City of Blood (Dirty Harry, Book 6)
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Winos brutally slain on San Francisco's skid row. Beautiful young women butchered in the act of sex by a perverted killer. The acts of two men, or one? Not even Dirty Harry knows. But he's going to find out, if he has to break every law to do it. From `Frisco's sexual underground to the boardrooms in the city's sky, Harry plunges into a blood-streaked manhunt that will leave only one survivor.
from these five wounds soon took hold and Death collapsed, he might not escape after all. Moreover, the injury he’d sustained was agonizing him, though it probably wasn’t very serious. While Death might be able to endure so much pain and loss of blood, he doubted that he could. He began to run, but still backward because he did not want to risk turning away from his assailant. But running backward in the dark is no easy thing to do. Suddenly, Owens stumbled over a branch that had broken off
rather remained partly suspended on it, just a few inches above the ground. Weirdly, he wasn’t completely dead, though he was about as close as you could get without being there. Or maybe death just hadn’t registered in some of the extremities because for a few moments a limb would twitch, a hand would reach tentatively out, then drop back again. And then there was no more motion. Blood dripped noisily into the viscous pool that had already formed. Death was at last truly dead. For several
vital and released such grievous hemorrhaging that there was no question of Ninn’s surviving past the ending of the Hitchcock film, which was concluding on the set. The assassin surrendered his hold on Ninn, it no longer being essential, and Ninn with the quiet and grace that had characterized his life slipped back into his chair, his head crumbling to his bloodied chest. Now the man wiped the chonta against a curtain, cleaning it of the blood and glutinous viscera that had accumulated along
gave Harry a polite, almost sheepish smile as if to say, I don’t know what I’m doing here either, don’t blame me for any of this. “Harry, Drake Owens.” “Pleased to meet you, I’ve heard a great deal about you,” Owens said. “Not much of it good, I suppose.” “You said it, not me,” Bressler interjected. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Owens, whose voice was as smooth and calming as his appearance. “I’ve seen you at the shooting range. I’ve watched what you can do with a .44.” “I’d like to
the top of Cavanaugh-Sterling, a multinational corporation that had begun as a drugstore chain and branched out so promiscuously that it now owned moving lines, marinas, movie theaters, a cable TV network, granaries in the Midwest, shrimp fisheries in the South, a microchip factory in the North, and an aircraft company in the Northwest. With Davis today was the diminutive, very dapper Mr. Hiroshi Asabuka, the production head of Cavanaugh-Sterling’s Tokyo division. Asabuka loved jazz, baseball,