Free Dirty Harry 07 - Massacre at Russian River by Dane Hartman Page A

in their feluccas, then the Chinese shrimp catchers in their junks, next came the southern Italians and Sicilians . . .” And on he went.
    It was obvious that the two dozen people trailing him were barely listening to his recitation. They were too busy conversing with one another.
    “Our car is parked right across the street, Mr. Callahan,” the man in the cashmere coat said, his voice betraying not the slightest doubt that Harry would go along with them.
    Harry waited several moments before responding. The two DEA officers were becoming restless. The man in the London Fog raised his .38 and extended it until it was nearly touching Harry’s chest.
    “Time is awasting,” said his companion.
    Harry was unconcerned about squandering their time. His eyes were focused on the advancing tourists. Most of them were in their twenties or thirties, he observed, flirtatious and excitable.
    The two DEA men let their gazes shift in the direction Harry was looking so intently, maybe imagining that he was deliberately procrastinating until a confederate arrived to aid him. Little did they suspect that Harry looked upon the two dozen tourists as confederates.
    Disregarding the gun thrust against his rib-cage, Harry strode forward. The man in the London Fog tried to grab him. Harry wheeled about so quickly that his hold, tentative to begin with, slipped altogether. His friend lunged forward, but Harry had already gotten past him. Neither of them had expected Harry might try to escape.
    The man in cashmere brought out his weapon and sighted it on Harry who was only a few yards away. He commanded him to halt. Harry did not.
    The tourist group seemed unaware of what was happening. But then one young man, more observant than his companions, caught a glimpse of the guns and was so incredulous that he just stopped where he was. He tapped the woman next to him on the shoulder to point out how bizarre things had gotten on Beach Street.
    The tour guide was still talking a mile a minute, absolutely oblivious to the danger he and his group were about to walk into.
    “These days the fishermen no longer go out looking for oysters and salmon and sardines. Basically, it’s crabs, but that’s still enough to keep approximately one hundred fishing boats in business.” He was turning back to see how engrossing he’d been when a woman screamed. Her scream ran through the crowd.
    The tour guide’s jaw slackened. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong. Had his lecture been so provocative that it had caused this kind of hysterical reaction? Before he could discover an explanation a shot rang out, although he did not immediately identify it as such.
    Harry was zigzagging into the street, thinking all the time that these men from the DEA were crazy for risking fire in the middle of a crowded block. The first shot had gone above his head.
    The second came closer, passing him on the right side.
    The tour group was scattering in disarray, people running every which way or ducking under the nearest parked car, uncertain as to where the shots were originating.
    The two DEA officers were crouched down, trying to keep Harry in their sights, which was becoming increasingly hard as he rushed into the panicked mob.
    The tour leader stood right in the middle of the street. Either he hadn’t caught on yet as to what was happening or he had become too immobilized with fear to get down. He was shouting directives to his group which went unheeded.
    Harry slammed right into the man and knocked him down just as two more shots were fired.
    “Stay there,” he ordered the bewildered guide, “don’t get up.”
    Harry, however, did not take his own advice. Immediately, he was up and running again. A car window off to his side shattered with the impact of another round.
    Harry threw himself over the hood of that car and sprawled awkwardly on the other side, out of harm’s way.
    The two officers separated. One was headed directly for him, the other was circling around to his