Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill (17 page)

There being only gunwales and no wall to use as a rampart, Harry had to lay flat out on the deck, hoping that the two men on the power boat would continue to fire at a sufficiently high trajectory, and in that way allow him to survive in good health.

Max and Booth were stretched out beside Harry, each firing 9mm semi-automatic carbines. Because of his injury, Vincent was incapable of using any sort of gun. Neither Max nor Booth had known until a few minutes before that the carbines—Mark 9s—were available at all. Only Harry and Slater were aware of their existence on board and Harry alone had known where they were hidden. But there was no question that Max and Booth were happy to get their hands on them rather than sitting out the battle.

More easily maneuverable, the Cigarette at the last moment altered its course so that instead of ramming the
Confrontation
head-on, it turned sharply to the right, drawing alongside of it.

Harry sought to take out the pilot of the powerboat, but he lacked the opening he needed. All he could do was to keep the pilot pinned down in the cockpit. The fire was withering on both sides, but no one was scoring any hits. The situation threatened to persist indefinitely.

Desperate measures were called for. Slipping underneath the gunwales, Harry dropped down straight onto the deck of the powerboat. His action was so sudden, so unexpected, that neither Milano nor Tennessee had a chance to respond. Harry came down hard. The most immediate sensation he felt was a terrific stinging pain that set his whole left leg on fire.

But he ignored it—he had no choice—and rolling against the deck’s wet and slippery surface, just avoiding a burst from Tennessee’s AKS, he lifted his Magnum and fired. Having no time in which to sight his gun, he had to make do with shooting toward the stern, in the general direction of where he reckoned his antagonist to be.

He didn’t do badly. The .44 caught Tennessee on his side, going clean through his shirt and taking with its passage a sliver of skin—not a large amount really, nothing that would cause serious injury—but certainly enough to create a great deal of pain, so much that Tennessee let out a shriek that might have awakened the sealife several fathoms below. He jerked up, forgetting that he was sacrificing his cover.

This allowed Booth or Max—whichever of the two had the better aim or better luck—to target him and bring him down. It seemed that at one moment Tennessee’s head was there, whole and bristling with hair in every direction, and the next moment it wasn’t; just turned a pulpous red with two horrified eyes staring out of it. Tennessee released another shriek, shriller than the last, and keeled over.

Milano, positioned behind a bulkhead was now in an unhappy predicament, having both Harry and the defenders on the yacht to contend with simultaneously. He called to the pilot, commanding him to speed the Cigarette out of the
Confrontation
’s range of fire. This way he would be able to reduce the scope of the conflict and the odds would be more in his favor.

The pilot heard Milano with no trouble, despite the fact that the door to the cockpit was closed. The Cigarette surged ahead, pulling away from the
Confrontation.
All Booth and Max could do was to send a few rounds in hapless pursuit of the vanishing boat. The water, and not the Cigarette, felt the brunt of their barrage.

Though his leg hurt like hell, Harry managed to maneuver himself back so that the starboard wall of the cockpit protected him. He flattened himself flush against it to minimize the exposed portion of his body.

Because Milano had deliberately doused the deck lights, darkness pervaded on the powerboat. This put Milano at a certain disadvantage because now he could not be certain where the invader had situated himself. And he did not intend to find out by risking his life. On the contrary, being of a practical bent, Milano decided that if necessary he would wait until it became light enough before making a move. He would stay right where he was. The pilot, if he knew what was good for him, would remain enclosed in the safety of his cockpit. Milano had no idea what the attacker wished to do, but he was convinced that he would have to do something—and shortly. Either reveal himself or else abandon the whole enterprise and jump off. Of course, if he did that then he would have to be a very good swimmer there being only a lot of Pacific ocean out there and not very much else. Except for sharks. There were, Milano figured, a great many of them.

There was no sound save the thrust of the engines and the splash of water as it yielded to the powerboat. Harry strained to keep his balance, every so often swinging his right leg back and forth, despite the pain this resulted in, just so that he could stop it from going numb. He was careful to keep silent, not wishing to give away his location. He began to sense, when he detected no movement on deck, what Milano had in mind. Dawn was approximately two and a half hours away but there would be a sufficient trickle of light before then to distinguish him from the obscurity.

So he decided he would crawl around to the bow which would give him more protection and might also allow him a chance at the pilot.

The pilot’s face, visible through the glass, betrayed a look of intense concentration. His mouth was taut, his eyes fixed on the empty stretch of sea ahead of him. When he saw Harry making his way around the deck he slid the protective glass away so that he could fire the Smith and Wesson gripped in his free hand. The other was still locked on the wheel.

But Harry had anticipated this. He had brought only his head into view, providing for just enough temptation to impel the pilot to react. No sooner had he done this than he slipped back out of sight, just as the Smith and Wesson discharged.

All this happened so quickly that the pilot couldn’t be sure whether he had hit Harry or not. It was conceivable he’d done so, and Harry had fallen straight into the sea. From the pilot’s perspective it was impossible to tell. So he leaned out, poking his head into the wind to see just what had happened.

Which was when Harry, extending his Magnum out beyond the perimeter of the cockpit, answered his fire. Twice.

The first bullet slammed into the cockpit, just an inch or so above the pilot’s head. This certainly would have provoked him into ducking back down had not the second shot smashed into his collarbone and partially deflected by the bone, continued at an upward trajectory into his throat, emerging out the back of his neck. The pilot was flung back, hitting the farthest wall before collapsing. The blood couldn’t get out fast enough, it seemed, bursting simultaneously from the wound near his shoulder and from his open mouth.

Now Harry clambered up above the cockpit, resisting the impulse to cry out from the pain in his leg. After all, no matter how badly he felt, it was a whole lot better than the pilot did.

The powerboat was now under no one’s control. It was heading at thirty knots per hour in a northeasterly direction and would continue to do so unless it ran aground or out of fuel.

Unquestionably, Milano had heard the exchange of fire, and it was quite likely he’d witnessed the slaying of the pilot. But of one thing there was no doubt—he had spotted Harry for he now loosened a barrage that swept right over Harry’s body and out to sea.

But despite this attack Milano had lost one principal advantage: his hiding place. From his position on the roof Harry could see where Milano had attempted to conceal himself. He wasted no time in answering the fire from the AKS. The explosive force of the Magnum demolished a part of the bulkhead behind which Milano crouched. Fragments of wood belched up into the air. Some came raining down on Milano, and one particularly sharp fragment like a dagger dropped into his neck, piercing it for a depth of three inches. Blood erupted from the hole it gouged out in him. A cry of pain and shock followed immediately.

Milano grasped hold of the offending splinter, screaming, “Goddamn cocksucker, motherfucking son of a bitch!” though it was unclear whether he was referring to Harry who was responsible for the injury or to the wooden blade stuck in his neck. In any case, he was able to tug it all the way out, though this resulted in so much pain that he blacked out for several moments. When he opened his eyes again he saw Harry looming over him, the Magnum targeted on his head. What Harry had in mind was to ask Milano a few questions such as who hired him. But Milano, assuming that Harry meant to kill him directly without any formalities, decided he had nothing to lose and struggled to raise his weapon. Harry, of course, noted the movement and slammed his foot down on Milano’s outstretched hand.

Milano winced at the pain that attacked him from this new location and wished Harry a quick death he seemed incapable of inflicting on him.

But rather than give up, with his free hand Milano grabbed hold of Harry’s ankle and tried to throw him off balance. Now, ordinarily this would have accomplished nothing. Milano’s grip wasn’t strong enough and Harry’s stance was such that he had gravity on his side. However, in this case, Milano was lucky enough to wrest hold of the leg that had been badly sprained when Harry first hit the deck.

The pain that shot up Harry’s leg was sufficient to cause him to stumble. For a few critical seconds he lost his footing. As he sought to recover it, Milano seized the AKS and raised it to fire.

Harry, realizing his intention, quickly abandoned any notion of questioning him. Even though he had lost his balance he fired three times, exhausting his final clip of the night. Since he had no opportunity to take proper aim, he opted for the scattershot approach, figuring that he might get lucky too. If not, it was going to be some mean trick getting out of the way of a fusillade from an AKS.

But he needn’t have worried. Through the smoke that filled the cool Pacific air with the stench of cordite he could make out the form of Milano. Or what was left of Milano. For all three bullets from the Magnum had entered and promptly gone through the man. The two wounds in his chest had merged by the time the bullets exited through the back so there was just one gaping hole beneath the shoulderblades from which bloody tissue was pouring out. The third wound had opened up Milano’s abdomen, allowing his intestines to break free of the constraints his skin and muscles had imposed on them. The punch of the three successive shots had thrown Milano as far as he could go across the deck. He was now propped up against the door of the cockpit. Weirdly, he was still alive. His glazed eyes fastened on Harry in a kind of wonderment. He seemed to be trying to get himself upright but could not succeed in doing so. Instead, he resigned himself to making a quiet exit from the world.

Harry hoisted him aside so he could get into the cockpit and then had to maneuver the lifeless pilot out of the way so that he could make it to the helm. This grim task completed, he began to turn the boat around, navigating it back from where it came in hope of finding the
Confrontation.

He found her all right, though it took him a few hours. The sun was rising into the sky, heralding another hot summer day on the ocean by the time he came within sight of the yacht.

There was only one man on deck to witness his approach. Booth. He’d been swabbing the deck, presumably removing all the traces of blood Francis had gotten on it in his death throes. But now, seeing Harry, he put his mop down and picked up something else. It was only when Harry was less than twenty yards away that he saw what it was—one of the Mark 9s he’d used last night.

But this time he had it aimed on Harry. Harry was exposed and, what’s more, was out of ammunition for the Magnum. Booth seemed to be debating with himself whether he should kill Harry, probably wondering whether he could get away with it. Or maybe he intended only to frighten Harry.

Harry, however, was too tired and wired-up to be frightened. Instead, he looked Booth in the eyes. Booth smiled, toying with the trigger. Then abruptly he put the carbine back down. For now there was someone else on deck—Max. And if murder was in Booth’s heart, and it surely must be, it was too much of a private enterprise to proceed with it in front of a witness. Especially someone like Max who had proven so deft with a knife thrown from afar.

Max may not have noticed Booth’s display of the Mark 9. If he had, he probably would have instigated a fight with him. It didn’t require much to provoke Max, after all.

But right at this moment Harry was certainly pleased to see him. Max’s timely appearance might have saved his life. In any case, Max now stepped up to the starboard side of the boat and in a surprising show of politeness actually waved to Harry in greeting.

“Thought we’d lost you!” he shouted out.

“Not yet,” Harry replied. “Not yet.”

C H A P T E R
F o u r t e e n

A
n early morning mist shrouded Carangas from view. Along the coast as far as the eye could see the palms and the wild tropical plants that grew cheek to cheek with them dripped with moisture. Birds cawed and hooted in the stillness. As the
Confrontation
approached the shore, the water turned increasingly brackish. A sweet, putrifying smell rose up from the dense foliage and carried out on the humid air.

No one, not Booth, not Max nor Vincent, had asked why Carangas was their destination. They were crewmen, hired only to get Keepnews’ boat to where its skipper wished it to go. But standing on the deck, viewing the apparently inhospitable landscape, they seemed none too pleased. “What’s here in this fucking place?” Vincent inquired, but the question was clearly rhetorical.

Slater was busy examining the charts, trying to ascertain where they could best anchor. “It gets shallow from this point on. Chance of running aground,” he said to Harry, jabbing a bruised finger on the most detailed chart. “It looks like we’ll have to use the skiff to get on shore.”

With one eye on the depth sounder, Slater carefully navigated the yacht south and then in toward where the chart indicated Carangas should be. He could acquire no independent confirmation with his eyes alone because the mist was still too thick.

To supplement the depth readings he switched on the Micrologic-220, which he used to measure how much he might be deviating from the course he’d plotted for himself. The readouts allowed him to see how many microseconds either right or left of course he was; it further told him how much time remained, if maintaining present speed, before he reached his destination. Present speed wasn’t much. The vessel was proceeding at a speed that could only be called ridiculous.