Once there, Rey took hold of the knob, and on the silent count of three, yanked it open and ducked under Ronan’s arm as both dove into the room, he high and right, she low and left.
“Eat plasma, Quinn!” he called recklessly, finger already tightening on the trigger.
Except there was no Quinn to take out.
What there was, was a robust-looking keeper, standing directly in front of the door, his teeth bared in something that could in no way be confused with a smile.
There was also, Ronan realized, a half-dozen coppers, weapons active and raised, spread throughout the room.
One of these coppers, was standing against the wall to Ronan’s right, close enough Ronan could feel the vibration from his pistol.
“You know how this works,” the copper, a man of middle height in a cheap suit, said to the flummoxed mercenary. “Do the needful, or I will have you smoking on the floor before you can count to one.”
As the two invaders, their eerily similar faces dark with fury, laid down their arms, Ishan heard Tiago’s whispered cheer from the other side of the boathouse, where he, the children, and the other keepers had been huddling behind the rubbish pile. This filial approbation was immediately followed by Mia’s in no way whispered, “Your dad’s a right badass!”
Ishan suppressed a smile, and stepped back as Officers Prudawe and Stoltz put the two would-be killers in irons.
Any day he could impress the youth of Nike was a good day, he supposed, though he still had no idea who these twins were, or why they should be wanting to kill Gideon Quinn.
And then Donal cleared his throat.
At least, Ishan assumed the noise, that came out like a mason’s power grinder, was the Hive Master clearing his throat.
“Now it is time for the third part of the message,” Donal said, handing over a Stoli infantry radio that had seen far better days. “Mr. Quinn sends this, with his compliments, and asks you turn it on as soon as you are within range of the Rand residence, but that you not enter the house until he makes direct contact.”
Mia, who’d already been impressed by DS Hama’s cool apprehension of the twins, was even more enamored by the detective’s varied and creative swearing. “I ain’t even heard some of them words,” she confessed to Tiago.
“I think he’s inventing a few new ones, just for the occasion,” Hama’s son replied.
“Cor,” Mia said, shaking her head in admiration.
Outside, a few dozen meters downstream from the boathouse dock, Nahmin watched a not insignificant procession make its way to land.
The unusual parade consisted of an interesting mix of law enforcement—civilian and keeper—as well as a number of children, a young man of no obvious profession and, interestingly, a draco, flying over the lot.
There were also Rey and Ronan Pradish, both being led away in shackles.
More interesting still, there was no sign of Quinn.
Which meant Quinn was somewhere else.
Nahmin had a terrible feeling he knew exactly where that somewhere else was.
The procession was now moving further away from the river—no doubt their transportation was hidden somewhere in the warehouses scattered about the abandoned docks—so Nahmin also removed himself.
While Nahmin sped away, Erasmus Ellison hunkered in the wreckage of an old ferry left to ruin on the shore, and watched as the coppers and keepers waltzed off.
Waltzed off with his loot, and his dodgers.
With a stealth that belied his bulk, the fagin trailed the lot, and when they reached their cycles, clustered in the ruins of an old Tenjin Corp warehouse, he listened to DS Hama dispatching his officers like a general ordering troops, some to deliver the man and woman they’d nicked to the precinct, and others to attend him to some risto’s house near the city’s center.
Ellison waited for the coppers to ride off on their cycles, again with Mia riding pillion behind Hama, and the draco flying off after them.
Then he waited until the keepers and the youth, with his dodgers in tow, made their way out of the ruins of the old dockyards.
Once the coast was clear, he made a beeline for the bridge where he’d parked the stolen Comet, which he then drove at a calm and considered pace to 16 Chaucer Street, which was the address Hama had announced as his next destination.
41
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 the 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 city 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 of how such a thing had been allowed to 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 one 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 sufficient reason to keep me waiting,” he said, in such a way as to assure Salla no reason would be considered sufficient.
“There was a bit of a crime spree throughout the Ninth District last night,” Salla replied, her umber 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), saying so would only raise questions about Killian’s presence in Kit’s Diner, and his relationship with Jinna Pride. “I’ve never 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.
From the distant sounds of additional shatterings, Killian thought at least two other intruders were attempting entrance via the kitchen and parlor windows, respectively.
Salla had already drawn her weapon, leaving the report she’d been reading to fall to the carpet at her feet.
“Hold on t’yer britches, Quinn!” the intruder was shouting, 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 Mr. 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.
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 other intruders.
“Did he now?” Salla glanced at Killian, who looked somewhat gray.
“Oy then,” the man 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.
“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 ‘ere.”
“You’ll want to read Mister—” She paused and looked at the oaf. “I assume you have a name?”
“Wendell,” the oaf muttered.
“Read Mister Wendell his rights,” Sala 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 in surprise. “I can’t imagine why it should—”
“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’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 sitting on his desk, and back.
For once, Killian Del had no response.
42
At the same time Killian Del was being escorted from his home, a flurry of efficient activity had the desk sergeant of the Ninth 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 infantry, 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,” Satsuke 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?”
The sergeant decided this 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 captain who wore her long, black hair in a simple braid.
“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, Tyree 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 told the captain as they passed through the doors, “has mucked this up, properly.”
“He’s not my—yes, sir,” the captain agreed. “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 the doors swung closed, Tyree returned her attention to the common burglary, brawls, and blackmail to which she was accustomed, and which, thankfully, had naught to do with colonial security.
43
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. At the same time, the lightly scented steam cleansed her senses of the blood and death which had lingered since the early hours.
It had, she reflected, been a very trying twenty-eight hours, what with the dinner party the night before, and the trials of arranging Gideon Quinn’s abduction, and her husband’s murder.
There had also been the strain of playing the traumatized wife for the police and 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 mu
tually beneficial relationship, one in which she used her skills to further his career—paving the way to greater responsibilities within the Corps—while he provided access to all manner of military secrets to pass on to Celia’s 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 aloud as she wet the sea sponge and soothed it over the bruise on her thigh, one of the many reminders of Gideon’s brief but vigorous escape attempt.
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 twelve 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. Mentally, she traced the 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 said to herself, 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 military adjutants and house staff to the gardeners, caterers, and varied specialists who serviced the 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 intelligence her superiors in Midas required.
Soldier of Fortune (2nd ed) Page 23
