J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

“So you brought me here to answer that question.”

Diamond Jack’s narrow shoulders rose and fell in another eloquent shrug. “Who better to know the affairs of the son than the father?”

Frank didn’t answer that. “How did you know I’m Conrad’s father?”

“I have my sources of information. There are spies everywhere, remember?”

Frank sensed he wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of the man. Diamond Jack wanted to protect his sources. Frank couldn’t blame him for that. The Woo Sing tong was locked in a war with Lannigan, and its leader would use every weapon at his disposal.

“What happens if I tell you what’s going on?”

“Then I decide whether or not to rescue your son,” Diamond Jack said.

“Based on how much of a blow that’ll deal to Lannigan.”

“Precisely.”

Frank nodded. The tong leader represented his best chance of getting Conrad off that ship before it sailed, so he was going to have to put his cards on the table.

“Three years ago, Lannigan made a deal with a woman named Pamela Tarleton. At least that’s what Claudius Turnbuckle and I believe.”

“Turnbuckle has a reputation as an astute lawyer,” Diamond Jack admitted. “But I have never heard of this Tarleton woman.”

“Consider yourself lucky. At one time she was supposed to marry my son, but all she wound up ever giving him was grief.”

For the next few minutes, Frank sketched in the details of Conrad’s relationship with Pamela and how she had set out to have her vengeance on him. When he reached the part about the hidden children, Diamond Jack arched an eyebrow.

“This woman sounds ... impressive.”

“If being downright evil impresses you, I reckon she fits the bill, all right,” Frank said. “Ever since Conrad found out about the twins, he’s been looking for them, and the trail led him here to San Francisco. It looks like she made an arrangement with Lannigan, since he’s been trying to kill Conrad. I want to get my hands on him so I can make him tell me if he knows where my grandchildren are ... unless those spies of yours might be able to shed any light on that.”

Diamond Jack shook his head. “My people cannot look for something they don’t even know exists, and this is the first I have heard about any missing children. You and your son have my sympathy, Mr. Morgan. You have suffered much at the hands of this Tarleton woman.”

“Conrad more than me, but I’d be holding a grudge against her, too, if she was still alive. I sure don’t want her winning, even though she’s dead.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance—”

“You’ll help get Conrad off that boat?”

“It can be arranged,” Diamond Jack murmured, “but I must have something in return.”

“What do you want?” Frank asked bluntly.

“What happens to Lannigan if he knows where the children are hidden?”

“I reckon that’s up to him.”

Diamond Jack smiled. “I would like to see him wind up dead. My men might be able to get to him, but at a high cost. You and your son, on the other hand ...”

“We’re not members of your tong, so our lives aren’t worth as much to you.”

“Look at it however you will, Mr. Morgan, but it seems to me you and Browning have ample reason for wanting Dex Lannigan dead, as do I.”

“I told you, I’m not a hired gun,” Frank said. “But if you rescue Conrad from that ship, I think there’s a good chance the two of us will be taking the fight to Lannigan. What happens after that is up to fate.”

Diamond Jack laughed. “As a good Chinese, how can I not put my trust in fate? Very well, you have a deal. Before the Nimbus sails tonight, my men will take your son off the ship.”

“One more thing ... I’m going along.”

“Knowing your reputation, Mr. Morgan, I expected no less.”

Chapter 23

At least a year had dragged by since he’d regained consciousness the second time, Conrad thought. That was what it felt like, anyway.

But the ship on which he was being held prisoner still rocked gently at anchor, and since the broken-nosed captain had said they were sailing that night, Conrad knew only hours had passed, not months.

The first time he woke up in that hellhole he had only thought he hurt. The second time he was in more pain. Not just his head, but his entire body ached intolerably. A lesser man would have wanted to curl up and die.

Conrad lay there regaining some of his strength and trying to figure out a way to escape.

The second part of that challenge was going to be difficult, if not impossible. The crew member who had been careless when coming down to check on him earlier faced punishment lashes for his carelessness. Nobody wanted to be whipped. The next time that door in the bulkhead opened, there would be at least three men on the other side of it, probably more. They wouldn’t take chances with him again.

It was possible they wouldn’t unlock the door until after the ship had sailed. Realizing that was enough to goad him on his hands and knees again. He crawled around until he found one of the crates he had encountered earlier. Pulling himself onto it, he sat for a long time and rested from the effort.

Feeling stronger, he got to his feet and began exploring his prison. There might be another way out. A porthole, maybe. If he could find something like that and force it open ...

There weren’t any portholes. He felt his way all over the four walls of the chamber and found nothing except the door. The hinges were on the inside, but he had nothing with which to work on them. If he had a tool of some sort, he might work the pins out of the hinges and free the door.

With that thought in his mind, he stumbled through the darkness back to the crates and fell to his knees beside one of them. He ran his hands over the lid, searching for even the tiniest gap he might be able to force his fingers into. If he could pry one of the boards loose, he might be able to use a nail in it to push the pins up and out of the hinges. What he really needed was a crowbar to pry up a board ...

That thought made him collapse in grim laughter against the crate. If he had a crowbar, he could use it to force the door open and wouldn’t have to attack the hinges. He wasn’t thinking straight. The beatings he had endured, plus the lack of food and water, had taken quite a toll on him. A desperate thirst gripped him. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper, and his tongue seemed twice its normal size.

“Feeling sorry for yourself won’t do you any good, Conrad,” he rasped, speaking the words aloud. “Get back to work.”

Finally, on the fourth crate he checked, he found a slightly warped board on the edge of the lid. Gripping it with his fingers, he heaved up with all the strength he could muster, but the board didn’t budge. He rested a few moments and tried again, then again and again.

He lost track of time. He didn’t know if he’d been pulling on the board for fifteen minutes or three hours. He didn’t notice when the board finally shifted a little. He just reset his grip and heaved again.

The movement was unmistakable.

Conrad slumped against the crate as emotion washed over him. He was far from being free, but at least he had accomplished something.

After a moment, he shook his head in the utter darkness and got back to work. With a better grip on the board and the other hand on the crate to brace himself, he put his back into the effort and pushed with his legs. Nails squealed as they slipped a little in their holes. Conrad grinned savagely and heaved again.

At last the board broke with a splintering of wood, and a piece of it came free in his hand. He lost his balance and wound up sitting down hard on his rear end. He sat there laughing until he remembered why he wanted the board in the first place. Two nails were still in place, protruding about an inch and a half from the bottom side of the board.