Chapter 48
Marco
Idrive out to Weaver’s house alone.
Not because I want to be reckless.
Because this part requires patience.
Observation.
I don’t plan to confront him.
I plan to watch.
Weaver’s house sits on a ridge outside town, far enough from neighbors to feel private but close enough to reach the highway quickly.
Nice place.
Too nice for someone who claims to make a living “consulting.”
Fresh gravel in the driveway.
New security cameras under the eaves.
Two cars parked outside.
Neither with local plates.
Interesting.
I park half a mile down the road and walk the rest of the way through the tree line.
The evening air is cold.
The kind that carries sound.
I settle behind a stand of pines where I can see the driveway clearly.
The front door opens.
A man steps outside.
Not Weaver.
Suit.
Clean.
Expensive.
The kind of confidence that comes from knowing the rules don’t apply to you.
He pulls out his phone and makes a call while standing in the driveway.
His posture is relaxed.
Casual.
Like this entire operation is just another contract.
A few seconds later he slides into the car and drives away.
I photograph the plate before the headlights disappear down the road.
Then the door opens again.
Weaver steps outside.
Phone pressed to his ear.
Laughing.
Actually laughing.
Not the nervous kind.
The relaxed kind.
The kind of laugh that comes from a man who thinks he’s already won.
I watch him pace the porch for a moment.
He doesn’t look over his shoulder.
Doesn’t scan the road.
Doesn’t check the dark tree line surrounding his property.
He isn’t worried.
Not about the town.
Not about Saint.
Not about me.
That’s when the realization settles in.
“They don’t think we can touch them,” I whisper.
And when powerful people believe they’re untouchable…
That’s when they start making mistakes.