Soldier of Fortune

Killian Del heard of General Rand’s death as soon as he woke, at fourteen noon.

He learned of the tragedy not via the newspaper presented on his breakfast tray, but rather by the oldest and most effective information delivery service known to humanity . . . the servants.

In his case, it was his butler, who had it from the downstairs maid, who had it from the cook, who had it from the grocery driver, whose morning delivery to the Rand home had been turned away by the police officers investigating the general’s murder.

Upon learning of his friend’s demise, Killian chose to forego his usual second cup of tea and instead telephed the city’s Chief of Police to demand a face-to-face meeting.

Killian didn’t feel Chief Salla had shown sufficient deference, but she did agree to stop by sometime after the noon hour.

The lack of urgency on the chief’s part had Killian rethinking his endorsement of Salla come the next city election because, while it looked good to be seen backing a non-corrupt official, he’d never expected non-corrupt to also mean noncompliant.

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 toward which of the officials listed therein would prove a more agreeable 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 one side as Salla was shown into the office, just as the university bells chimed half-one.

“Chief Salla,” Killian greeted, neither rising nor offering the chief a seat. “I trust you had sufficient reason to keep me waiting.”

“There was a bit of a crime spree throughout the Ninth District last night,” Salla replied, seeming untroubled by Killian’s lack of courtesy. “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.”

“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 Msr Celia 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?”

Killian’s thoughts flashed to the Gideon he’d encountered in Kit’s diner and the fact that Jessup had been worried about a man named Gideon Quinn, then he did the math on being associated in any way with a murder suspect. “I can’t say I’ve ever met anyone by that—”

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

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

The distant sounds of additional shatterings indicated this fellow wasn’t breaking and entering on his own.

Salla, however, had already drawn her weapon, the files she’d been carrying fluttering to the carpet as she took aim.

“Hold on t’yer britches, Quinn!” the intruder shouted, 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. “Any particular reason you’d be looking for Msr Quinn here?”

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

“Did he now?” Salla glanced at Killian.

“I have no idea what this means,” Killian assured, grabbing a handkerchief to mop at the sweat popping out on his forehead.

From the rest of the house came a single shriek, followed by voices raised in various levels of protest, presumably from this fellow’s accomplices.

“Oy then,” the intruder said, glaring at 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.

“We are quite safe, Gorsky,” Salla assured him. “But this man is to be placed under arrest for trespassing, vandalism, and intended assault.”

“Weren’t nothing intended,” the outraged intruder groused. “I’d’a trounced Quinn for sure if he’d been here.”

“You’ll want to read Msr—” She paused and looked at the oaf. “I assume you have a name?”

“Wendell,” the oaf muttered. “Clive Wendell.”

“Read Msr Wendell his rights,” Salla said to Gorsky. “And we must also declare Minister Del’s home a crime scene, possibly linked to General Rand’s murder.”

“What?” Killian started, handkerchief falling. “I can’t imagine why—”

“I am certain it’s 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 felt his bones turn to ice. “I will have your badge of office,” he said under his breath. “I will see you working waste patrol for this.”

“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 sitting on his desk and back.

For once, Killian Del had no response.

The university clock was chiming three o’clock by the time Ishan Hama pulled up outside the grounds of the Rand estate with his remaining officers.

The keepers and their new charges had returned to the Elysium Inn, where the youngsters would be offered sanctuary. Tiago had gone with them, as several of the children needed medical care.

The other half of Ishan’s team went back to the precinct with the Pradesh twins, who were taking full advantage of the right to remain silent and stare sullenly at anyone in their view.

This left Ishan with officers Prudawe, Giacomo, and Hodges, as well as Mia and the draco.

Mia, to Ishan’s dismay, had refused to go with the keepers, swearing she’d make her own way to the Rand house if he tried to leave her behind.

Since Ishan didn’t doubt her for a moment, he decided she’d be best in his sight rather than out of it.

He was less sanguine when, upon dismounting from his cycle, three massive silhouettes emerged from the hedge surrounding the Rand property.

“I know you,” he said, as the shapes became the Ohmdahl triplets. “Drunk and disorderly,” he pointed at Ulf. “Assault with a bar stool,” he pointed to Rolf. “General mayhem,” he pointed, finally, at Freya.

“That was long ago,” Freya said.

“That was last week,” Ishan told her.

“As I said, long ago.” She nodded decisively. “Back when we were without purpose, before Gideon Quinn gave us a job with meaning.”

“Gideon Quinn did, did he?” Ishan looked from Freya to Mia.

“He needed help to set up the marks,” she said with a shrug. On her shoulder, Elvis made a complicated trill which seemed to confirm the statement.

“Not to worry,” Ulf assured Ishan. “Gideon told us you are the man in charge, and we are to follow your orders.”

“Good,” Ishan said, resisting the urge to press a finger to his twitching left eye. “That’s . . . good.”

“You have our radio, yes?” Rolf asked.

“I have a radio, yes, but—”

“Sir?” Prudawe was approaching, her own radio in hand. “I just heard from Sergeant Tyree. She says—”

“A moment,” Ishan held up a hand. “Listen,” he said to the three Ohmdahls, looming hopefully, “I don’t believe—”

“But sir,” Prudawe pressed, “she says to tell you to expect—”

“Did I not just say to give me a . . . ah . . . uh . . .” Ishan faltered to silence as a military sedan pulled up next to his cycle, barely coming to a halt before a general of the Corps began to climb out.

“Kimo Satsuke, Special Operations,” she introduced herself while her gaze turned from the Ohmdahls to his own officers and landed finally on Mia before she returned her attention to Ishan. “I believe your sergeant told you to expect me?”

Ishan looked at Prudawe, who cleared her throat.

“Only just now, General,” he said diplomatically. “But we didn’t get far. How may I be of assistance?”

Meanwhile, inside the Rand estate, the woman known as Celia Rand settled into her tub for a well-earned bath.

It had been a very trying twenty-eight hours, threading the needle between dinner parties, abductions, and murder. Not to mention the strain of playing the traumatized wife for the police.

Though, if she were honest with herself, the trauma wasn’t entirely forced.

She’d thought her first encounter with Gideon Quinn, in Allianza, had been a challenge, but this last meeting—she’d made a mistake, letting him see her true self.

What had she been thinking?

Obviously you weren’t thinking at all, she told herself.

Harsh, she thought, but true.

Because, in that horrible, overdecorated room, facing the furious, battered Gideon, she’d found herself desperate to be herself.

Not Celia Rand, nor even Odile, but herself, the woman she might have been if she hadn’t been recruited by the Midasian spy masters.

She grabbed the sponge, dipped it in the hot water, and tried to pretend she hadn’t come close to telling Gideon her real name. Duty, ingrained before all, had prevailed.

Unfortunately, Gideon had once again escaped, and while she doubted anyone would believe his version of events, she was faced with the unenviable choices of staying in place and hoping to develop a new asset or fleeing to spy another day.

She ran the sponge over one of the bruises she’d taken when Gideon knocked her over and wondered if taking another assignment, another identity, would make her feel less hollow.

Then again, it would be difficult for any assignment to make her feel more hollow than her marriage to Jessup Rand.

“Poor Jessup,” she murmured, reaching for the soap. “At least what you didn’t know never hurt you.”

“Actually,” a voice—an infuriatingly familiar voice—interrupted her chain of thought, “it kinda did.”

Then Gideon ducked, barely avoiding the soap Celia automatically threw at his head.