by Dane Hartman
“It’ll do you no good,” Davis mumbled to Harry, meaning, Harry presumed, that killing him would not achieve the end he’d hoped for.
Harry noticed that he kept stealing glances at the steering wheel or rather, just slightly below it, where the emergency brake was located.
Without removing his eyes from Davis, he surreptitiously moved his free hand forward, while at the same time concealing this movement from view by shifting his body slightly.
The terrorists had redoubled their efforts, it seemed, for the rattle of gunfire was growing ever louder, and the cacophony was nearly deafening, what with all the hundreds of rounds striking, then rebounding off the windows and pinging crazily against the battered chassis.
All that Harry’s hand touched was a small toggle switch under the dashboard. There was nothing else. He had no idea what it would do, what importance it held, and whether in fact that this was what seemed to worry Davis.
“It shouldn’t have to end this way,” Davis was saying. “It was supposed to end, of course, things could not keep on going like this, but this was not the end that I had planned.” He seemed oblivious to the terrorist attack that was going on around him, and oblivious, too, to the men whom he had taken along to protect him.
“What do you want us to do?” the one on his right asked. “What do you want us to do?”
Perhaps he hoped that Davis would sign his own death warrant by consenting to Harry’s execution. For there was no way that the guards could take out Harry without ensuring that Davis would receive a .44 round between his eyes first.
But Davis didn’t seem to hear what the man had said, for he continued to ignore him. His eyes narrowed as though he was struggling to articulate a very difficult and confusing thought. Either the collision had shocked him more than Harry had surmised or he was just headed farther off the deep end, but in any case he was no longer aware of anything other than Harry.
Harry still had his hand—actually just his two middle fingers—on the toggle switch. The only thought that came into his mind was this: What the hell, why not? The situation can’t get any worse than it already is. Somebody’s got to die.
And with that he pulled the switch.
For a second nothing at all happened, and Harry concluded that maybe the switch was an innocuous thing that controlled an emergency light or some such thing.
But then there was a muffled roar and a flash of light and a cascade of blood that came down on them as though the roof of the car had suddenly begun to let loose a rainstorm. Three shotgun shells had just been jettisoned in rapid succession into Davis’ ass and torn him into hundreds of pieces inside and out, allowing him not even the time for a scream, let alone a last-minute prayer.
Harry was rocked back in his seat by the force of the blast, and his ears rang from the concussive sound it produced. And for several additional moments it was nearly impossible for him to see. His eyes were covered with blood and viscera, and his whole body was strewn with bits and pieces of William Maxim Davis, who was now all over the interior of the car.
But he reacted swiftly enough even so, wiping the blood from his eyes. Still holding on tight to the .44, he fired over the back of his seat, hitting one of the guards in the head. The bullet entered the man’s ear and took away practically half of his skull as it exited.
His companion, too, had been temporarily overcome by the explosion that had taken Davis’ life and he did not recover in time to pose serious opposition to Harry. He fired, but because his vision was still obscured, his bullet struck only the windshield.
Harry, in turn, discharged his .44. The guard lurched forward, then tipped backward, coming to a rest at last atop the container reserved for the Piper Heidseick champagne.
The terrorists had in the meantime moved up around the limousine, perhaps attracted by the sight of so much blood erupting inside of it. Or maybe they feared the imminent arrival of the police and had resolved on taking decisive action now.
Harry didn’t care to determine what their motivation was. He opened the door and threw himself out on the ground.
Two of the terrorists were approaching from the left side, and when Harry dropped right in front of them, they didn’t immediately shoot. Being so spattered with blood, Harry looked as though he was dead enough already.
Their momentary hesitation proved fatal. From his prone position, Harry shot one and then the other, hitting the first in the chest, the second in the legs. The former staggered back, and then with his arms outstretched crucifix-fashion, he crumpled to the ground. The second toppled over in pain, howling in anguish, simultaneously releasing hold of his FN.
Harry raced forward, shooting again. The terrorist who’d been struggling to get back upright gave up. Harry retrieved the FN and loosened a barrage from it just as a third assailant appeared, wondering what had happened.
The rounds from the FN took him apart from his sternum to nearly his crotch, like a zipper opening up to reveal an ever widening stream of blood. Like an undulating dancer, he dropped back, then down.
From several blocks away sirens shrieked, and that was cue enough for the surviving terrorists to retreat. After directing some desultory fire at Harry, they sought refuge in the VW van. The bearded man who took the wheel began to reverse the van back down Castro, toward Market, because with access to Alavadro blocked completely by the combined wreckage of the Lincoln and the Mercury, no other choice was available.
Harry rushed out and faced the escaping VW. Crouching, he directed the FN at the windshield of the van. Unlike the limousine, the VW did not have the protection of bulletproof glass. The glass shattered, and the driver dropped out of sight, presumably incapacitated if not killed. Another man sought to take control of the wheel before the vehicle skidded into the abandoned Pontiac. This second driver knew enough to keep his head down so Harry contented himself with shooting out the forward tires.
The van began to respond to the injuries it was taking and wove back and forth along the street, its front chassis sagging as the rubber tires came apart.
Then, whether because the front wheels had given out or because the driver couldn’t adequately control the van, the VW veered sharply to the left and lifted up onto the sidewalk, crashing against the cement steps of an apartment building.
The only way for the van to get back onto the street again was to go forward, but by doing this, the driver brought the van directly into Harry’s line of fire.
Evidently, the three surviving terrorists decided to abandon the VW, seeing as how it had outlasted its usefulness.
To avoid being cut down all at once, they wisely chose to leave each by a different way—one out each of the front doors, the last out of the sliding door in back.
Harry could bring down only the two men who emerged from the right side, catching one in mid-leap and the other only an instant after he’d hit the ground.
But the man who’d been doing the driving managed to elude him and began running down Castro, zigzagging in expectation of the rounds that Harry would send after him.
However, there were now two police cruisers, side by side, speeding up Castro in his direction. Seeing that he was trapped, the terrorist turned to confront Harry.
For a brief instant the two looked at one another. Harry remembered the terrorist just as the terrorist remembered Harry.
It was like a duel in a Western, the two men facing each other off, both with guns raised in their hands, knowing that one or the other, maybe both, will have to die.
The terrorist opened up just as Harry threw himself to the ground. A hail of bullets sailed in the air over his body and so close that he could feel the heat of them as they passed.
When he’d hit the ground, Harry had lost hold of the FN. He had no alternative but to rely on the .44, which he fired as accurately as possible—because this was the final round he had in the clip, and he’d never have time to reload.
The bullet caught the terrorist high up on his chest, in the niche formed at the
division of the collarbone. Blood gurgled from the wound. The terrorist discarded his automatic to clutch the injury with both hands. He did not fall at once but instead staggered madly in circles. Finally, the effort did not seem worth it to him any longer, and he sank to the ground.
Harry approached him and watched him die.
Four police officers, their guns drawn, cautiously moved up the street in their direction.
The terrorist gazed up at Harry, with an expression almost prayerful in its intensity. When he opened his mouth to speak, blood began to drain out. Harry stooped close to him to better hear his final words.
“I hated Davis,” he mumbled, “I hated that man.”
“You and me both,” said Harry.
With just enough of other people’s blood cleaned off to make himself look halfway presentable, Harry went to his office in the Justice Building to make out his report on the night’s events.
He had barely sat down and begun to work when the phone rang.
It was Mary Beth on the other end of the line. He could scarcely find the voice to speak to her, fearful of what news she might have for him.
“Harry, I just wanted you to know it looks like Drake’ll be all right. The doctors say he’s holding up nicely, and that if they can keep him free from infection he’ll recover.”
Harry smiled. The first heartening news he’d heard for a long while.
“He’s right here if you want to speak to him.”
“Yes, I do.”
A moment passed as the receiver exchanged hands.
“Hello, Harry? How’re you doing?” His voice sounded weak but not alarmingly so.
“I’m doing just fine, Drake. The important thing is how you’re doing.”
“Getting along. A little pain but I’m not complaining. I’m alive, ain’t I?” He made an attempt at a laugh.
“That’s right, you’re alive, that’s it.”
“Tell me, Harry, how is our case coming along?”
“We got our man, Drake.”
“You got Teddy?” Owens seemed immensely surprised.
“We certainly did. We got him good, Drake, we got him real 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.
Table of Contents
DIRTY HARRY #6 CITY OF BLOOD
THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
