by Dane Hartman
It was almost a perfect fit. Sweetboy slammed on the brakes and the vehicle slid across the floor and dropped down into the equipment-filled space. The front slammed against the front of the sunken area, stopping the forward movement. The rear of the truck dropped down to crush a giant video screen, a quadraphonic stereo system, a video recorder, and several smaller TVs.
The firefight didn’t wait for the smoke to clear. Armed men behind the gaming tables, behind the couches and on the balcony started shooting. They had everything. As Harry threw open his door and dropped below the top of the sunken level, he saw AR-15 Sporters designed from the Colt M16, Ruger Mini-14, .223 carbines with twenty-round box magazines, thirteen-round, 9mm automatics, army forty-fives, and shotguns of all types.
But while the enemy had quantity, their shooting was hysterical. They just poured on the lead thinking that they’d hit something by sheer number alone. If their targets hadn’t been Sweetboy and Dirty Harry, they probably would have been right.
Both men knew what to do. The more men firing, the worse their chances were. Harry was on the couch and fireplace side while Williams was being pinned down by those among the adult toys. They ignored both, choosing to pick off the men on the balcony first. It afforded the men the least cover and the best angle to shoot from.
Harry kept the .357 in his left hand, his right jacket pocket filled with extra shells. His left pocket had all four of his auto-loaders, replenished from Sweetboy’s glove compartment armory.
He fired with the aim only fear of God could create. The first Striker henchman fell back against a balcony bookcase, most of his stomach hanging out his back. A bullet plowed into the floor near Harry’s face. He immediately swung his Magnum arm around to peg another balcony man, who fell over with a hole in the side of his neck.
Now it was time to get the guys on the ground level. A foolish fellow jumped up from behind the lefthand couch with a “Supermatic” auto-loading shotgun held at waist level. He tried to let Harry have three rounds, but Callahan was no longer where he was aiming. The pellets dotted the side of the truck as Harry rolled, came up six feet away, and shot the guy in the chest. The shotgun spun onto the couch and the guy flew out the window behind him.
Another shotgun owner popped up from behind the righthand couch. He also held the weapon at stomach level, so his shot ground into the floor two feet in front of Harry. The only damage that guy did was to sting Harry’s shoulder with a couple of pellets that bounced. These guys never learn, Harry thought. You can’t get any accuracy holding any rifle at waist level. But those hotshots see “Rifleman” repeats and they think they can do anything.
Harry brought the Magnum up to his eye level and blew the other man’s head apart. He fell behind the couch. That finally reminded Harry why this firefight looked so familiar. It was like a penny-arcade rifle game played for keeps. Little targets pop up and you knock them down for points. Only this time if you lose you die.
In the few seconds he had before reinforcements arrived, Harry looked through the truck cab’s window. Sweetboy was doing the same from the other side.
“All set?” Harry asked.
“Yeah. I think more’s coming.”
“Let’s get out of here. I’ll give them a diversion.”
Sweetboy nodded, then both men scrambled out of the sunken area and raced for the closed doors on the other side of the room. Before they separated to take positions on either side of the two closed doors, Harry instructed through clenched teeth.
“On the count of four . . . both barrels into the gas tank.”
“All right!” Sweetboy acknowledged.
The pair split up to take positions by each of the two doors leading out into the next room. Their timing was perfect. As soon as Harry rested his shoulder against the wall, the doors swung outward, effectively masking both him and Williams as another bunch of henchmen ran into the room.
None thought to look behind the doors. Instead they ran to their fallen comrades. Harry counted while aiming both guns at the smoking vehicle in the entertainment pit. What he was aiming at was the glove compartment. The gas tank was in the back and he couldn’t hit it from that angle. He hoped Sweetboy had a better angle. He hoped he could detonate the ammo in the glove compartment, which, in turn, might find the gas tank. He hoped the whole room didn’t wind up scattered all over San Antonio.
He reached four and fired. He didn’t wait around to see what happened. He threw himself around the door and out the way the reinforcements had come in. He heard one shout behind him then his back was baked by a warm glow, the air pressure increased on his ear drums, a strange wind gripped his entire body at once, and he found himself flying.
Then he heard the explosion.
He was sliding across a brightly tiled hallway when he saw the flames lick out of the living room and pieces of the car and house started flying by. Harry crashed against the opposite wall, dropping his two guns in the process.
It didn’t make any difference. No one would be doing much for the next few minutes. They were very lucky the room was as large as it was or they would have been killed as quickly as were the reinforcements.
As it was, the explosion’s concussion blasted out every window in the room and took off most of the ceiling. Big holes appeared in the walls where hunks of the truck had traveled, and what was left of the walls were in flames. Bodies and parts of bodies littered both the front and back yards.
Harry felt hard pieces of something punching into the wall behind him. Without thinking he clawed his way to the nearest room which happened to be a sumptuous bathroom off the hall he had just flown down. He fell across the sink and onto the toilet as Sweetboy slammed up against the wall he had just left.
Harry watched the last remnants of the explosion course down upon the lying hitman through the open bathroom door. He heard the crackle of flames and the faraway wail of an automatic alarm. Although their detonating the truck was a dangerous maneuver, it was a fortuitous one. Not only had it wiped out most of the opposition in one fell swoop, it was sure to bring authorities. At least a whole bunch of firemen.
Harry cautiously hazarded a glance out the bathroom door. The living room was completely filled with smoke. The hallway off it was littered with debris and blood. Sweetboy lay motionless under a pile of rubble. Harry wasn’t so much interested in whether he was dead or alive as where his guns were. Harry found his own after ten seconds of concerted searching. Before he moved off, he tapped his inside jacket pocket. He heard the click of the plastic cassette within. He had lucked out. He hadn’t lost the evidence. Now all he had to do was find Striker.
Harry shuffled past the hitman’s still form and opened a battered door into a bedroom. Huddled together on the floor were four young women in maids’ uniforms. By the bed in front of them were two more henchmen with guns.
It was a pretty classic confrontation. Both men grabbed for their weapons inside their jackets. Harry brought up both his pistols which were already in his hands and shot them. The one on the right was dead. The one on the left was badly wounded. Harry wasn’t as used to the .357 model.
He walked over and kicked the wounded man’s gun out of reach, then turned his attention to the quartet of pretty women. Each was Anglo, of various hair colors, and all were petrified with fear.
“Where’s the boss?” Harry asked.
Misunderstanding him, the brunette, raven haired, and redhead pointed to the blond. “Aw, son-of-a-bitch!” she said.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Harry said, feeling more and more like he had stumbled into a John Wayne movie. “I just need to know where Striker is.”
“He’s in his office,” said the brunette.
“Where is it?” asked Harry.
The women looked at each other, suddenly becoming all loyal and secretive.
“Come on, there isn’t much time,” Harry pressed.
“Through there,” the blond said, pointing at a darker-colored, ornately sculptured section of the wall
.
“How do I get in?”
“He has a little box that opens it,” said the redhead. “He carries it with him.”
“Great,” Harry muttered.
“But I’ve seen him open it from the bed,” the raven-haired girl piped up.
“I bet you have,” cracked the blond.
“No, really,” said the black-haired girl, hopping up onto the canopied bed and reaching behind the headrest. “Here, look.”
“Hold it,” Harry demanded. “The rest of you get out of here,” he instructed the women. They looked fearfully from the smoke pouring into the room from the living room back to Harry.
“But we don’t have a way out,” complained the blond.
Harry pointed the .357 over their heads and shot through a small, circular stained glass window on the front wall.
“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
“It’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 exc
luding 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.”
