Soldier of Fortune: Gideon Quinn Adventures Book One

Chapter 18

While 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 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 raised 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 scents of the working class.

No, here the only scents lingering in the air were of leather, wood, smoke, beeswax, and the echo of a woman's spicy perfume.

Rich scents; scents 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 hand. "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 graying 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, as if shaking off the vision that was his wife, "I'll set you up."

Killian followed him to the sideboard, where—speaking of artifacts—a Guinness 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 glasses before handing one to Killian, who raised a brow at the three fingers of single malt in the heavy tumbler.