Soldier of Fortune: A Gideon Quinn Adventure (Fortune Chronicles Book 1) (16 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

HE DID HIS
best not to bleed on the carpet, but by the time he’d been prodded through the foyer, up the stairs and down the long hall of what appeared to be a top flight town mansion, Gideon was fairly certain some unfortunate maid was going to be scrubbing a few spots off the stairs, come the suns rise.

At the end of the second floor’s long hall, he was pulled to a stop by Ronan at the last room's open door. Rey kept her weapon live and trained on Gideon while  Celia entered the room where, after crushing out her cigarette in an art deco standing tray shaped like an impressively flexible mermaid, she proceeded to move about the room, lighting a series of table lamps as she went.

As pockets of illumination grew to fill the space, Gideon saw he’d been brought to a bedroom. Or, no, he thought as Ronan pushed him inside, this chamber was far more sophisticated than anything so simple as a bedroom. This place was a
boudoir
,  something Gideon had believed to exist only in the penny dreadfuls.  

From the flocked wall coverings to the heavy velvet curtains to the carved wardrobe to the mantle crowded with antiquities (up to and including what looked to be a genuine Earth-made Rubik's Cube, mostly in tact) and crammed with bits of furniture so fanciful he couldn’t imagine them capable of supporting a man’s weight, the room was an ode to excess.

Much, he thought, watching her step out of her shoes, like Celia herself.

Even the bed was a showcase. A sea of red silk nesting inside the frame of what Gideon was sure was Adidan ebony. Not the most patriotic choice of decor, he thought.

On the far side of the room, Celia had lit a final lamp, this one on a small writing desk, and was now drawing the thick (red)  curtains over a tall window.

Keepers forbid any of the neighbors wake and spy a strange man bleeding all over the brocade.  

To his left, he saw Ronan crouch before the fireplace where he set his lighter to the pile of tinder already laid beneath the kindling.  Once it caught, he moved to a finely carved breakfront, where he withdrew a blown glass decanter and goblet, both of which he carried in his good hand to one of the fanciful tables where Celia was waiting. At her nod, Ronan unstoppered the decanter and commenced to pour.

The liqueur, Gideon noted with a sort of weary amusement, was of a red deeper than that of the bed’s silk but lighter than that of the velvet curtains.

He looked at Celia, who lifted the glass, sampled it, and nodded her approval.

“One hates to ask,” he said, then asked, “but why am I here?”
And where’s your husband?

“That
is
a question,” she said, setting the glass down.

For no reason he could fathom, her use of that particular phrase started an itch in Gideon’s brain. Before he could scratch it, Rey gave him a nudge towards one of the fanciful chairs, a burgundy cushioned number with an ornately carved slat back. Ronan joined them and shoved Gideon into the chair, making sure his hands looped over the back.

Not optima
l, he told himself,
but if Rey turns the gun away for even a second—

It won’t matter
, his self cut in, because Ronan had just produced a short length of rope from a trunk at the foot of the bed, then he took over the gun while his sister used the rope to fix his bound hands to the back of the chair, proving they weren’t as careless as Gideon was hoping.

He waited for Rey to move off and counted to ten before beginning to test the bindings. What he found was both the rope and the chair slats were sturdier than they looked.

Still, with patience and pressure a lot could change. He started applying both now, slowly and quietly, flexing  and stretching his wrists before his hands, already numb, lost all function, turned black and fell off, rending any escape attempt moot.

Aren’t you being a little over dramatic?
he asked himself.

Have you seen where we are?
his self replied.  

Either unaware or unconcerned with her prisoner’s internal debate, Celia shed the fur coat to reveal a dress as red and (he bet) as slippery as the coverlet on that bed. A sheath of silk with a thigh-high slash, it didn’t so much cling to her curves as promise to, pausing over various bits of female anatomy until a turn, a step, a twist, caused it to ripple away and onto new territory.

As far as Gideon could tell, there was nothing holding it in place but a slender strap over one shoulder, and that strap little more than a prayer away from releasing its tenuous hold.

Sure enough, as she turned towards him, the slender twist of fabric began to slide, leaving the impression that all it would take was one sharp tug (or a more fervent prayer) and it would give up the fight.

“Um,” Gideon said.

“A moment,” Celia draped the coat over the back of a fainting couch where the silver of the fur set off the (of course) red of the fabric, then looked to the twins. “You will leave us,” she told them.

The twins looked at each other, then at Celia. “Madame,” Rey said, “are you certain?”

“Certain my order was an order?” Celia asked, “Very. You may wait in the hall for Nahmin’s signal.”

Signal?
Gideon wondered. He remained silent while the reluctant mercenaries exited the room, then looked at Celia. “Signal?” he asked.

But this question she ignored altogether. In lieu of response, she returned to the little table, picked up the  goblet and crossed the carpet to where he sat. “I imagine you’ll be thirsty,” she said.

In response, he spat a gob of bloody saliva onto the rug. Her eyebrow arched in what might have been amusement.

“I could drink,” he said.

Holding his gaze, she leaned close, closer, and held the goblet to his lips.

From the glass, the scent of raspberries and alcohol rose to mingle seductively with the spice of her perfume.

It was, he had to admit, a heady mix. With his eyes locked on hers, he opened his mouth just enough to let in a trickle of the liqueur. When it proved to be only liqueur, he took a swallow, then another, and another.

She held the glass steady, and when he’d drunk it dry she withdrew the goblet and brushed her fingers over his lower lip, bringing a stray drop of the liquid to her tongue, much as Doc had done with a drop of sweat in the Morton yard, only days before.

“What,” he asked, forcing himself to stay in the present, “is happening here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she set the glass aside, on another of the ridiculous little tables, and draped herself over his lap as casually as she’d draped her fur on the couch, “I want you.”

His head tilted. “I’m almost sure there are easier ways to get a man’s attention.”

“I tried those ways,” she reminded him, running her fingers down his face, over his throat, down to the collar of his coat, “seven years ago. You didn’t pay any attention.”

He had to admit, she’d gotten his attention, now.

“You kept the coat,” she noted, parting it so she could reach the buttons in his shirt.

“Why,” he began — then cleared his throat which was, despite the liqueur, suddenly quite hoarse. “Why is everyone surprised by that?”

“Not surprised,” she corrected him, humming in satisfaction as she loosed the top button. “Impressed.”

“Impressed?”

“That you don’t blame the Corps for what happened to you.” The second button slid free.

“Why,” he asked again as she continued to the next button, “would I blame the Corps for something your husband did?”

“Not everyone would have such a clear view of the matter.”

“Not that clear,” Gideon said, continuing to slowly twist and pull at the rope. “For instance, I always wondered why your husband believed we’d had a thing.”

“Oh, Jessup never believed we had a  thing.”

Despite the fire, Gideon felt cold at the memory of General Rand’s final words to him.
You should never have touched her. “
Then—“

“He believes you assaulted me,” she said, pressing her lips to the newly exposed flesh.

“And why would he think that?”

“Because that’s what I told him.” She looked up with a smile. “I even had some very impressive bruises to show him as proof — you were quite the brute, you know.”

Gideon’s wrists wrenched so violently the skin tore but his voice remained steady as he asked, for the fourth time, “Why?”

“You know, you’re quite fit for someone living on prison rations,” she said, ignoring the question as her fingers danced over his collarbone.

Gideon chose not to respond. Or rather, he couldn’t find a response when the combination of fury, hate and desire were setting off more sparks than Ronan’s shock stick.

“That said,” she paused over a particularly vibrant bruise, “you also look like someone has been using you for target practice,” she pressed her lips to the insulted flesh.

“Maybe because several someone’s have,” he said, this time not even trying to disguise the hoarseness. “As I’m sure you recall. If you were so interested in — this — why let Rey use me as her punching bag?”

“Why do you think?”

“You like to see men bleed?”

Another smile. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But in this case, Rey was very unhappy with the way you treated her brother—“

“Her brother who was attacking me at the time?”

“— and I promised her a chance at retribution,” she continued over his comment. She shifted her hips over his lap. “Not that she seems to have done any permanent damage.”

“Tell that to my spleen.”

“Poor Gideon,” she tilted his chin up and pressed her lips to the pulse point under his jaw.

He closed his eyes, willing himself not to respond. Given the lapful of silk-draped Celia, this was rather the equivalent of stopping a mastodon stampede with a pea-shooter.  

Even so, she seemed to sense his reluctance and leaned back, her expression a shimmering mix of desire, confusion and, he thought, hurt. “Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” he echoed, using even that minute shred of physical space to remember who she was and what she’d done. “Where to begin? Oh, wait, I know where to begin — the lie you told that got my company killed? Or how about with the six years in Morton I served because of that lie? Or the fact your pet mercenaries abducted me, tossed me in your carriage and beat the comb out of me
with
your permission
. And that was
after
your butler almost drowned me.”

“Actually, he’s the valet.”

“I sit corrected.”

She sighed, stroked his hair. “Does it help to know Nahmin was very sorry about how the Morph incident turned out?”

“Oddly, no.”

“Do at least try to be fair.” She retrieved the goblet and rose from his lap with a businesslike briskness at odds with the erotic teasing of moments ago. “After all, who eats their dinner in the bathtub?” she asked, crossing back to the table where the decanter had been set.

“People who are dirty and hungry.”

“A point.” She unstoppered the flask, turning away while she refilled the glass. “Would it help to know
I’m
sorry?”

“It’d help a lot more if I weren’t tied to this chair.”

“If you weren’t tied to that chair you’d have been gone before we had the chance to talk and, as you might have guessed from the extremes I’ve taken to get you here,” she gave a little shrug that had her gown’s one strap edging just a hitch closer to the point of no return, “I
very
much want to have a little talk.” The glass full, she now took it and herself to the chaise, where she sat down and crossed her legs in the way of women who expect those legs to be watched.

Gideon watched (prison — six years) but even as the red silk parted to tease glimpses of those ivory thighs, alarms shrilled in the back of his mind because this — this slow slide to seduction — was how all his troubles had begun..

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-E
IGHT

IT WAS 2520
hours, overcast and threatening snow and as Walsie had said, repeatedly, colder than a penguin’s patoot.

Colonel Quinn and nine of his Dirty Dozen were well behind the Coalition front, closing on the point of Celia Rand’s last contact while Lt. Fehr and the other two remained to guard the mag lev engine that was to be their exit strategy, should all go well.

If all didn’t go well, Gideon had been assured no exit strategy would be required. He and his company could damn well stay behind the lines if they didn’t return with General Rand’s wife.

“I have eyes on the command post,” Gideon said, lowering his telescope and deactivating the night vision, lest unfriendly eyes be roaming this particular bombed-out quarter of the Upper Allianz base.  

“If it’d been anyone but a General’s wife left behind, they’d be planning the funeral, by now,” Walsie muttered from where he was watching Gideon’s seven.

“Not now, Walsie,” Gideon murmured, then looked up, to where Sgt. Mulowa was perched atop a slightly higher pile of the broken wall Gideon had been propping his ‘scope on. “Any movement?”

“Not—wait,” her left hand automatically clenched in a fist and in response the entire company flattened against the nearest available surface. Gideon risked a glance around the ruined barracks house in which they’d gathered and was pleased with the near invisibility of his team. He looked back up at Mulowa, her face a shadow amongst the shadows, and waited.

Her left fist opened, spreading to show all five fingers then, after a beat, closed all but two.

She waited again, then pointed in the direction of the command post which they believed the asset, Celia Rand, was using as a safe house.

Apparently, it wasn’t so safe anymore.

Gideon raised his own fist high long enough for the company to note, flashing five fingers once. He then pointed once to himself before following this up with a circling motion of that finger around his head.

He didn’t have to look back to know that, when he broke cover to circle around the back of the CP, five of his company would follow.  

Behind, Mulowa and the three remaining corpsmen spread out to provide cover fire, should it become necessary.

One explosion and fifteen minutes later, cover fire became very, very necessary as, besides the seven Mulowa had spied entering the command post, there turned out to have been another six soldiers in the uniforms of Midas approaching the target from the east, all of whom opened fire the second Gideon’s crystal det had blown open the rear door of the command post, forcing Gideon and the other five to dive for the nearest cover.

In Gideon’s case the nearest cover had been the radio room of the post which, interestingly, already held four people — three hostiles and Madame Rand.

The hostiles were dead, the woman was now at Gideon’s side.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Madame,” Gideon said, taking aim at a Midasian who’d just planted an arrow in his right bicep, “you’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.”

As he spoke, the enemy soldier fell, but not to Gideon’s rifle. He was dropped by a plasma bolt to the chest from Celia Rand’s pistol. 

Gideon thought the look of betrayal on the Midasian's face as he collapsed was odd, but then she looked at him and his thoughts seemed to fizzle under her cool regard.

“Is this really the time to critique my choice of clothing?” she asked.

“What? No. I mean, yes but not the clothing so much as the color,” he explained lamely as  another flurry of fire — plasma this time — had him tugging her around the frozen carcasses of several dead horses to the shelter of a tipped-over supply wagon. “Oddly, red is a very easy color to spot in winter,” he added, indicating the high-collared, ankle-length, blood-hued garment which set off her jet black hair and pale skin to enticing effect. He didn’t comment about the way it was tailored to draw a man’s eye to every curve, even as his eyes traced those curves.

Focus
, he reminded himself.

Beyond their hiding place, the sounds of weapons’ fire slowed up, then stopped.

“Be assured, the next time I’m left behind by our own troops, I’ll be certain to raid Corps Stores,” she whispered into the fresh quiet. Her expression was about as chill as the temperature, until she noticed the arrow sticking out of Gideon’s arm. “You’ve been shot,” she announced the obvious, one hand tentatively reaching for the offending arrow before Gideon shifted out of her reach.

“Not the first time,” he told her, then held up a hand in warning as boots came crunching through the snow.

Madame Rand bit her lip and clutched at his left (unshot) arm, which unfortunately got in the way of his raising the rifle. Before he could shake the woman off, Nbo Mulowa’s face peered around the corner, blotting out the first falling flakes of snow.

“We’re in the clear, Colonel, but we should bug out before any more Midasians arrive,” she said, then looked at the woman on his arm. “This her?”

“Her?” Madame’s eyes narrowed.

“Yup,” Gideon said, stepping between them.

“Nice coat,” Mulowa noted.

“We’ve covered that,” Gideon muttered, slinging the rifle over his unshot arm and starting out into the thickening snow.

“Wait!” Madame Rand ordered, then added an impetuous foot stomp when both colonel and sergeant ignored her.

“I. Said. Wait!” She dashed around in front of Gideon and then glared at Mulowa. “No one is going anywhere until the colonel’s arm has been tended.”

Sgt. Mulowa looked at the civilian, then to her colonel. “Sir?”

Gideon felt the twitching that always happened in his jaw when he was trying not to swear. Then he shook his head, handed his rifle to the sergeant and, taking a deep breath, shoved the arrow the rest of the way through his bicep. Over Madame Rand’s musical little shriek, he snapped off the fletching and reached back to pull the shaft the rest of the way through. “Mind?” he asked, grasping the fluttery (red) bit of scarf she wore over her hair.

“What? Oh,” she shook the frippery free. “No, but — let me do it,” and commenced to bind Gideon’s wound  — with surprisingly capable fingers.

In fact, from that point on, Celia Rand seemed to shuck the role of pampered wife, which should have been a relief, but for her unwillingness to let Gideon out of her sight and, more disturbingly, his inability to think of anything but what might be going on under that coat whenever she was near.