burst Harry’s eardrums with screams and to disembowel him with kicks. Neither man could get his gun within hitting range.
Harry may not have had fire power or savagery on his side, but he did have experience, size, and weight. He was able to hurl the attacker off him.
The man nimbly somersaulted and twisted around, bringing the Super Enforcer to bear. Right behind him, Harry saw the second hanging killer framed in the shattered window, another Iver Johnson death machine cradled in his arms.
He didn’t bother to sit up. He saw his opportunity, and he took it. Lying upside down on his back, Harry pointed the Magnum at the proper angle and pulled the trigger.
The Magnum bucked and smacked against the floor, nearly jarring out of Harry’s hands. But the bullet flew true, going right through the kneeling man’s neck and into the chest of the hanging man outside the window.
Suddenly, the chaos-strewn apartment turned deathly silent. Harry stayed where he was for a second, simply listening. The only things he could hear were the hiss of the heating system, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and a knocking sound somewhere in the distance.
Something was wrong. After a full-scale attack on the fourth floor of an apartment building, he should have at least heard the outraged or terrified cries of the other occupants. Instead, nothing.
Harry quickly got to his feet. Three men were lying in the living room, and three more were around the dining area—two hanging dead outside, replacing most of the plants which had been blown away. The only thing missing besides irate tenants was Denise Patterson.
The cop suddenly identified the distant knocking—the sound of receding footsteps. The woman must’ve broken from behind the table, when Harry was jumped, and skittered out of the apartment. Either that, or she had been totally annihilated by gunfire.
Harry quickly checked the adjoining apartment rooms: empty. He was just coming back into the main area, looking for a phone to call HQ, when he heard the sound of a car engine outside. He quickly ran to the broken windows, and looked beyond the hanging corpses, where a Continental was pulling out from the apartment’s underground garage. As it turned left onto the street, he saw the unmistakable profile of Patterson who was in the driver’s seat.
A desperate panic gripped Harry Callahan’s brain. Whatever she was involved in, and the reason Martha Murray was killed, went completely beyond some sick pusher’s kicks in the subway. He just couldn’t let Patterson get away that easily.
Harry knew his and his .44’s limitations. To hit the car at this distance would be a matter of luck, not skill. The Magnum was best at short range.
But the Iver Johnson Super Enforcer was another ball of bullets. It, too, was better at short range, but it had thirty rounds in its long magazine which could be spat out at a rate of three hundred rounds a minute.
Harry scooped the weapon out of a pool of blood on the floor and aimed it at the speeding car. The first bullet burst tore up the asphalt a few feet short of its goal. That gave him the range. The next burst was right on the money. He jerked the coughing gun so that the bullets ran right alongside the rear bumper and then dug into the white-walled radial tire.
The Continental jerked, jumped, and then the right rear scraped along the road, twisting the car to the side before it reached the corner. Callahan didn’t wait to see Patterson’s reaction. He ran back into the bedroom, leaving the semi-automatic on the floor, and jumped onto the fire escape right outside that window.
Only then did he see the woman pull herself out of the car and look at the flat. She glanced at him leaping down the metal steps, and then ran toward the intersection. Her still-stockinged feet slowed her down, or Harry wouldn’t have had a chance of catching her.
As it was, he vaulted midway down the second-floor ladder, falling twenty feet into the
Harry may not have had fire power or savagery on his side, but he did have experience, size, and weight. He was able to hurl the attacker off him.
The man nimbly somersaulted and twisted around, bringing the Super Enforcer to bear. Right behind him, Harry saw the second hanging killer framed in the shattered window, another Iver Johnson death machine cradled in his arms.
He didn’t bother to sit up. He saw his opportunity, and he took it. Lying upside down on his back, Harry pointed the Magnum at the proper angle and pulled the trigger.
The Magnum bucked and smacked against the floor, nearly jarring out of Harry’s hands. But the bullet flew true, going right through the kneeling man’s neck and into the chest of the hanging man outside the window.
Suddenly, the chaos-strewn apartment turned deathly silent. Harry stayed where he was for a second, simply listening. The only things he could hear were the hiss of the heating system, the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and a knocking sound somewhere in the distance.
Something was wrong. After a full-scale attack on the fourth floor of an apartment building, he should have at least heard the outraged or terrified cries of the other occupants. Instead, nothing.
Harry quickly got to his feet. Three men were lying in the living room, and three more were around the dining area—two hanging dead outside, replacing most of the plants which had been blown away. The only thing missing besides irate tenants was Denise Patterson.
The cop suddenly identified the distant knocking—the sound of receding footsteps. The woman must’ve broken from behind the table, when Harry was jumped, and skittered out of the apartment. Either that, or she had been totally annihilated by gunfire.
Harry quickly checked the adjoining apartment rooms: empty. He was just coming back into the main area, looking for a phone to call HQ, when he heard the sound of a car engine outside. He quickly ran to the broken windows, and looked beyond the hanging corpses, where a Continental was pulling out from the apartment’s underground garage. As it turned left onto the street, he saw the unmistakable profile of Patterson who was in the driver’s seat.
A desperate panic gripped Harry Callahan’s brain. Whatever she was involved in, and the reason Martha Murray was killed, went completely beyond some sick pusher’s kicks in the subway. He just couldn’t let Patterson get away that easily.
Harry knew his and his .44’s limitations. To hit the car at this distance would be a matter of luck, not skill. The Magnum was best at short range.
But the Iver Johnson Super Enforcer was another ball of bullets. It, too, was better at short range, but it had thirty rounds in its long magazine which could be spat out at a rate of three hundred rounds a minute.
Harry scooped the weapon out of a pool of blood on the floor and aimed it at the speeding car. The first bullet burst tore up the asphalt a few feet short of its goal. That gave him the range. The next burst was right on the money. He jerked the coughing gun so that the bullets ran right alongside the rear bumper and then dug into the white-walled radial tire.
The Continental jerked, jumped, and then the right rear scraped along the road, twisting the car to the side before it reached the corner. Callahan didn’t wait to see Patterson’s reaction. He ran back into the bedroom, leaving the semi-automatic on the floor, and jumped onto the fire escape right outside that window.
Only then did he see the woman pull herself out of the car and look at the flat. She glanced at him leaping down the metal steps, and then ran toward the intersection. Her still-stockinged feet slowed her down, or Harry wouldn’t have had a chance of catching her.
As it was, he vaulted midway down the second-floor ladder, falling twenty feet into the
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