by Dane Hartman
He saw her running. He told her to get down. She seemed not to hear him. Then she gasped and began to sink to the floor. He caught hold of her and as he did his hands became soaked with the blood eddying out of her. There was so much blood, so much.
Her eyes widened, she whispered something to him, he couldn’t hear, he leaned closer. “Ellie, don’t die,” he said. But she did.
The Small Man was attempting to slip out of the newsroom. But Harry kept his eyes fixed on him and fired just once. The Small Man, his skull shattered, his brains strewn over the wall in back of him, seemed to fly into the air, but unable to continue his journey, dropped unceremoniously to the ground, Alpha Group’s final sacrifice to the cause. Whatever cause that might have been.
C H A P T E R
S i x t e e n
The address was in a fashionable district of the city, not far from the Borghese Gardens. It was a mild afternoon at the end of a Roman summer, full of brilliant light. The shops were just reopening after the usual protracted siesta, and wherever Harry went people were beginning to show signs of renewal after avoiding the fierce midday heat in sleep.
Against all rules and regulations, Harry had taken from the KCVO newsroom two items that would ordinarily be considered state’s evidence. One was the address book that Harry had found on the body of one of the terrorists, the second was a Mark 1 handgun that he had found on the body of another. In the confusion, the absence of these objects went unnoticed.
His colleagues were surprised by his decision to vacation in Scotland. Harry had told them that he wanted to do some hunting although it was thought that he hunted enough while he was on the job. He mentioned nothing about Rome. He made certain that his passport was not stamped when he entered Italy. He had the gun smuggled in for him by a man who was good at that sort of thing. No questions asked.
And now he was on the Via Condotti, gazing up at an ornate marble façade that must have dated back to the Renaissance. It was possible that the man he wanted was no longer here, or had yet to arrive, but that was of minor importance. Harry had time, he would just keep extending his vacation as long as necessary.
It was no surprise to find limousines, vast Cadillacs and Bentleys, parked in front of the villa. Seeing them there heartened Harry. It implied that important business transactions were being discussed within. He certainly hoped so.
He had naturally taken pains to disguise himself. No one would ever recognize him; a tall bearded man would be how people would describe him later on. Besides, there would inevitably be an abundance of suspects. His quarry no doubt had more enemies than he could count.
In an operation like this, he possessed more patience than he ordinarily would have. He waited until after dark, and waited some more until the men with the attaché cases and the bodyguards got into their limousines and drove away, and waited some more, until the entire district began to close down, and only the late night cafés were still doing business. He waited until there were very few lights on in the villa, and then he broke in through a window.
It triggered off a very loud alarm and alerted two men who immediately appeared to investigate, flicking on the lights to reveal a room full of crystal chandeliers and priceless paintings hanging in gilt frames. Seeing Harry, they asked no questions, but opened fire. Their bullets demolished an antique table and decapitated the top of what looked like a very expensive vase.
With the Mark 1, Harry put an end to their careers. The halls reverberated with the sounds of footsteps and panicky voices.
There were a great many rooms in this villa and Harry got himself lost in a number of them before he stumbled on the one he wanted.
The man was already out of bed. His face reflected not fear so much as irritation, as though Harry represented a minor nuisance he should never have had to bother with.
“I don’t know you,” he protested when Harry burst in on him. He was clad in his bathrobe. In the light from his bedlamp, he looked older than Harry had remembered, but again he’d never gotten a very good look at him in the warehouse.
“No, but I know you and that’s what counts.”
He raised the gun.
“I don’t know what you want, but if it’s money . . .”
It wasn’t money.
There was a commotion in the hallway right outside the door. Instinctively, Harry shot his eyes back.
Russell Cravitch grabbed for something, it might have been a gun, it might have been a lighter, Harry didn’t know, didn’t care, because he whipped about, muttering at the same time, “This is one of yours, you should know what it does to people,” before pulling the trigger of the Mark 1 and blowing open Cravich’s heart.
No one outside the door ever heard; the sound suppressor was that good.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DANE HARTMAN was a Warner Books imprint pseudonym used by two American novelists, Ric Meyers and Leslie Alan Horvitz. "Hartman" was credited as the author of the Dirty Harry action series based on the “Dirty” Harry Callahan character of the popular 1970’s and 1980’s films starring Clint Eastwood.
Following the release of the third Dirty Harry movie, The Enforcer, in 1976, Clint Eastwood made it clear that he did not intend to make any more Dirty Harry movies. In 1981, Warner Books (the publishing arm of Warner Bros., which made the films) began publishing a number of men's adventure series under its now-defunct "Men of Action" line. One such series features the further adventures of Inspector Harry Callahan. The series was brought to an end when Eastwood decided to direct, produce, and star in a fourth Dirty Harry movie, Sudden Impact, which was released in December 1983.
