Dirty Harry 01 - Duel For Cannons (2 page)

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 cracking 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.

What he hoped would happen did. The building was so old it had settled, making every floor rest unevenly, and the door was so old that the jam was slightly rusted. Given enough time the door would creak open of its own free will. But Boris Tucker would not be behind it. No, Boris Tucker would be on the third floor, looking down, waiting for the hitman to start shooting.

Even with his girth, Tucker moved up the stairs silently and smoothly. He placed his hand on the knob, turned, and swung the door open. Then the world blew up in his face.

All he saw was a fuzzy band of white intersperced with ribbons of yellow, orange and red. He felt a searing heat rip across his face and the door tear out of his hand. He heard a cough mingled in with a smashing, whoomping sound. A dozen wooden needles dug into the back of his head as he fell over.

On the way down he realized what had happened. The bastard had been one step ahead of him all along. He had opened the second floor door knowing that Tucker would move up to the third, then, somehow, he had gotten to the third floor himself and waited for him.

After Tucker’s mind had pieced that mystery together, it realized two more things. First, he wasn’t dead. Second, if he was going to stay that way, he’d better start fighting back.

Even as Tucker slammed to the floor on his left side, his right arm was holding his gun out and his trigger finger was contracting spasmodically.

He knew his bullets had missed even before his vision cleared. He heard them whine off in several directions and the hasty footsteps of the hitman receding in the distance. When the rainbow haze finally dissipated he saw why it was so easy for the assassin to change floors. Now he was lying on a catwalk. A catwalk that stretched from one door to another. All around him were the workings of the ride. Turning rods, twisting valves, spiraling hooks, all were working their mechanical magic around him.

Tucker painfully rose to a sitting position. He felt a warmth covering the entire right side of his face. When he touched it and brought his hand away, he saw his palm covered with blood. The hitman’s bullet had just creased his cheek, Tucker realized. But that graze was enough to hack out a canal of flesh from the side of his nose to his ear. If the bullet had been even a fraction of an inch farther to the left, Tucker’s head would have split and disintegrated like a rotten melon. High-powered Magnums may not be that easy to control, but when they hit something, that’s it for that something.

Enraged by the assassin and his own stupidity, Tucker emptied his remaining bullets into the door at the other end of the catwalk. To his shock, he heard a high-pitched scream in reply. Not the sort of sound one might attribute to a hardened hitman. More like the sound a frightened young girl would make.

The realization brought Tucker to his feet. He had just fired into an amusement park ride filled with innocent tourists.

With grim determination, Tucker reloaded his weapon a second time. He refused to consider that the hitman was smarter than he was. Luck of the draw, that’s all it was. The ignorant bastard was merely taking advantage of some lucky breaks. This creep would even use innocent vacationers as a shield. It would be Tucker’s pleasure to blow his brains out.

Swinging his chamber shut again, Tucker marched to the second door and kicked it open. Standing directly in front of him was a man with a gun. The man with the gun started to aim his weapon in Tucker’s direction. With great satisfaction Tucker shot the figure twice in the chest.

A light went on above the figure reading “
YOU WON.
”

It was then Tucker realized that he had beaten a mechanical dummy to the draw. The dummy started spitting sparks from his wounds. Standing to the side was a young girl with both hands in her mouth. Standing next to her was a young man with both arms around her. All four of their eyes were wide and staring at Tucker.

The sheriff felt like a first-class fool. He lowered his gun, looked around, then returned his attention to the kids.

“You see another guy with a gun come out of there?” he asked, pointing a thumb at the open door.

The kids kept staring.

“A big guy,” Tucker continued. “Dark hair, wearing white overalls?”

The kids stared for another second, then turned and ran.

“Hey!” Tucker called after them. “Hey! I’m not gonna hurt you. Hey, wait a minute!”

The sheriff started off after them, keeping an eye out for the hitman. He was striding across a black floor surrounded by black walls and a black ceiling. The environment gave the effect of the Twilight Zone. Tucker couldn’t be sure in which direction he was actually heading. He had let the hitman lead him into the Ghost Town’s Funhouse.

He saw the kids turn a corner and followed. He stepped into the entrance for the Hall of Mirrors. The kids had already entered and were stumbling through, slamming into glass partitions every few seconds.

Tucker saw his own reflection. No wonder the kids had reacted so strongly. In his haste and rage, the sheriff had forgotten about his wound. Not only had he shot a harmless dummy, he had blood dribbling across the bottom of his head. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now, he thought. The Hall of Mirrors was the last attraction the Funhouse had to offer, he remembered from the brochures. Once patrons got through that, the literature said, they would be treated to a wild ride and then out.

Tucker had no interest in the exit. There was still a mad-dog assassin to catch. He was about to turn back when a fourth reflection appeared in the hall. It was the reflection of the mad-dog assassin.