Free The Loner: Crossfire by J.A. Johnstone Page B

we do with spies, mynheer !”

Chapter 11
     
    Hans and Ulrich were big, but they were slow. Conrad avoided their lumbering rush by bounding down the stairs toward Dutchy and Carmen. The girl shrieked and ran, but Dutchy stood his ground, bellowing, “Help! Stop him! Help!”
    Several burly customers sprang to his aid. As Conrad reached the bottom of the staircase, a man pushed Dutchy aside and swung a mallet-like fist at Conrad’s head. Conrad ducked the punch and hooked a hard right into the man’s midsection. The man grunted in pain, doubled over, and staggered backward.
    Unfortunately, that delay was long enough for one of Dutchy’s bouncers to leap down the stairs and slam into Conrad from behind. He wrapped his arms around him and lifted him off his feet. They crashed onto a table that splintered under their weight. Conrad landed amidst the debris with his attacker on top of him, knocking the breath from his lungs, stunning him.
    “Hold him, Ulrich!” Dutchy shouted.
    Ulrich’s arms tightened around Conrad, preventing him from drawing in any air to replace what he had lost. Almost instantly, Conrad’s head began to spin and a red haze drifted over his eyes. On the verge of losing consciousness, he drove an elbow into Ulrich’s belly, hoping to loosen the man’s grip, but it was like hitting a wall made of thick, sturdy planks and didn’t seem to have any effect.
    The roaring in his head rose to a thunderous level. Conrad knew he was about to pass out. Then he heard a shout that was muffled by the pounding of his pulse, and the vise-like grip around his chest and the great weight on his back was released. He rolled over and lay with his chest heaving as he dragged in great lungfuls of air.
    His blurry eyesight cleared after a moment and he saw a large, black-clad shape flashing back and forth. He pushed himself to a sitting position and got a better look at what was going on. His rescuer was a tall, broad-shouldered man who kept Dutchy, the bouncers, and the patrons of Spanish Charley’s at bay by slashing back and forth with a large, heavy-bladed hatchet.
    Conrad wasn’t surprised when he saw the man’s yellow-hued skin, dark almond-shaped eyes, and black hair braided into a pigtail that hung down his back between his shoulders. The man also had a peculiar scar shaped like a half-moon on his right cheek. The hatchet men of Chinatown were famous—or notorious was probably a better word to describe them—but Conrad didn’t know any reason why one of them would be helping him.
    He wasn’t going to turn down the aid. As he struggled to his feet, he spotted a man with an old cap-and-ball revolver on the balcony drawing a bead on the big Chinese.
    Conrad’s hand flashed to his Colt still behind his belt at the small of his back. Sweeping his coattails aside, he brought up the revolver and fired a split second before the man on the balcony did. Conrad’s bullet smashed into the man’s elbow, shattering bone and throwing off his aim. The old revolver boomed, but the heavy slug smacked harmlessly into a wall. The man screamed, dropped the gun, and clutched at his wounded arm. He fell forward against the railing along the edge of the balcony, smashed through it, and plummeted into the angry crowd, knocking a couple men to the floor as they broke his fall.
    Conrad put his back against that of his unexpected ally and swept the gun around. The mob drew back.
    “I’m not a spy and I’m not a policeman,” Conrad said raggedly as he continued to catch his breath. “But I’m leaving here, and nobody better try to stop me.”
    “You lie!” Dutchy accused. “You’re up to no good!”
    “Back off and I’ll never set foot in this place again. I promise you that!”
    Gradually, the crowd parted. Conrad kept a close eye on them as he edged toward the door with the Chinese man beside him.
    Evidently anyone who had the impulse to pull a gun thought better of it, having seen what had happened to the man on the