Soldier of Fortune

Gideon groaned his way to his third uncomfortable awakening of the night and, despite an unpleasant stickiness on the floor, counted himself lucky to be waking at all.

Not yet ready to face what was on the other side of his eyelids, Gideon took a slow, deep breath that caught midway at the familiar metallic scent thickening the air.

He forced his eyes open and yes, the scent was that of blood—a great deal of it—splattered on his shirt and slickly coating his right hand where it lay directly in front of his eyes.

His right hand, and the knife he held in it.

Knife.

Bloody.

In his hand.

He made himself look beyond the gory artifact to what he presumed was the source of all that blood and was on his feet before he knew he’d moved.

Then he stood, stunned and shaking, over the recently deceased Jessup Rand.

He looked at the body, then the knife he still held, then the body again.

“Huh,” he said.

This seemed lacking, given the circumstances, but damned if he could think of anything else to say.

“How?” he then asked, which, while not much better, at least was a question.

It then occurred to Gideon he was having a very difficult time thinking past the thick, cottony fog. A fog, he realized thickly, a lot like earlier that night when he’d been drugged by Nahmin, who worked for—

“Celia,” the name ground out between his teeth as he at last remembered the woman in red pouring red liqueur down his throat, dosing him with morph.

Again.

There, see, his thoughts sloughed through the cotton, you didn’t kill Rand.

I was drugged, so how do you know what I did and didn’t do? he asked back.

“Because, you moron, you’re left-handed,” he heard himself say aloud, holding up his right hand, where he still held the knife.

He looked down at Jessup and felt the blade slide from his fingers to land on the floor with a thud that was almost as unpleasant as the sound of one man breathing when there were two men in the room.

More unpleasant still was the pounding of hurried footsteps rising from the street below, followed by the crack of a door being thrown open and the choked, fearful, yet viscerally recognizable voice of Celia Rand, begging those at the door to, “Please, hurry! They’re upstairs . . . my husband and . . . and . . . the man who . . . he . . . he tried to . . .”

“Do not worry, Msr,” an official-sounding voice interrupted Celia’s dramatics, “we’re here now.”

She was a good liar; Gideon had to give her that.

She was also, he was certain, framing him for the murder of her husband.

He turned from the damning body of evidence in front of him to see that the rest of the room, which had been in pristine condition earlier, now looked as if a storm had swept through the picture window currently swinging open on its hinges.

A storm . . . or two grown men fighting over a woman.

She really did know how to set a stage, Gideon thought as the boots from outside hit the stairs.

Then he thought—window.

Thirty seconds later, the doors burst open and two of Nike’s finest came rushing into the room, where they pulled up short in front of the body.

“Jessup!” Celia cried out before sliding to the floor in an apparent dead faint, which might also have led to a slight concussion as the two officers were paying no attention to her, being preoccupied by the presence of the body and absence of any apparent killer.

One of them was so new to the job that, while Celia was falling elegantly to the floor, young Officer Prudawe was racing to the open windows in hopes the fresh air would prevent any additional mess in the room.

Pressed against the building above the window, Gideon saw the dark head of a copper pop out.

He watched her shudder and heard the preemptive sound of retching.

While he sympathized, all he could think as she clutched at the sill was, Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Don’t look up.

Then he made himself stop thinking that for fear the young officer would hear him thinking, and then she would look up and see the blood-spattered man balanced on the window’s cornice, directly above where she was visibly trying not to puke.

His gaze remained locked on the officer’s deep green cap as she placed her hands on the window ledge, one on either side of a bloody handprint.

Don’t—the thought flitted out, in spite of himself.

She took several deep breaths.

—look—

Her hand slid a bit, and she raised it, turning the palm upwards to see the red smear.

—up.

She looked up.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he told her.

“Got him!” she shouted, disappearing into the room but reappearing a half second later, shooter in hand.

“That could have gone better,” Gideon said.

“Sir,” she said, “please climb down to be placed in custody.”

Gideon considered the request. “I don’t see how that can work out for me.”

On the street below, a compost lorry was steaming its way up the street.

“I’m telling you, you are under arrest!” the young officer called up, wildly brandishing the weapon.

“Have you been trained to use that thing?” Gideon asked, eying the lorry’s progress.

Are you an idiot? his rational mind asked.

Now you’re paying attention? Gideon asked the rational mind. Where were you when Celia was drugging me?

His rational mind had nothing to say to that.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Gideon said aloud.

“What?”

“Sorry,” he called down to the officer, “talking to myself.”

“My mum says talking to yourself is a sign of mental instability,” she told him. “Really, it’d be best if you climb back down here and let me arrest you.”

Another head appeared in the window, and damned if it wasn’t Mia’s DS Hama, the decent cop, last seen on Marlboro Avenue.

“Hello!” Hama greeted.

“Hi,” Gideon said with somewhat less enthusiasm.

Below, the lorry had stopped, despite a distinct lack of any bins needing emptying, directly below the cornice upon which Gideon was currently perched.

“Right mess in here,” Hama called up to Gideon.

“Watch yourself, sir,” the young officer said, pulling back as a draco swooped down past the window to buzz the lorry’s cab.

“Yeah, about that,” Gideon said, “you’re going to have a hard time believing this,” he leaned out ever so slightly, “but I was framed.”

“Of course you were.” Hama nodded his understanding. “Why don’t you climb back in, and we can talk about it?”

“Or,” Gideon said, “I could do this.”

And he jumped.