Read Online Dirty Harry 04 - The Mexico Kill by Dane Hartman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dane Hartman
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it?”
“Oh, you’re some kind of an Einstein, I can see that much, Milano.”
The man named Milano shrugged. “I been in this business longer than you. Put the gun away. We got to blow this mother. Fish are getting impatient.”
The fish needn’t have been too impatient. The good ship Hyacinth- turned -The Sojourner was about to take its last journey—straight down to the bottom of San Francisco Bay.
Small explosives were all that were necessary, nothing extravagant, and they were conveniently already in place, strategically implanted in the diesel motors, in the aft cockpit bulkhead, in the pulpit where the two anchors were cached in the Moorings’ case. The holes that the three simultaneous detonations would produce would ensure a hasty demise for the luxury yacht.
“I don’t see what fuckin’ difference it would make,” said the man, who with great reluctance consented to put his weapon away.
“It makes a difference,” Milano said. “Take my word for it, it makes a difference.”
The drug had been offloaded. There was no use left for the boat, especially now that its true purpose had been uncovered. The two men scrambled up the stairs and were soon over the side and running fast along the docks. As soon as they reached the perimeter of the marina area a radio transmitter activated the explosives. They could scarcely be heard, just muffled roars. Within a few moments pale gray smoke rose into the air, but there wasn’t much of it and it soon faded from view.
At first the yacht didn’t seem to want to do anything. It sat where it was, contentedly, but then it listed to the right, banging against the side of the dock. Gradually the waterline rose until it was flush with the edge of the deck. Another minute or so and it would disappear beneath the bay.
It was the water trickling along the rug that Harry felt first. Not a lot of water. A leaky faucet would have produced more. And in any case Harry didn’t feel much like responding, water or no water. He was not completely out. But he didn’t think he’d particularly object to a condition of unconsciousness—a painless welcoming darkness rather appealed to him. Lights, crazy colored lights, spun around in his mind, red, blue, yellow, the primary colors; and each color seemed to be accompanied by its own brand of pain—this one sharp, this one sharper still, this one throbbing.
It wasn’t a trickle any longer. The water was gathering quantity and force; there could be no doubt about it even in Harry’s dazed mind, it was coming in quicker, washing his legs, cresting about his torso and his arms, and even though his head was turned to the side, it was threatening his ability to breathe. Almost involuntarily, he twisted his head farther toward the ceiling, attempting to keep water from infiltrating his mouth and nasal cavities. But all such contortions did him no good. The water was accumulating too fast, and it would soon engulf him.
A part of Harry’s mind, the oldest part, full of instincts and primitive urgings, forced him to act. Groaning, he extended himself, picking his head up out of the gathering water, though the pain shot through his whole body in protest. Couldn’t worry about that now, he thought hazily, must do something about this goddamn water.
Only at this point did it reach him that what he was smelling was salt. It was seawater that was pouring into the cabin. Though he had no idea where it was all coming from, and not the slightest inclination to find out, he realized that this meant the boat was sinking. Hardly delighted at the prospect of going down with it, he summoned all the energy that was left to him and did something that vaguely resembled a pushup; this maneuver succeeded in getting him just above the water. From this position he extended one, then the other arm, hoping he would not slip and lose his balance—because he really didn’t know whether he could go through this painful process of getting up
“Oh, you’re some kind of an Einstein, I can see that much, Milano.”
The man named Milano shrugged. “I been in this business longer than you. Put the gun away. We got to blow this mother. Fish are getting impatient.”
The fish needn’t have been too impatient. The good ship Hyacinth- turned -The Sojourner was about to take its last journey—straight down to the bottom of San Francisco Bay.
Small explosives were all that were necessary, nothing extravagant, and they were conveniently already in place, strategically implanted in the diesel motors, in the aft cockpit bulkhead, in the pulpit where the two anchors were cached in the Moorings’ case. The holes that the three simultaneous detonations would produce would ensure a hasty demise for the luxury yacht.
“I don’t see what fuckin’ difference it would make,” said the man, who with great reluctance consented to put his weapon away.
“It makes a difference,” Milano said. “Take my word for it, it makes a difference.”
The drug had been offloaded. There was no use left for the boat, especially now that its true purpose had been uncovered. The two men scrambled up the stairs and were soon over the side and running fast along the docks. As soon as they reached the perimeter of the marina area a radio transmitter activated the explosives. They could scarcely be heard, just muffled roars. Within a few moments pale gray smoke rose into the air, but there wasn’t much of it and it soon faded from view.
At first the yacht didn’t seem to want to do anything. It sat where it was, contentedly, but then it listed to the right, banging against the side of the dock. Gradually the waterline rose until it was flush with the edge of the deck. Another minute or so and it would disappear beneath the bay.
It was the water trickling along the rug that Harry felt first. Not a lot of water. A leaky faucet would have produced more. And in any case Harry didn’t feel much like responding, water or no water. He was not completely out. But he didn’t think he’d particularly object to a condition of unconsciousness—a painless welcoming darkness rather appealed to him. Lights, crazy colored lights, spun around in his mind, red, blue, yellow, the primary colors; and each color seemed to be accompanied by its own brand of pain—this one sharp, this one sharper still, this one throbbing.
It wasn’t a trickle any longer. The water was gathering quantity and force; there could be no doubt about it even in Harry’s dazed mind, it was coming in quicker, washing his legs, cresting about his torso and his arms, and even though his head was turned to the side, it was threatening his ability to breathe. Almost involuntarily, he twisted his head farther toward the ceiling, attempting to keep water from infiltrating his mouth and nasal cavities. But all such contortions did him no good. The water was accumulating too fast, and it would soon engulf him.
A part of Harry’s mind, the oldest part, full of instincts and primitive urgings, forced him to act. Groaning, he extended himself, picking his head up out of the gathering water, though the pain shot through his whole body in protest. Couldn’t worry about that now, he thought hazily, must do something about this goddamn water.
Only at this point did it reach him that what he was smelling was salt. It was seawater that was pouring into the cabin. Though he had no idea where it was all coming from, and not the slightest inclination to find out, he realized that this meant the boat was sinking. Hardly delighted at the prospect of going down with it, he summoned all the energy that was left to him and did something that vaguely resembled a pushup; this maneuver succeeded in getting him just above the water. From this position he extended one, then the other arm, hoping he would not slip and lose his balance—because he really didn’t know whether he could go through this painful process of getting up
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