Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

“I HAD THIS
, you know.”

Gideon looked at Jinna, mustard bottle in one hand and fork in the other. “Would you like to take over?” he asked politely.

She sighed and lowered the fork. “Carry on, soldier.”

Gideon carried on.

It wasn’t a stretch to say he hadn’t been in a particularly good mood when a scratching at the bathroom door pulled him from contemplation of his last day of command.

When he’d opened the door to the annoyed draco and heard some ponce threatening Mia’s friend, his mood shot from not particularly good to toweringly angry.

When he eased around the corner of the bathroom hall to see the ponce had brought along some serious muscle he felt — pretty good actually.

Because muscle he could deal with.

Now, with the remains of the chair in his hand, he clambered over the fallen one-third of the muscle, rushing for the guy Elvis was harassing.

Mia, he was pleased to see, had already beat a retreat to relative safety on the kitchen side of the counter. A click of the tongue sent Elvis leaping to safety on a pendant lamp, so there was no one in the way when Gideon, who’d added some much needed momentum by leaping on a table, came flying at Rolf, half a chair swinging as he jumped.

* * *

From where he stood watching the stranger in action, Killian Del began to wonder if there had been a decline in thug standards as, despite the Ohmdahls coming highly recommended, not a one seemed able to stand before this lone, underfed soldier.

Even as Killian thought this he watched Rolf crumble from a chair leg to the groin while the stranger spun, swiping with said chair leg (the rest of the chair having been lost to Rolf’s back) to crack open the approaching Ulf’s cheek. A quick reversal of swing and the leg numbed Freya’s arm as she entered the fight. Rebounding from the arm strike, the chair leg struck Ulf behind the ear as he started to turn back towards the enemy.

And so it continued. Though the Ohmdahls had numbers, size, strength and an incredible ability to take a beating, the tall, lanky soldier was methodically, brutally, decimating them.

At last Ulf sank to the floor next to his brother and the soldier turned to Freya, who was holding her right arm and wiping a bloodied nose on her shoulder.

“Quit,” the soldier said. “Now.
Please.
”

“Wid pleasure,” Freya said with a glimmer in her one unswollen eye that Killian could only take for admiration, then sat down next to her brothers.

“Cor, Gideon! That was completely badass,” the little urchin, Mia, said as she peeked over the counter. “I could’a sold tickets.”

Killian remained where he was until the soldier looked his way.  “I shouldn’t, if I were you,” Killian said, glancing at the diminished stick of wood. “Unlike these lunks you’ve put down, I have friends who would certainly look into any unfortunate accidents which might befall.”

The soldier, Gideon, didn’t move, but his eyes on Killian’s went flat and Killian felt the first skitterings of fear before those eyes turned from him  to look at  Jinna.

She was still in the middle of the dining room and was also staring at the soldier.

“So this is what you’ve found to replace my son?” Killian said and almost stepped back when both pairs of eyes turned on him.

“Actually, she doesn’t like me," Gideon said evenly. "Unless you’ve changed your mind?” he asked over his shoulder.

“I never said I didn’t…” Jinna began, then eased back on her heels with a hiss. “No, I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Believe me when I tell you I couldn’t be less interested in whatever liaisons you do or do not engage in,” Killian told her, though he kept his eyes on Gideon. “All I care about is my grandchild. And lest you think
this
,” he glanced down at the lumps of  Ohmdahls on the floor, “will dissuade me from protecting my heir, you are much mistaken.” He smiled, first at the soldier, then at Jinna. “Until next time,” he told her. “And really, my dear, do try to get more rest. It wouldn’t do for the mother of my sole heir to take ill.”

With which he spun on one heel and took himself out of the diner.

“I should be feeling bad about dis job goig swarb,” Freya said through her broken nose as Ulf groaned at her side, “but I really ab dot liking that mad.”

“You and me both, sister,” Gideon said.

Behind them, Jinna kicked a fallen plate.

* * *

“Tell me about Del,” Gideon said.

A half hour later, with the triplets triaged and sent limping to their favorite pub (with a few of Gideon’s diminishing starbucks and the advice to choose their jobs with more care), Gideon locked the door and turned to where Mia was feeding Elvis some cold bacon and Jinna was sweeping up broken crockery.

“It’s complicated,” Jinna said, blowing a strand of hair from her face.

He looked at Mia.

“Jinna an’ Del’s son, Liam, had a thing and then their thing tuned into that thing,” Mia nodded to the bulge under Jinna’s apron, “and Del thinks ‘cause his son’s bits are involved, he should get the baby.”

Gideon looked at Jinna.

“Okay, so maybe not that complicated,” she said,

“I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here,” he told her. 

Jinna kept sweeping, but she did let out a laugh that sounded suspiciously wet. “Safe or not,” she said, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“No family back in Ford?”

“All gone, in the ‘47 push.” She sniffed, looked up with a defiant toss of her hair. “I’d already joined up, so I was in basic when Macintosh fell.”

“What division?”

“72
nd
Airborne Infantry.”

“Recon?”

“D&D.”

“Cool,” Gideon said, impressed. It took iron nerves and steady hands to work the demolition and disarm units. “So how’d you end up in a diner in Nike?”

“Peace happened,” she said, looking up, briefly. “And peace meant celebrating — lots and lots of celebrating. In my case some of the celebrating happened with Liam. He was the York’s third officer, but he wasn’t one gave to give comb about rank.” 

Gideon suspected Killian Del gave a comb, if not the whole hive.

“Anyway,” Jinna continued, chasing down a bit of teapot with the broom, “there we were, in the Frayed Rigging on Armistice Day and one thing led to another, and then another,” she nodded down to her swollen belly.

Gideon followed her glance. “What happened to Liam?”

“Five weeks after I found out I was pregnant, the York went down in the Amazons.” She added the last bits of Gideon’s broken chair into the pile of crockery. “Thing is, I hadn’t been planning on resigning from the Corps. If I hadn’t gotten pregnant, I would have been aboard, too.

“He was a good man,” she added, not looking at Gideon. “And I know he was looking forward to being a father — enough he must have told Killian about the baby, because only one day after I learned Liam was gone there was Del at my door, demanding custody of
his
heir.”

“And he’s not the type to take no for an answer,” Gideon surmised.

“I don’t believe the word exists in his vocabulary.”

“I’m familiar with the type,” Gideon said. “What about the law? Have you tried swearing out a complaint?”

At this both Mia and Jinna laughed, but not the haha funny kind of laugh.

Gideon looked from one to the other. “I can see I’m missing something.”

“You’re not from Nike,” Mia said.

“So?”

“So you probably don’t have much idea how things work here,” Jinna told him, reaching for the dustpan she’d set on a (still standing) table.

“No, I don’t,” Gideon stepped forward, took the dustpan from her and knelt down to hold it in front of the pile of broken bits. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

She quirked a little smile at him, then began to sweep the mess into the pan he held. “It’s not the cops’ fault,” she began. “Most of them are like us — working people who want to keep peace in the city. The problem has more to do with a city parliament that has a completely different idea of whose peace is being kept.”

“You’re saying they’re on the take,” Gideon said, looking up at Jinna. 

“Some,” Jinna said.

Mia, now spinning back and forth on her stool, snorted.

“More than some,” Jinna amended, stepping back from the filled dustpan. “And they’re open to all kinds of offers. That one,” she jerked her head at the door, “Killian Del, is a district minister in the city parliament, and he sits on a number of committees, including transportation, law enforcement and budgeting which means—“

“He’s got the police force — at least the police force’s cash — in his pocket,” Gideon rising with the filled dustpan in his hand.

“Not just his, but they’re all great mates in parliament, all working together to line their pockets,” Mia said, ceasing her spinning to fetch a rubbish bin over to Gideon. “You’d know one of ‘em,” she told him as he dumped the breakages into the trash. “The Rand family have fingers in most every branch of city government.”

“You’re friends with the Rands?” Jinna asked.

“Not—“ Mia began.

“Not friends,” Gideon said at the same time.

Jinna was looking at him.

“It’s not germane to the issue at hand,” he said, then saw Mia opening her mouth. “It has nothing to do with Jinna’s problem,” he explained, before she could ask. He looked back at Jinna. “You know you can’t stay here.”

Jinna looked over the damage and as he watched, the anger that had been sustaining her seeming to drain, leaving in its wake a sort of exhausted sadness. “I doubt I’d be allowed to stay, after this. Sol’s going to go swarm, for sure.”

So she’d be out of a job on top of everything, Gideon thought. Swell.

“But the real problem is getting out of Nike” Jinna continued, letting herself, at long last, drop into a chair. “I can guarantee my travel visa’s been flagged by now — he’s on the transportation committee, remember?” she reminded Gideon when he glanced up, startled.

Frustrated, Gideon set the dustpan aside, shoved his hands in his pockets and let his thoughts go to town.

Most of the thoughts — the sort that said this affair was none of his business — he let float along past. A few, regarding potential exit strategies for the young mother, he discarded as being too risky, too expensive and, given the long arm of Del, too likely to fail.

What she needs
, one thought said, clearing its throat enough to set the other thoughts to a dull mumble,
is a friend in high places.

No shit
, he thought back.
Got a contact in the city parliament?

Not politically higher,
the thought felt disappointed.
Literally higher
. Then, as it seemed Gideon was unable to keep up with himself, added,
Remember Rory?

Rory the gawky airman? Rory who’s half in love with the girl? Rory who works on an independent—

“Freighter!” he said aloud and was rewarded by two pairs — three counting Elvis — of eyes looking at him like was talking to himself.

Which — no, no reason to let them know that.

“Rory might be able to help,” he said to Jinna. “We need to talk to him.”

Which also meant talking to Rory’s captain.

And at that thought, all the others fell silent.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

AS GIDEON HELPED
Jinna clean up in the diner, Killian Del’s carriage came to a halt in front of a particularly notable address on Chaucer Street, where he’d been invited to dine with the owners and a select number of their acquaintance.

Killian had originally sent his regrets, expecting  to be occupied with settling Jinna Pride into his own townhouse, but as an afterthought accepted the invitation to join the party for after-dinner drinks. And though a certain unwelcome soldier had put paid to Killian’s plans, he saw no reason not to keep his evening appointment.

The Rands were, after all, very important people.

The carriage came to a stop and in moments one of the Rand servants was opening the door for Killian, who stepped out and under the umbrella held up for his benefit. Thus sheltered, he moved along the walk from carriage to vestibule without so much as a drop of rain touching the cuff of his trousers.

Once inside the foyer, Killian took a deep, appreciative breath of air untainted by grease or the odors of the working class. Here the only scents lingering in the air were of leather, wood, smoke, beeswax and the echo of a woman’s spicy perfume — in short, the sort of aromas Killian associated with power.

“Thought for certain you’d stood us up, Kill.”

Speaking of power — Killian looked to his left, where the parlor door had just opened to reveal General Jessup Rand, Senior Commander of the Colonial Air Corps and rising star in Nike politics. A man of average height, average weight and average, caramel colored skin, nothing about Jessup Rand should speak of power, and yet no one seeing him would doubt for an instant that this man could do more damage with a word than most could with a Mark 11 crysto-plas repeater.

“My plans misfired,” Killian said, following the martial theme of his thoughts as he took Jessup’s offered arm with a brief grip. “It caused some delays.”

“Every campaign has its misfires. I doubt this one will slow your advance,” Jessup said, leading the way into the parlor, where several of Nike’s movers and shakers were comfortably ensconced amongst the deep-cushioned chairs and the buttery leather sofa.

Jessup’s wife, Celia, was standing in front of the grand fireplace, glass in one hand and cigarette in the other, her dark hair cut in a cheekbone enhancing angle which was echoed by the slash of her red, one-shouldered gown. She was posed as if on the stage as she regaled her seated guests with yet another of her shocking stories.

Celia Rand, Killian had often thought, collected scandals as avidly as she collected the artifacts scattered whimsically throughout the room. Certainly she was a bright contrast to her husband, with his greying temples and his simple uniform. Even as he thought this, she looked to Jessup and her lips curved up in a smile for him alone and Killian was reminded that power was a potent attractor.

“She is a vision, is she not?” Jessup asked as she returned her attention to her guests, but the question was soft, as if he were addressing himself. “Come along, then,” he added, seemingly shaking off the vision that was his wife, “I’ll set you up.”

Killian followed him to the sideboard, where — speaking of artifacts — an ancient Heinz bottle (only slightly cracked) and two empty Budweiser cans were displayed amongst the prosaic cut glass decanters.

Jessup selected one of the decanters and poured two tumblers before handing one to Killian, who raised a brow at the amount of single malt in the heavy cut glass. 

“You’ll need to catch up with the rest of us,” Jessup explained.

“And who are you catching up with?” Killian asked, as Jessup had been just as generous with his own liquor.

“A dutiful host doesn’t let his guest drink alone,” Jessup raised the glass in a toast.

And why not
, Killian thought,
haven’t we earned it?
Then he touched glasses with his host and downed half of the liquor.

“Keepers, man,” Jessup gaped. “I didn’t mean catch up on the instant!”

“My apologies,” Killian said, somewhat roughly, as the whiskey burned its way through his system. “The evening has been something of a trial.”

“Yes, well, that sort of thing does seem to be going around,” Jessup said, his eyes a bit distant.

Killian, despite the earlier disappointment, was willing to be diverted by his friend’s statement. After all, the Pride woman wasn’t going anywhere. Since Killian was on the transportation committee and had, in addition, contributed heavily to Nike’s sitting Transport Minister, it had required only a single teleph exchange to confirm that Jinna Pride would not be departing Nike without Killian Del’s say so.

All of which meant that Killian now could enjoy this very fine single malt and, in exchange, listen to his host’s apparent woes. “Trouble with the peace accords?” he asked, grasping at the most likely candidate for Jessup’s unease.

“If only,” Jessup topped off both drinks. “Nine months after the treaty’s signed and we’re still dancing around the crystal issue.”

“And the slaves,” Killian reminded the general.  “Which, between us, I have no particular issue with. As long as the Coalition is allowed the use of unpaid labor, they might be less inclined to push for access to our crystal veins.”

“Hopefully those bleeding hearts from Ford and Fuji will come around to that point of view,” Jessup raised his glass in a toast of agreement.

“But if, as you say, the talks aren’t the problem—?” Killian let the question hang.

Before answering, Jessup glanced at his wife, who’d reached the climax of her tale and was now basking in a round of laughter and applause. Seeming satisfied, he stepped closer to Killian and turned slightly away from the crowd in the center of the room. “I recently learned that a difficulty from my past — a difficulty I’d thought permanently solved — has come around again,” he said quietly. “And, as it happens, this particular difficulty arrived in Nike earlier this evening.”

“A difficulty?”

“A man,” Jessup clarified.

“Anyone I’m familiar with?” Killian asked over a sip.

“Only if you were paying attention to news from the ranks six, no closer to seven years ago, now. News of  a colonel of infantry being court martialed for treason, and attempted murder.”

Killian let his eyes cross over the room, and the glittering company within, as he thought back to that troubled time — a time of economic growth for those with certain investments. Killian’s shares in Tenjin Corporation, the company who supplied crystal to the Air Corps, had resulted in immense profits, as so many airships were in need of crystal to power their engines and cannon and…
cannon… that was it
. “Yes, now I remember,” he looked back to Jessup. “The colonel who went over to the other side, or tried to, and then attacked you when he was found out.”

“My knee still aches on damp mornings,” Jessup said, looking out the window in his turn. “And in Nike every bloody morning is damp. Still,” he raised his glass and took a gulp as hefty as that for which he’d berated Killian, earlier, “Quinn confessed to the — to his crime, and was sentenced to Morton because of it.”

Even brimful of whiskey, Killian couldn’t miss Jessup’s quick correction. Not that it was his concern. If Jessup said this Quinn person deserved punishment, then punishment he deserved. “And you believe he’s here, in Nike?” he asked.

“I
know
he is,” Jessup said, his expression grim. “My contact in the prison telephed the news on the day Gideon Quinn was released.”

“And you believe this man means to — wait,” Killian raised his glass, with one finger extending to point at Jessup. “You say his name is
Gideon
Quinn?”

“A name I’ve cursed daily for seven years,” Jessup said, then his eyes tracked over Killian’s shoulder, his expression changing so drastically that Killian knew someone was approaching. “Darling,” he said, “Killian’s just been telling me about his difficult evening.”

The hint was obvious. For whatever reasons, Jessup didn’t want his wife to know of this problematic colonel. “As you may know,” he took his cue, turning to Celia, “the mother of my grandchild is proving difficult. After months of argument and tantrums, I’d finally made arrangements on my own, to establish her in my own home until the birth of the child.”

Celia made appropriate noises as she poured more whiskey for the men and, as the story of the evening’s escapade continued, both Rands listened with a gratifying interest. And when he came to the point of the tall, blue-eyed soldier appearing out of nowhere to best the Ohmdahls, he turned his gaze to Jessup. “I confess myself shocked to find a man of the infantry — and a colonel at that — involved with a woman of such character.”

Jessup’s expression remained calm but Killian saw his eyes sharpen.

“It’s not so shocking is it?” Celia asked, seemingly oblivious of the undercurrents to the story. “After all, most soldiers — especially the infantry — come from the lower classes.”

“Perhaps it was simply that he was so much older than the girl,” Jessup murmured.

Celia smiled. “I was more impressed by the way you described his eyes,” she recalled with a delighted shiver. “How vividly you tell the story, Kill.”

“Perhaps I was inspired by my hostess,” Killian said with the smallest of bows.

“Celia,” Jessup broke into the moment, “it looks as if the Porters are leaving. Would you do the courtesies?”

There was the slightest of pauses, no more than three beats of the heart as she met her husband’s gaze.

“Of course,” she said, then turned to Killian. “Kill, thank you for confiding in us. If there is
anything
the General or I can do to help you with the matter, I hope you’ll not hesitate to ask.”

Killian, watching her walk away, was again struck by feelings a man of his age truly ought not to be feeling anymore.

Jessup was a lucky man.

He turned to his host, meaning to say just that when he saw Jessup was also watching his wife. On his face was an expression so raw, so conflicted, it was all Killian could do to keep his own expression bland as yesterday’s eggs when Jessup’s focus finally returned to him. “Vivid as it was,” he said to the frank question in the other man’s eyes, “I did not tell the entire story. I did not,” he set his glass down, “tell you the soldier’s name.”

Jessup waited, saying nothing.

“The urchin called him Gideon.”