Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons Read online

  DIRTY HARRY—THE

  CRIMEBUSTER NOTHING CAN

  STOP, NOT EVEN THE LAW!

  “Dirty Harry” Callahan blasts his way from the mean streets of San Francisco to the blazing byways of San Antonio. His target—a crime boss who’s got the whole town, including the cops, under his thumb. Harry’s all alone now, with nothing but a .44 Magnum and a bagful of dirty tricks between him and instant death!

  SHOWDOWN AT

  THE ALAMO

  “On the count of three,” said Sweetboy. “Go for a speed-loader.”

  “One.”

  Harry felt sweat appear on his forehead. The San Antonio night was hot. The interior of the Alamo was hotter. His Magnum seemed to get heavier and heavier.

  “Two.”

  His leg began to throb. He suddenly couldn’t remember whether his jacket pocket had flaps or not.

  “Three!”

  Harry’s right thumb was kicking the Magnum’s cylinder open as his left arm dug into his jacket pocket . . .

  Books by Dane Hartman

  Dirty Harry #1: Duel For Cannons

  Dirty Harry #2: Death on the Docks

  Dirty Harry #3: The Long Death

  Dirty Harry #4: The Mexico Kill

  Dirty Harry #5: Family Skeletons

  Dirty Harry #6: City of Blood

  Dirty Harry #7: Massacre at Russian River

  Dirty Harry #8: Hatchet Men

  Dirty Harry #9: The Killing Connection

  Dirty Harry #10: The Blood of Strangers

  Dirty Harry #11: Death in the Air

  Dirty Harry #12: The Dealer of Death

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  WARNER BOOKS EDITION

  Copyright © 1981 by Warner Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc., 75 Rockefeller Plaza, New York, N.Y. 10019

  A Warner Communications Company

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 0-446-90793-6

  First Printing: September, 1981

  DEDICATION

  To Harry’s very spirit:

  Clint Eastwood and Don Siegel

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Jim Trupin

  Ed Breslin

  Art Bourgeau

  Steve Hartov

  Harry Julian Fink

  Dean Riesner

  Michael Cimino

  John Milius

  The San Antonio Star

  The Fairfield Connecticut Police Department

  Melissa

  DIRTY HARRY #1

  DUEL FOR

  CANNONS

  C H A P T E R

  O n e

  Boopsie’s head exploded. One second the cartoon character was bending down to shake the little girl’s hand, the next second hunks of thick, painted plastic were flying off in all directions.

  Sheriff Boris Tucker didn’t see the bullet smash into the character’s head. The person in the Boopsie suit had just leaned in front of him to talk to his daughter when it happened. All Tucker knew was that his little girl was screaming in pain and that their vacation was over. It was only after Boopsie fell over and Tucker had pulled his Bulldog .44 Special from his waistband that the sheriff noted the gaping holes in both sides of the character’s head.

  Tucker noticed a lot of things as he automatically scanned the area. He noticed that one of the holes in the Boopsie head was fairly round and small as compared to the big, jagged hole in the other side. He noticed that a thin stream of blood had begun to drool out of the jagged side. He noticed that several plastic pieces had spun out into his daughter’s face, leaving several cuts. He noticed that his stunned wife had gathered their daughter into her arms and was desperately trying to soothe the howling girl. And he noticed a big, dark-haired man in dirty white overalls shouldering his way through the gathering crowd of onlookers. He noticed the man’s right arm moving as if pushing something into his overall pocket.

  The last thing he noted before going after that man was his wife’s pale face. Her expression was silently pleading with him not to go.

  He heard her voice in his mind again. “Boris, don’t be a hero.” How many times had she said that to him? At first, it was said in the laughing, joking tones of a loving wife secure in the knowledge of her husband’s capabilities. After a while it had become their morning joke, part of their regular breakfast regimen. She would start clearing the dishes, he would strap on his gun, she would accompany him to the door, he would kiss her, and she would say, “Boris, don’t be a hero.” It had been like that for years.

  In the last few months, however, the tone had become strained, almost strident. The whole thing had become serious for her when the threats started. She knew he could handle the various vermin, punks, and hoods in town, but when his own people started trying to pressure him, make him quit, fire him, and then frame him out of office, she didn’t know what he would do. But because she loved him, she kept silent. Except for those five words. “Boris, don’t be a hero.”

  In the back of his mind, where Boris filed everything he didn’t need for his work, he realized that she understood, but because of all the pressure, he found himself taking his frustration out on her. All of a sudden, it was like he couldn’t do anything right. She didn’t like his drinking, she didn’t like his overtime, hell, she didn’t even like sex anymore. He thought this little vacation would smooth things out. Sure, a little time away, let the whole thing blow over, let Nash take care of everything—that would satisfy her.

  And she was just beginning to relax when Boopsie bought it. Now Boris Tucker saw what his wife was thinking written all over her face.

  Leave it alone. Put the gun away. We weren’t hurt. Let the locals handle it.

  But she didn’t realize what he did. She didn’t have the experience to know that the hole in the cartoon character’s head couldn’t have been made with anything but a high-powered handgun shot at close range with a silencer. And anyone shooting a high-powered handgun with a silencer was after blood. And the only important blood Boris Tucker knew of in the immediate vicinity was Boris Tucker’s. And he wasn’t about to let his own assassin get away.

  When the milling, curious crowd got a glimpse of Tucker’s high-luster blue Bulldog revolver gripped in his meaty hand, they gave the sheriff plenty of room. He pushed through like a maddened bull, his head down, his beady eyes darting from side to side.

  He saw the dusty yellow road of the amusement park swirling from the many vacationers’ feet. He saw the worn wooden plankings that made up the vaguely wild West buildings on both sides of the street. He saw the faces of the parks’ employees. Those who knew about Boopsie looked shocked. Those who didn’t, looked tired. There was not one security guard, shocked or tired, to be seen.

  That’s what I get for being too cheap to go to Disneyland, Tucker thought, still moving purposely forward. If anything untoward happened in the world of Mickey Mouse, there would be dozens of smiling, short-haired gentlemen with twenty-five inch biceps crawling all over the place within seconds. But here, at the Fullerton, California, “Western Ghost Town,” where the sound of stuntmen shooting blanks at each other occurred all day long, the Boopsie attack could go ignored for minutes.

  It just goes to show, Tucker told himself, you’ve got to do everything yourself. You can’t trust anyone to protect you. The educational and judicial systems in the country had shown themselves to be hollow. Tucker had to admit that even the enforcement branches of the United States were ineffectual shells of what they had been. The whole thing was criminal-oriented, not victim-oriented. If the law had its way, he wouldn’t have even been carrying his Bulldog and the assassin could have mowed them al
l down.

  But no one was going to tell Boris Tucker where and when he could carry his own weapon. The Bulldog was a good, solid, inexpensive .44-caliber revolver, perfect for personal use. It was about four inches shorter and twenty-three ounces lighter than the Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum he used on the job. Its five-shot, double-action, and ramp-front sight was good enough for him. And it would be enough to take care of this assassin, he thought. But first, he had to find him.

  Tucker had stalked to the end of the street without catching a glimpse of white overalls. But as soon as he came around the right corner, a hunk of wood at least six inches long ripped off the side of a building next to his head and spun behind Tucker’s neck.

  The sheriff heard a mechanical cough as he instinctively fell to one knee, brought his revolver up with both hands, caught a glimpse of a white-overalled knee, and fired.

  Tucker’s aim was good. He hit the exact spot the man in the overalls’ heart would have been if a tree hadn’t been in the way.

  Tucker’s judgment was bad. As soon as the crackling retort of his revolver echoed through the area, most of the tourists turned toward him, expecting the start of another show. The smiles on their faces disappeared, however, when they saw a husky blond man in a red Hawaiian shirt and beige work pants shooting at a tree with a Bulldog instead of a black-garbed bad guy challenging the marshall with a six shooter. Suddenly most of the families found a pressing need to shop inside or go have lunch.

  As Tucker rose to his feet, the street started clearing. Tucker blinked. The man in the overalls was no longer behind the tree. The sheriff walked quickly to its gnarled trunk. Damn, he thought, pushing his finger into the hole his bullet had made, this guy is pretty good. He smiled in spite of himself. In a strange sort of way, he savored the coming confrontation.

  Boris Tucker wasn’t worried. He had faced every sort of killer in his eighteen years on the police force. And just because he had become the head man didn’t mean he didn’t see any street action anymore. Although he had no doubt as to the outcome of this little shoot-out, he appreciated the hitman’s hit-and-run technique.

  Then the smile faded. No hopped-up asshole who would try to kill a man in front of his family was going to get the better of him. It would be a pleasure to run this bastard to ground.

  Tucker scanned the area again. It was the main street of the park; a small green which he was standing in the middle of, surrounded by taverns, general stores, and the like. He placed himself in the position the hitman had been in. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the inviting entrance of an alleyway. That’s where the guy must’ve gone, Tucker was sure of it.

  Tucker approached the mouth with a cautious, but steady pace. He wanted to be ready if the hitman was just inside, weapon aimed. He thrust his own gun out before him, then ran in low and fast.

  The dirt around his feet shot up like suddenly erupting geysers. The whine of a ricochet sounded by his right ear as he fell, rolled, and came up to a crouch beside some cans. Above him came the sound of a subdued case of the whooping cough. Tucker snapped off two shots in that direction without even looking.

  When his eyes did move up, he saw the man in the white overalls moving away from the edge of the roof, pulling his weapon in with him. Tucker wanted to laugh. No wonder the assassin hadn’t been able to hit him in three separate tries. By the looks of it, the hitman was using a Magnum revolver. A Magnum of at least a .41 caliber with at least a six and a half inch barrel. And with the silencer attached, the assassin was lugging around a gun that was at least fifteen inches long and weighed at least fifty ounces! It was the biggest of the big cannons. Its range and power were truly awe-inspiring but shooting it was akin to handling a bucking mule.

  Tucker knew of only one man who could handle a piece like that with any accuracy and that man wouldn’t be trying to kill him. Hell, he was friends with that man. They were supposed to have dinner together that very night. Tucker shook his head in disbelief. This was going to be even easier than he’d expected. And it would make one hell of a dinner conversation.

  Tucker hauled himself up and ran to the back of the alley. With any luck he could cut the assassin off before the bastard made it back to the street. Sure enough, the sheriff saw the man in the white overalls high-tailing it out the back window of the nearest building and across the wooden ceiling of the sidewalk awning.

  Tucker thrust his arm up so that it made a line, punctuated by his right eye. He aimed his gun barrel in front of the running man then waited until the assassin started to turn toward him. He held his ground and realigned his aim. Just as he pulled the trigger, the man in the white overalls stopped dead in his tracks. The Bulldog cracked and the bullet swept by the hitman, missing him by just a few inches.

  Tucker immediately ran forward a few steps. Even though the hitman’s gun was huge and awkward, the sheriff was taking no chances at this range. He wanted to get under the cover of the awning.

  As soon as he had made it a section of the ceiling blew in, slapping the back of Tucker’s neck with wooden splinters. He spat through clenched teeth. He had to hand it to the assassin. He was willing to try and nail his target by shooting through planks of solid oak.

  Tucker hurled himself against the back wall of the building, his Bulldog held by his side. He wasn’t about to give his location away by shooting back and he didn’t think the hitman would be stupid enough to look for him through the hole.

  He was right. Tucker heard the sound of the man’s feet trotting across the awning above him toward the building next door. Focusing his attention there, he hastily jerked open his revolver’s chamber and dug into his pocket for some more ammunition. By his count, both of them were down to their last bullet.

  The assassin seemed to have the same thought. Tucker heard the footsteps slow and then stop near the edge of the awning. As he pulled out three Remington 240 bullets and slipped them in the chambers, he wondered whether he should chance slamming a shell into the ceiling where he pegged the hitman to be. He decided to save his ammo. There was too much chance of a screw-up. Even if he caught him in the foot, leg, or balls, the guy could still be as dangerous as a rattlesnake with its tail cut off. The chance of catching him in a mortal area was slim. Tucker wanted to peg him cleanly and permanently.

  The sheriff had just slipped his last round in and swung the chamber shut when the footsteps began anew. Slowly, Tucker began to follow the sounds underneath. Both men stopped at the far end of the awning.

  This was it, Tucker reasoned. The assassin either had to retrace his steps or jump off this edge. There seemed to be nowhere else he could go. But as soon as the sheriff finished thinking that, he heard the rasping scrape of a window being opened.

  Cursing himself as an overconfident fool, Tucker leaped out from under the awning just in time to see the man in the overalls jumping inside a small, dirty gray window. The sheriff snapped off another shot at the hitman which chopped off a piece of the hitman’s rubber heel. Then the guy was gone; safe inside the building.

  Tucker was pissed. He ran the length of the building’s base, looking for a way inside. Coming to the corner, he took a moment to scan the rest of the street. Like the one he just left, it was dusty and empty. Whether it was that way because of the gunfight or general tourist apathy he wasn’t sure.

  There was no door on the back wall. Tucker stuck his head and weapon around the corner. Another alleyway, also empty. But there, directly in the center of the side wall, was a plain wooden door secured with a Yale lock.

  Tucker looked up. The only place the hitman could pick him off from was a single window, which was painted over and closed. And there was no way Tucker could see him getting it open without plenty of warning.

  So deciding, the sheriff moved down the alley, stuck the barrel of his gun two inches from the lock and shot it off. Just as the lead bit through the steel tubing, Tucker threw the broken lock aside and hurled all 240 pounds of himself against the door. It smashed inward, whole planks cracki
ng from the strain.

  Tucker dropped, rolled a little bit, and came up with his gun at the ready. But his only target was a creaking network of metal. Tucker quickly shuffled to the side and leaned up against the back wall. He kept his eyes wide open and staring upward. Within seconds his pupils had adapted to the dank darkness of the interior.

  Tucker recognized the machinery as the workings of one of the Ghost Town’s rides. Interspersed between the tacky snack bars and the ridiculously overpriced souvenir shops were sideshow attractions. Although most of them were penny arcades outfitted with old pinball machines that still cost a quarter for three balls, occasionally there was the refitted roller coaster and funhouse, of which this was the latter.

  Another point notched up for the hitman, Tucker acknowledged. If he was to get hunted anywhere, this would be the best place for it. Lots of turns, plenty of places to hide and thin, no-exit hallways. Damn, this guy was good!

  Still Tucker refused to worry. Even in such claustrophobic surroundings, a Magnum was a Magnum. Unless the gunman had hand and wrist muscles worthy of an Atlas, he might even miss a target four feet in front of him. The sheriff would have no such problem with his Bulldog. His .44 bullets went where he told them to.

  The sheriff’s grin stretched into a tight smile that was anything but humorous. He felt his blood pounding through his veins, giving him a high he hadn’t felt since the early days on the force. The fifties were good years. That was the last decade the police could do no wrong.

  Tucker gathered himself up and moved toward the stairway on the other side of the building. It was a steel construction, more suited as a fire escape than an amusement park catwalk. But one good thing about its slat construction was that you could see right up it, all the way to the top. No one could hide on it. It was the landings and what they attached to that Tucker had to worry about.

  Just as the sheriff moved up the first flight, he heard a door opening above. He looked up in time to see the second-floor door closing. He leaped up the remaining steps two at a time. But instead of barging through the door, firing his gun like a madman, Tucker pressed his body to the wall next to the door and then turned the knob slowly. Once he heard the click of the bolt, he tip-toed across the landing to the stairs up to the third floor.