The phone booth smelled of stale tobacco and desperation.
Jason fed a handful of nickels into the slot. His hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the blood loss. He leaned against the glass, waiting for the operator to connect the long-distance line to Detroit.
Click.
"Ford Residence," a stern voice answered.
"Put him on," Jason said. "Tell him it's the man with the German rockets."
Silence. Then, a click.
"Prentice," Henry Ford's voice crackled over the wire. It sounded like grinding gears. "I hear New York is warm this time of year."
"The city is burning, Henry. You know that. That's why you sent the telegram."
"I see an opportunity," Ford said. "Standard Oil is crashing. The market is in freefall. I'm offering ten cents on the dollar for your refineries. I'll turn them into ethanol plants."
"I'm not selling the oil," Jason said.
"Then you have nothing I want."
"I have the future," Jason said. "I have the patents from IG Farben. Synthetic rubber. The jet propulsion schematics. The V2 rocket designs."
There was a long pause on the line. Jason could almost hear Ford's brain calculating. Ford was obsessed with efficiency, with machines, with the next leap forward.
"The Germans defaulted," Ford said. "Those patents are worthless on paper."
"They're worthless to a bank," Jason corrected. "But to you? You want to build a Technocracy, Henry. You want a world run by engineers, not politicians. With this tech, Ford Motors doesn't just build cars. You build the 20th Century."
"And the price?"
"I don't want money," Jason said. "I want an army."
"Excuse me?"
"I need the Ford Service Department," Jason said. "Your private security. The guys with the tommy guns and the trench coats. I need them in New York by dawn. To clear the streets. To secure the airfield."
"You want me to invade New York?"
"I want you to restore order," Jason said. "Adolf Hitler is leading a communist uprising in Manhattan. If he wins, he nationalizes everything. Including your factories."
That triggered the keyword. Communist. Ford hated unions more than he hated competition.
"Bennett is already in Jersey with two hundred men," Ford said. "I'll tell him to cross the bridge. But the patents are mine. Exclusive rights."
"Done," Jason said. "Meet me at the airfield in Queens. Bring the plane."
He hung up.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass.
He had just sold the technological edge of the next fifty years to a paranoid antisemite to save his own skin.
It was a deal with the devil. But at least the devil paid in lead.
Back in the recovery room, Junior was sitting up.
He looked pale, but the gray pallor of death was gone. The transfusion worked.
He was staring at his hands.
"I feel... different," Junior whispered.
"That's the adrenaline," Jason said, walking in. "And a pint of my blood. Try not to let it corrupt you."
Junior looked up. His eyes were clear. The religious fog was gone, replaced by a terrifying clarity.
"I saw the crowd," Junior said softly. "I saw them cheering for my death. They didn't want justice, Ezra. They wanted entertainment."
"Welcome to the real world," Jason said. "Now listen to me. We're leaving. Ford is sending a plane."
"And then?"
"Then we rebuild. We crush the strike. We take back the city."
Jason pulled a chair close to the bed.
"But I have a price, Junior."
Junior looked at him. "You saved my life. Ask."
"When we land... when we are safe... you initiate the divorce."
Junior blinked. "What?"
"You cast me out," Jason said. "You tell the Board I was responsible for the crash. You tell Alta I abandoned the family. You strip me of my titles. You fire me."
"You want to lose?" Junior asked, confused. "You want to be ruined?"
"I want out," Jason hissed. "I want freedom. I saved your life, Junior. Now give me mine."
Junior searched Jason's face. He saw the exhaustion. The desperation.
"Alta will destroy you," Junior warned.
"Not if you do it first," Jason said. "You take the company back. You become the King. And you let me disappear."
Junior looked down at his hands again.
"I prayed for you to leave," Junior said. "I prayed for God to remove the serpent from our garden."
He looked up.
"Done. As soon as we are safe, you are dead to us."
The escape was a military operation.
Three black sedans pulled up to the clinic. Ford's men.
They didn't look like police. They looked like thugs in expensive suits. They carried Thompson guns openly.
"Mr. Prentice," the lead man grunted. "Bennett sent us. Plane is fueled."
"Let's go," Jason said.
They moved quickly. O'Malley carried Senior. Sarah helped Junior.
They reached the cars.
"Alta," Jason said, pointing to the lead sedan. "You take the first car. Take Senior and the luggage. Secure the plane."
Alta nodded. She looked sharp, composed. She didn't suspect a thing. She saw Jason as her tool, her fixer. She couldn't imagine the tool would discard the user.
"Don't be long," Alta said. She climbed into the back seat.
The car door slammed.
Jason watched the lead sedan peel out, disappearing into the snow.
He turned to the second car.
"Get in," Jason said to Sarah and Junior.
"Where are we going?" Sarah asked. "The airfield is that way."
"We're going to a different airfield," Jason said to the driver. "Newark. Not Queens."
Sarah gasped. "You're sending her into a trap?"
"No," Jason said, climbing in. "Bennett is at Queens. He'll meet her. She'll be safe. But she'll be on a plane to Detroit to meet Ford."
"And us?"
"We're going to Princeton," Jason said. "I have a deed to file."
As the car pulled away, turning in the opposite direction of Alta, Jason looked out the rear window.
He imagined Alta's face when she arrived at the airfield and realized he wasn't coming. When she realized he had sent her away to handle the mess while he vanished with the golden goose.
She wouldn't scream. She wouldn't cry.
She would just add his name to a list. A list of things to destroy.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Prentice," Jason whispered.
He leaned back in the seat. He was bleeding, broke, and on the run.
But for the first time since 1907, he was free.