The snow crunched under Jason's boots like crushed glass.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
His breath plumed in the freezing air, white clouds that vanished instantly in the wind. His city shoes—thin leather soles meant for Wall Street pavement—were soaked through. His toes were numb.
Jason pulled his heavy wool coat tighter. It didn't help. The Adirondack winter didn't care about wool. It bit straight to the bone.
Ahead, through the dense line of ancient pines, he saw the lodge.
It wasn't a mansion. It was a rough collection of logs stacked together, dark and imposing against the white landscape. Smoke poured from a stone chimney.
A dead black bear hung from a hook on the porch. Its massive paws dangled limp. A skinning knife was stuck deep into the wooden railing next to it.
And there was the man.
Theodore Roosevelt was splitting wood in the front yard.
He wasn't wearing a coat. He was in his shirtsleeves, suspenders straining against his barrel chest. He swung a heavy axe with terrifying violence.
CRACK!
A log split perfectly in two. Wood chips flew into the snow.
CRACK!
Another one.
Jason stopped at the edge of the clearing. He was panting, his lungs burning from the altitude and the cold.
Roosevelt didn't look up. He set another log on the stump.
"You're late, Prentice," the President barked.
His voice was like a trumpet blast—loud, energetic, impossible to ignore.
"The train... was delayed by snow," Jason wheezed.
Roosevelt swung the axe again. CRACK!
He finally turned. His round spectacles flashed in the winter sun. His teeth were bared in a grin that was half-friendly, half-predatory.
"And you're dressed like a funeral director," Roosevelt laughed. "Look at those shoes! You city men. You think nature is just a park you haven't paved yet."
He yanked the axe out of the stump. He walked toward Jason, swinging the heavy weapon loosely in one hand.
Jason held his ground. He forced his shivering legs to stay still.
Roosevelt stopped three feet away. He smelled of sweat, pine sap, and woodsmoke. He radiated heat like a furnace.
"Well?" Roosevelt boomed. "Are you going to stand there freezing, or are you going to earn your heat?"
He tossed the axe.
It spun in the air.
It landed blade-down in the snow at Jason's feet. Thud.
"Chop," Roosevelt commanded. "The fire won't feed itself."
Jason looked at the axe. Then he looked at the President.
It was a test. A schoolyard dominance game played by the most powerful man on earth. If Jason refused, he was weak. If he failed, he was incompetent.
Jason bent down. His hands were stiff with cold. He gripped the smooth hickory handle.
He lifted the axe. It was heavy. Much heavier than he expected. The body of Ezra Prentice was soft; it hadn't done manual labor in twenty years.
Roosevelt crossed his massive arms. He watched, judging.
"Don't cut your foot off," TR said. "I don't have a doctor up here."
Jason gritted his teeth. He focused.
He wasn't strong. But he understood physics. He understood leverage.
He set a log on the stump. He didn't try to muscle it like TR. He lined up the grain. He visualized the split.
He swung.
The blade hit the wood. It didn't split. It stuck halfway.
Roosevelt snorted. "Pathetic."
Jason didn't let go. He lifted the axe, dragging the log up with it, and slammed both down onto the stump.
CRACK.
The log popped open.
Jason didn't stop. He grabbed another log. He adjusted his grip. He swung again, using gravity instead of muscle.
Thunk. Split.
He did it again. And again.
Sweat broke out on his forehead, freezing instantly. His shoulders burned. But he kept swinging until he had a pile of kindling.
He drove the axe into the stump and turned to face the President.
"Is that enough?" Jason asked, breathless.
Roosevelt looked at the wood. Then he looked at Jason. His grin widened.
"Sloppy," TR said. "But effective. Just like your business deals."
He clapped a hand on Jason's shoulder, nearly knocking him over.
"Come inside, you frozen rat. Let's drink."
The inside of the lodge was a cave.
The walls were covered in trophies—elk heads, bear skins, rifles. The fire in the massive stone hearth roared, casting dancing shadows on the rough-hewn floor.
Roosevelt poured amber liquid into two battered tin cups. No crystal. No ice.
He slammed one cup down in front of Jason.
"Whiskey," TR said. "Drink it. It kills the chill."
Jason took a sip. It was raw fire. It burned all the way down. He coughed.
Roosevelt downed half his cup in one gulp. He sat in a heavy wooden chair, leaning forward, his energy filling the room.
"So," TR said. "You're the man who thinks he can hold the United States Navy hostage."
The playfulness vanished. His eyes behind the glasses went hard.
"It was a logistical error," Jason said, his voice returning to its calm, boardroom pitch.
"Bullshit!" Roosevelt slammed his fist on the table. The cups jumped. "Don't lie to me, Ezra! You cut the supply line! You stranded sixteen battleships because my prosecutor touched your precious money!"
"You froze the accounts, Mr. President," Jason countered. "You attacked my company first. I simply... balanced the equation."
"You committed treason!" TR roared. He stood up and paced in front of the fire, casting a giant shadow. "That fleet is the symbol of American liberty! It shows the world that we are not just a colony anymore! And you turned it into a laughingstock!"
"A symbol is useless if it can't move," Jason said quietly.
Roosevelt spun around.
"You arrogant little tick," TR hissed. "You think because you have money, you have power? I am the elected representative of the people! I carry the big stick!"
"And I own the forest the stick comes from," Jason said.
He stood up. He wasn't as big as Roosevelt. He wasn't as loud. But he was colder.
"You bust trusts because you hate monopolies," Jason said. "You think competition is holy. You think the little man should have a chance."
"That is the American way!" TR shouted. "A fair deal for every man!"
"The American way is inefficient," Jason said.
He walked to the fire. He warmed his hands.
"You want to build a Panama Canal? You need steel. Massive amounts of it. You want to build a navy? You need oil. Millions of gallons."
Jason turned to face the President.
"Do you want to negotiate with fifty small, squabbling companies to get that oil? Do you want to pay fifty different prices? Or do you want to make one phone call to one man and get it done?"
Roosevelt stared at him. His jaw worked.
"You are describing a dictatorship of capital," TR growled.
"I am describing the future," Jason said. "The world is getting faster, Theodore. The days of the village blacksmith are over. The days of the giant are here. You are a giant in politics. I am a giant in industry. Giants don't fight ants. They fight other giants."
"Is that what you think this is?" TR stepped closer, looming over Jason. "A fight between equals?"
"No," Jason said. "It's a negotiation."
"I don't negotiate with hostage-takers," TR spat.
"You invited me here," Jason reminded him. "You sent the letter. You wanted to see me. Alone."
Jason took another sip of whiskey. He held Roosevelt's gaze.
"You could have arrested me. You could have seized the Ford factory. But you didn't. Because you know I'm right."
"I know you're dangerous," TR said softly.
"I'm necessary," Jason corrected. "You want to leave a legacy? You want America to be the greatest empire the world has ever seen? You can't do it with small businesses. You need scale. You need Standard Oil. You need Ford."
Roosevelt laughed. It was a dark, mirthless sound.
"You talk a big game, Prentice. But you're just a gambler. You're betting everything on this car company. On this idea that oil is the future."
TR leaned in, his face inches from Jason's.
"Gamblers always lose when the house decides to close the doors. And I am the house."
Jason didn't blink.
He reached into his coat pocket.
Roosevelt tensed, his eyes flicking to the movement, ready for a weapon.
Jason pulled out a folded map.
"You're wrong, Mr. President," Jason whispered.
He unfolded the map on the rough wooden table. It wasn't a map of oil fields. It wasn't a map of New York.
It was a map of Europe.
"I'm not the gambler," Jason said. "I'm the only one who knows what game we're actually playing."
He pointed a finger at a small, insignificant country in the Balkans.
"Sit down, Theodore. I'm going to tell you a ghost story."