Текст книги "The Hit"

Автор книги: David Baldacci

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

One of the bogie teams had already gone down the hall toward the restrooms. The second team was two steps from there.

“FBI, freeze!” called out Robie.

The men did not freeze. Robie had called out on the off chance that they might be the authorities.

They weren’t.

It was burned into law enforcement folks to ID themselves when possibly confronted by fellow lawmen. Creds came out and people started screaming who they were with. The last thing a cop wanted was to get shot by another cop. Or shoot another cop.

These men said nothing, and the only things that came out of their jackets were guns.

Before they could fire on him, Robie shot one man in the knee. He screamed and dropped immediately, his gun flying from his hand. Robie wasn’t worried about him reentering the fight. Destroyed knees were so painful that even the toughest men could only lie there and sob like babies.

The second man fired at Robie, shattering a large planter that a moment earlier Robie had been standing in front of. Robie crouched and turned to the side. He tasted acid in his mouth as bile was shoved up his throat. No matter how many times you did this, being shot at was not natural, and your body reacted in consistent ways. Robie had fear; anyone would in that situation. But he didn’t have panic, which was the key difference between those who lived and those who didn’t.

The man would not get another chance to shoot. No knee shot this time; Robie dropped him with a round between his eyes.

Robie raced down the hall. He ran even harder when he heard the shots.

He spoke into his mic. “Reel? Reel, you copy? You okay? Reel?”

He slowed, turned the corner prepared to fire, and stopped.

There were three bodies lying in pools of blood.

When Robie saw they were all men, he let out his breath.

But three?

Then it hit him. The friend. From the GameStop.

Reel stepped from around the far corner, her gun in her right hand.

He looked at her. “You okay?”

She nodded, but said nothing. Her gaze was on her friend.

Robie heard screams behind him. Feet running. Mall cops probably.

That was the last thing they needed. He was not going to fire on an unarmed young punk or retired geezer posing as the authorities.

“We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I know,” she said dumbly.

“I mean now.”

Robie looked past her. There was a set of exit doors there. Had to be a way out.

When he looked back at Reel, she was bending down next to her dead friend, wiping a lock of hair out of his face.

Robie heard her say, “I’m so sorry, Mike.”

He ran forward, grabbed her arm, and pulled her down the hall. He kicked open the exit door and the two raced through it.

Robie looked around. They were in a storage area.

“You know which way is out?”

Reel didn’t seem to have heard him.

He turned. “Jessica, do you know the way out!” he barked.

She focused, looked embarrassed, and pointed to the left. “That way, doors let out on the east side. Come on, follow me.”

They reached the outside and fast-walked back to the parking garage. They got to Reel’s car. It looked like they had made a clean exit.

Until they heard the screech of tires coming fast.

The dead men had backup.

And they were coming fast.

Robie only had time to say, “Look out.”

CHAPTER

69

REEL SMOKED HER WHEELS AND drove in reverse right at the larger vehicle. Robie braced for impact, but it never came.

He saw the front grille of the SUV for an instant. It seemed to swallow up the whole of the back glass of their car. Then somehow Reel had turned just enough to slide through a gap between the SUV and a concrete support column.

She cut a J-turn and rammed the car into drive before she had even finished the 180-degree maneuver. She left a quarter inch of tire rubber on the concrete floor of the garage and the car careened through the exit and out into traffic entering the mall.

Reel cut her wheel to the left, jumped the median, and punched the gas. The car shot to the right. She slammed into a line of orange traffic cones, cut the wheel to the right, and slid into another turn.

Robie barely managed to buckle his seat belt. His gun was out but there was nothing to shoot at.

There was traffic up ahead, but it was only on one side. Unfortunately it was on their side. Reel solved this problem by going British and driving on the opposite side of the road.

She cleared the logjam, didn’t bother to stop at the red light, slashed into oncoming traffic, managed to somehow bend the car’s path into a left-hand turn, losing a hubcap in the process, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor as she got back on the right side of the road.

Sirens were coming from all over the place now.

Robie looked behind them. “We’re good. Dial it back so the cops don’t get a clue.”

She eased off the gas, held for a second at a yield sign, and then merged into traffic. A few minutes later they were on a highway going seventy with the traffic flow.

Robie put his gun away. “Sorry about your friend.”

“I’m sorry you keep having to say that,” she replied.

“Who was he?”

“His name was Michael Gioffre. And I’m the reason he’s dead.”

“Really? I thought it was the guys shooting at you.”

“I didn’t check for an observation team, Robie. I knew there used to be one there. A legit one. I always checked. But I didn’t today.”

“How did it go down?”

“Shot from one of them ricocheted off a trash can and caught Mike right in the eye. He was dead before he hit the floor.”

“Then what?”

“I shot the guys. One round each. They weren’t very good. Came running in like I wasn’t going to even fight back. Stupid.”

“My guys weren’t that good either, actually,” said Robie.

She looked at him sharply. “I wonder why not?”

“Maybe their best guys are already in Ireland.”

Robie turned the radio on. “I want to hear if there’s anything on the news about the mall yet.”

There wasn’t. But there was another story that captured their interest. The news anchor was succinct with the details, although right now there weren’t that many of them.

When the anchor went on to another story Robie turned off the radio and stared over at Reel. “Someone murdered Howard Decker,” he said.

“They’re cleaning up loose ends, Robie. These sons of bitches are planning to pull this off and then get away scot free. But they’re not. I’m going to put a round into every single one of them. I’m going to keep shooting them over and over until I run out of bullets.”

He placed a hand on her arm and gripped it.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“I’m sorry about Mike. We can go somewhere and you can grieve for him. And for Gwen—”

“I don’t need to grieve for anybody—”

“I think you do.”

“You don’t know anything about me. So leave your damn grieving sermon for somebody who cares. I’m a killer, Robie. People are usually dying all around me.”

“But not usually your friends, Jessica.”

She started to say something, but then the words seemed to catch in her throat.

Robie continued, “I’m not playing grief counselor. Once we get to Ireland, there will be no time for you to get right in your head. So you’re either in this a hundred percent and I know I can count on you, or you’re useless to me and you can drop me at the next exit.”

Reel blinked. “You used that ploy on me once before, Robie.”

“Yemen. We lost Tommy Billups. You blamed yourself. More to the point, you checked out on me for about half an hour.”

“Until you kicked my ass.”

“Because a team is a team, Jessica. And there’re only two people currently on our team. A house divided is screwed. Which in our case means dead.”

She took a long, calming breath. “I’m good, Robie.”

“Turn the anger into something that will guarantee we beat these pricks, Jessica. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I know. You’re right.”

They drove in silence for a few miles.

Reel broke it by saying, “That’s why you always were number one.”

He turned to look at her.

“You never let your emotions get the better of you, Robie. Never. You were a machine. Everybody thought so.”

He stared down at his hands. He actually felt embarrassed by her words.

By how wrong they were.

He reached into his jacket and rubbed the stock of his pistol. Not for luck. It was never about luck.

This was his talisman. This was his tool of choice. This was what he did.

I am a killer.

I am also a human being.

The only problem is, I can’t be both.

Reel glanced at him. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“Nothing important,” he answered.

CHAPTER

70

THE TRI-ENGINE DASSAULT FALCON COULD carry a dozen passengers comfortably.

It only held two tonight.

Reel sat in the rear seat of the cabin.

Robie was next to her.

No one was behind them. That was how each liked it.

“How did you score this ride?” he asked.

“Fractional share ownership. A lot less security. And a lot more privacy.” She looked at him. “What do you spend your money on?”

“Remember my little house in the woods? The rest is in the bank earning negative interest.”

“Saving for your retirement? Your golden years?”

“Doubtful. You know, they could trace your ownership of the plane.”

“It’s not under my name. It’s under the name of a Russian billionaire who doesn’t even know how many planes and yachts he owns. I just get my little piece and no one’s the wiser.”

“That was clever.”

“We’ll see how clever I am when we get to Dublin.”

“I’ve done some recon.”

“Your friend Vance again?”

“Never hurts to have the Bureau’s research muscle behind you.”

“Didn’t she ask questions?”

“She was thinking them, but she didn’t ask them.”

“So what did she find out?”

“The protection bubble is much like past years, with a couple of new wrinkles.”

“Such as?”

“Apparently, in a show of global cooperation, they have invited some non-G8 leaders for a day event. It actually opens the conference.”

“Which non-G8 leaders?” asked Reel.

“Several from desert climates.”

“A re they idiots?”

“Apparently they don’t think so, no.”

“You know what comes with leaders.”

“Their security details.”

“And those details are internally vetted. We have to trust that they are what they say they are.”

“That’s right.”

Reel looked out the window at forty-one thousand feet where the dark sky sat there, vast, empty, and apparently brooding.

“Do you want a drink?” asked Reel. She rose to head to the bar at the front of the cabin.

“No,” responded Robie.

“You might change your mind about that.”

A minute later she settled back in her seat cradling a vodka tonic.

They hit some modest turbulence and she held the glass up to avoid spilling the contents. As the air smoothed out she took a sip and looked at Robie’s laptop screen.

He said, “We’ve got a bag full of weapons back there. How about customs?”

“Russian billionaires don’t go through ordinary customs and neither do their ride-share partners. The process is very streamlined and private for the most part.”

“Tell me again how you managed that?”

“I didn’t think I told you in the first place.”

“You sure your Russian billionaire’s not a security issue?”

“He loves America. Loves free markets. Loves capitalism. He’s an ally. No issues there. And he gets us private wings and an arsenal through customs.”

“I’m impressed with some of the firepower you have.”

“Don’t think it’ll be enough. Too many of them. Not enough of us.”

“We just have to be more clever and more nimble.”

“Easy to say. A lot harder to do.”

He stared at her drink.

“You want one now?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’ll make it.”

“No, I got it. It’s my one chance to be domestic.”

He watched her walk down the aisle. The last thing he could ever envision was Jessica Reel domesticated.

When she returned, she clinked her glass against his. She said, “When this is all over, it still won’t be all over.”

Robie nodded. He knew right where she was going.

He sipped his drink, thought about his response. “I guess it won’t be.”

“Would you believe me if I told you at this point I didn’t care?”

“But that doesn’t necessarily change anything.”

“So kill or capture me?”

“I received conflicting orders, actually. Some were kill. Some were capture.”

“But with capture I could make public statements. I could say things they don’t want to hear. I have the right to freedom of speech. I’m entitled to a legal defense. So I don’t see an option other than kill, Robie.”

Robie sipped his drink and ate some nuts she had brought back in a bowl. “Let’s see if we survive Dublin. If we do, we can revisit the question.”

She swallowed the rest of her drink and set it down. “Yeah,” she said. “I suppose we can.”

He stared at her. He knew this was a lie and so did she. They flew for another hundred miles in silence. Down below, the Atlantic frothed and churned as an ornery low-pressure system drifted farther out to sea.

Reel finally said, “When I pulled the trigger on Jacobs, you know what it felt like?”

He shook his head.

“No different from any of the other trigger pulls I’ve made. No difference at all. I thought I would feel something new because he helped kill Joe. I thought there would be some sense of revenge, of justice even.”

“And Jim Gelder? How did you feel when you killed him?”

She looked at him. “How do you think I should have felt?”

Robie shrugged. “I’m not the person to ask.”

“You’re the perfect person to ask. But let me ask you something.”

Robie waited, his eyes narrowed, wondering where this conversation was going.

“You didn’t pull a trigger when you were supposed to. How did that feel to you?”

“The target died anyway.”

“That’s not what I asked. How did you feel?”

Robie didn’t answer right away. The truth was he had tried not to think about that very thing.

How did I feel?

Reel answered for him. “Liberated?”

Robie looked down. That had been the exact word forming in his mind.

Reel seemed to sense this but did not push the point. “Another drink?” she asked, noting his empty glass. When he hesitated, she said, “Remember the domesticity, Robie? I sense I’ll become bored with it before we land. So strike while the iron is hot.”

She took the drink out of his hand but set it down on the tray. She looked at her watch. “We have exactly three hours and forty-one minutes to landing.”

“Okay?” asked Robie, looking confused and dropping his gaze to the empty glass.

Then it occurred to him that she was not talking about a second drink. His eyes widened slightly.

“You think the timing sucks?” she asked in response to his look.

“Don’t you?” he said.

“This is not the first time I’ve thought about it with you. Those youthful hormones, in close proximity in life-and-death situations with lots of guns. Recipe for something to happen. How about you?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be part of it. Never, in fact.”

“Supposed to be doesn’t equal what could be.”

“About the timing?”

“It’s perfect, actually.”

“Why?”

“Because both you and I know we’re not going to live past Ireland. They know you’ve sided with me. They’re not going to let you survive this. There are a lot more of them than there are of us. Doesn’t take a roomful of analysts to decipher that one. Now, I’ll die with many regrets. But I don’t want thatto be one of them. What about you?”

She rose and held out a hand. “What about you?” she said again. “The bed in back is very comfortable.”

Robie stared at her hand for another moment and then looked away.

He didn’t get out of his seat.

Reel slowly drew her hand back. “See you in Dublin.” She started to walk down the aisle to the private quarters in the plane’s aft section.

“It has nothing to do with you, Jessica.”

She stiffened and stopped walking, but didn’t look back.

“There’s someone else?” she said. “Vance?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised you found the time for someone.”

“She’s no longer alive.”

Now Reel did turn.

“It was recent,” said Robie.

Reel came back and sat down next to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Why? I’m a machine, right? That’s what you said.”

She put her palm against his chest. “Machines don’t have heartbeats. You’re not a machine. I shouldn’t have said that. I’d like to hear about it. If you want to talk.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve got nowhere else to go for the next three hours and”—she glanced at her watch—“thirty-eight minutes.”

The plane flew on.

And Robie talked about a young woman who had stolen his heart and then nearly his life, because she turned out to be the enemy.

And in response he had done the only thing he was really good at.

He had killed her.

It was something that only a person like Jessica Reel could understand.

CHAPTER

71

SAM KENT WAS ON the move.

He had taken two weeks off from his duties as a judge. The FISC didn’t have a backlog. They were swift in their judgments. They could spare him.

He packed a bag and kissed his wife and children goodbye.

This was not unusual. He often went away without a lot of explanation. His wife understood it to be part of his past life that he did not talk about.

Well, this wasn’t really about his past life. It was about his future. Precisely speaking, whether he was going to have one or not.

Jacobs, Gelder, and now Decker were dead.

Kent knew that he would have to dance nimbly not to end up like the other three men. He had foes on both flanks now.

Reel and Robie were formidable. He was less concerned about them, though, than with the opponent on his other flank. But the clear way out was to make sure that the plan succeeded. At least his part of it. After that, it was out of his hands. But he also couldn’t be blamed for that part failing.

It was also an opportunity for him to get back out in the field after years of sitting behind a desk. That inactivity had been a slow death for him, he could see that now. It had been a luxury killing that idiot Anthony Zim. He had missed that.

He drove to the airport and checked his car into long-term parking. The night was a fine one. Clear skies, many stars, light winds. It would be a good flight. He would have to hit the ground running. There was a fair amount of prep work that needed to be done.

Success or failure was always defined largely during the preparation. With good planning all one had to do was execute. Even last-second changes could be made with greater ease if the planning in the first place had been precise.

Kent carried no weapons in his bag. That was not his job this time around. He was a thinker, a processor, not a doer.

Part of that pained him, but at his age, he also knew it was the most realistic option for him. Once this was over, the future was both uncertain and crystal clear. Clear for those who knew what was about to happen. A little murkier for everyone else. Flowing up his spine was an electrified charge of excitement mixed with dread. It would certainly be a different world after this. But a better one, he truly believed.

He took a bus to the terminal, showed his passport, checked his bag, passed through security, and walked to the lounge to await his international flight.

The wild card or cards were obvious.

Robie and Reel.

The attack at the mall was conclusive proof in Kent’s mind. Four pros wiped out by two pros who were far more professional.

The battle lost, but not the war, of course.

Eliminating Reel’s source of information was the primary objective. The cleanup had been messy. Cover stories had been deployed and the FBI and DHS would be led round and round the merry-go-round until they were so dizzy the truth could bite them in the collective ass and they would fail to see it.

Kent sipped on a bottle of orange juice and had some crackers and cheese in the airport club to which he belonged. Ordinarily he would fly on private wings to his destination, but this time commercial was just as good. He looked out the window and watched jet after jet pull back from their gates, taxi off, and a few minutes later lift into the clear night sky.

Soon it would be his turn.

He wondered where Robie and Reel were right now.

Perhaps on the way to the same place he was?

Could they have figured it out considering what they had to work with?

The white paper was a key piece, but it listed no specific target. It just gave a scenario of players. The other pieces they might have put together, but to make sense out of it all—that was a stretch even for the likes of them.

And if Reel had gotten what she needed from Roy West she wouldn’t have had to turn to the late Michael Gioffre. It was lucky that Kent’s superior had remembered that connection and quickly posted a team on him.

The only misfortune was that his men had not picked up on Robie. But for him they might have gotten Reel. But they hadn’t and that was that.

His flight was called an hour later. He boarded after watching the other passengers crowd into the small gate area. The flight would be full. That was okay. It was a popular route.

He would try to sleep.

But he doubted that he would be successful. He had too much to think about.

As he was sitting down in his seat, his phone buzzed.

He looked at the text. Good luck, it read.

He put it away without texting back.

What was he supposed to say? Thanks?

He buckled up and reclined the seat. He pulled out his wallet and slipped the photo out.

His other life. His family. Beautiful young wife, adorable children. They lived in the perfect home in the perfect neighborhood and had all the money they would ever need to be happy. He could be with them right now. Tucking his kids in. Making love to his wife. Having a scotch in his study while reading a good book. He could do that for the rest of his days and be extremely content, euphoric even.

But here he was on a plane that would be flying to yet another destination where he would risk life and limb for the greater good.

Kent ran his finger against his wife’s picture.

A female passenger sitting next to him, who had observed what he had done, smiled. “I know. I miss my family every time I leave too,” she said.

He smiled and then turned away.

A few minutes later the plane zipped down the runway and lifted into the air.

Kent had been on many flights, from patched-together choppers in the jungles of Vietnam where every tree seemingly provided cover for Viet Cong trying to take the aircraft down, to 747s that had whisked him across the globe in luxury. But in each instance when he’d gotten on the ground he had been prepared to kill. And quite often did.

He unfolded the paper and looked at the front page.

Howard Decker was still alive—in the photo, that is. His eyes were open. He was smiling. His wife was by his side at some social function that required outrageously expensive formal gowns for the women and cookie-cutter penguin suits for the men.

In reality Decker was on a slab at the D.C. morgue with part of his head missing. He would never smile again.

Kent had known nothing of the hit but he agreed with its execution. Loose ends tied up. The weak separated from the rest of the herd.

They were near the end of this and nothing and no one was going to interfere with the desired result. Too much time in the planning. Too many obstacles avoided. Far too much at stake.

It was Super Bowl Sunday. All the hype was over.

It was time to play the damn game.

CHAPTER

72

DUBLIN, ROBIE AND REEL HAD to admit, was a fortress. They had been here less than twenty-four hours and they could already tell. They had done every possible recon and feint to test the security perimeter around the G8 conference, and there was not one weakness to be found.

They were in Robie’s hotel room overlooking the river Liffey. He was at the window with a pair of binoculars, staring across at the hotel center where the conference’s main events were taking place. It seemed as if there were more security personnel than G8 attendees.

“What about the non-G8 elements?” asked Robie as he lowered the optics and looked over at Reel, who sat in a chair by the door.

“Basically sequestered. And Vance didn’t have it exactly right. The security for those folks is being provided by the G8. Their own security details were not invited.”

“And they were okay with that?”

“If they weren’t okay with it they didn’t get to come.”

“So if the hit is coming it’s an inside job coming from Western resources,” noted Robie.

“Not necessarily. There’s nothing preventing a terrorist attack coming separate from the conference. Or there could be a terror cell in Dublin right now.”

He shook his head. “I’m telling you, something is definitely not right.”

“I have the same feeling.”

He sat on the bed, faced her. “We’re missing something.”

“I get that, I just don’t know what.”

He rose.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To find what we’re missing.”

Robie left the hotel. Within fifteen minutes he was outside the area where the G8 conference was being held. The security perimeter was dense and multilayered. He had no chance of getting inside it without the proper credentials.

As he was standing there, two men came out of one building inside the security perimeter. They had on suits, but also were wearing traditional Muslim headwear. They did not get into a car or cab. They simply walked. Robie assumed they were part of the non-G8 delegation.

He looked at them as they passed by and decided to follow them. It might pan out or it might lead to nothing. But nothing was what he had right now.

He slipped in behind them. They eventually entered a hotel and went straight to the bar. They were forbidden by their religion to drink, but for some Muslims that edict disappeared while they were in Western lands. And there were few places on earth better suited to satisfy one’s thirst for alcohol than Dublin.

They took their drinks and sat at a table by the window. Robie bought his pint and took up a chair at a table next to them. He put his earbuds in and set his smartphone on the table but did not turn on any music. He sipped his beer and eavesdropped on their conversation, all the while swaying his head as he pretended to listen to a tune.

The men talked in low tones in Arabic. They had no reason to think that a westerner would understand a word they were saying. They would be right in almost every instance except this one.

They were attendees of the conference, but they weren’t talking about the G8. There was another conference commencing shortly. It was to take place in Canada at a small town well outside of Montreal. Robie had seen a brief news report about it a while back. It seemed a strange place for an Arab summit, but the Canadians had offered and there indeed was some logic to it. By meeting in a neutral place far removed from the violence and conflict that seemed to permeate the Middle East, it was hoped that meaningful progress could be made. At least that was the official story. And the Canadians were picking up the tab for the whole thing. It also showed goodwill from the West to try to work with the Arab countries. And while the United States, for political reasons, was not involved, the Canadians were such close allies to America that everyone knew the nexus—and implicit support—was clearly there.

At the conference would be the leaders of the major Arab nations, all clustered together in one place to discuss ways to move forward peacefully instead of violently, as much of the recent Arab Spring had done. These men were not attending, but knew many who were. They didn’t seem to think that any major breakthroughs would happen during this conference. One man laughed and said that Muslims, like westerners, couldn’t really agree on much when it came to sharing power. They talked about certain leaders who would be there. Some they liked, others they wished dead.

The men finished their drinks, got up, and left. Robie could have followed them, but saw no real need to. It was far better for him to sit here and try to think this through. He sipped his drink and stared at the wall opposite.

The attack described in Roy West’s apocalypse paper had the G8 leadership as its target. Robie and Reel had assumed that people working inside the United States had assisted enemies of the G8 with planning an attack at this conference, wiping out the G8 leadership and causing a global panic. That made sense. But what the Muslim men had been talking about made him rethink this.

A conference in Canada of leaders from numerous Muslim countries.

Then his thoughts turned to the hit that Jessica Reel had never made.

Ahmadi. In Syria. Blue Man had said they wanted to derail Ahmadi’s coming to power and they had a more palatable choice in the wings, waiting to take over.

Robie put his beer down. As the liquid cleared his throat and settled into his stomach, his thoughts crystallized.

That’s where he and Reel had gotten it wrong. They had assumed that whoever was behind this was following West’s doomsday scenario to the letter. But that was just speculation, not fact. There wasgoing to be an attack, only not on the G8; the security nut was too hard to crack.

But all those leaders clustered together in a small town outside of Montreal? They were fish in a barrel. Eliminating them in a single stroke would result in complete pandemonium in one of the already most chaotic regions on earth. Regime after regime falling. Power vacuums. Elements fighting to take control. But maybe there were folks waiting to take power. And maybe they’d have help. And maybe whoever was behind this thought a better future would look a whole lot like the past.

And perhaps Roy West’s apocalypse paper would be played out in force, only not in the way its author, with all his paranoia, ever imagined.

Robie rose and walked back to his hotel.

The answer was not in Dublin. It was three thousand miles away.

CHAPTER

73

IN TWO HOURS, Robie and Reel were packed, gone from the hotel, and at the airport outside Dublin.

“Are you sure about this, Robie?” Reel asked for the fifth time.

“If you want a guarantee I can’t give it. But otherwise I’m pretty damn sure.”

Reel looked out the window of the terminal. “If you’re wrong? If we leave here and something happens?”

“Then it happens,” he said flatly. “I’ll take full responsibility.”

“I’m not worried about who takes responsibility.”

“Neither am I. I’m just looking to stop it.”

She said, “So instead of killing the G8 leadership they’re planning to knock out the Middle Eastern heads of state? That’s quite a leap.”

“I didn’t plan it, so I can’t really account for the logic.”

“It’s still a terrible risk.”

“Yes, it is.”