Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [5]
Jack watched the bot—the remote-controlled robot—as it arced around and headed down the street, Max videotaping its progress. It moved at a leisurely pace, traveling about a block and a half before it came to a stop two feet away from the rear of the Land Rover. Jack glanced at the computer screen as the joystick operator adjusted the angle and focus, zeroing in on the two-liter bottles—which, it was quickly determined, were only the detonator. Under the upended dashboard were several bricks of plastic explosives, neatly bound together by det cord and at least half a dozen detonators.
Jack’s heart started to thump. This wasn’t one of the rusted-out IEDs the Explosive Ordnance Disposal units back in Iraq were tasked to deal with—the kind that had derailed Jack’s Humvee. This was military-grade C4 that looked as if it had come fresh out of the box.
Drabinsky said to his crew, “We got an eight-hundred-pound gorilla, boys. No avoiding it. Time to break out the demon.”
“You’re going in?” Max asked.
“No choice. Whoever was driving that car meant business.”
Jack’s heart kicked up another notch, but for an entirely different reason this time. It occurred to him that what had started out as a routine profile for a single night’s airing and then online archiving had blossomed into something much bigger. He was working freelance on this, paying Max out of his own pocket, and what he had here was a story that might be important enough to put him back on the national map. A potential terrorist attack in a major American city. And he and Max were the only news personnel who had been allowed inside the circle because Tom Drabinsky and he had hit it off, and that was the way the boss man wanted it.
But there was a downside. Because they’d hit it off, it was a friend who was walking into the hair-trigger kill zone, not some anonymous hero.
Jack watched as Drabinsky crossed to the Tahoe and threw the rear gate open. Two of his crew members joined him there and brought out a helmet and what Drabinsky had referred to as the “demon”—a personal armor suit made of thick padding, designed to withstand the force of an explosion. “In theory, at least,” Drabinsky had told 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