Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons (21 page)

“Now you do,” be said, cracking open the Magnum’s cylinder. The shoot-out with the bedroom guards had used up his first six rounds. He shoved the .357 into his pant pocket and reloaded the Magnum. “Go on, get out.” The girls started for the opening. “All except you,” Harry pointed at the black-haired girl. She stood on her knees on the bed. She pointed to herself and mouthed the word “me?”

“Yeah,” said Harry pulling out the Python revolver again. “When I nod, you open the door, then get out, all right?”

She mutely nodded. Harry waited until all but the blond had gingerly crawled put the front window before walking over to the darker wood panel on the wall. He crouched next to it, then nodded at the girl. She twisted her arm and the panel swung open.

Harry dived through, rolled, came up behind a white couch and pointed both guns over the top.

Hannibal Striker, also known as Edd Villaveda, was calmly sitting behind his desk, his hands in the prayer position in front of him.

“Inspector Callahan,” he said casually.

Harry kept his position but relaxed his muscles somewhat. “You going to come along quietly,” he said, well aware of the facetiousness, “or am I going to have to get rough?”

Striker laughed, his head bent toward the ceiling.

“They don’t call you Dirty Harry for nothing, do they?” he inquired lightly.

Instead of answering, Harry stood up and put the Python back in his waistband. “You didn’t call the cops before so they wouldn’t interrupt your killing me. Would you mind calling them now?”

Striker didn’t move. “We could still make a deal.”

“I’m sick of your deals,” Harry said, moving around the back of the couch. “They never pan out.”

“All the charges dropped,” Striker continued, his voice soothing. “The sheriff’s reports of your resisting arrest and assaulting an officer are in my safe. I’ll burn them. Here. Now. I’ll even have Williams killed.”

Harry moved slowly toward the desk. “You’re under arrest,” he told Striker.

“You could go back to San Francisco,” the businessman went on, his voice a steady drone. “We could forget about all this. Things could go on as usual.”

“No, we’re going to the police station. You’re going to be my shield until we find out who’s on which side.”

Harry was nearly at the desk now. Striker had been moving steadily back in his chair until his folded hands were on the very edge of the tabletop.

Then Sweetboy Williams slammed against the entrance wall, blood streaming down his face and both guns clenched in his hands.

“Watch it!” he barked.

Harry turned his head back just in time to see Striker grab for something under the desk. Harry dove forward just as the installed gun tore a line of bullet holes across the room.

Callahan landed across Striker’s tabletop and slammed his body against the seated businessman. The shooting stopped long enough for the chair to fall back and both men slam to the floor.

Striker was up like a weasel, snarling and grabbing a 9mm automatic out of his desk. He shot at Sweetboy first, but the bullet only sent the hitman reeling back into the bedroom. The businessman’s second bullet was a bit more precise. It hit Harry in the left thigh.

Callahan bellowed in pain as he arched his body on the floor to bring up the Magnum. The leg wound threw his own shot off. It smacked into the ceiling.

The businessman took the moment of confusion to charge toward the exit. Harry saw his feet flying forward from under the desk, then saw the white button on the right underside of the desk drawer. There was a red button across from it. Harry played a fast hunch.

Just as Striker neared the door, Harry slammed the barrel of his gun onto the white button. He had been right. The red button set off the booby trap. The white button closed the automatic door.

Striker, to his everlasting regret, had built the automatic door for speed. When he wanted it open or shut, he wanted it to open and shut
fast.
So now, when it slammed closed with Striker’s right leg being in the bedroom and his left leg being in the office, it slammed closed on him.

The sliding door’s slide punched Striker in the face as he turned toward the click of Harry’s gun barrel against the button. He fell back, dazed, so the door was able to catch him against the few inches of the opening. He was stuck half-in one room and half-in the other.

If the truth be known, the door, with all its hydraulic power, was not enough to keep him there. With a little effort, Striker could have squeezed out one way or another. But he didn’t have time.

Sweetboy Williams was aiming at him from one side and Dirty Harry Callahan was hobbling at him from the other. He screamed as they both fired at almost the same time.

Striker’s head blew apart like a flower blossoming. The force of two .44 bullets burrowing into his skull at once all but decapitated him. Literal gouts of blood erupted from his neck like a scarlet fountain. Both men had to move back to avoid bathing in it.

Harry dropped heavily to the couch. His leg was throbbing from the high-powered bullet and his head was throbbing from everything. Through the pounding haze he heard sirens coming from far away. Either the police had finally decided to show up or someone had called the fire department. As he looked at the remnants of Striker’s corpse he saw the plumes of smoke worming into the office from outside.

Then he heard something else. He heard Sweetboy William’s laugh. The hitman couldn’t get back into the office. He didn’t know about the button behind the headboard. If he tried to get Striker’s body out of the way, the door would quickly complete its closing. And if he hung around too long, he wouldn’t be able to get away.

Harry started making a tourniquet out of his shirt while watching his blood stain the white couch and rug. The rug wouldn’t mind. It was already decorated with most of Striker’s insides.

“Hey,” said a voice from the door.

Harry looked up. Sweetboy was smiling like a madman over Striker’s headless form. He looked like one of those tourists who stuck their heads over a painted placard at a photographer’s booth on the boardwalk. It was the hitman’s head on the businessman’s body.

“See you at John Wayne’s graveyard,” Sweetboy said. Then Striker’s corpse was headless again.

Harry finished the tourniquet and hobbled behind Striker’s desk. He looked out the bulletproof one-way window. He saw smoke rolling across the lawn, but no flames. The sirens must’ve been the fire department, he reasoned. They probably had the fire itself under control by now. And since he couldn’t see any way to open the picture window, he sat in Striker’s soft brown chair.

If I feel any heat before the firemen arrive, I’ll think about how to get out, Harry figured. Until then, why bother?

Harry sat and silently looked out the window.

C H A P T E R
T e n

“I
t’s over,” said Captain Porter.

“Yeah,” said Harry without much conviction.

They were sitting in Porter’s office in the San Antonio Justice Building.

“The mayor himself reviewed your material and personally set up a task force excluding anyone found on the computer list. The material is being thoroughly processed and the courts have already promised us fast action. Warrants should be coming through very soon.”

“Great,” said Harry.

Porter was confused by the inspector’s lack of enthusiasm. “You’re off the hook,” he told Harry. “You can go home.”

“Uh-huh,” said Harry, checking his leg for the third time since he’d sat down. The police surgeon had informed him that the 9mm bullet had thankfully passed through his thigh without hitting any major arteries or bones. He had been very lucky Striker had not been using hollow-points or everything from Harry’s knee down would now be plastic.

Instead they had bandaged him up, gave him a cane to use temporarily, and let him go with Captain Porter. But ever since he left the hospital, he had been kneeding and twisting the leg, checking for himself just how bad it was.

“So,” Porter said with a touch of perplexion, “what are you going to do now?”

Harry looked up from his leg. He remembered that he had heard that same question recently. Carol Nash’s face swam up into his thoughts. Then her face was replaced by Peter Nash’s dying one. And then his was replaced by Sweetboy Williams’ head; grinning over Striker’s lifeless body.

The hitman was waiting for him. Harry considered planning a trap with Captain Porter. But Sweetboy had escaped dozens of cops. He had escaped all his life. Only Harry’s presence alone would make him stand and fight.

“What I meant was,” said Porter, noticing Harry’s faraway look, “when are you heading back to Frisco?”

Harry looked up at him. “Soon.” He went back to his leg. “Soon.”

“Fine . . . uh, fine,” said the Captain, wondering how to get rid of the inspector. “Can . . . uh, one of my men drop you anywhere?”

“Yeah. Sure,” said Harry, coming out of his funk somewhat. “I’ll need my stuff at the Ramada Inn.”

“Of course!” Porter said with relief, taking Harry’s arm and leading him out of his office. “I’ll get a car for you. Take care of yourself, Inspector, and be sure to say hello to your Captain Avery for me.”

Harry went back to the hotel in silence. Only after Harry got back to his room did he fully recall that all his own stuff was in garbage cans at the airport. He found a men’s store off the hotel lobby and bought an entirely new outfit. A tweedy brown jacket, a dull beige shirt, brown slacks, and shoes. It was his usual look.

He went back to his room. He slipped the three auto-loaders he had left into his left jacket pocket. He strapped on his .44 Magnum. He called the airport and arranged for passage back to California. He called the Nash residence. No one answered. He checked a map. According to it, his immediate destination was a few miles down the road. He went back to the lobby and checked out.

He went outside and ignored the taxis. He wanted his wounded leg to be limber. He needed to know just how much it would handicap him. He started walking due west. Two and a half hours later he reached his destination. It was getting near dusk. The sky was a beautiful deep blue shot through with a rainbow of sunset colors.

And lying at the end of a grassy walk, sitting serenely amid bright spotlights, was the Alamo.

It was closed. No one was around. The five windows in front were barred over. The doors looked locked. Harry limped slowly over to the two wooden doors. He put the flat of his right hand against the left one. He pushed. It didn’t budge. He moved his palm over to the right one. He pushed. It swung open.

Harry ignored the handsome stonework of the façade. He ignored the intricately detailed archway and the handsome grounds. He pulled out his Magnum and went inside.

The interior was about as impressive as the interior of the Taj Mahal. Somehow tourists always seem to think they’re going to see something spectacular inside both. Well, Harry knew that the Alamo was just one of five different missions, built by Spanish Catholics in the 1700s. It consisted of a monastary and a church. It was named for the cottonwood trees around it. In Spanish, it translated as Alamo.

The battle of the Alamo had ended March 5, 1836, when the last of 182 men were killed by Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna’s Mexican forces. A hundred and forty-five years later, it was just Harry Callahan and Sweetboy Williams.

The plain stone interior was illuminated by the spots outside. It cast squares of golden light in through the barred windows. Like all ancient things it smelled musty. Harry stood in the open doorway, his gun up.

“Come on in,” he heard Sweetboy call.

Harry looked quickly around. He couldn’t see him. So he did as the voice instructed. He closed the door behind him and pressed himself against the entry wall.

“How do you want to play this?” Sweetboy’s voice asked.

“It’s your call,” Harry told him simply. He waited for what seemed like a long time. Sweetboy was taking his own sweet time deciding. He must’ve been deciding more than just how to handle the showdown. He must’ve been wondering whether he could trust Harry to go along with his wild West desires. The hitman knew Harry’s nickname. He must’ve thought about that.

But whatever went through his mind during that time he did not share with Harry. Finally he came to a decision.

“We’ll make it fair,” Sweetboy’s voice echoed through the dim, cavernous fort. “One auto-loader. One chance to draw, load, aim, and fire. All right?”

It was an absurd situation. Two men who hardly knew each other. Two men who had fought side by side. Two men who wanted more than anything else, to kill each other. Two men negotiating how they’d do it. If it wasn’t so deadly, it would be laughable.

“All right,” said Harry.

“Get ready,” said Sweetboy. “I’m showing myself.”

The hitman stepped out from the shadows of a tan-colored column. He was holding his Magnum the same way Harry was; barrel pointing at the ceiling, finger lightly on the trigger.

“All right,” the hitman said, staying close to the column. “Open the cylinder.” If Harry was going to cheat, now was the time to do it. With Sweetboy’s Magnum open, he could quite possibly shoot him before the assassin could shut his chamber and fire back.

Harry moved his thumb, clicked open the cylinder, and swung it out. Sweetboy did the same. All twelve bullets slipped out of the upraised guns and clattered to the stone floor.

“Now,” said Sweetboy, “lower the gun by your side.” Both men brought their weapons down until they rested against their thighs.

“What about your cane?” Sweetboy asked.

Harry let it fall to the floor. It drifted down and clattered away.

“On the count of three,” said Sweetboy. “Go for a speed-loader.”

“One.”

Harry felt sweat appear on his forehead. The San Antonio night was hot. The interior of the Alamo was hotter. His Magnum seemed to get heavier and heavier.

“Two.”

His leg began to throb. He suddenly couldn’t remember whether his jacket pocket had flaps or not.

“Three!”

Harry’s right thumb was kicking the Magnum’s cylinder open as his left arm dug into his jacket pocket. There was a flap in the way. His hand nearly ripped right through it. He felt an auto-loader in his fingers when a sudden, slashing pain lanced through his wounded leg.