Dirty Harry 09 - The Killing Connection (18 page)

“I don’t have both their names,” Harry confessed. “And I don’t have any proof except Steele.”

Bressler saw Harry’s predicament immediately. They’d never be able to convince McKay that Steele must be taken alive. But if Harry was going to get to the truth, he had to squeeze between Steele and S.W.A.T.

And Bressler knew better than to try to disuade Harry when his mind was made up. “Then here,” he said, pulling a mass of plastic out of his raincoat pocket and holding it out. “It’s the closest thing I’ve got to a wetsuit.”

It was a light windbreaker. It fit perfectly over Harry’s shoulder holster. To further accelerate matters, Harry took off his shirt, leaving only the gun and the mack. Finally, he reluctantly pulled off his shoes.

“That’s the second pair I’ve lost on this case,” he grumbled.

“I’ll wait for you here,” Bressler promised.

“No,” Harry answered. “Make sure Commando Cody and his Lost Planet Airmen up there don’t blow me to bits when I come out.” The tired lieutenant threw up his hands and started trudging back to the plateau. “And if I don’t come out . . . ,” Harry called after him. He waited until Bressler turned before finishing. “. . . throw me a towel.”

Bressler crouched down, resting on his haunches in the still pouring rain. “Harry . . . if you don’t make it . . . what is the one name you do have?”

Callahan told him, took a deep breath and pushed himself into the small grating at the bottom of the hill.

C H A P T E R
T h i r t e e n

H
e had judged the current he was up against. Even so, it still didn’t prepare him completely for the excremental debris that smashed into him, nor the pounding pressure in his brain when his lungs’ oxygen supply got low.

Near the bottom, he was completely immersed in broiling liquid, the water trying to force him out of the pipe like spit. And even as he got further up the way, there was only a sliver of space at the top of the enclosure where he could suck in air—but not without getting a mouthful of noxious fluid as well.

It was like climbing up a mountain and swimming up a waterfall at the same time. His clothes became heavy. His fingers, toes, knees, and back became bloody as he scraped his way toward the top.

Twice he was knocked from his perch by a sudden surge of liquid, after which he’d have to claw and kick so as not to be hurled to the bottom again. He slid, grating his flesh along the walls. Taking a second to gather his breath, he started again.

When finally he reached the top, he realized he had completely forgotten about the metal grate secured there. Seeing it, he inwardly groaned, wrapped the fingers of one hand around it and held on. He hung there, the metal slats pouring water on him, wondering where the hell he was going to get the strength from to gain a secure footing to force it open.

Recalling the slaughter inside the theater gave him enough momentum to try harder. Spreading his aching legs to hold him fast in the tube, Harry let go of the grate in order to push at it. It didn’t budge the first time, or the second. On the third, he felt a slight movement. Whether it was the metal or his arm, he didn’t know.

His legs were throbbing in time with his heart. His arm muscles were vibrating uncontrollably. Completely spent, he stopped pushing, grabbed on, and let his legs dangle. Over the din of the cascading water he heard McKay giving his absolutely, positively, final, final warning.

“You have one minute, Steele,” he proclaimed. “One minute to come out with your hands up . . . or we’re coming in after you.”

Harry shook some of the moisture off his head. That’s the way, McKay, he thought. Little Ceasar would have been proud.

Harry executed a smooth chin-up and then spread his legs and arms so his back was right against the grate. There was some room on either side of his torso for the water to get past, but not enough so that it didn’t build up weight. It was a race against McKay himself.

Harry pushed up with all his might. The grate started rasping out of its metal frame. He kept the pressure up until he felt it nearly give way. Suddenly he relaxed, letting all the accumulated water pass. Then he smashed upward again, the grate popping out of the way like a cork.

For a second, Harry lost his balance. For a moment, he was trembling on the edge of a bottomless pit. One that would send him down to the depths of failure. His head spun and he felt his limbs weaken, but he snapped back. Quickly, he grabbed hold of the edges of the frame and pulled himself through the coursing liquid.

Harry gulped clear, park air as he pushed himself all the way out. Exhausted, he lay next to the drain until he heard McKay let Steele know what time it was.

“Thirty seconds, Steele. Give up now while you still have the chance.”

Harry scrambled to his feet and ran toward the rear of the trailer in a crouch. He could see as he approached that its axle was raised on eight sets of cinderblocks. He saw a foot and a half clearance beneath, he dove under.

Crawling forward, he judged the mobile home to be about sixty feet in length and twelve feet in width. There was a large septic pipe near the back and a variety of smaller pipes and faucets along its underbelly. In the front were two tanks of propane gas, which Harry assumed fed the stove. To the right of the septic tube was an adjoining tank of kerosene, which Harry assumed was for heating.

“Fifteen seconds, Steele,” McKay’s amplified voice came underneath, making the ground tremble. “You still have a chance if you give up now.”

“Ten,” McKay announced. “Nine. Eight . . .”

Harry forced the sound of the voice out of his mind as he tried to see someway to get inside the trailer short of kicking down the door. If all else failed, maybe he could get the drop on them that way, praying that they were too inexperienced and not too hopped up to fire.

“Seven. Six. Five . . .”

Harry crawled past the septic pipe, seeing exactly what he was looking for. A section of the undercarriage was being held up by some boxes. He slithered until he was right behind it and then kicked the supports out of the way,

“Four. Three. Two . . .”

The insulation between the floorings fell out, leaving Harry with a square hole where he could sit up. Above him were thin strips of nailed wood. He started ripping at those as time ran out.

“One.” McKay finished. Following that was a moment of silence. “Zero,” he added. Still no one made a move, except Harry, who had stopped using his hands and was swinging the butt of his gun to get the slats out of his way. “That’s it, Steele,” McKay vowed. “You won’t get another chance. Come out now or we open fire!”

Above the wood was cemented tile. Harry pulled his feet and bended knees under him.

McKay turned from the edge of the plateau and handed the megaphone to Bressler. “That’s it, then,” he said in a calm, lower volume. “Order the tear gas in.”

“But Inspector Callahan . . . ,” Bressler complained.

“Callahan had his chance,” McKay said in a monotone. “Just like Steele. Tell the S.W.A.T. teams that they can fire when ready.” With that, McKay walked away from the front line, finding a spot to the side of the ranks to watch.

Harry stood up, using all his strength. He burst up through the kitchen tile, in between the open dining and living rooms. There were no doors between the sections so he could plainly see the seven men with rifles at a like number of windows. He didn’t see Steele. He doubted the man would be firm enough to control a gun at any rate.

“Freeze!” he shouted loud enough so even the cops could hear him on the plateau.

“He made it,” Bressler breathed, looking off to find McKay. But McKay had gotten into his car and closed the door. He hadn’t heard anything. Bressler raced to find the shock troop commander so he could rescind the order to open fire.

As Harry had hoped, the seven men were taken completely by surprise. He recognized the one to his right immediately. It was the man who had held the prop broadsword. He looked a bit farther gone than the others. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his pupils were the size of microdots. He began to pull his rifle forward.

“Don’t do it,” Harry warned, bringing the Magnum around. “It’s not worth it.”

The man stared down the .44 barrel. His own weapon drooped as he leaned back against the wall, his knees to his chin. The others took that as a signal. They also relaxed, some falling with released tension, others simply sitting down, their heads between their legs.

“Hold your fire!” Harry bellowed at the top of his lungs. “It’s over!”

“Hold your fire,” Bressler told the S.W.A.T. leader, who stood to the far right side of the plateau.

“We have our orders,” he said crisply, waving the first team on.

The man had ignored him completely. His lieutenant rank wasn’t high enough to countermand a captain’s instructions.

“Call McKay!” he demanded.

“Too late,” the commander said indifferently.

The tear gas cannisters came through the left living room window as well as the front dining room pane. The latter of the two rolled into the kitchen and dropped into the hole Harry had just climbed out of. The other rolled under the couch.

“Go get it,” Harry urged the one who was sitting above it. “Pass it here.” He pointed to the hole he was standing over.

The man stood up. A bullet flashed into his head.

The window all but disintegrated under a hail of 7.65mm bullets. The slugs riddled his body. He fell forward, the top half of his head neatly shaved off. His brains spattered over the back of the couch and across the opposite wall.

Everyone fell to their faces except the broadsword man. To his addled mind, Harry was the one who brought this all upon them. He pushed himself onto his knees and brought the rifle up to his shoulder—the barrel pointed at the back of Callahan’s head.

Harry turned to see the rifle sight and the man’s eye perfectly lined up behind it.

His face set in an expression of regret, Harry fell to the side and pulled the Magnum’s trigger. Both guns boomed and bucked at the same time. Harry flinched, but the man jumped back, hitting the wall hard enough to shake the entire trailer. He remained sitting up, his mouth and eyes open, a hole in his chest.

The others hadn’t forgotten about their own guns as more lead and gas filled the trailer. They scooped them up and charged down the thin hallway along the left wall to get to the three rooms beyond Harry. Harry saw one man hit by a heavy millimeter slug that tore clean through the sheet metal, insulation, and wood paneling of the wall.

The last two turned on him. It seemed that the tear gas was on Callahan’s side. It threw off the duo’s aim, but he was still in a nasty crossfire between the dining and living rooms. Harry vaulted away from the hole toward the refrigerator along the left wall. He pushed it open in front of him as he shot the .44.

The bullet ripped through the last man in the dining room, spinning him against the front wall. Once there, S.W.A.T. slugs smashed him back onto the round table, which collapsed under his weight. The other police rounds, shattering bottles of salad dressing, soda, and ketchup on the open fridge door.

Harry ducked as the man in the living room started firing at the obstructing door as well. Eggs burst above Harry’s head as he grabbed a gallon carton of milk. Remembering the place he saw the man last, Harry swung his arm around, sending the carton speeding into the living room. At the same time he bent over, pushing his gun between the bottom of the door and the floor.

The carton found its target. Harry threw it hard enough to smash into the man’s stomach, ripping open the seams. White liquid splashed out both ends as he blasted the man in the right shoulder. The man jumped off the carpet, his gun flying into the stereo unit. He dropped heavily onto a chair, which tumbled backwards.

Harry was about to move forward when more S.W.A.T. slugs came spinning through the walls, sending him face first onto the floor.

“Cease fire, goddamn it!” he screamed in frustration.

Outside the trailer, Bressler tried to rip open the captain’s car door—only to find it locked.

Bressler responded by slamming the side of his fist on the window hard enough to crack the glass.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” McKay demanded, rolling the damaged pane down. “What’s come over you?”

“Order a ceasefire,” Bressler demanded, breathing heavily. “Harry’s in there.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” McKay huffed.

Bressler reached into the car with both hands, grabbed McKay by his pressed lapels and bodily hauled him out of the car through the open window.

“Listen, you little bastard,” he said, shaking his superior. “You order a ceasefire right now or I’m going to shove that megaphone right up your ass!”

Harry Callahan crawled through the trailer’s narrow hallway, pushing dead and wounded men out of his way, his eyes streaming tears. “Steele,” he called repeatedly, hardly able to hear himself over the screams of the artillery, the whine of escaping gas, and the heavy drum of the rain on the tin roof.

He forced himself through the bloody, misty morass, seeing through the open bedroom door. Inside, the surviving three men were blasting away through the windows at the army of anti-terrorist fighters outside. He had passed the spare room so that left only the bathroom unsearched. He stopped moving at the one door that remained closed.

“Steele?”

“Don’t come in here!” the man’s hysterical voice answered. “I’ve got a gun!”

“Steele,” Harry pleaded. “It’s me.”

The community leader’s reply was two bullets smashing through the doorway above the cop’s head.

“You can’t fool me!” he taunted. “I know who you are.”

The man’s screams and gunshots attracted the attention of the other men. Harry looked directly at them as they turned. “Don’t,” he yelled. “I’m on your side.”

“Don’t listen!” Steele countermanded. “Kill him!”

Harry shot first. The man directly in the bedroom doorway rolled across the bed, spilling blood across the rumpled yellow sheets. He fell heavily on the other side, taking a pillow with him.