If he was successful, they’d keep him around as long as he was able to dance fast enough to stay out of jail. And if he failed? If he self-medicated with booze or drugs to assuage his guilt and inadequacy, if he developed ulcers and heart problems, if he screwed up and even once disappointed the client? Then he’d be out. Essentially where he was now, only older and terminally broken. Used up. Without even a shred of self-respect to keep him from stepping off the Jamaica Station platform into the path of the express train to Babylon.

In a brief flash, he saw what Jackie had been offered and felt, for an instant, a touch of empathy. She hadn’t seen it coming. They’d offered a plum assignment, and she had assumed that she’d been chosen for her skills or because she had earned a place at the table—or because of her relation to Jill. They had only wanted her because she was expendable.

And so was Ted.

The Judge was having a hard time staying on point. His eyes kept flashing down to the watch he now held in his lap. “I can’t make you work for Hasting, Fitzmaurice, and Barson, though I cannot imagine why you would turn down such an opportunity. But I cannot protect you if you don’t. Do you understand me, Ted?”

“I do.”

The Judge’s words came faster, spilling over one another. Ted had never seen him like this, and it took him a moment to realize the Judge was afraid. “Other parties argued against offering this proposal. They preferred seeing you in prison or silenced.”

“I said I understand,” Ted spoke ponderously, trying to wring some of the frenzy out of the air.

It wasn’t working. “They will feel threatened if you are in a position that cannot be closely monitored.”

“Well, I think I have a way around that, Your Honor. I could turn myself in.”

“What are you saying?”

“I could claim to be Cheryl’s partner. The feds would believe it. Assistant DA Petronelli already believes it. And I could give them all the names. I’d get less time than Cheryl—maybe none. At the first threat, they’d put me in WITSEC and I’d be untouchable.” It was a wrestler’s trick. When desperate, go limp. They never expect it.

“That would be madness.” The old man’s eyes were suddenly bloodshot. He was giving himself a stroke.

“Maybe so, but it would be ruthlessly efficient. You would all be so busy covering your own asses that no one would even think to come after me. You’d all be pointing the finger at each other. Reisner would fight it on television because that’s what he’s good at, and he might win that way. The lawyers and politicians would be stuck between the police and the Russian mob. It would be fun to watch.”