Dirty Harry 03 - The Long Death (12 page)

His entrance did not go unnoticed. As soon as he moved in, he saw a Uhuru member to his left, hiding behind an overturned easy chair. The guy had a .22 Saturday Night Special clutched in his hands, which was no good for the long-range fight but perfectly suitable to cause Callahan some internal damage. Still not wanting to take anyone else’s attention away from the torrent of cop bullets that was perforating the place, Harry leaped atop the chair, catching the black man’s gun wrist in one hand and swinging the barrel of the .44 across his scalp. The man screamed in pain so Harry hit him again, coming down with the Magnum butt right in the middle of his head.

He stayed quiet, but his previous scream had been enough. Harry looked over as one of the men by the window saw him. The man turned completely around and leaped to his feet, his rifle coming up on a level with Harry’s chest at the same time.

Harry threw himself off the chair and swung his own gun around just as a cop bullet sizzled in from outside and drove halfway through the standing Uhuru’s back. The black man fell face first flat on the floor, the heavy rifle clattering next to him, unfired.

That got the other men to turn around, but they were smart enough not to get up. Harry saw his chance, so he rolled to his feet and ran as fast as he could backward into the living room.

Pieces of the wall ripped off after him. Whether it was the Uhuru’s shooting or more police lead he never found out. He slipped on some broken crockery on the floor, stepped on an outstretched hand, and slammed into the closet door next to the stairway. He turned around, dazed, as Uhurus across the living room saw him and brought their guns to bear.

Harry was framed in the entrance to the stairs as a veritable firing squad blasted at him. The closet door, the tattered rug between his feet and the walls were peppered by the shots, sending Callahan back and down. He fired his own gun once between his outstretched legs, then scrambled over a landing and around a corner.

He stood up on the stairs as a wild-eyed Uhuru came roaring down. The black man stopped five steps up from Harry and tried to bring his rifle around. Harry fell forward, grabbed the guy’s ankle, and pulled. The man slipped and fell heavily backward, bashing his head on the second landing. Harry ran up, grabbed the rifle from the wounded man’s hands, and used it like a golf club to send the Uhuru cartwheeling the rest of the way down.

Harry raced around the second stairway corner to three more steps and a thin hall leading to four rooms. Light was streaming in a destroyed window frame at the other end of the hall. Figures would dart in and out of this light flood like ghosts, racing from one room to another. The accumulated heat was so great that steam seemed to be rising from the floorboards.

Two Uhurus from the nearest room ran out toward the stairs. Just as they saw the cop, Harry buried the rifle butt in the face of one and shot the other in the stomach. The hit one fell backward like a board and the shot one spun back into the room he came from.

Harry didn’t wait for reinforcements. He raced up the last three steps and charged down the hallway. He had passed two of the rooms on the floor when a big black man, bald as a billiard ball, slammed into him from the side. Harry saw an army .45 in his hand so he grabbed it. He felt the other man do the same with his .44 wrist.

They spun farther down the hall, slamming against the walls as they went. Their faces were no more than three inches away from each other as they struggled. The Uhuru tried to knee Callahan in the balls. Harry blocked it with one leg and tried to keep the black man’s back facing the broken window at all times.

The bald man screamed in frustrated rage and shot off his .45. The gun sounded unnaturally loud in the enclosed space and seemed to bring a flurry of new police activity through the window. A bullet ground a hole in the wall next to Harry’s nose. He heard another shot thunk into the black man’s leg. The Uhuru shouted again. Harry threw all his weight forward. The two crashed down into the corner, Harry on top.

The cop wrenched himself from the bald man’s grip and stood. The wounded Uhuru kept shouting and tried to sit up and aim his .45 at the same time. Harry tromped on the man’s neck. The shouting stopped and the man went down for good. Harry spun, seeing another stairway at the end of the hall just as another Uhuru ran out of the fourth room. Before the man could react, Harry grabbed the barrel of his rifle, spun him around toward the window, and kicked him as hard as he could in the stomach. The Uhuru flew backward out of what was left of the dormer.

Harry didn’t stay to watch the man dive backward down, smash face first into an abutment, and land on his side in the yard. He was up the second stairway as fast as he could go. The light was much less there, and there were only two doorways cut out of the sloping roof line. There was a small landing between these two doors upon which another Uhuru was waiting. He didn’t blast Harry as soon as he showed because he wasn’t expecting a white cop yet. By the time he brought his gun to bear, Harry had swiped it aside with his gun hand and smashed the Uhuru as hard as possible in the face.

The black man stumbled back, his nose a crushed and bloody mess, but he didn’t go down. He fired his gun into the floor. Harry saw the bullet hit between two rafters off the landing. The lead went right through. Harry realized that the attic consisted only of these two rooms and the small landing. All the rest was insulated rafters. Harry threw subtlety to the wind and leaped into the air. He grabbed one sloping roof rafter in each his hands, swung, and kicked the last Uhuru in the chest with both feet.

The black man flew backward off the landing, landed on the orange padding between two horizontal ceiling rafters and kept going. He slammed into the ceiling of the second floor and crashed through. In a shower of plaster, concrete and insulation, he smashed into two of his brothers in the first room next to the staircase.

Harry kicked open the door to his left. The room was empty. He heard steps on the stairway. He shot down it without looking. He rammed the right doorway with his shoulder. It broke open, Harry fell and rolled. He came up with his Magnum pointed between Big Ed Mohamid’s eyes.

The tiny attic room was like an oven. The only opening to the outside was a small stained-glass window, and no one was about to open that. Big Ed sat on a crate in the corner farthest away from the window. His eyes were downcast, and he was unarmed. His sweaty black face was colored in blues, greens, and reds. He looked calmly at Harry’s Magnum.

Three black men charged into the room. They, stopped when they saw Callahan’s target. Harry looked at them, then returned his gaze to Mohamid.

“Leave us,” Mohamid told his men.

“But,” said a nervous one, “the cops . . . they’re all around us . . .”

“Leave us!” Mohamid demanded. The men slowly, reluctantly, left. They closed the door after them.

The noise of the bullets sounded very far away now. Harry felt like he had entered a mausoleum of a patriarch not yet dead. The atmosphere was stifling, the room was claustrophobic, the smell was nauseating, and the place was bathed with otherworldly colors.

Mohamid ignored the gun in front of his face. He looked back down and frowned.

“Nothing has changed,” he said, his voice empty in the strange place.

“Now is not the time to discuss it,” Harry said. “Men are being killed downstairs.”

“How could I stop it?” Mohamid asked.

“Give up,” Harry seethed. “Surrender.”

“They would kill us anyway,” Mohamid said sadly. “That’s why they’re here.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry demanded. “What am I doing here, then?”

“Committing suicide,” Mohamid decided. “We did not fire the first shot.”

“Neither did they,” Harry revealed. “Someone’s playing us both for assholes.”

Big Ed Mohamid looked up then, a dawning light in the back of his black eyes. “You know, then?”

Callahan pushed his .44 back into its shoulder holster under the scuffed jacket. “I know something’s definitely fucked, and we’re both doing our best cunt impersonations.”

“I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” Mohamid marveled.

“No one will,” Harry said. “But me. If you want something done about it, though, you’ve got to stop this mess.”

Mohamid seemed about to agree when the smoke began curling from under the door. It was a thick white smoke intermingled with curls of black. It certainly wasn’t more steam heat.

“Ah shit,” Harry said. “The place is on fire. Is there any other way out of here?”

“No,” Mohamid said.

“Come on,” said Harry, hauling Big Ed up by the arm. Callahan pushed him toward the door. Mohamid got it open, and the pair stood on the landing with smoke and little licks of flame belching out from the hole in the second floor ceiling.

“It’s coming from the front,” Mohamid realized.

“And any second that insulation is going to blow or start giving off poison fumes,” Harry shouted, already pounding down the back stairs. “Move it!”

The Uhuru leader ran down after Harry, and the two turned the corner at the bottom to face a wall of crackling yellow. Mohamid started coughing on the back of Harry’s neck.

“Miserable fuckers probably didn’t take time off from target practice to call the fire department,” Harry growled, trying to spot a way out.

“Out the window!” Mohamid yelled above the roar of the flames, pointing to the opening Harry had kicked the other Uhuru man out of. Harry grabbed Mohamid by the collar and threw him out the portal. A second later, the garage blew up.

The blast sent Harry smashing onto the attic stairs as debris hurled in from the window. Glass shards and wood slivers splashed onto his back as he lay dazed. The explosion only served to fan the flames higher. When Harry’s mind cleared, his shoe was smoldering.

He stamped out the small flame with his other shoe and retreated quickly up the steps, the fire covering the broken window. He kept low to the ground, but he couldn’t keep from hacking because of the noxious cloud. He crawled into the right-hand room. Still lying stomach down, he shot out the small stained-glass window. He dragged himself over and looked out. It was a sixty-foot drop, straight down.

Harry rolled over onto his back and looked out the open door. A sheet of flame had leaped up between the two rooms. He took a deep breath, got up, ran over, and shot away both door jams. The door fell on his foot. His teeth gritted, his head pounding, and his lungs entirely closed off, Harry shoved his gun back, grabbed the door on both sides and charged out of the room.

He felt all the hair on his hands crisp up and blow away. An astonishing pain ripped through each finger and clamped onto his brain. He heard a horrible scream, but he couldn’t tell if it was him or the devastating fire. He closed his eyes and ran until the door became too heavy and his legs wouldn’t move anymore.

He fell forward into the other room. The door landed on its bottom corner and leaped against the wall. Harry’s knees gave way and he slammed into the hot wood floor on his face. The first thing he saw when he came to seven seconds later were the backs of his hands stretched out in front of him. They looked like two teriyaki steaks well done. He was almost sorry he woke up. The pain and the heat started again.

Both were so intense, he couldn’t help writhing on the floor. His mind went on automatic and screamed for the Magnum, but his charred hands couldn’t grip it. His body took over. He rolled to the last window, brought his feet up and kicked the window out.

From that position, Harry could see the flames licking into the room behind him. The fire moved like waves—getting closer and closer every time. He didn’t hesitate to check the drop. With a final effort, he reached up, grabbed the sides of the broken window and propelled himself out feet first.

The flames seemed to roar out of the window in anger after him as he plummeted sixteen feet to a side incline. He slammed against that, rolled down, hit another inclined roof right below that, and fell into a pile of sand that had collected against the side of the house. Harry didn’t know the extent of his injuries, but he did know he wasn’t dead.

Hands plucked at him. They rolled him over. Harry saw figures in blue and yellow uniforms. The cavalry had arrived. He was carried out to the safety of some ambulances across the street. He felt tired. He didn’t feel good. The last thing he saw that day was the face of Captain Avery looking down at him with concern.

Harry laughed himself into unconsciousness.

C H A P T E R
F i v e

“Y
ou’re extraordinarily lucky, Inspector Callahan,” said Dr. Steve Rogers.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry said from the hospital bed. “Wounded on a weekend. Won’t even miss a day’s work.”

“Jesus, Harry, you know what I mean,” said the seasoned police medico. “I’ve taped up bullet grooves on your legs and stitched gashes in your head, but this was cutting it too close.”

The cop sat up in the private room wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms. Aside from a variety of small bandages across his face and torso, the only thing that looked bad were his hands. They looked like an abortive audition for a Mummy movie.

“Just superficial, right?” Callahan inquired, holding them up. “Only melted off the top layer?”

“Right,” Rogers replied, packing up his black bag. “They’ll be stiff for a couple of days, but workable. I’ll be back to take off the heavy bandages tonight.”

“Good,” said Harry. “Thanks, Steve.”

“No sweat,” the doctor winked. “We hill boys have to stick together.”

Before he could open the door, it swung back to reveal Lieutenant Bressler and Captain Avery. The superior officer walked brusquely in. The lieutenant followed, holding a small vase of flowers uncomfortably.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Avery boomed. “Everything check out all right, I trust?”

“As well as can be expected,” Rogers solemnly replied. He brushed by the captain but gave Harry another wink as he breezed out the door.

Everyone waited until it closed behind him. Then Bressler moved nervously forward, holding out the plants.