Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) (23 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-O
NE

KILLIAN DEL LEARNED
of General Rand’s death as soon as he woke.

Since he had not achieved his bed until well after fourteen midnight, and was thoroughly inebriated at that time, shortly after he woke was close to fourteen noon.

He learned of the tragedy not via the newspaper presented on its tray — the paper was always a day behind events, at best —  but rather by the oldest and most effective information delivery service known to humanity, the servants.

In his case, it was his valet, who had it from the downstairs maid who had it from the cook who had it from the dairy carter, whose morning delivery to the Rand home had been turned away by police officers currently investigating the General’s murder.

Upon learning of his friend’s demise, Killian chose to forego his usual second cup of tea and instead had his valet teleph the Chief of Police, of whom he demanded a face to face meeting in which he expected all the details of the ongoing investigation, as well as an accounting as to how such a thing had been allowed happen in the first place.

Chief Salla had not been, to Killian’s mind, sufficiently deferential, but she had agreed to ‘stop by’ at half-one.

The lack of urgency on the chief’s part had Killian re-thinking his endorsement of Salla come the next city election. While it had no doubt looked good to be seen backing a non-corrupt official, he’d never expected non-corrupt to also mean non-compliant.

Determined to rectify the issue, Killian used the time between their teleph conversation and Salla’s arrival to review his personal ledgers, with an eye towards which of the officials listed therein would prove a strong (and more compliant) successor. 

He’d just narrowed down the possibilities to a District Commander already in his pocket and a second cousin who’d served as a captain in the Civil Defense Service when Chief Salla was announced.

Killian set the books to the side as Salla was shown into the office. At the same time, the university bells chimed half-one.

“Chief Salla,” Killian nodded a greeting from behind his desk. He did not rise, nor did he ask the Chief to take a seat. “I trust you had good reason to keep me waiting,” he added, in such a way as to assure Salla
no reason
would be considered good enough.

“There was a bit of a crime spree throughout the 9
th
district last night,” Salla replied, her caramel features indicating a token remorse, at best. “The sort of thing the Chief of Police is expected to attend to.”

“And what of
this
crime, in
this
neighborhood?” Killian demanded. “General Rand was murdered, not three blocks from here. Who was attending to General Rand? Where,” he added, leaning back with his hands steepled beneath his chin, “was the police presence on Chaucer Street?”

“According to DS Hama’s report, the usual patrol was working their beat,” she replied, opening the file she’d carried in with her and scanning the top page. “In fact, from what I see here, Officer LaCosta spied your own carriage pulling out of the Rand estate shortly after twenty-eight hundred hours. Is this correct?” She glanced up.

“It is,” Killian said.  “The Rands hosted a gathering yesterday evening. I was the last to depart.”

“And did you see anyone or anything suspicious, as you departed?”

“It never occurred to me to look,” Killian sniffed. “Though it shouldn’t matter, should it? I was given to understand your officers had the killer dead to rights, and lost him.”

“There is a suspect and he did flee the scene,” Salla agreed, her eyes returning to the report. “He was identified by Madame Rand as an ex-convict by the name of Gideon Quinn.” She looked up. “You wouldn’t happen to know a Gideon Quinn, would you, Minister?”

Though Killian suspected the Gideon he’d met in the diner was the same Gideon Jessup had feared — for good reason, it appeared — saying so would only raise questions about Killian’s relations with Jinna Pride. “I’ve never met anyone by that—“

“
QUINN!
” a voice bellowed from outside Killian’s picture window.

A voice that was followed in short order by a rock, which shattered said window, and
that
was followed by the charging mass of Clive Wendell, festooned with bits of the shrubbery he’d just stormed, and armed with an assortment of makeshift weapons which seemed to have started life as plumbing equipment.

From the distant sounds of additional shatterings, Killian thought at least two other intruders were attempting entrance through other windows. His hand started to fall to the drawer which held his personal sidearm.

Salla, for her part, had already drawn her weapon, leaving the report she’d been reading to drift to the carpet, almost in echo of the greenery the intruder shed as he stumbled upright.

“Hold on t’yer britches, Quinn!” said intruder exclaimed, and then he froze mid-charge. “Oy!” he glared, looking from Salla to Killian and back. “You ain’t Gideon Quinn.”

“True, we are not,” Salla agreed amiably, though her weapon remained steady on the target. From the rest of the house, shouts rose in various levels of protest, from the panicked screams of the butler to the authoritative bark of Salla’s aide to the shocked cursing of, presumably, the intruder's mates. “Any particular reason you’d be looking for Mr. Quinn here?”

“Because here’s where he told us to come,” Wendell said then, as if in afterthought, lowered the pipe wrench he’d been brandishing.

“Did he now?” Salla glanced at Killian, who looked somewhat grey.

“Oy then,” Wendell said as he finally took note Salla’s uniform, “you’re the swarmin’ filth!”

“That I am,” Salla agreed. “And you are swarming nicked.” Even as she spoke, the door behind her opened and her aide entered with his sidearm raised and ready to fire.

“We are quite safe, Gorsky,” Salla assured him. “But this man is under arrest for trespassing, vandalism and intended assault,” she gestured towards the outraged Wendell.

“Weren’t nothing intended,” Wendell groused. “I’d’a trounced Quinn for sure if he’d been ‘ere.”

“You’ll want to read him his rights,” she said to Gorsky. “And we must also declare Minister Del’s home a crime scene, possibly linked to General Rand’s murder.”

“What?” Killian straightened in shock. “I can’t imagine why it should—“

“I am certain it is nothing more than a misunderstanding,” Salla cut in. “But the fact this ruffian was invited to your home by the prime suspect in General Rand’s murder, well,” she shrugged, “you see how it looks.”

“I—“

“For now, perhaps it is best if you join me at my office, at least until after the search is complete,” Salla offered.

Killian’s face went from ashen to dead white. “I will have your badge of office,” he said under his breath. “I will see you working waste patrol for this.”

Already the room was filling with other members of Salla’s escort, one of whom joined Gorsky in securing Wendell while the other radioed in a request for additional officers on the scene.

“Stranger things have happened,” Salla agreed calmly. “Such as a District Minister facing charges of corruption. Of course, I would never make such an accusation without proof.” She glanced from Killian, to the ledgers seated placidly on his desk, and back.

For once, Killian Del had no response.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-T
WO

AT THE SAME
time Killian Del was being escorted from his home, a flurry of efficient activity had the desk sergeant of the 9
th
Precinct looking up from a pile of briefs to be handed out at the next shift.

Immediately she came to full attention.

It wasn’t every day a general of the Corps, with full escort, walked in the front door. “Sir,” she greeted the incoming brass. “How may I—

“General Kimo Satsuke, Corps Internal Operations. Where is Detective Sergeant Hama?” the general asked, overriding the greeting.

Sergeant Tyree blinked. “DS Hama left several hours ago,” she said. “Would you like me to take a mess—“

“Where did he go?”

“I believe he was following up on an active lead. I’m sure if you’ll—“

“Was this lead regarding the murder of General Jessup Rand?”

“If I may ask, how did you know—“

“General Rand is —
was
— the commanding officer of the Tactical Division,” the general said. “As such DS Hama forwarded his report to Tactical HQ, who forwarded it to CIOD, who forwarded it to me, as my airship was already en route to Nike.”

“But why—“

“General Rand’s death is a matter of Colonial security, as is this investigation.” Satsuke continued to answer the sergeant’s half-asked questions. “So — did DS Hama’s pressing lead have anything to do with General Rand?”

This, the sergeant thought, was above her pay grade. “He didn’t mention, specifically.”

Satsuke’s eyes narrowed. “Did he mention anything non-specific?”

“He said — he said he was following a wild draco.”

The general grunted, looked at one of the other officers who’d entered with her, a dark-haired woman in the blue and silver of a captain of the Air Corps.

“It sounds like him,” the captain said.

The general turned back to the sergeant. “How do I get in touch with DS Hama?”

The sergeant turned, spied an officer at loose ends. “Arroyo! Please show General Satsuke to the radio room.”

Officer Arroyo snapped to attention. “This way, General.” He started for the double doors which led into the precinct operations rooms.

Satsuke grimaced her thanks — at least, the sergeant chose to believe thanks were involved somewhere in the twist of scowl — and gestured for the captain at her side to follow and for the two remaining officers to wait.

“Your man,” Satsuke was telling the captain, as they passed through the doors, “has mucked this up, properly.”

“He’s not my — yes, sir,” the captain said. “He does that, but if he remains true to form, the muck will fertilize a solid crop.”

“You know I hate metaphors,” Satsuke snapped as she passed out of hearing.

None of which made sense to the sergeant, but thankfully the doors swung closed and she was able to return her attention to the less complex burglaries, brawls and blackmails which, thankfully, had naught to do with Colonial security.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY
-T
HREE

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
after Gideon’s arrival in Nike, while Nahmin watched the twins being taken into custody and Clive Wendell was storming into Killian Del’s office, Celia Rand was shedding her robe and stepping over the deep red puddle of satin into a well-earned bath.

Sighing luxuriously she sank down into the warm, silky water, easing her battered flesh while the lightly scented steam cleansed the remnants of blood and death which had lingered in a depressing pall since the early hours.

It had, she reflected, been a very trying time, what with the dinner party the night before and the trials of arranging both Gideon Quinn’s abduction and her husband’s murder.

There had also been the strain of playing the traumatized wife for the police and, later, the staff, all in order to maintain the character she’d adopted over twelve years ago, when she’d first put herself in the way of Jessup Rand’s eyes.

In truth, she hadn’t been aiming specifically for Jessup. Any one of the military leaders attending that long ago party would have suited — General Anya Sprezza had held a particular appeal, being both attractive and in command of three front-line regiments — but Jessup had proven the most suggestive and so it was Jessup who’d ‘won’ Celia’s attentions.

That night had been the beginning of a long and mutually beneficial relationship, she using her skills to further his career and pave the way to greater responsibilities, and he providing her access to all manner of military secrets to pass on to her superiors in Midas.

Not that Jessup knew of her true affiliations, any more than he’d known that every time he touched her she was, as the old saying went, closing her eyes and thinking of Midas. “Or Anya, or the twins — or Gideon,” she admitted with a laugh as she wet the sea sponge and soothed it over the bruise on her thigh, one of many Gideon had left on her during his brief but vigorous escape attempt the previous night. In a way, he’d done her a favor, as the bruises provided a level of verisimilitude to her story of a furious Gideon Quinn seeking revenge against her husband for his capture and conviction, over six years ago.

He had also, in that moment of fury, reminded Celia what true desire felt like, and what it felt like was wild, uncontrollable and utterly un-calculated.

In short, nothing like the charade she’d been living for the past dozen years.

It had been an exhilarating and all too brief experience. “Too bad we hadn’t more time,” she murmured as her thoughts turned Quinnward, the entire lean, scarred length of the only man she’d known to be resistant to her talents. “I’d have enjoyed the challenge of him,” she admitted, leaning back in the tub and appreciating the chance to speak her thoughts aloud, to be — for just a few moments — entirely herself.

It was, she was quite certain, the first time she’d been alone in the house on Chaucer Street since she and Jessup had taken up residence. Both Jessup’s position in the Corps and the requirements of Avonian society had demanded a certain level of support, from house staff to military adjutants to decorators, caterers, gardeners and various specialists who serviced the seemingly endless rounds of visits, dinners, parties and meetings.

It had been so at every one of Jessup’s postings, and she’d no reason to complain, as both the military and social circles provided access to the sort of information her superiors in Midas required.

A pity that, in the end, none of it had been enough to grant Midas and the rest of the Coalition states a final victory. The best they were able to manage against the United Colonies was an end to the hostilities in exchange for certain concessions.

It was a point of pride for Celia that even those concessions would not have been achieved without the intelligence she provided, proving the value of her continuing to remain embedded in the Colonies.

Admittedly, her role would require some adaptation, now that Jessup, her key source of intelligence, had been eliminated. And here he’d only just taken command of the Tactical Division, which would have proven a veritable crystal field of intelligence.

Sadly, Gideon Quinn’s release had left her no choice but to clean up her husband’s mess.

At the thought, she had to laugh, for Jessup’s death had been far from clean. Nahmin had seen to that.

The inherent viscera of murder had also given her the opportunity to give the staff the rest of day off and, while there had been a token protest from the cook, the maids — both of whom had been required to clean Celia’s bedchamber after Jessup’s body was removed — were more than happy to excuse themselves.

From the looks on their faces, Celia imagined she’d be advertising for new maids by the week’s end.

Still, it was a small price to pay for freedom from her husband’s past mistakes. After all, if he’d simply killed Gideon Quinn during their encounter at Nasa, there would have been no need to have Nahmin kill Jessup last night.

But that was Jessup all over,
Celia thought with an amused fondness for the husband she’d had murdered,
always adhering to the protocols.
Even while he was framing another man for treason.

She recalled the day Jessup had returned from Nasa to tell her what had happened, and how she’d momentarily lost control, furious that Quinn still lived.

It had been a mistake, but thankfully Jessup assumed her anger was based in fear of Gideon Quinn, rather than disappointment in himself, and so her cover had remained intact.

“What you didn’t know, Jessup, dear,” she murmured as she reached for the soap, “never hurt you.”

“Actually, it kinda did,” Gideon said from the door — before ducking the soap she automatically hurled his way.