The street was empty, the cops maintaining a by-the-book two-block radius from the site. All the buildings and stores in a one-block radius had been evacuated, though most were empty already due to the hour.

Twenty-seven-year-old Maxine Cole showed up while her boss was still studying the scene. Her press pass was swung onto her back-where the camera wouldn’t hide it-and her video camera was already hoisted onto a shoulder, floodlight on. Of Somali descent, she was a tall, city-born triathlete and one of the best hose-n-go shooters Jack had ever known. She wet-kissed everything with her camera, missed nothing, and made editing a breeze.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Cops at the outside barrier didn’t want to let me through. I tried calling you but couldn’t get a signal.”

Jack lowered the field glasses. “They’ve activated a cell phone jammer. Standard precaution.”

“Oh. Right. Duh,” she said as she shot.

Jack gestured toward the overturned vehicles nearly a block away. “The money shot is at the rear of that Land Rover. Can you manage it?”

“Not from this angle.”

He turned to Drabinsky. “Can we go closer?”

“Only if you’re suicidal. We’re sending in the BDR.”

As if on cue, the rear doors of a newly arrived van flew open and one of Drabinsky’s men climbed out, put down a ramp, and started playing with the joystick in his hands. Jack saw a bright white light, heard a soft electronic whir as the bomb disposal robot glided out of the van and down the ramp toward the blacktop, looking like a RoboCop prototype on steroids.

Max got some footage of it making its descent. “So what’s the story here? Somebody said something about a carjacking.”

“Carjacking that went a little south,” Jack told her.