Once the two punks were gone and Nicholson had his drink and some ice for his head, he noticed they’d cleaned him out of Johnnie Walker only to leave a Dalmore 62 sitting right there on the bar. It was a four-hundred-dollar bottle, and seemed as ominous a sign as anything else.

If these two losers were onto him, then everything was unraveling faster than he’d thought possible.

Now, who the hell was Johnny Tucci?

Chapter 40

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?”

Chapter 41

REMY WILLIAMS DIDN’T trust these two guys at all. Never had, not from the start of the contract. When they pulled up to the cabin and didn’t even get out of the car, he knew something was up. Something more than the usual dirtbag routine.

“How’s it going, fellas?” He shuffled on over like the piece of white trash he was supposed to be. “What’ve you got for me this time?”

“Two female.” The driver looked up, though not quite into his eyes. What was this: Did the Latino have a conscience? “One of them has a bullet in the chest. You’ll see.”

“Oh, yeah? What’d you shoot her for?”

“I don’t know, maybe because we’re still chasing down the last one who ran off.”

The guy was baiting him, Remy could tell, but he wasn’t sure why or, really, what these murders were all about. He was just a cog, didn’t have all the pieces, figured probably no one did. Like JFK. Like RFK. Hell, like O.J.

“Seems to me you shot the last one too,” he said, playing along. “Maybe she didn’t run off a’tall. Might just be lying out in those woods somewhere, turning into mulch. As we speak. Coulda just been found by hikers.”

“Yeah, maybe.” The ex-agent took a deep breath, starting to get a little showy with his aggravation. “Listen, if you could just clean out the trunk, we’ll be on our merry way.”

Remy scratched at his crotch—a little overkill, maybe—and then shuffled around to the back of the car. The driver popped the trunk for him. Jesus! Look at this.