CRASH!
The frosted glass of the office door shattered inward.
"FEDERAL AGENTS! NO ONE MOVE!"
A dozen men in dark suits stormed into the office suite on Broad Street. They carried axes and heavy revolvers.
Special Prosecutor Clay led the charge. He was a bulldog of a man, wide as a doorframe, with a mustache that bristled like wire.
"Secure the files!" Clay roared. "Seize everything! The ledgers! The contracts! I want every scrap of paper related to Ford Motor Company!"
His agents swarmed the room. They overturned desks. They ripped open filing cabinets, sending metal drawers crashing to the floor. They smashed the locks on the heavy iron safe in the corner.
CLANG.
The safe door swung open.
Clay marched over, triumphant. He was ready to find the smoking gun—the illegal trust agreements, the shell company documents, the proof that Standard Oil was monopolizing the auto industry.
He looked inside.
The safe was empty.
Except for one thing.
Sitting on the middle shelf was a small, bright yellow rubber duck.
Clay stared at it. His face turned a shade of purple usually reserved for bruised plums.
He spun around. He looked at the filing cabinets.
Empty.
He looked at the desks.
Empty. Not even a pencil shaving.
The office of "Future Holdings" was a ghost town. The dust on the floor hadn't even been disturbed.
"Where are they?" Clay screamed, veins bulging in his neck. "Where are the files?!"
One of the agents, looking terrified, held up a piece of paper he had found taped to the wall.
"Sir... this was by the door."
Clay snatched it.
It was a receipt.
Moving Services - Paid in Full. 8:00 AM.
Three hours ago.
Clay crushed the paper in his fist. He walked to the window and looked out at the street below.
Across Broad Street, on the second floor of a coffee house, a man was sitting by the window.
It was Jason Underwood.
He was holding a porcelain cup. He caught Clay's eye.
Jason didn't wave. He didn't smile. He simply raised the cup in a silent toast, took a sip, and turned back to his newspaper.
Clay roared in frustration and kicked a wastebasket across the room.
Delmonico's was the temple of American capitalism.
The air smelled of roasted duck, expensive cigars, and insider trading. The clinking of silverware was the soundtrack of the ruling class.
Jason sat at a corner table with Junior.
Junior was not eating. He was shredding his napkin into tiny white confetti.
"They raided the office, Ezra," Junior hissed, leaning across the table. "They had axes! Axes! If they find anything—"
"They found dust," Jason said calmly, slicing his steak. "I cleared the office this morning."
"How did you know?"
"I own the telegraph line the DOJ uses to coordinate their raids," Jason said. "I read the warrant before the judge even signed it."
"This is madness," Junior moaned. "You are taunting the President! You are poking a bear with a sharp stick!"
"The bear is already awake, Junior. The only choice now is to skin it."
The double doors of the restaurant swung open with a bang.
Silence rippled through the room. Bankers froze mid-chew. Senators put down their wine.
Prosecutor Clay marched in. He was flanked by two US Marshals. He looked like a storm cloud in a cheap suit.
He scanned the room. He locked eyes with Jason.
He marched straight to their table.
Junior whimpered and tried to shrink into his chair.
Clay stopped at the table. He slammed a piece of paper down onto the white tablecloth. It hit hard enough to knock over the crystal salt shaker. Salt spilled across the table like bad luck.
"You think this is a game, Prentice?" Clay growled.
Jason looked at the salt. Then he looked at Clay.
"You're interrupting my lunch, Mr. Prosecutor," Jason said. "And you made a mess."
"Obstruction of justice is a felony," Clay spat. "Evading a warrant is a felony. I can have you in irons right now."
"Trespassing on a vacated lease is a misdemeanor," Jason countered smoothly. "Next time, knock. It's polite."
Clay leaned down. He placed his heavy hands on the table. He smelled of sweat and desperation.
"You think you're smart because you moved some paper?" Clay whispered. "You think you can hide behind shell companies?"
He pointed a thick finger at Jason's nose.
"We didn't just raid the office. We went to the banks. Ten minutes ago, I signed a freezing order."
Jason stopped cutting his steak.
"All accounts associated with Future Holdings are frozen," Clay said, a cruel smile spreading under his mustache. "Every dime. The payroll for the Detroit factory? Frozen. The supplier payments? Frozen."
Clay stood up straight. He adjusted his jacket.
"Henry Ford can't pay his workers tomorrow. The assembly line stops at dawn. Your toy car company is dead, Prentice. We just starved it to death."
Clay turned to the marshals. "Let's go. I think I've lost my appetite."
He walked out.
The restaurant remained silent for three seconds. Then the chatter exploded, louder than before. Every man in the room knew what had just happened. The government had declared war.
Jason looked at Junior.
Junior was white as a sheet.
"He... he froze the money?" Junior whispered. "Ezra... the factory... if the line stops..."
"We lose the momentum," Jason said. His voice was tight. "We lose the contracts. Ford goes bankrupt."
Jason threw his napkin on the table. He stood up.
"Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"To the office," Jason said. "We have a war to win."
The executive suite at 26 Broadway was in chaos.
Phones were ringing on every desk. Clerks were running back and forth, shouting updates.
"Mr. Prentice! Detroit on line one! It's Mr. Ford! He sounds hysterical!"
"Mr. Prentice! The steel suppliers in Pittsburgh are calling! They say the checks bounced!"
Jason grabbed the phone from the secretary's desk.
"Ford," Jason barked.
"They locked the doors, Ezra!" Henry Ford's voice crackled over the wire, high-pitched with panic. "The bank manager just walked in with a marshal! They seized the operating account! It had fifty thousand dollars in it!"
"Calm down, Henry."
"Calm down?! My men are walking out! The shift foreman says if they don't get paid tomorrow, they're burning the machines! I can't build cars without money!"
"Tell them they will be paid," Jason commanded.
"With what? Good intentions?"
"Issue I.O.U.s," Jason said. "Back them personally with Standard Oil stock. Tell the men that for every dollar of wages, they get two dollars in stock if they stay on the line for forty-eight hours."
"Stock? These are mechanics, Ezra! They want cash for bread!"
"Make them believe you, Henry! You're a visionary, aren't you? Sell them the dream! Buy me two days!"
Jason slammed the phone down.
Two days.
He had forty-eight hours before the I.O.U.s became worthless paper and the factory collapsed.
Junior was sitting on the sofa, head in his hands. "It's over. We have to surrender. We have to dissolve the holding company and beg for mercy."
"We don't beg," Jason said.
He walked into Senior's office.
The old man was sitting behind his desk, reading the freezing order Clay had served. He looked like a stone gargoyle.
"They froze five million dollars," Senior said. "And they blocked the transfers from the trust."
"It's a chokehold," Jason said. "They can't beat us in court, so they're trying to suffocate the cash flow."
"We can sue," Senior said. "We can get an injunction."
"It will take weeks," Jason shook his head. "By then, Ford is dead. The assembly line rusts. We lose the first-mover advantage."
He walked to the large map of the world on the wall.
"We need leverage," Jason said. "Immediate, painful leverage. Something that forces Roosevelt to pick up the phone and beg us."
Jason stared at the map.
His eyes drifted from Detroit to the East Coast. To the Atlantic Ocean.
He saw the pins marking the Standard Oil refueling depots. Norfolk. Hampton Roads.
He smiled. It was a cold, terrifying smile.
"Senior," Jason said. "Where is the Great White Fleet right now?"
Senior looked up. "The Navy? They are in Hampton Roads. Refueling for the Atlantic crossing. Why?"
"Roosevelt loves those ships," Jason said. "They are his pride and joy. The symbol of American power. Sixteen battleships painted white, sailing around the world to show everyone that America is the new empire."
Jason turned to Senior.
"A battleship is a magnificent thing," Jason said softly. "But without coal... without heavy oil for the auxiliary engines... what is it?"
Senior's eyes narrowed. He understood instantly.
"It's a floating barge," Senior rasped.
"Exactly."
Jason walked to the desk. He placed his hands on the polished wood.
"Who supplies the fuel for the Navy, Senior?"
"We do," Senior said. "Exclusive contract."
"And the government just froze our operating accounts," Jason said. "They froze the accounts we use to pay the rail lines. The accounts we use to pay the truckers."
Jason leaned in closer.
"If we can't pay the drivers... the trucks don't move. If the trucks don't move... the fuel doesn't get to the docks."
Senior stared at him. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
"You want to strand the United States Navy?" Senior asked.
"I want to create a 'logistical error'," Jason corrected. "An unfortunate consequence of government overreach."
He stood up straight.
"Imagine the headlines, Senior. 'The Great White Fleet... Dead in the Water.' 'President Roosevelt Strands Our Boys at Home.'"
Senior laughed. It was a sound like dry leaves crunching.
"He will charge us with treason," Senior said.
"Let him try," Jason said. "He froze the money. We physically cannot perform the contract. It's not treason. It's bureaucracy."
Jason picked up the phone.
"Get me the logistics manager at Hampton Roads," Jason ordered the operator. "Tell him to send the drivers home. Tell him... there's a problem with the payroll."
He looked at Senior.
"Let's see how long the President can hold his breath."