Dirty Harry 02 - Death on the Docks (20 page)

With this unexpected distraction, Harry had time to maneuver. He submerged himself in the crowd, which was not easy to do because he was taller and whiter than those who surrounded him. Evidently he made for a target, however imperfect, because two bullets whined over his head. This only stirred the crowd to quicken their pace with the result that a few of the less nimble ones tripped and fell. Rather than stopping for them, people pressed on, trampling them.

Even though the limousines were pulling away with their passengers, the soldiers felt compelled to restore order. They hadn’t any idea of who had fired the shots or why but they quickly went into action, crouching, bringing their carbines up to their shoulders, preparatory to laying down a barrage. Maybe they thought a revolution was underway.

Two of Braxton’s men ran toward the exits, deciding that this would be the best tactic for heading off Harry’s escape. But the fact of the matter was that Harry really couldn’t escape, being stuck as he was in the midst of this thronging mass; every which way he turned, he was blocked off. There were more shots. It didn’t make any sense why anyone should be shooting given just how confused the situation was. But the effect was to increase the panic. People were wailing and throwing themselves against the person in front of them in an attempt to extricate themselves.

The soldiers were now under the impression that they were confronting a full-scale attack and never mind if they couldn’t determine from where exactly it was coming. Either their commanding officer gave the order to fire or else one of the men simply got too trigger happy and started shooting on his own. In any case, once it started no one was in any hurry to stop it.

To the right and left of him people were being flung back and forth by the force of the bullets, like so many kites in the wind, but because there was virtually no room to maneuver in, they could not fall. They remained trapped between other bodies, some living, some not, suspended grotesquely, blood pouring from them and forming small pools at their feet. The bullets cut through flesh, they cut through poles and posters advocating the virtues of the national lottery. Several pinged against the black board that displayed the time of day flights came in and left for Fort-de-France.

When the man in front of Harry—a toothless hawker of mangoes and nuts—was thrown aside by a round, Harry suddenly found he could get free. Leaping over a corpse, he got himself to the outside, sprinting through the lounge to a place of safety.

He was spotted, not by one of Braxton’s hirlings but by a soldier who evidently didn’t like the idea of anyone escaping. He was not a very good shot; the bullets were way wide of the mark. Harry knew enough not to trust to luck, however, and he pivoted around, firing simultaneously. He’d not really aimed, he had an instinctive sense of where to shoot. And his aim bore out his instinct; the soldier’s neck erupted in a spout of blood and he keeled right over, a vastly surprised and irritated expression on his face.

Another soldier turned his attention toward Harry, but by this time he had lost all advantage and he was hit before he could get off a shot. He stiffened at the shock and fell back partway, then, somehow, improbably raised himself again. With a shudder he began coughing. Blood flowed generously from his mouth, and then he collapsed again; obviously he was never going to move.

Seeing that the panic-stricken crowd that was busy stampeding toward the exit was not resisting them, the soldiers decided to concentrate on Harry. There were maybe ten of them—Harry was not sure where they’d all come from—and they spread out, hoping to encircle him and trap him in a withering fire. They no longer cared about the beggars and vendors who had broken the glass doors from their hinges in their attempt to get out of the terminal. Behind them they’d left several bodies—who’d finally been allowed the opportunity to crumple to the floor. Some were still alive and crying in pain; you could see them writhing, struggling to get back on their feet and walk away as if this alone could overcome the gaping holes in their bodies.

The strategy the soldiers had was clear; these were not West Point graduates Harry was dealing with. He realized that he could not allow them to fan out and so he fired off four rounds in rapid succession which, while not doing any damage, did send the soldiers scurrying. They were unused to combat and would sooner hunker down than face someone who seemed to know what he was doing. Their hasty retreat allowed Harry time to put in another clip.

This abrupt interruption in the firefight left the soldiers confused. They couldn’t even see Harry what with all the smoke; he must be behind one of the columns but which one they had no idea, not so long as he held his fire.

In another country there would have been reinforcements; you would have heard sirens heralding the arrival of a great deal more firepower. But this was Tapaquite, and there were no more reinforcements. This was the island’s entire army. And it was all dedicated to one purpose—destroying Harry.

Whether Braxton’s men had determined that they were unneeded in view of this situation or whether they thought it the better part of wisdom to escape before these ignorant soldiers turned their guns on
them
Harry didn’t know. But one way or another, they seemed to have withdrawn.

Now a couple of the soldiers decided that it was worth venturing out; their comrades laid down a covering fire from behind what once had been the reservations desk. Not that it mattered. Having no real sense of where exactly Harry was, their fire was totally ineffective.

The problem for Harry was that he was denied access to the only two routes of escape available; one led out to the airstrip past the customs control, the other, with all its shattered glass, lay well within the line of sight of the soldiers. And true, though they might be inexperienced and badly trained and callow, their very amateurishness made them in some respects as dangerous as hardened troops. They might kill Harry just as dead. There was such a thing as beginner’s luck. Harry was not at all inclined to be overconfident.

The two soldiers moving forward were obviously afraid; the fear showed in their eyes, sweat was visible on their brows. They seemed to expect that they would be shot down at any moment and were surprised that they had survived so far. The others began to follow them, but they were very tentative. They looked puzzled, unable to figure out what had happened to Harry. Soon they were all exposed which was what Harry’s intention had been.

Firing four rounds, he managed to score four hits. The first victim spun around, clinging to his ruptured stomach. The second went down in a heap so fast that it was impossible to see where the bullet had penetrated. The third was caught in motion; his thigh sustained the damage and on impact he was thrown up into the air like a marionette suddenly being jerked up offstage. The fourth was hit squarely in the chest. In his descent to the ground he fell against a companion and knocked him over, too. The survivor remained down, whether because he thought he’d been hit as well or because he simply decided it was a whole lot safer to do so.

This left just six men in action and none of them was happy with the way their ranks had so suddenly been decimated. They seemed to have lost all sense of direction—possibly their commanding officer had been put out of commission—and so rather than keep up the engagement, they scattered, falling back, some to where they’d hidden before—behind the reservations desk, others right out the door. Only one soldier, undaunted, remained to continue firing. At least he had a good idea of where Harry was. He yelled to his deserting comrades, calling them to come back, but they just weren’t interested.

Throughout all this, the wounded people on the floor, their life ebbing away in their hemorrhaging blood, still were screaming, demanding an end to their agony.

Harry determined, that it was either stay pinned down indefinitely or else risk exposing himself for a few moments while he sought cover closer to the exit out to the airstrip. It looked to him like he could attain it with one concentrated run of ten seconds’ duration.

Hurtling himself out from behind the column that had afforded him his safety, he rushed, weaving in and out in the direction of the open door. The soldier’s bullets followed him but failed to catch up with him. Instead they punctured significant portions of the walls and the glass windows which burst apart into thousands of fragments.

Harry was already outside and nearing the tarmac when the soldier, disgusted, picked himself up and charged after him.

As fast as Harry was running he noticed that two of the fleeing soldiers were running faster—and away from the terminal. Their carbines lay discarded on the steamy asphalt surface.

The soldier found himself a new position from which to continue firing; he seemed to feel that it was worth the trouble since Harry had no shelter available to him—there was just lots of open space on the airstrip and Harry presented a clear target. However, the lone soldier appeared not to have noticed what kind of shelter he’d selected or else noticing, hadn’t considered it the liability it was. Because he was now directly behind a rack that held two unwieldy fuel tanks. And while he couldn’t be seen it made no difference to Harry who turned and still in motion, fired the last two rounds in the Magnum at the tanks.

Instantly the tanks exploded; there was a huge roar and a ball of flame shot up toward the pale blue sky. The soldier’s scream was lost in this roar; the force of the explosion blew him apart, sending bits and pieces of him into the air. A scorched hand dropped down not far from where Harry stood watching the spectacle.

In the distance there was the sound of a high-pitched siren. Most likely it was the island’s one available ambulance; there was only one available hospital too, a two-story structure crumbling inside and out, and there was no question it was unprepared for a catastrophe of this nature.

It was strange, Harry considered, to find himself alone on this airstrip. But there certainly was no sense lingering about here. He determined on finding a taxi—if there was anyone left to drive one—and going back to the hotel. He glanced at his watch. After four. Well, he had missed his meeting with Braxton and his guest from the States. Under the circumstances, this was probably a good thing.

By the time dusk fell Harry was becoming nervous. Not that anything had happened to him since his own flight from the airport. That was the problem. When nothing happened it made Harry edgy. Dinner at the Whitby. Drinks at the Cay. Another drink at the Mimoso. A periodic reconnaissance of the pier. And nowhere was there a sign of Braxton, his boat, or his men.

Like they’d been night, the streets were relatively quiet. Except for the occasional tourist on his way from one bar to the other no one else was about; all the natives seemed to have melted into the tropical breezes that swept in from the Caribbean at night. The people who wanted to sell you bananas and lottery tickets and the beggars who cursed you even when you gave them some money, all of them had vanished.

Harry concluded that there was nothing more he was going to get done—nothing more that he could do actually—this night. He decided to return to his hotel room and get some sleep—that was if he didn’t have to contend with another intruder who had a speech to deliver to him.

Two blocks away from the Crown, a figure stepped out from the shadows, partially blocking Harry’s way. Immediately, Harry was on the alert. Streetlighting being as minimal as it was in Ocho Rios, it was difficult to make out what this man looked like from a distance. Still, Harry recognized a threatening situation and he stepped back, withdrawing into the shadows while he lifted out a fully reloaded Magnum from underneath his jacket.

The man approached him. He was now close enough for Harry to discern him with greater clarity. He had seen him before, no doubt of that, and just last night. He was one of the assailants who’d unwittingly participated in Braxton’s little scenario.

Just as he was wondering what had happened to his friend, the one with the blowgun, he heard a faint whispery noise, almost like a sigh. He half-turned in response but just then felt a sharp, violent pain in his left leg. A small dart quivered in the wound. Well, he thought as the drug sped through his blood to his brain, he didn’t have to wonder any longer. Darkness took hold of him before he reached the ground.

C H A P T E R
E i g h t e e n

S
hadows, hazy and shapeless, began gradually to form themselves into something more coherent. Recovering consciousness Harry found to be an exacting task, a violent struggle to draw up to the light. But when he got to the light and opened his eyes he didn’t like what he found there.

Looming over him was Matt Braxton, and he was surrounded by the men who had grown tan and prosperous over the years following him and doing his bidding. Harry realized after a while that he was in a room, and not a very big one, with stucco walls all of white; and there were no windows.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Callahan?”

Braxton spoke to him like a man truly concerned over the state of his health. He gazed down at Harry and his face, capturing all of Harry’s visual field, assumed monstrous proportions: big inquisitive gray eyes studying him.

“Like shit,” Harry replied. Small rocks seemed to be bouncing back and forth, hard, against the walls of his skull.

“You’ll recover. The drug wears off in an hour or so.” Braxton pulled over a hassock and seated himself next to Harry’s bed. “That was some stunt you pulled at the airport.” Braxton shook his head gravely but kept his slightly idiotic smile fixed on his lips. “I don’t know what you were doing there, I surely hope it wasn’t with intentions to leave, but it was not a wise thing to do. Mr. Chauney invited you to a little party I was having on board my boat and you didn’t come. I was insulted, I was truly hurt. Well, it can’t be helped . . .” He glanced back at the men gathered around him, maybe to see if they were still attending to his every word. “Mr. Chauney told you that I was interested in acquiring your services. I figured you to be a reasonable man who recognizes when the odds are against him. I wanted to give you a chance. Truth is I like you, Callahan. I mean I hate you, but I respect you and that’s important. To a simple uneducated guy like me, respect’s what counts in this life. Don’t you agree?” Getting no answer, he continued. “I assume you agree. So I said to myself, Matt, this cop, he could prove useful. Give him some money, we’re talking big bucks, he’s got instinct, he’s got intelligence . . . What I’m saying, Mr. Callahan, me not being so good with words, is that you have a choice. Most people deal with me, I never give them no choice. You, you’re different. I’ll give you an hour. You mull it over. You come join my crew, you’ll never regret it. You don’t, in an hour you’ll be in the bottom of the water out there.” He motioned toward the wall, perhaps expecting to find a window. “I may be a hard man but I’m an honest one. This is square business.”