Three hours of sleep wedged between Madison and Amanda, and I was back at the laptop like an addict needing his fix. Except my drug was strategic destruction, and I was about to overdose — the kind of habit that would get you a reality-show special and a restraining order from decency.
The three vultures were powerful—no fucking doubt. But power wasn't just billionaire yachts and name-brand scorn; I'd already drained their accounts until they looked emptier than a politician's promises. The real threat crawled in their network: the parasites who fed off the carcass of their enterprises.
