Henry Olsen - The Northland Chronicles - A Stranger North

“And what of Osborne, sir?”

“That’s no longer your concern.”

Ramses paused, frowning momentarily.

“You hear me, Private?”

“Understood, sir.”

“I look forward to your full report. The General, over and out.”

Ramses lowered the radio from his ear. He felt a twinge of disappointment — to this point, Osborne had been his responsibility and he felt slighted to be yanked off the case midstream. Yet he was in no position to second-guess the General. He pursed his lips as he set the radio back on the desk in front of him and glanced at the mirror again.

He saw his reflection — and behind him a woman, with two hands clutching a large bore revolver pointed straight at his head. He froze and waited for her to speak first.

“Hands in the air,” she ordered.

Ramses silently obeyed, as he shot the woman an icy stare through the mirror. She had short brown hair, hidden under the hood of a red sweatshirt. Her features were soft — soft nose, large eyes, thin lips.

“You work for the General?” she asked.

Ramses nodded, as he continued to examine the woman for any identifying marks.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” Ramses replied. “I only know him as the General.” That much was true — Ramses guessed the General was ex-military, but even that was only an assumption.

“And ‘Osborne’ — you were talking about John Osborne?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ramses said. “You know him?”

“You could say that,” the woman replied with a smug grin. “What’s his connection to the General?”

Ramses paused. What was this woman after?

“Answer the question,” the woman demanded.

“You might say he’s the General’s strongman,” said Ramses — a lie, albeit a plausible one. She couldn’t have heard the other side of the radio conversation.

The woman didn’t reply for a moment. Ramses noticed she had a small tattoo across her right wrist — something written in a script he couldn’t recognize.

“And why is he going to Mallard Island?”

“The General sent him there on business.”

“Business?”

“Arms project.” Ramses suppressed a smirk.

The woman eyed him warily, tightening her grip around the revolver.

“And what’s your next move?” she said.

“Me? I just hope to walk away from here alive.”

The woman glared at him. Then without another word she stepped back, away from the mirror, and her reflection disappeared from Ramses’ view. He heard the front door open then shut. After waiting cautiously for a few moments, Ramses lowered his arms.

How could she know about the General and John Osborne, he wondered, and yet be so clueless as to the details? Thankfully, she’d readily accepted his misdirection, though he wasn’t sure he’d made the correct play. The General wanted Osborne alive … what did that woman want?

There’s nothing I can do now, Ramses realized. Whatever she had come looking for, he’d just made it John Osborne’s problem.

Some people in this world don’t know what do to with themselves, Aristotle thought. Watching John in Franco’s Saloon was like watching a gray wolf try to play with two Yorkshire Terriers. It just couldn’t work. Yet she had decided to let him go; to give him a chance.

If indeed he was out causing trouble — and tangled up with the General, no less — that was on her conscience now. Her mission was to find the General himself, but that would have to wait. She was off to find out if what that soldier had said about John was true.

Her feet carried her north through the woods, toward Ontario Highway 11. From there she’d head east to Mallard Island. If John was still a free agent, maybe she could swing him to her side. But if he was in league with the General?

Aristotle looked down, glancing at the handcrafted revolver that rested in her holster. Could she best John Osborne in a shootout?

She hoped she wouldn’t have to find out.