Dirty Harry 08 - Hatchet Men Read Online Free PDF Page A

moaned as his other arm clamped around her middle. As they had for the last few seconds, the two struggling figures moved like a toy ostrich drinking from a glass of water. They would bob forward under the weight of Angela’s struggles, and then the Japanese’s strength would pull her back, her feet kicking off the ground.
    “Come on,” the MAC man hissed. “Help me with her, would you?”
    The Uzi user moved forward immediately. The man with the VZ stood in place in front of Empress Hsi. The Japanese using the Israeli weapon slung it on his back and grabbed the girl’s hands. Together they pulled her down to the floor. When she realized what they were going to do, she tried screaming again, but once her back was flat on the floor, the MAC man’s hand was over her mouth again. The three other Japanese hands were occupied elsewhere on her body.
    “All right,” the VZ man said indifferently in Japanese. “You got your revenge, and you got your innocent bystander. Let’s get on to the main attraction of the night.” He still stood in place.
    “There’s time,” the MAC man said in Japanese, ripping at the girl’s skirt while pushing down on her lips and teeth all the harder. “We won’t be able to do this with the other one.” And the MAC man didn’t mean the corpse of Jay Kuong Chien. He meant the person they had been instructed to kidnap after wiping out the gambling shop.
    “No,” the Uzi user agreed. “The other one is of our kind. Japanese. You know we are not supposed to soil her.” So saying, he tore open Angela’s shirt.
    All right,” the VZ man said again. “But hurry up. We should kill this one and get the other one soon. Let’s get home before midnight.”
    So the Japanese stood as a guard with his Czech weapon held loosely while the other two young men took turns raping the Chinese tour guide. The last thing she saw through blurred eyes before merciful unconsiousness came was Little Pete—the hatchet man—writhing in the barber chair.

C H A P T E R

T w o
    I nspector Harry Callahan got home before midnight. He pulled his long-suffering used car off the sloping street and down the driveway to the one-floor garage under the ancient mansion. As usual, there was a thin space between the Toyota and Pinto in front of the section of wall with the faded stencil painting of the cop’s name.
    It wasn’t always like that. When a Cadillac first moved in across the floor, the owner had taken delight in parking his monster across Harry’s and the Toyota’s space. Harry had removed a small, but extremely important part of the Caddy’s drive mechanism and left a note on the windshield saying the Caddy owner could retrieve it only after pushing the car to its rightful place across the way.
    The next morning, the Caddy owner came stomping and snorting up to Harry’s third-floor apartment—which the cop had so graciously noted on the windshield message—only to be faced with all six feet and some odd inches of Harry’s rock-hard body and coarse, weathered face.
    The Caddy owner suddenly forgot what he had planned to say, swallowed once, and then uttered these four words. “I’ll move the car.” Harry hadn’t had any trouble since. The dependable, consistent San Fran homicide cop slipped his old car between the two compacts with just inches to spare on either side. He could only get his door half-open to squeeze his strong frame outside.
    Standing wedged between the two cars, his door scraping the outside of the Toyota’s side, Harry glanced at the faded, chipped name on the wall in front of him. “Calahan.” It had been spelled wrong from the very first day, so every time he got a notice from the landlord about a raise in rent—which seemed like every six months—it was addressed to “Harold Calahan.” And no matter how clearly he signed his checks “Harry Callahan,” the situation never changed.
    Harry took this minor cosmic aggravation in the same stride that he took the dozens of