Abuse of Power - Michael Savage [6]
“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