Free Dirty Harry 10 - The Blood of Strangers by Dane Hartman Page A

was fidgeting and nervously knitting his fingers together—though it might have been because he was bored wth the proceedings, which was certainly understandable, or it could be because of the hot sun bearing down on him. Nonetheless, Harry began to watch him closely. There was something he didn’t like about the man’s eyes, the concentrated manner in which he gazed at Kayyim. To Harry, he seemed like a man on the verge of committing an act of great finality, and his squirming was nothing more than a manifestation of his nervousness.
    Now Harry listened more attentively to what Kayyim was saying. He was approaching the conclusion of his speech, and if that were the case, either the man would have to make his move or forget about it. That is, if Harry was right in assuming the man actually was preparing to do something dangerous.
    Kayyim came to the end of his address for there was another scattering of applause that gradually built in intensity. Kayyim nodded in acknowledgement and turned away from the podium to reclaim his seat.
    Harry kept his eyes on the man in the white sports coat. He was not applauding. One hand had slipped under his coat. Harry leaned forward, hoping to get a better look. But a man just in front of his suspect had abruptly risen from his chair, blocking Harry’s view.
    Then he caught sight of him again. He was fully erect, his arm extended. The sun caught a metal object in his hand and glinted off it. Harry wasted no time. He sprang from his seat and tackled Kayyim, throwing him to the stage, just as there was a muffled pop that was all but drowned out by the collective gasps from members of the audience. They might have thought Harry was the assailant.
    It was only due to Harry’s action that Kayyim was not struck. But one of the university officials, occupying a position on the podium, was not so fortunate. Having just risen to shake Kayyim’s hand, he’d placed himself directly in the path of a .38 shell that entered his chest, half an inch or so below his solar plexus.
    A surprised, somewhat dazed, expression came over his face as he lowered his eyes to inspect the wound. There was very little blood at first. It took several moments before the enormity of the damage inflicted on his vitals registered with the man. He rocked back and forth and then slowly sank back into his chair, his hands clasped together on his chest. He turned to speak to the man sitting next to him, to tell him that he had been shot, but there was so much confusion that there was no one there to listen. “I think I need to lie down,” he mumbled. Those were his last words.
    The would-be assassin, realizing that he had missed his target, managed to maneuver his way out to the aisle. Because no one was aware of what was happening, there was no one to stop him. There was a sense that something had gone gravely wrong, however, and dozens of policemen raced toward the stage, brandishing their weapons.
    The assailant seemed to understand that there was no point in lingering, that there would not be a second opportunity to kill the Libyan minister. People were thronging into the aisles, and so when he attempted to run, he found his progress impeded. He struggled against the human tide, ignoring the protests of those that he almost knocked over in his frantic attempt to escape.
    Naturally, the representatives of the media were falling over themselves in an effort to capture the incident on film. They spontaneously broke out of the confined area to which they’d been limited. It should have surprised no one to find that Ellie Winston was among the first to get to the campus proper with her cameramen.
    “Are you getting all this?” she kept asking, fearful that they would succeed only in documenting a panicky crowd and miss the assailant.
    But there was no danger of that. They were capturing the man on videotape in sharp focus. And how could they not? He was coming right toward them.
    After several seconds had elapsed without