Mexico Kill (Dirty Harry, Book 4)
Not even losing his badge can keep "Dirty Harry" Callahan away from Magnum-powered action. Now Harry's working for a millionaire, and battling dope-running sea pirates from San Francisco to Mexico's heroin-packed shores. Behind the scenes and the big guns is his old enemy Father Nick. An underworld kingpin and ex-con, Nick can't let the past die, and Harry won't let the mobsters live!
is the right word for it. I don’t know whether there’s a word in the English vocabulary that’s the right word for it. Maybe I’m a little old-fashioned, that could be it.” “As soon as Harold and I work things out I’ll find myself a new situation.” Harry didn’t know that people talked about new situations in that manner unless they were characters in the nineteenth-century novels he was compelled to read in high school. “And how long do you think that’ll be?” “Hard to tell with this yacht
too warm, too dense and stale. He rose, deciding to forgo further exploration for the time being. Sliding a glassine envelope into his pocket, he began down the passageway, his Magnum in hand. The interior of the cabin was as quiet as before. In the poor light streaming through the passageway from the kitchen nothing unusual presented itself. Harry wasn’t comforted. He felt that he was no longer alone, that his movements were being watched. But there was no visual cue to corroborate this
his goodbyes. He wanted to assure Keepnews that the police would do everything within their power to bring the matter to a successful conclusion. Keepnews frowned. “Captain,” he said, “I expect immediate action. Tomorrow morning I would like a call from you to give me the latest report.” “These things take time, sir. We can’t just invade a private yacht without reasonable grounds of suspicion.” “I gave you all the reasonable grounds you need, Captain.” This last remark Haines missed
Slater were to be disturbed. This second possibility seemed to be borne out within minutes when a bespectacled man, wearing a white jacket and white slacks, stepped into their path and with deferential reserve addressed them both. “You are Americans, yes?” He appeared to be enjoying the last years of his seventh decade. His skin was leathery and dark but there was a strange shimmer to it, a gloss, as though he’d been baked in a kiln for half his life. His frame was small, and his hands had
small black letters: Angel Lily. The skipper took hold of a megaphone and called out to the Angel Lily, asking if there was anyone on board. Presently a figure popped up from below deck, a man with straggly russet hair that drooped to his shoulders. “Yessir, you could be of help to us,” the man shouted. “Something’s fucked up with our fuel, can’t figure out what the hell it could be. Been out here must be two days doing circles waiting for somebody to come along. Don’t know how happy we are to