FOR SUAREZ AND Overton, every exchange with Zeus was a dead drop—no face-to-face meetings, ever, by mutual agreement with whoever was actually paying their fees. They went into the suite at Blacksmith Farms after him, sanitized the space, and took away whatever needed taking away, including the bodies.
Just before dawn, their no-profile G6 bumped along the familiar dirt track in the backwoods of Virginia. Its rear end was riding a little low because of the weight in the trunk.
“Let me ask you this,” Suarez said to his partner. “He’s obviously filthy rich. Why does he risk it? What is he—completely crazy?”
“On some level, sure.”
“On some level? How about 24/7/365 he’s crazier than a shithouse rat on speed? How does he get away with it—how?”
“Well, for one thing—do you know who he is, Suarez?”
“You’re right, I don’t. But somebody has to know. Somebody has to stop him eventually.”
“What can I tell you—welcome to the wackadoo world of the rich and famous. Can you say wood chipper?”