Soldier of Fortune: Gideon Quinn Adventures Book One

Chapter 36

By the time Mia and Elvis were on their way to see DS Hama, Gideon was on a mission of his own.

* * *

"And while I'm makin' nice with the filth, what'll you be doing?" Mia had asked, watching Gideon pace back and forth across the basement.

"Same thing, different people," he'd said, then explained, then waited for her to stop laughing.

* * *

He supposed it was a bit bonkers, but there really weren't a lot of options.

Fehr would likely have agreed to help, but he was aloft with the Errant, so Gideon had to go for the next best option.

Okay, so maybe not the next best, or even the next after that, but at least it was an option, right?

Are you talking to yourself again?

Maybe—but hey, I'm not counting.

Then why do you know you just took step number 1,012?

Shut up.

His self shut up, but Gideon kept counting.

It was a distraction, he supposed, from both the second-guessing of his choice of allies, and the fact he'd just stolen an untended tram driver's uniform jacket from the back of a chair in a sidewalk cafe, and a fedora off a street vendor's rack. The jacket, he was pleased to discover, not only fit, but provided the unexpected perk of free rides on the city's tram system.

The hat was just cool.

For a little extra anonymity, he added a subtle hunch to his posture that changed his gait, and shortened him by several centimeters. It was a trick he'd learned from Horatio Alva, the grifter he'd befriended in Morton.

It proved very effective, as Gideon walked by no fewer than six cops en route to his destination.

It was also swarming painful.

So painful that, by the time he reached the address Mia had given him, Gideon was basically a walking cramp, and had to spend a few minutes un-crimping himself before stepping up to the door of the Ohmdahls' flat. Once there, he raised his hand and then hesitated, uncertain.

"It's not that crazy a plan," he reminded himself, and knocked.

* * *

"Here." Sonja Ohmdahl, mother to the Ohmdahl triplets, pressed a cup of tea into Gideon's hands.

He took the cup, still recovering from the greeting Rolf had given him (vigorous enough to loosen the dressings Tiago had only recently applied), before assuring his suspicious Mama that the ragged man with the prison tat really was a good guy, and inviting him in.

Now Gideon was seated in the parlor of the Ohmdahl flat, a medium-sized, high-ceilinged space chock-full of husky, durable furniture he imagined necessary in a room inhabited by Rolf, Freya, and Ulf.

"Thanks," Gideon said, still trying not to stare at the Ohmdahl matriarch, who was just—not what he was expecting.

To start with, she was short. Add to that her slender build, dark hair, barely touched with silver, and wide, highly intelligent eyes, and Gideon was left staring in turns at herself and her three strapping offspring.

Staring and wondering... well... mostly wondering how.

Apparently, Sonja was used to this sort of speculative ogle. "They don't come out that big, you know," she said with a knowing smile. "Especially triplets."