The game escalated. "The Accountant" from Zurich tried to poison Joe’s hotel minibar. Joe swapped the bottles. The Accountant drank his own vintage cyanide and died smiling. "The Hound," a feral tracker from the Balkans, followed Joe’s scent to a slaughterhouse. Joe locked him in the freezer with the beef sides.
"That’s not my gold, you sick freak," Joe said to the world. "That’s the signal to your front door."
Joe coughed, spitting blood. "Not this one."
"They’re not hunting a politician, Joe," Vic said, sipping his stout. "They’re hunting you . And the whole world is watching the torrent."