Dirty Harry 09 - The Killing Connection by Dane Hartman Read Free Book Online Page B

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    Harry slowly kept skittering to the side and Bender kept pace with him. Callahan watched the .45 rise just as slowly, judging where the hitman would stop and pull the trigger. The weakened black man was relying on his momentum to keep him going. If Harry interrupted that momentum, it might throw the guy completely off.
    As suddenly as Harry started moving, he stopped. Bender stopped as well, the gun centering on Callahan’s chest. But just as it was coming up, Harry screamed, leaping to the side and grabbing the hanging hook he had used to swing over the car. He pulled it down and threw it forward just as Bender fired.
    The hitman looked down as he tried to move away, but to his surprise he found himself standing amid a squashed crateload of bananas. Whether it was the fear of falling or simply that he was too weak to move, Bender remained motionless as the hook slammed into his chest.
    The heavy hook should have knocked the hitman over and that would have been enough for Callahan to disarm him. But as fate would have it, Bender’s knees buckled just as the hook got close. The surprisingly sharp point dug in just under his rib cage and the black man’s massive weight did the rest. The hook sunk all the way into his chest. The hook slid back to Harry, dragging Bender with it on his knees.

    Devlin came back at the first shout. He slowed from a run to a casual walk when he saw what was on the end of the hook. The round Irishman had stopped being shocked at Harry’s exploits quite some time ago. He said a few “Hail Marys” and “Our Fathers” to himself whenever he emerged from another Dirty Harry operation with his form intact. He was the only partner Callahan ever had who managed to do so for any length of time.
    Fanducci, the first, Smith, the fourth, and Moore, the sixth, had all been killed. Deitzick, Gonsales, and DiGeorgio, the second, third, and fifth, respectively, had all come very close to buying it. Only Devlin, the man who filled in the empty space at Callahan’s side when Headquarters had nobody else to sit in what was jokingly referred to as the suicide seat in Harry’s patrol car, had never filed for sick pay.
    “You all right, Harry?” he asked with a catch in his voice, unable to swallow.
    Callahan considered the dead hitman, then glanced around at the other corpses. Like magnets pulled to the sight, the market workers began to drift back to the scene, pointing and mumbling in amazement and disgust.
    “Yeah,” he said quietly to Devlin. “I’m going to call somebody to clean it up.”
    On the way back to the green hulk the Justice Department supplied him with, Harry retrieved his gun from the depths of the stinking fruit crate. It came out reluctantly, dripping noxious citrus ooze.
    “Shit,” Harry said, holding it away from him gingerly by the bottom of the butt.
    The police car was unmarked. Otherwise the dark green exterior was beaten and battered about as much as Harry. They both had rough skin and a good variety of scars to show where they had been. Otherwise they both ran well and were dependable in a fix.
    As Harry got close, letting the rain wash the dirt from his face and the fruit juice from his gun, he heard the radio burbling from inside the closed window. He quickly opened the door, threw the gun on the seat and sat behind the wheel.
    “Inspector Seventy-one,” the crackling male voice on the speaker intoned. “Inspector Seventy-one, come in please.”
    “Inspector Seventy-one,” Harry answered, pulling the mike up to his lips and hitting the Talk button.
    “Where the hell have you been, Harry?” the less than professional voice on the radio continued.
    Callahan thought about it for a second, then replied, “Fishing, Reineke. Been fishing.”
    “Catch anything?”
    “In a manner of speaking,” Harry answered. “But nothing I’d stuff and hang on the wall. Get a mop-up team out to the W.P.M. right away. They can skin and debone it if they like.”
    Reineke