this your only warning. I am instructing the Department of Justice to open a new investigation. Not into the company. Into you.
I broke the father. I will break the son-in-law.
Governing is not a game of patterns, Mr. Prentice. It is a game of brute force.
Sincerely,
Theodore Roosevelt
President of the United States
Jason lowered the letter.
"What does it say?" Junior asked, his voice trembling. "Is it bad?"
"It's a declaration of war," Jason said.
He handed the letter to Senior.
The old man put on his spectacles. He read it slowly.
He didn't look worried. He looked annoyed. Like a man who had found a fly in his soup.
"Roosevelt," Senior spat. "The cowboy. He thinks he broke me?"
Senior laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound.
"He didn't break me. I let him win because it was profitable. Now he thinks he is a giant slayer."
Senior handed the letter back to Jason.
"He threatens to investigate you, Ezra."
"Yes," Jason said. He looked at the signature. The aggressive, jagged scrawl of TR. "He knows I'm the architect."
"Are you afraid?" Senior asked.
Jason looked up. He thought about the alleyway. He thought about Gates' body on the pier. He thought about Sarah leaving with her bag of blood money.
He had already killed his own humanity to get here. What was a President compared to that?
"No," Jason said. "I'm not afraid."
"Good."
Senior walked to his desk. He sat down and picked up the phone.
"Get me our lobbyists in D.C.," Senior barked. "And get me the editor of the New York World. I want to buy some headlines."
He looked at Jason.
"He wants a war? We'll give him a war. We'll crash the market. We'll cut off the fuel supply to the Navy. We'll remind him who actually runs this country."
Jason walked to the window. He looked down at the street.
The Model T was still there. A black beetle crawling through the canyon of steel.
Roosevelt was dangerous. He was a force of nature. He was the most popular man in America.
But Jason had something Roosevelt didn't have.
Jason knew when Roosevelt died. He knew when the war started. He knew when the market crashed.
He held all the cards.
"He says governing is a game of brute force," Jason whispered to the glass.
He crushed the letter in his fist.
"He's wrong. It's a game of patterns. And his pattern is ending."