Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood Read Online Free PDF Page A

body, Davis wasn’t absolutely certain that they too wouldn’t be injured in the blast. But he didn’t care to warn them of this. It would, he believed, only disquiet them and make them more reluctant to resort to the use of the shotgun in the event of an emergency.
    As befitted his position as the chairman of the board of Cavanaugh-Sterling, Davis was an imposing figure, forty-three years of age, with sandy hair turning gray about the edges and a face that seemed incapable of ever expressing passion, amusement, or joy. There had been no time for passion, amusement, or joy since Davis had begun his climb to the top of Cavanaugh-Sterling, a multinational corporation that had begun as a drugstore chain and branched out so promiscuously that it now owned moving lines, marinas, movie theaters, a cable TV network, granaries in the Midwest, shrimp fisheries in the South, a microchip factory in the North, and an aircraft company in the Northwest.
    With Davis today was the diminutive, very dapper Mr. Hiroshi Asabuka, the production head of Cavanaugh-Sterling’s Tokyo division. Asabuka loved jazz, baseball, and McDonald’s hamburgers; in fact, he revelled in everything American. He admired Davis, believing that he was the forerunner of a new breed of American entrepreneur who would fundamentally restore the ailing economy and, not so incidentally, the uncertain political landscape.
    The two, shadowed by the usual assortment of security guards, and accompanied by aides to Davis, who were all called vice presidents, regardless of how little power they actually wielded, were emerging from Cavanaugh-Sterling Headquarters, a gleaming new tower that was sheathed in glass tinted aquamarine.
    Davis was a man who would look in both directions before crossing a one-way street; he was that cautious. Life represented a series of obstacles to be overcome. And the higher he rose in business the more obstacles there seemed to be. Which was not exactly what he’d expected when he started out.
    Because of his substantial interests overseas, in Italy, the Middle East, and the Caribbean as well as in Japan, there was good reason for caution. Terrorists were launching attacks against businessmen with ever increasing frequency, and while these attacks had so far failed to happen in America, Davis, and his counterparts who managed other corporations, believed it only a matter of time before they, too, were targets of extremists.
    But it is impossible for a man to concentrate entirely on matters of security—especially when that man’s mind is filled with thoughts of mergers, SEC proceedings, and pretax profits. And, in any case, the private agency that Cavanaugh-Sterling had authorized to protect its chief executive was supposed to concern itself with such things.
    No one, however, was prepared for an outright assault on this rainy October afternoon. Jackson Square just didn’t seem appropriate for something so bold and violent.
    It was possible that the intended victim was not Davis but rather Asabuka, who was a notorious right wing fanatic in his own country, ever ready to chastise the Japanese citizenry for not doing enough to forestall the spread of world communism. Whomever was supposed to be assassinated was apparently never going to be clear simply because the assailants, who’d elected a rooftop to do their shooting from, opened up on everyone in sight.
    The building that the gunmen had taken positions on faced Cavanaugh-Sterling Headquarters; it was a forgettable specimen of architecture that might have housed a welfare hotel or a bleak municipal office.
    The rattle of gunfire at first seemed so far-off that Davis believed it a series of backfires from traffic on one of the neighboring streets. It was only when the guard in back of him lurched to the right, a small pink hole staining his white shirt, that Davis realized what was happening.
    But by then another guard had thrown himself on Davis, sending him toppling down on the cold marble