J.A. Johnstone - The Loner - Crossfire

It didn’t last long. Lannigan hadn’t risen to power by being easily startled. His expression hardened as he put a hand on his wife’s shoulder and moved her behind him so he stood between her and Conrad. Conrad had to give the man credit for trying to protect the woman he was married to, even though she was a lying, mercenary bitch.

All eyes in the room were on them when Conrad stopped about four feet from Lannigan. “You know why I’m here.”

Lannigan tried to act ignorant. “I do? I don’t even know who you are, friend, let alone what you want. You look like you’ve been through the wringer, though. How about a drink?”

“I want my children,” Conrad said.

That brought a tiny whimper from the woman behind Lannigan. The saloon owner’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

“My children,” Conrad repeated. “The twins. Frank and Vivian. Pamela Tarleton stole them from me and gave them to you.”

Lannigan tried to remain calm and suave, but the man’s control was developing cracks. Conrad was barely able to keep his own emotions in check.

“It’s true that my wife and I are the proud parents of twins, but they’re not yours,” Lannigan forced out. “And they’re not named Frank and Vivian. Their names are David and Rachel.”

“And you’re their father?” Conrad snapped.

Everyone in the room was hanging on every word.

Lannigan managed to smile. “Well, actually ... no. My wife’s first husband ... her late husband ... fathered them. But I love them and feel like they’re mine, so I’ve adopted them. They are mine.”

It was all Conrad could do not to pull the Smith & Wesson and put a .38 slug between the man’s eyes. Forcing himself to stay calm, he shook his head.

“They’re not yours, and they’re not hers. I’m their father, and Pamela Tarleton was their mother.”

That brought some gasps of surprise from the crowd. Many of the people knew what had happened between Conrad and Pamela, even if they’d never met her. The grapevine of high-society gossip extended from coast to coast.

Conrad’s words also brought an anguished cry from Winifred Lannigan. “No!” She stepped around her husband. “Stop that!” she shouted at Conrad. “Stop saying that! David and Rachel are mine! Don’t you think I know whether or not I gave birth to my own children?”

The pain and anger on her face and in her voice was convincing, but Conrad didn’t believe it. “You were paid to lie,” he said coldly. “Pamela set this all up. She gave Lannigan the money to buy the Golden Gate Saloon, and she paid you to marry him and pretend the children were yours. But we all know that’s not true. You stole my son and my daughter from me ... and I’ll have them back.”

So much for subtlety. So much for trying to get Lannigan alone and forcing him to talk. Everything had blown up, right out in the open. Conrad hadn’t intended to go that way, but when he found out Lannigan and Winifred were passing the twins off as their own, the emotions running unchecked through him were too strong to resist. They had overwhelmed him, and he let himself be carried along on the wave.

Winifred’s furious glare suddenly crumpled into sobs. She turned to her husband and buried her face against his chest as she shuddered and pleaded, “Make him stop saying those awful things, Dex. Make him stop!”

Lannigan patted her awkwardly on the back. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll handle this.” He looked at Conrad. “I’m still not sure who you are, mister, but I think you’d better leave. Otherwise I’ll be forced to summon the authorities.”

Conrad laughed. “Go ahead and call them. Call the police, and I’ll tell them all about how you tried to have me killed, and when that didn’t work, your men shanghaied me onto a ship bound for China with a shipment of rifles you’re smuggling to the warlords! So go ahead, Lannigan. Summon the authorities.”

A hand plucked tentatively at Conrad’s sleeve. He looked into the pale face of Roberta Kimball. “Please, Conrad. I can tell how upset you are, but ... is it really necessary to do this here?”

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I didn’t set out to ruin your party. I really didn’t. But when I heard how these two liars had stolen my children—”

That set off another round of bawling from Winifred, whose sobs had subsided to sniffles until Conrad repeated his accusation.

“That’s enough,” Lannigan snapped. He tightened an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’re leaving—”

Conrad reached under his coat and drew the .38. “No, you’re not,” he warned. “Not until we’ve settled this.”

That was just about the worst thing he could have done, he realized a second later when he heard Frank say behind him, “Conrad, look out!”

A gun roared somewhere in the ballroom.

Of course Lannigan wouldn’t have come without guards, Conrad thought as panic erupted. Women screamed, men shouted curses, and everybody scattered ...

Except the men wearing the red jackets of waiters, who charged across the ballroom with guns in their hands. Lannigan’s men working the party so they would be on hand in case of trouble.

Trouble such as the real father of the children Lannigan claimed as his own showing up and pulling a .38.

Lannigan grabbed Winifred and shoved her behind him again, then lunged at Conrad and grabbed the wrist of his gun hand, twisting it so the Smith & Wesson pointed at the fancy chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. Conrad tried to wrench his arm free, but Lannigan hung on stubbornly with both hands. Conrad smashed a punch with his left hand into Lannigan’s body. Lannigan grunted in pain but didn’t let go.

A few feet away, Frank had whirled around to meet the threat from the saloon owner’s hired guns and keep them away from Conrad. His Colt was in his hand, but there were too many innocent people in the way. He held his fire.

Suddenly a gap appeared in the crowd, and two of Lannigan’s men blasted shots at Frank when they spotted him holding a gun. The slugs whistled past, one on each side of his head. His Colt thundered in return as he squeezed off three shots so fast they sounded like one long roar. One of the gunmen doubled over and spun around as he clutched at his bullet-torn gut. The other collapsed as his thighbone, shattered by one of Frank’s bullets, gave out under him.

The exchange of shots made the panic in the ballroom worse as everybody headed for the doors.

Everybody except the struggling Conrad and Lannigan, the screaming Winifred, and Frank and the gunmen, who continued swapping lead as Frank overturned a table and knelt behind it for cover. Bullets chewed splinters from the heavy table but didn’t penetrate it.

Conrad hooked another punch into Lannigan’s body, causing him to loosen his grip. Conrad tore his gun hand free and slashed the .38 across Lannigan’s face, opening a gash in the saloon owner’s forehead and causing him to take a stumbling step backward.

Winifred stopped screaming, picked up a chair, and smashed it down over Conrad’s head as he turned toward her. He was taken by surprise and disoriented for a second although the chair was lightweight, a spindly-legged thing that didn’t have a lot of impact as it shattered. Using one of the broken chair legs she still clutched in her hand, Winifred hit him again. The blow landed solidly against Conrad’s skull just above his left ear.

If he hadn’t already endured so much punishment in the past twenty-four hours, he could have shrugged it off, but skyrockets exploded in his head and the room started spinning. The dizziness made him lose his balance. As he staggered to the side, Lannigan tackled him, and they crashed to the floor. Conrad lost his grip on the .38. It went sliding away across the brilliantly polished hardwood.