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.
