McNab was all for it. Perhaps, Roarke thought, it was an easier matter for youth to gamble with mortality.
“We can do sims, analyses, probabilities for weeks and not have it wrapped,” McNab insisted. “The answers are in the infected units, and the only way to get at them is to get at them.”
“We haven’t put a full day in yet.” Feeney knew he was meant to be the voice of reason, but he was itching to tear into one of the infected units. “The more tests and sims we run, the better our chances.”
“I’ll have a filter—the best I think we can hope for under these conditions—ready to be interfaced within the hour.” Roarke glanced back toward Jamie. “We can run sims with it first, bombard one of the units with viruses and subliminals, and see how it holds up. At that point, I’d say it’ll be time for a calculated risk.”
Feeney dragged out his bag of candied almonds. “The primary won’t go for it.”
“The primary,” Roarke said, coolly dismissing the love of his life, “isn’t an e-man.”
“No, she sure as hell isn’t. Never could get her to have any respect for technology. We finish the filter, run the sims. If it holds up, we go in.”
“I’ll operate,” McNab said quickly.
“No, you won’t.”
“Captain—”
“You’re already on partial medical. Results’d be skewed.” It was bullshit, Feeney thought, but he’d be damned if he put McNab on the hot seat. He wasn’t losing two men in two days.
“I should get to do it.” Jamie swiveled around. “It was my idea.”
Roarke barely spared him a glance. “Since we bot
h have to answer to your mother, I won’t even acknowledge that bit of stupidity.”
“I don’t see why—”
“Have you finished that programming, Jamie?” Roarke asked.
“No, but—”
“Finish it.” He turned back to Feeney. “I’d say it’s down to you and me.”
“Just me. I’m the badge.”
“An e-man’s an e-man, badge or no. We can argue about that, the fact you’ve got a badge, the fact it’s my equipment we’re using here. But why don’t we settle the matter like Irishmen?”
Both amusement and challenge lit Feeney’s face. “You want to fight, or you want to drink?”
Roarke laughed. “I was thinking of the other manner of settling things. Gambling.” Roarke dug a coin out of his pocket. “Heads or tails?” he asked. “You call.”
Eve considered Chief Tibble a good cop, for a suit.
He was tough, he was honest, and he had a very strong bullshit sensor. He played the politics of his job better than most, and generally kept the mayor and other city officials off the backs of the rank and file.
But when murder came through an item everyone in the city—every voter in the city—owned, when the media was in high gear and one cop took another hostage in Central, the politicians were going to get their swings in.
Deputy Mayor Jenna Franco was known to swing hard.
Eve hadn’t dealt with her personally before, but she’d seen her around City Hall or on-screen. She had the hard polish of a woman who knew it was essential to look her best while doing the job in an arena where votes were often swayed because a candidate was attractive.
She was a small woman who made up for it with snappy-looking three-inch heels. She was a curvy woman who took advantage of what nature or her body sculptor gave her with spiffily tailored suits in bold colors. Today’s was power red and matched with a chunky gold necklace and earrings that looked as if they weighed five pounds each.
It made Eve’s lobes throb just to look at them.
She looked more like some pampered society matron on her way to a ladies’ luncheon than a hard-scrabble politician. And the opponents who’d come to that conclusion had been left in her dust.