Chase Baker and the Spear of Destiny Read online

  “There’s two pubs right around the corner alone,” she goes on.

  “Tell you what,” I say, “you and the padre round up five or six able bodied workers looking to make some money while they save the world. Make sure they’re reasonably sober but doubly trustworthy.”

  “Shall we conduct formal interviews?” Father O’Brien poses.

  “Very funny, Padre,” I say. “Have another whiskery why don’t ya.”

  Cal approaches, his cell phone in hand.

  “I’ve got a contractor willing to help,” he says. “He’s located on the other side of the Forte. But we gotta go now, or no dice.” He puts his phone away. “Oh, and he wants five thousand euros, cash, now.”

  “Jesus,” I say, “I don’t have that kind of dough on me.”

  “I might be able to help there too,” Cal says. “But man, oh man, Chase lad, are you gonna owe me or what?”

  “Add it all to the bill.” Looking at my watch. “Okay, everyone, you know what to do. Meet back at the Goose in exactly thirty minutes, and then we go to work.”

  Father O’Brien holds out his arm for Andrea like he’s the father of the bride about to lead his daughter down the church aisle to her awaiting groom. She slips her arm around his, and out the door they go.

  “Money,” I say to Cal.

  He turns back in the direction of the bar.

  “Matt!” he calls out. “Need you to open the safe.”

  We head down a staircase located a few feet away from the kitchen door. Inside the narrow basement space is a bookshelf, a couch which is presently occupied by the still bleeding but patched up Alistair. The big bearded man is trying to keep his pain at bay with a bottle of Jack Daniels set out by his side on the floor.

  “How you hangin’ in, Al?” Cal asks, leaning over his friend and business partner.

  Al mumbles something that sounds like, “Pretty fucking lousy,” but I can’t be sure, his words are so badly slurred. Cal slips his fingers under the bandaging and comes back out with fresh blood on the fingertips.

  He straightens up and looks at me.

  “We got to get this one to a hospital sooner than later, Chase,” he says.

  “Soon as we’re in the tunnel,” I say, “you have the go ahead to send an ambulance. Until then, we gotta stay under the radar.”

  “Well, he’ll live,” Cal says, biting down on his bottom lip. “But it’s gonna be a close one.”

  I turn to Matt, who is pulling a painting off the concrete block wall.

  “How come you need Matt to open the safe?” I ask. “You don’t know the combo?”

  “Matt might seem like he’s only a cook,” Cal explains. “But he’s also the money man. He also owns a larger share of the Goose than Al and I do. So, by default, he gets to control the cash.”

  Matt quickly types a five-digit code into the safe’s electronic numerical code pad. The locks on the safe door release and it opens.

  “What’s the damage, Cal?” he says, reaching into the open safe.

  “Five K,” Cal says.

  “I’m gonna have to pay the workers too,” I say.

  Cal turns to me.

  “Aayyy,” he grunts, “gonna be one hell of a bill, Baker.”

  “The Vatican is rich,” I say. “They’re more than good for it. Especially if it means they get their spear and their Pope back.”

  “Better make it an even seven,” Cal says, his eyes back on Matt. “Scratch that. Make it an even ten. Things could get expensive we start having to bribe people.”

  Matt pulls out three thick wads of cash, strapped together with rubber bands. He peels some of the Euros from the third stack, sets them back inside the safe, then closes the steel door, presses a red button that engages the locks.

  He comes to us with the case, hands it to me.

  “Don’t lose it, Chase,” he says.

  I stuff it into the side pocket on my bush jacket.

  “What are you, my mother?”

  Matt laughs. “Your mother was bigger than me.” Turning to Cal. “My driver is waiting outside. Shall we go?”

  “Time’s tight,” he says. “Let’s move.”

  We turn to head back up the staircase. But not without taking another quick look at Alistair. He’s passed out on the couch now, breathing steadily, his barrel chest slowly rising and falling and rising again. He’s even snoring.

  “He’s alive,” Cal says. “That’s a good thing.”

  But there’s a small puddle of blood that’s accumulating under the couch. I’m convinced we all see it, despite the dim overhead light. You can’t miss it, in fact. But no one dares mention it.

  I say, “What we’re about to do . . . It’s important. But let’s also hope it’s worth it.”

  We climb the stairs and exit the Goose through the front door.

  Chapter 19

  Roberto is waiting for us exactly where I told him to park the Mercedes. It pays to have help who listen to your orders. Cal squeezes into the back seat, while I take my usual position in the passenger seat.

  “Cal,” I say, “this is Roberto. Better known as Steve McQueen.”

  “Steve McQueen,” Cal says. “You don’t say. You must be a movie fan.”

  “More like a fan of the fast automobile,” Roberto says, slipping on his black leather driving gloves. “He fires up the Mercedes, revs the engine, spins the wheel to the right, and without bothering to look at what’s coming up on us from behind, peels out.

  Cal informs Roberto of precisely where we’re headed.

  “No problem,” the young driver says, staring into the rearview mirror. “I’ll have us there in five minutes. I get you there as fast as a bullet, yes?”

  He proceeds to maneuver the cobbled side streets and alleyways of Florence like a pro. I’ve been living in this city on and off for almost ten years, and I have no idea where he’s taking us. That is, until he emerges onto the North-South main drag that will take us out of the city and up into Fiesole. But we aren’t going that far.

  Instead, we pull onto a street that runs perpendicular to the main road. We cross over two sets of parallel tram tracks and drive for another few meters until we come to an old brick building that takes up an entire street corner, and that’s accessed by a metal overhead roll-up door. The metal sign mounted to the wall over the roll-up door says, “Betti Construction” in black lettering.

  “Stay here,” Cal says.

  He gets out, goes to the front entrance, knocks on the solid metal door. He waits while bathed in the yellow light that spills out of an old wall-mounted spotlight. After a period of maybe thirty seconds that feels like a full hour, the front door doesn’t open. Instead, we make out an abrupt metal on metal bang, and then the overhead door begins rolling up.

  A man comes forward.

  He’s short, stocky, dressed in a black T-shirt, jeans and work boots. His arms are as a thick as hams. Not like he’s a man who likes to hit the weight room every other day. Rather, a man who’s used to hard work. Lifting heavy equipment, stone, concrete block, maybe digging a deep ditch using only a shovel and the sweat of his brow.

  I know the type.

  My father used to hire men like this one for his excavating business. Cal might be about a foot taller than the construction man. But somehow, he seems like the smaller of the two.

  Cal waves me over.

  “I’ll be right back Steve McQueen,” I say. “Keep the engine purring.”

  “I am your man,” he says, his hands still gripping the wheel like the Mercedes is a live animal that needs to be reined in when it’s not running at full gallop.

  I get out, make my way to the open garage.

  “This is, Fix,” Cal introduces. “He’ll be supplying our equipment.”

  I hold out my hand. He takes it, squeezes hard. Harder than hard. Like he wants to let me know who precisely is the boss.

  When he lets me loose, I say, “What kind of name is, Fix?”

  “Real name is Fred,” he says
. “But my dad nicknamed me Fix back when I was a kid because I could fix anything. Bikes, motorbikes, and eventually cars and tractors. Now I dig things up, build things or in the case of Florence, rebuild to exact historical specifications.”

  “I’m a digger by trade too,” I say. “But I’m not too good at fixing things.” Then, as I look around the garage and all the equipment stored inside it. “You’re not Italian.”

  “I am by heritage. But I’m front Canada, originally. Montreal. My parents moved here when I was still in high school. Never left.”

  “We need to get a move on, Chase,” Cal interjects. “The other two will be back at the Goose with their workers soon.”

  I take another quick view of the garage. There’s the usual mix of construction equipment. A couple of compressors, some generators, four or five ninety-pound jackhammers set on heavy duty metal shelves. Shovels, picks, pickaxes, brooms, and more. There’s a ditch-witch and a mini excavator with rubber tracks, but there’s also an old Willys Jeep, and in the far back, a two and a half ton “deuce-and-a-half” with the letters U.S. painted on the hood.

  “That deuce-and-a-half is a beauty,” I say.

  “Left over from the war,” he says. “Tip top shape.” He starts walking toward the truck. “Let me show you something else.”

  We follow.

  We don’t stop at the truck but instead keep on moving past it to another room that’s accessed by a second, interior roll up door. Fix punches the big green button mounted to the wall, and the overhead door slowly raises up. Stepping inside, he flicks on the light switch, and the overhead halogens light the joint up.

  What I see steals my breath away.

  There’s a Sherman tank parked right in the middle of the floor. Like the deuce-and-a-half, it appears to be in perfect condition. Like you could drive it out of here right this minute, blow a whole bunch of stuff up with it. The walls are covered in guns of all varieties. Tommy guns, German Wehrmacht sub-machine pistols, and more modern weapons like M16s and riot shotguns. Also, I make out hand grenades and all varieties of fighting knives. There’s even .30 caliber belt-fed machine gun set on a table beside the tank. But that’s not entirely what catches my eye.

  What grabs my undivided attention is the RPG that’s are also situated against the wall.

  “How much for RPG?” I say, making my way to the shoulder-mounted rockets.

  “State of the art,” Fix says. “It was on its way to Afghanistan when it, ahhh, somehow found its way into my garage. Shipping mistake.” He offers a wink of his right eye along with a sly smile.

  Fix . . . as in a fixer who provides the right weaponry for any given situation . . . depending upon who’s buying, of course . . .

  “I bet it was,” Cal says.

  “We could use two of those M16s too. Maybe five hundred rounds apiece. And some grenades.”

  “How about the tank?” Fix smiles.

  “That would be perfect,” I say, “if not for the unwanted attention tons of heavy metal would make if I were to drive it over the Ponte Vecchio.”

  “I was prepared to rent you the excavation equipment for five thousand,” Fix says. “But the RPG and say, six rounds, a half dozen concussion grenades, plus the M16s . . . that’s gonna cost you six.”

  “We’ll pay it,” I say.

  “Racking up that bill, Chase,” Cal mumbles.

  “I understand,” I say, staying focused on Fix. “But we have seven to spend.”

  “Don’t forget the workers,” Cal reminds me.

  I shake my head, pull out my phone. I bring up Andrea in my saved texts.

  No need for workers, I text. Just head back to Goose. Be there in a few minutes.

  I slip the cell phone back into my jacket.

  “What do you mean we don’t need any workers? We need manpower, Chase.”

  “Not with those RPGs we don’t,” I say. And since we’ll be far enough underground, the explosions won’t carry very far.”

  Cal’s eyes light up.

  “Aayyy,” he says. “I should have thought of that myself.”

  “Anything else?” Fix asks.

  “How about that .30 cal?” I say. “Something tells me it will come in handy.”

  “Seven even,” Fix says.

  “Pay the man, Cal,” I say, as I make my way to the tripod fixed machine gun. I take hold of it with both hands, feel its solid heavy weight in my hands. Placing it over my shoulder, I grab the box of belted ammo and start making my way for the Mercedes.

  “That .30 cal is a loan,” Fix explains. “Which means I want it back, as pretty as it is right now. You’ve paid for the ammo so shoot it as much of it as you want.”

  “I’ll bring it back in primo shape, Fix,” I say. “Don’t you worry.” But in imagination, I’m crossing my fingers.

  Setting the machine gun in the back seat of Mercedes, Cal and I retrieve the rest of the armaments including the RPGs, place them into the trunk. We bid Fix a quick goodbye with a wave and get back into the car.

  “You guys expecting a small war?” Roberto asks.

  “We’re fighting Nazis,” I say. “Best to be over-prepared.”

  “Over-prepared is a hell of a lot better than underprepared,” Cal says.

  “And underground,” I say. “As in six feet under.”

  Roberto pulls away from the curb, starts heading back in the direction of downtown Florence. It takes a moment or two, but eventually, the bright lights shining on our tail tell us we’re being followed.

  Chapter 20

  Roberto’s eyes are going from the road to the rearview to the road again. He’s also monitoring the side-view mirrors.

  “What do ya say, Steve McQueen?” Cal says from the back. “We being tailed?”

  “I’m not entirely convinced of it yet,” the driver says, both his hands still gripping the wheel in between quick shifts on the center console-mounted gear shift.

  But the driver of the vehicle directly behind us flips on his highs, the bright halogen light blinding as it reflects off the rear view and the side mirrors. Roberto reaches for the rearview, flips the switch that places the mirror at an angle that deflects the light rather than reflecting it.

  The car moves up on our tail.

  I turn to get a better look at the vehicle. So does Cal.

  “Aayyy it’s a Range Rover,” he says. “Tough to tell through the headlamps, but it looks like a black one. A driver and one passenger.”

  “I’ll try and lose them at the turnabout,” Roberto says, his facial muscles tight as a tick, brown eyes wide.

  “Do your best, Steve McQueen,” I say. “These bastards seem intent on riding on our tail.”

  That’s when I make out the pop, pop, pop, and a small hole appears in the Mercedes back windshield. Cal hits the deck, and I automatically shrink down in my seat, draw my .45.

  “Brace yourself,” Roberto says. “We’re about to enter onto the turnabout.”

  He hits the two-lane circular piece of roadway at top speed, coming within inches of careening into a panel truck. The truck driver hits the brakes and his horn, his back end fishtailing and nearly colliding with a Fiat that’s motoring in the interior lane.

  For a second or two, my eyes focus on Roberto’s face. It’s still tight, but I swear, he’s smiling. But then I feel a bump, and I turn to look out the now damaged back window.

  “Fuckers are ramming us!” Cal barks.

  Another pop and another after that. The rear window cracks and shatters completely.

  “Cal, stay down!” I shout.

  He’s down on his knees in the narrow space between the back seat and the front bucket seats. But he’s holding up his 9mm, firing off a burst of rounds. Doing it blindly.

  The Range Rover backs off, swerves.

  The G-forces caused by doing ninety on the turnabout is pressing me against the door panel. I can hardly raise my .45.

  “Get us off this thing, Roberto!” I shout. Then, seeing the big stone walls of the Forte
just beyond the park that surrounds it. “There,” I say. “Go there. The Forte.”

  Roberto doesn’t question me. He swerves the wheel to the right, drives off the road, busts through the wood barrier and motors onto the green grass. There’s a big pond with a fountain in the center. He narrowly misses driving right into it.

  I take a quick glance over my shoulder, see that the Range Rover is still following. Again, they shoot, the bullets flashing from inside the vehicle, telling me Cal has managed to shoot out their windshield.

  Incoming rounds strike the seatback and the dash.

  “Get down and stay down!” I scream.

  Another pop, pop, pop. More rounds ricocheting off the metal bits on the Mercedes interior. Another pop and Roberto’s forehead explodes in a spray of dark arterial blood, bone fragments, skin, and hair, all of which stain the spider-web-cracked windshield. The car swerves sharply to the right.

  “Roberto’s hit!” I bark, grabbing hold of the wheel, turn it sharp to the left, the tail end fishtailing, nearly ending up in the pond. Then, my eyes going from front to back. “Cal, grab that thirty cal and blast the fuck out of them.”

  “What?” he says. “I don’t know how to use that thing.”

  “Just feed the housing and . . . Oh fuck, never mind, Cal. Just take the god damn wheel!”

  “How the fuck and I suppose to do that, Baker?”

  “Figure it out!” I scream.

  More pops and another spray of bullets whiz through the Mercedes interior, taking the rest of the windshield with them. I reach out, open the driver’s side door, and push Roberto out. The car is speeding along the front of the Forte, bouncing against the rough terrain. Our momentum causes the door to shut on its own. I turn in my seat, extend my right foot against the gas, floor it.

  “I’ll cover you, Cal,” I say, as I trigger off what’s left of the magazine.

  Cal slips his tall body in between the bucket seats and into the driver’s seat. That’s when I climb into the back, holster the .45. At the same time, I grab hold of the .30 cal, set the barrel onto the rear seatback. Opening the ammo can, I pull out the belt. Flipping up the machine gun's housing, I slap the belt onto it and punch the belt holder down. Taking aim, I depress the trigger.