J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

His muscles suddenly stiffened and his head came up as somewhere above him, gunshots sounded. The reports were muffled by decks and bulkheads between him and them, but they were unmistakable.

A ruckus was going on, and he couldn’t help but think it had something to do with him. Maybe Turnbuckle had figured out where he was and sent in the police.

Or maybe that big Chinese hatchet man, his guardian angel from Spanish Charley’s, had shown up unexpectedly again. If that was the case, Conrad hoped the man had brought some friends with him. Not even the formidable Ling Yuan—that was what Carmen had called him, wasn’t it?—would be a match for the entire crew of the ship.

Conrad wanted to be in the middle of it, not locked up, hidden belowdecks. He pried harder at the door, but still to no avail.

He heard the slap of footsteps hurrying toward the door and backed away, holding the broken board in his right hand and using his left to pick up the Winchester.

A man called, “Bring a light! Plant yourselves in front of that door! Nobody gets to Browning!”

The sailors were going to stand guard out there. Realizing that wouldn’t help him, Conrad focused on getting them to open the door. He lifted the rifle and slammed the butt of its stock against the panel. He hit the door hard, twice, and let out a yell.

“What the hell!” a sailor cried. “The Chinks already got in there somehow!”

That told Conrad who was behind his rescue attempt.

“Get your guns ready!” another man ordered. “Malley, unlock the door and get out of the way!”

Conrad backed off again, having a pretty good idea what was about to happen. A key rattled in the lock, then one of the men shoved hard on the door, thinking it would swing open.

It fell into the room, landing with a crash on the deck.

The racket hadn’t even had a chance to echo in the companionway when Conrad hurdled over the fallen door, slashing right and left with the piece of board in his hand.

The protruding nails made it a vicious weapon. They tore across the face of a startled sailor, causing blood to spurt and drawing a howl of pain from him. The flat side of the board thudded into a second man’s head, staggering him.

After being locked up in the dark room for so long, Conrad’s eyes were almost useless to him in the lanternlight. But he could make out some dim shapes and had the advantage of knowing nobody was his friend. He tore into them, pressing his surprise.

“Look out, he’s got a gun!” That was enough to make them forget the captain had ordered them to keep Conrad alive. A pistol roared deafeningly in the narrow confines of the corridor.

Conrad dropped the board and used both hands on the Winchester. He rammed the barrel into a man’s belly, then slashed the stock across the sailor’s face when he bent over in pain. He saw three men down, and only two still on their feet, making him realize his vision had improved.

One man held a pistol, and fired again. Conrad felt the hot breath of the slug as he leaped forward and crashed the rifle butt in the middle of the man’s face. Bone gave way under the impact. The man slumped against the wall with blood pouring from his ruined nose and mouth and slid to the deck. The pistol slipped from his fingers.

Conrad snatched it up and turned toward the last sailor, only to see him fleeing for his life. The lantern he carried bobbed and weaved as he ran toward a ladder at the far end of the corridor. Conrad could have shot him in the back, but he held his fire. More interested in getting out of there, he headed for the ladder, too. The sailor scrambled up it with the dexterity of an ape and disappeared through a hatch. Enough light spilled down through the opening that Conrad was able to see where he was going.

When he reached the ladder, he dropped the empty Winchester and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. He hated to abandon the rifle, but needed both hands to climb. Looking up he saw the sailor with the lantern already climbing another ladder on the next level. His prison really had been buried in the bowels of the ship, Conrad thought.

He started up the ladder. Sooner or later he would reach the ship’s deck and the open air. Even filled with the stench of rotten fish, it was going to smell good.

Rotten fish ... and powdersmoke, because somewhere above him guns continued to roar.

Ling Yuan motioned for Frank to fall behind as they charged toward the gangplank leading to the deck of the Nimbus . The other hatchet men would take the lead and run interference. Frank and Ling Yuan had the important job of finding Conrad.

Shouts and curses echoed over the deck as sailors battled the men who had boarded the ship on the water side. Unfortunately, the lookout near the gangplank on the dock side of the ship didn’t abandon his post to see what the commotion was. He yelled a warning and pulled a pistol from his belt as the first of the hatchet men charged up the gangplank.

The lookout didn’t get off a shot. Staggering back, he dropped his gun to paw at the handle of the hatchet lodged in his chest. The Diamond Jack man who had thrown the razor-sharp weapon with deadly accuracy paused just long enough to jerk the hatchet free as he leaped past the fallen lookout.

The hatchet men scattered across the deck to meet the threat of the ship’s crew. Some of the sailors were armed with revolvers, and shots began to roar. The hatchet men were blindingly quick, and avoided most of the bullets as they rushed in, chopping and slashing. Blood flew in the air.

Ling Yuan and Frank ran up the gangplank, reaching the deck. Frank’s Colt snapped up as he spotted a man standing on the bridge drawing a bead on them with a rifle. The Colt blasted first, sending a slug deep into the sailor’s chest, driving him backward. The rifle went off, but it was pointed at the sky by then and the bullet sailed harmlessly into the night.

“The captain!” Ling Yuan barked as he waved his hatchet toward a short, burly man wearing a blue jacket and a cap. “He can tell us where your son is!”

That sounded like a good idea to Frank. He headed for the captain with Ling Yuan at his side.

The man saw them coming and jerked a gun from under his jacket. Before he could fire, Ling Yuan sent his hatchet spinning through the air. Slicing cleanly through jacket and shirt sleeves, it lodged in the captain’s right forearm. The man screeched in pain and dropped the pistol. Falling to his knees, he cradled his injured arm against his body.

But he was tough, and still in the fight. Pulling the hatchet free with his left hand, he surged to his feet and slashed at Ling Yuan, who jerked back, barely avoiding the swipe.

Wanting the man alive so he could tell them where Conrad was being held prisoner, Frank jammed the Colt back in its holster and dived at the captain, going under the flailing hatchet. He rammed his shoulder into the man’s thick but solid gut and drove him backward off his feet.

They crashed to the deck. The captain chopped at Frank with the hatchet, but Frank got his right hand on the man’s wrist and kept the blow from falling. A second later, he hammered a punch with his left into the captain’s face. The blow didn’t faze the man. Squirming and twisting he tried to pull his left hand free to use the hatchet.

Frank hit him again, but the captain heaved his body up and toppled Frank to the side. A quick roll took Frank out of reach just as the hatchet came sweeping down at him. The blade hit the deck so hard it got stuck. The captain tugged on the handle but couldn’t get the weapon free.

Frank kicked the captain in the chest, knocking him to the deck, away from the hatchet. Blood still poured from the deep gash on the man’s arm. Years of a hard life at sea had toughened him to the point that he kept fighting, in spite of his weakened state.