him. They called it the demon because of the number of men who had died wearing one.
As Drabinsky suited up, Jack glanced to his right, toward a cluster of squad cars in the distance.
They had a person of interest in back of one of those cars. Not the bomber but someone who apparently knew the carjacker, had been trying to get to him immediately after the accident.
Jack turned to Max. He didn’t have to tell her to keep the camera on Drabinsky. “Be back in ten,” he said.
Max was surprised. “Where you going?”
“I want to try and find out who they’ve got in the car back there.”
“You sure you don’t want me there with you?”
Jack shook his head. “I want Tom to know he’s got a lady in the lists.”
“Sorry?”
“Jousts. Knights. Helped them focus. You didn’t want to be unhorsed if a pretty eye was on you.”
“Ah. Hey, do I get hazard pay for this?”
Jack smiled. “You’re a newsperson covering news. Be grateful for the privilege.”
Jack got lucky. There was a rookie uniform watching the SFPD’s guest, as they called him. There’s a myth that rookies tend to follow regulations. What they follow is experience and authority. They don’t just give it up, though; most have to be wooed by guys who have been-there, seen-that.
Jack walked up, read the rookie’s name tag, showed his credentials.
“Sorry, Mr. Hatfield, but we’re not supposed to allow press near-”
“I’m not press, Officer Beckman, I’m a friend of Tom’s,” he said. Then he added pointedly, “Tom Drabinsky. The guy in the demon.”
“Yes, sir. I know who that is.”
Jack waved a hand toward the kid in the patrol car. “He give you any trouble when you took him into custody?”
“Nah. There were already a couple citizens keeping him in check.”
“You find the owner?”
Beckman started to speak, then hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “We’re off the record. I just want to know what’s going on.”
Beckman thought about it a moment then said, “Nothing on the owner.”
“Who’s this guy?” He indicated the kid in the car.
“Name’s Leon Thomas. His younger brother Jamal was the jacker. He told us this was just an initiation, no one was supposed to get hurt, and his brother was going to abandon the car after a joyride.”
“You believe him?”
“He’s got a Big Block tat on the back of his neck,” Beckman said. “Either he’s a member of the gang or a serious wannabe. Their initiation is blood, not a carjacking.”
“What did he say about the vic?”
“Only that he was an ‘Arab-lookin’ dude,’” Beckman said.
“Age? Clothing?”
“Twenties, well dressed.”
The kind of guy who would probably slip through spot-check profiling, which the SFPD said they didn’t do. The truth was, every metropolitan police department in the nation did it. Chances were pretty good that granny wouldn’t be blowing up a street car unless she was wearing a head scarf, and Josh or Tyler was less likely to take out a federal building than Muhammad or Omar.
Jack was about to ask if he could talk to the kid when three black SUVs pulled up to the perimeter. A moment later the area was flooded with men in suits, one of whom-a hefty six-footer with the clean, resolute look of a Mercury astronaut-approached Beckman. “Where’s the officer in charge?”
“Who are you?” Jack asked.
The suit reached into his jacket and brought out a set of credentials. Field Director Carl Forsyth, FBI. The agent in charge, by his manner. The man’s eyes were still on Beckman. “Are you gonna point me in the right direction or does this loser do all your talking?”
“Whoa,” Jack said. “What the hell is that supposed to-”
“You mean ‘loser’? I know who you are. You used to have that show on TV, Truth Tellers.”
Jack stiffened. “That’s right.”
“And you’re still working? I figured we’d seen the last of you.”
It was the kind of derision that Jack had gotten used to over the last couple years, but it had been a while since he’d encountered it. After losing his job at the network in a very public way-thanks to an orchestrated smear campaign that had pretty much destroyed his reputation and wrongfully painted him as a bigot-he had removed himself from the national stage, content to work in relative obscurity as a freelance news producer. He’d known he’d have to rebuild his reputation, brick by brick, and had spent the last few minutes feeling like he was back in the major leagues. But then a guy like Agent Forsyth came along and he sometimes wondered if it was worth it.
Beckman had caved, was pointing him in the direction of the MCC-the mobile command center-when someone near the bomb site shouted.
“Down! Everybody down!”
Without thinking, Jack grabbed the rookie and dove toward the blacktop as a massive explosion shook the ground, sending several tons of debris and human body parts rocketing in all directions.
The shock wave blew over Jack, shattering car windows and taking down anyone who had been too slow to react. He heard a low grunt nearby and, through the haze of powdered debris, saw Beckman lying facedown a few feet ahead, bleeding from the base of his neck, a long gash having been ripped by a chunk of cement. Muffled by the thick dust, the roar of the explosion faded, leaving behind a low, steady buzz in Jack’s ears.
The whole world seemed to pause for a long moment, as if to take a deep breath, and he was once again assaulted by that morning in Baghdad, his best friend’s blank stare vivid in his mind’s eye. A vague sense of panic welled in his chest, brought on by the memory, his senses, and the unexpected chaos. But he himself seemed unhurt and he forced himself to remain calm and assess the damage around him.
One of the FBI agents was sprawled on the blacktop, out cold, his suit jacket askew, as the agent in charge and the two uniforms slowly staggered to their feet.
“My God,” one of them muttered.
And that about summed it up.
Beckman stirred, groaned.
Jack got to his feet, simultaneously pulling a handkerchief from his pants and slapping it over his mouth and nose. He checked the rookie’s wound. It didn’t seem life threatening. He turned the man over, placed his head on the block that had hit him. He wanted to keep the flow of blood down, away from the wound.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
The rookie blinked several times, looking dazed. “I think so.” He touched the side of his head, then the back. “I’m bleeding, aren’t I? Feels like I blew out an ear-”
“That’s just the concussion. You got clocked in the neck.”
Jack gave him a pat on the arm. As he was turning to look back to where he had left Max he saw the door of the cruiser fly open and Leon Thomas stumble out. He was covered with a thousand tiny pieces of shattered glass but that didn’t stop him from running into the man-made mist, his hands cuffed behind him.
“Hey!” somebody shouted — and Leon picked up speed.
He didn’t get far. Twenty yards away a uniform broadsided him, taking him down like a defensive tackle, two more piling on for good measure. A moment later they had him on his feet, roughly shoving him toward another cruiser. One of them swatted him across the back of the head as they threw the door open and pushed him inside.
Even before the show was over, Jack turned away, shifting his attention to the center of the blast. The dust was starting to settle and through the haze he saw a crater. Half the building behind it was in shreds, a hotel that
