Dirty Harry 06 - City of Blood Read Online Free Page B

would never have evolved if they had relied on precedent alone.”
    “Shit,” Harry muttered, shaking his head. It wasn’t that he objected to what Owens had said or the conviction with which he had said it. Rather it was the feeling that he was being burdened with the responsibility for another man’s life, that he’d spend as much time protecting Owens from harm as he would running down the Knifer, Mission Street or Tocador, whichever came first.
    “If it doesn’t work out after a few weeks you can pull me off the case,” Owens said, eager to allay Harry’s fears.
    “There is a special reason I am assigning Owens to you, Harry,” Bressler said. “Owens is the best decoy we have on this force. It may surprise you to learn that in his past life Drake Owens was a star of TV and movies.”
    Owens demurred. “Sir, if I may, not exactly a star. But I did a lot of work in many forgettable films when I was living in L.A.”
    This man was full of surprises. “And you quit Hollywood to become a cop in San Francisco? You’re more insane than I thought.”
    Owens laughed. Bressler only smiled. Bressler was the sort who never got beyond smiling, didn’t want to give too much away.
    “Well, I didn’t think I was accomplishing very much being a bad actor in worse films. I decided to employ my talent in another direction is all.”
    “It’s your life.”
    Or it was before he volunteered for duty with Harry Callahan.

C H A P T E R

T w o
    W illiam Maxim Davis took the most stringent precautions in even the most routine of tasks. His houses in the bay area, and the two he owned and a third he leased in town for business purposes, were guarded by a private security agency that supplemented its contingent of armed watchmen and Belgian shepherds, specially trained to leap instantly for a man’s throat if given a signal, with the most advanced electronic sensors and alarm equipment.
    The times Davis left his office near Jackson Square were shifted constantly, the routes he took to and from work also varied so that no one could successfully predict his movements and plan his assassination.
    The limousine that Davis rode in cost him almost a quarter of a million dollars. It was an extraordinary vehicle, not only because of the luxuries that it offered—the television and the telephone that connected him to his office or to any one of his branch offices around the world and the well-stocked refrigerator and the ample space in back—but because of the safety devices that had been installed in it.
    The glass was naturally bulletproof. The tires were resilient enough to take several bullets before giving way, and in any case, the limousine could still navigate at a sufficiently high speed even when all four tires were punctured. The gas tank occupied a position underneath the seat in the interior of the car so that no one could ignite it from the outside. (This did make it a cumbersome chore to replenish the gas, but like the older-model Mercedes, this tank held an enormous amount of fuel, and in any case, replenishing it was the sort of thing the chauffeurs were paid for.) The partition, between front and back, was remarkably strong; no bullet of any caliber could pass through it.
    But the pièce de résistance in this elaborate system of defense was to be found under the seat next to where the chauffeur sat. In the likelihood that a terrorist could gain entrance to the vehicle, and threaten the driver, a final, and fatal, recourse was available.
    A small toggle switch, within easy reach, could be pulled which would trigger a specially designed shotgun that was positioned underneath the cushion; it would then discharge upward, in rapid succession, three pellets into the ass and through the body of the unsuspecting terrorist. This would presumably have the effect of neutralizing any threat immediately.
    Though assurances were given to all the chauffeurs that the pellets would continue through the roof if they exited from the