by Dane Hartman
The first deputy did just that. His only reaction to Harry’s first shot was to jerk his head out of the way, squint his eyes, and fire three shots back. Harry jumped back under cover just as the third of those bullets whacked into the vat. If the metal hadn’t been in the way, Harry would have made a home for the lead in his side.
Rather than roll to the other side of the vat and fire from there, Harry stretched around the corner he had just come from and prepared to shoot the first deputy. According to his bullet count, the deputy would have two bullets left to Harry’s five. The odds were right but the first deputy wasn’t there. Harry was stunned for a second, but it was almost a second too long.
He whirled just in time to crumble away from the first deputy racing around the right corner of the vat. Instead of holding tight, the cop had charged. Harry crumbled quickly because the deputy was firing as he came around the corner. The second to last bullet whipped over Harry’s head. The last bullet creased Harry’s ear.
Harry raised his Magnum and fired. The booming bullet grabbed the running deputy by the chest and pushed. The already-dead cop’s feet and arms flew forward while his torso leaped back. He slammed against a vat fully five feet away and crumbled to the catwalk, a little river of beer coursing around him.
Harry hopped to his feet and charged around the corner to peg the second deputy. As soon as he broke cover, he cursed himself for being a little too eager. Sweetboy was no longer pinning the second cop down. The second cop was ready and willing to face Harry.
The two stood in the open and exchanged a flurry of rapid fire. Each man would shoot, dodge, and shoot again. For two full seconds the twenty foot area between them was filled with ricocheting sparks, whining lead and newly made faucets of beer.
Harry had two bullets left in the chamber and no time to reload. He stood his ground. The deputy fired again. Harry felt a heat whiz by his ribs. Harry fired. The cop ducked at that exact moment. Another fountain of beer coursed out above the crouching deputy. The deputy pulled his trigger. His hammer clicked on an empty chamber.
Harry wrapped his other hand around the Magnum butt, started squeezing the trigger, put a foot forward to steady himself, and slipped.
The flowing brew had laid a trap for him. It had all but hydroplaned his shoe, and there was so much of the wet stuff that Harry’s foot wasn’t able to grab a new hold. Callahan fell heavily on his back, his last round exploding toward the ceiling.
First he felt the shock of the hard metal slam his back, then he felt the beer soak into his jacket. His empty hand reached up and grabbed a crossbar on the catwalk bannister. He pulled himself up in time to catch the second deputy’s gun butt in his neck.
The hard .357 revolver slammed deep into his skin, sending bolts of dark red and purple slashing across his vision. The blood was stopped cold in his neck for a second, creating the chill of shock and coming unconsciousness to Harry’s brain. It reacted on automatic. Rather than pulling his other arm to cover his wound, a mental command brought his other arm around in a devastating roundhouse swing. His empty Magnum just happened to be at the end of that roundhouse swing.
The second deputy pulled his head back but it wasn’t enough. The Magnum’s barrel caught him just above the ear. There was a hard crack, then the second deputy spun over the catwalk’s railing and fell eighteen feet to the brewery floor.
Harry leaned against the railing breathing hard and clawing in his pocket for an auto-load. He awkwardly pulled the device out just as the far door banged open and Sweetboy Williams stepped out.
Harry instantly told himself how to survive. He froze in place, making it quite clear his gun was empty. The hitman had to see the open chamber and hovering autoloader. There was an endless second where the two men looked at each other and then Sweetboy motioned with his head. “Go ahead,” he was saying. “I’ll wait.”
Before Harry could do anything, another door to Sweetboy’s right flew open and Peter Nash fell out. He fell on his face, his cuffed wrists only partially breaking his fall. Right behind the ex-deputy was Sheriff Strughold. He took a second to squeeze a shot off at the dodging Sweetboy, then fell behind Nash’s cringing form and tried to shoot anything that moved.
Harry jammed the six new rounds into his chamber and swung it shut while sliding behind another vat. The hitman simply ran back the way he had come. Sheriff Strughold hauled Nash up and, using him as a shield from Harry, went after the hitman.
Harry ran around the far side of the vat and raced to the door Nash had first fallen out of. It wouldn’t do to burst through the door Sweetboy and the sheriff had disappeared into only to find both waiting, so he went in the other door.
It turned out to be all the same. Behind the first huge brewery room was another huge brewery room, only this time there was processing equipment under the catwalks. This was where the beer was squirted into bottles, capped, and labeled. And this time there were no vats between the antagonists.
The open space caught them all by surprise. Nash twisted away from Strughold and hobbled toward Harry. Strughold pointed his gun toward Callahan. Sweetboy pointed his gun at Strughold.
The sheriff shot first just as the moment Nash weaved to the left. The bullet meant for Harry ripped into Nash’s back, tore through a lung, and spun out through his chest. He fell at Harry’s feet.
William’s bullet went into Strughold’s ear and immediately flew out the other one accompanied by a cloud of red spray. There didn’t seem to be much else to get in its way. But when the sheriff fell, most of one side of his head fell first. The crooked lawman bent over the catwalk’s railing like a dropped rag doll. His weight was enough to topple him over into the machinery below. His brains were bottled, capped, and labeled “Double Brewed, Double Delicious!”
Harry raised his weapon and shot at Sweetboy. The catwalk’s railing got in the way again. The bullet screamed off it with a wicked howl. Sweetboy fired back. The bullet went over Harry’s shoulder and blasted the glass out of the door behind him.
Before either could get off another shot, the cavalry arrived. A platoon of uniformed men burst into the room from the ground floor rear. It only took them a second to assimilate what was going on. Then it was every man for himself.
Harry jumped back through the door he had entered and kept running. Lying in wait for Sweetboy with a police army attacking was foolhardy at best, suicidal at worst. His only chance was to get out the way he had come. Harry leaped down the brewery stairwell one flight at a time.
As he reached the floor he heard Sweetboy crashing his way across the catwalk overhead. The hitman would only slow his pace to fire back the way he had come. Harry saw that the assassin now hefted two Magnums, one in each hand. Harry had to admit it was a good idea so he collected a fallen deputy’s .357 just before the cop army attacked the room. Most of them went after Sweetboy on the catwalk, but some came in by way of the groundfloor doors. Harry slid out the side door before any of them spotted him.
With all deliberate speed, he made it back through the front entrance by way of the brewery museum. He was met by a crush of reporters, cameras, and high-ranking law officials. Harry dug through them, giving the thumb’s-up signal to the police chief and Ted the Lieutenant as he went.
It was enough to get him by. He headed right for the sheriff’s car. The keys were still in the ignition. Stupid sheriff. Harry got in, started it up, and took off. Since he had come in with Strughold, no one thought it strange he’d leave in Strughold’s car.
Harry drove up Roosevelt Boulevard and onto Highway 81 like a madman. He was just wounded enough and just angry enough to play a hunch.
If he could get out of the brewery that easily, Sweetboy could probably get out some way as well. And Striker knew it. With both Callahan and Williams on the loose, the businessman would be smart to get out of town or dig himself in. Harry was counting on the fact that Striker didn’t have time for the former.
The fact was that he had to get to Striker, Sweetboy or no Sweetboy. If
he couldn’t use the Mexican as a shield, his chances of getting the evidence out of Texas were back down to zero.
C H A P T E R
N i n e
Harry just made it to the front of Striker’s private road when both his front tires blew out. The sheriffs car careened crazily down the secluded path, sideswiping trees and running in the side ditches. Harry desperately attempted to control the speeding automobile.
He had just about got it to fly right when the windshield exploded. The police vehicle jumped the road completely, squealed across a rocky bunker on its front wheel rims, and smacked head-on into a tree.
Harry was on the floor, lying on the accelerator and brake. Since the car was already slowing when the glass flew in, he was only slightly dazed by the collision. He was more surprised by the friendly, smiling face at the open passenger’s window. It was the face of Sweetboy Williams.
“Hi,” the hitman said.
Harry glared at him until it became obvious that he was not a mirage, would not go away, and wasn’t about to kill him. At least, not yet.
“Hi,” said Harry back, dusting off some glass shards and gingerly crawling back to the front seat.
“Striker’s inside,” Sweetboy informed him. “He’s turned the place into a fortress. All his available men have been called in for protection. It’s going to take an army to get inside. Or you and me.”
Harry sat up. He tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge. So he climbed out the window instead. He dropped to his feet across the crumbled car roof from Williams.
“I’ve got two .44s,” the hitman continued affably. “You’ve got a .44 and a .357 on the seat there. What do you say, truce?”
Harry stared and scowled.
“I could have killed you rather than just stopping the car,” Sweetboy explained. “And you need to get to Striker as much as I want to.”
“I need him alive,” Harry said.
“Alive or dead, it’ll serve you either way. With Strughold dead, there’ll be nobody to bring you up on charges.”
“Their reports?”
“Locked in Striker’s safe. All the rest of the police force knows that Strughold had been bragging about busting you. But so far he’s produced nothing tangible.”
“So I could just walk away,” Harry reasoned.
“There’s still Striker,” Williams reminded him. “And me.”
Harry considered his chances.
“Go ahead,” Sweetboy said. “Try it. I’m willing.”
Harry’s hands kept away from his guns. “How are we going to get in?” he finally asked, waving a limp hand at the ruined police car.
“Come on,” Sweetboy answered, walking up toward Striker’s mansion.
Harry collected the extra .357 Python model on the front seat and followed the hitman up the winding, wooded road. He came around a corner to see Sweetboy sitting on the running board of a big beer truck.
“What took you so long?” the assassin asked sardonically. Suddenly it was very clear how Sweetboy had escaped from the brewery. It was the old “Purloined Letter” ploy. What would be the most natural vehicle leaving a brewery? Why, a beer truck, of course. Sweetboy had driven to Striker’s house in a truck emblazoned with the motto: “A Brew As Big As Texas!”
Harry climbed up the passenger’s side without comment. Sweetboy stood, then jumped back into the driver’s seat. The inspector noticed a couple of bags crammed behind the front seat and a glove compartment bulging with ammunition.
“Help yourself,” said the hitman, waving at the bullets as he put the truck into gear. “I’ve got some lighter loads for the .357.”
Harry complied, keeping himself occupied by breaking open the second gun’s cylinder chamber and digging through the shells for the right size. Although he tried not to, he couldn’t help realizing that this was the biggest fight he had gotten involved with since World War II. He was preparing to either eradicate a large number of San Antonio’s underworld or commit an extremely flamboyant suicide.
If Harry were somewhat reluctant, Sweetboy seemed raring to go. He was acting like the late sheriff had after arresting Harry. He was giving off a sense of holiday; a feeling that he was about to embark on the greatest fun of his life.
It was Sweetboy’s wild West fantasy come true. Two men with six-guns about to take on a veritable army.
Well, that’s what I get for leaving Frisco, Harry rationalized. Teamed up with a mad killer to attack a mansion. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Sweetboy actually wanted to die in the coming firefight, but he himself had no intention of biting the dust. Harry slammed the .357’s loaded cylinder back home with an angry conviction.
Sweetboy got the beer truck on and moving. They lurched up the private road, the hitman grinning like a gargoyle. “This is great,” he said. “This is great.”
Harry checked his surprise partner over. Sweetboy was still in his all black outfit. The only difference between his appearance in the park was an extra holster attached to a gun belt around his waist. He had a shoulder holster like Harry’s as well as a hunting knife in a scabbard on his left leg.
“I don’t want to kill anybody,” Harry told him. “I want Striker to give himself up.”
“Fat chance,” Sweetboy replied easily.
“I know,” Harry admitted. “I’m just attempting to subtly tell you not to shoot unless shot at. Let’s get out of this thing alive.”
Sweetboy grinned his death-head grin again, taking a second to stare fullfaced at Callahan. “Fat chance,” he said again.
Harry picked up on his meaning. Even if they blasted through Striker’s house and came out the other side, they still had a matter to take up with each other. Neither was going to forget what the hitman had done to Boris Tucker and Candy McCarthy.
But for now it was just two big guys with four big guns banded together for survival.
“Hold it,” said Sweetboy, motioning for Harry to take the wheel. Harry complied as the truck slowed down and the hitman stuck one of his Magnums out the driver’s window. As they rolled slowly pass, Sweetboy shot the lens of a tree-mounted video camera apart.
“Well, now they know we’re here,” commented Harry.
“What do you think?” Sweetboy defended himself. “A truck from a brewery is going to fool anybody? Although you smell bad enough.”
Harry sniffed. He smelled the beer that had soaked into his jacket. “OK, then,” he shouted over the roar of the old engine. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”
Sweetboy pushed his foot to the floorboard. He ground the gears all the way up. The truck barreled down the road toward the main gate.
Harry took in as many details as he could as the vehicle grew ever nearer. The main gate was the usual ostentatious type: wrought metal twisted into a flowery shape laid across a thick steel frame. They looked like giant bathroom doors, only they locked in the middle and rose twelve feet from the road.
Beyond them was a large, perfectly manicured yard and then Striker’s rambling Spanish-style mansion. On either side of the place and around the back were gardens rivaling those of Brackenridge Park.
Harry could see no more because the metal gate loomed in front of the windshield. Both men ducked down as the truck crashed through, hurling one side of the gate back and completely ripping the other side out of its stonewall mooring.
Sweetboy began to sit up again. “Stay down!” Harry warned just as a simultaneous barrage of gunfire blasted out from the house. It wasn’t concentrated enough to do any major damage, but several small spiderwebs appeared in the windshield.
“OK,” said Harry as both men warily sat up. Sweetboy started hauling the truck’s wheel from side to side, making them into either a harder target to hit or a very drunk-looking truck. Harry watched the grounds carefully to spot any possible targets. Puffs of gunfire and pieces of lead continued to shoot out of five different ground-floor windows.
“Striker’s office is in the back!” Sweetboy shouted as the truck tore across
the lawn, throwing up big hunks of grass with its eight tires. “Let’s see if I can drive all the way to it!”
The truck straightened and bore down on the manse’s front door. Harry had to agree. It was a crazy thing to do, but he would have done it alone as well. Harry rammed his Magnum back into his holster and braced himself. Old “leadfoot” Williams gunned the engine again and drove right at the front stairs and front porch.
“Whooooo-weeeeeee!” Sweetboy screamed as the truck leaped up the steps, bowled across the stone porch and exploded through the front of the house.
Plaster, brick, adobe, and glass blasted in every direction. Furniture and furnishings spun everywhere. The truck kept on going. It careened off a marble column into the main hall. Sweetboy spun the steering wheel to avoid driving up the front steps. Instead the side of the wheels bounced off the bottom of the stairway and drove right through two more doors into the dining room.
The truck front pushed down the doors, taking a good section of the sculptured wood walls with it. Harry saw the truck hood accordion and what was left of the headlights ram into the engine. Then tables, cutlery, and china were flying everywhere. Harry saw one tabletop smash into a shotgun-wielding guard at the front window. Both of them went outside the hard way. The guard at the other front window scuttled into the unlit fireplace for protection.
Then the truck came out the other side of the dining room into the gigantic living room. It looked to be the size of a football field with a six-foot-high stone fireplace between two picture windows and two long couches lining one wall, a play area complete with pool table and a bowling alley against the other, and a sunken entertainment center in the middle.
The beer truck smashed through double French doors, slammed down three stairs that stretched all the way around the room, scraped against a circular stairway that led up to a balcony that also lined all four walls, then fell right into the entertainment area.
