Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) Read online

  There comes a noise and loud bang that seems to make the cave rattle, and then a bright light emanates from the belly of the bird. The light is square-shaped as it beams from out of a big door that is being opened. The door is slowly opening from the top and lowering itself via hinges installed in its bottom, much like the bow door on a military cargo ship. When it is entirely opened, an amazed Keogh can see that the door also serves as an entry ramp.

  “What in the world is happening?” he says.

  “The bird not only flies,” the English-speaking man whispers. “It contains tools and machines that can heal your legs quickly. Then, once you are rested, you will perform the sacred duty the Gods have brought you here to perform.”

  “And what duty is that, sir?”

  “You will fly the Golden Condor back home for us.”

  “And where exactly is home?”

  The man slowly raises his head, reverently looks up at the black cave roof, and smiles.

  “The heavens,” he says.

  PART I

  1.

  Bertelsmann Building, Times Square

  New York City

  May 2014

  I don’t just close the door to my agent’s swank, fourteenth-floor office after entering into it for our scheduled 10 a.m. meeting. I lock it. I also don’t bother with politely taking a chair in front of a glass desk that’s so big and wide, a pilot flying over it might confuse it for a small lake if only a roof weren’t covering this steel and concrete skyscraper.

  Instead I go around the desk, set my callused hands on the narrow shoulders of Leslie Singer, my brown-eyed, long and dark-haired agent of nearly five years, and spin her around so that she faces me. Bending down, I plant a kiss on her thick, red lips.

  Coming up for air, I look into her eyes and smile.

  “Yes, you may kiss me,” she says, her eyes wide and sparkling. “And do you know why you may kiss me, Chase? Because my gynecologist fiancé … the very man who claims to love me and only me … makes it a point to kiss and more than kiss every skirt he can get his hands on. Including his clients.”

  “Is this a bad time, agent lady?” I say, forcing a pretend frown. “Because I can go grab a cold shower and come back.”

  “You, client man, will remain right where you are. And that’s an order.”

  That’s when I squat at the knees, slip my arms under her legs, and lift her up onto the glass desk, knocking over a cup full of pencils and pens and sending two manuscripts onto the floor. Chase the wicked.

  “I thought we arranged this meeting so we could discuss your future, Chase Baker,” she says, her breathing growing heavy.

  Looking down, I catch my reflection in the table top. I might have shaved and combed my hair once I landed this morning at JFK International Airport. But I like the scruffy look and my hair is so short these days a comb would be useless.

  Leslie looks me up and down.

  “Glad you dressed for the occasion,” she says. “You dress just like The Man in the Yellow Hat from the Curious George books.”

  “Hey, I just got off a plane less than an hour ago,” I say, patting the well-worn passport stored in my top left breast pocket. The pocket over my heart. “I haven’t even seen my little girl yet.”

  “Who are you kidding?” she laughs. “You would have worn that getup anyway.”

  It’s the truth and she knows it. What’s also the truth is that I’ve just flown in from West Africa via Paris where I was on assignment for a glossy called Living Ready who hit me up for a survival in the bush story, pictures and words. While I survived the bush with little more than mosquito bites, the fifteen-hundred-buck payday barely covered my flights. But then, that’s showbiz, as they say. But it does explain why I’ve arrived for my meeting not in a business suit but instead my red-clay-soiled cargo pants, ten-year-old lace-up Chippewa work boots, and black T-shirt under a National Geographic bush jacket, the sleeves rolled up all the way to my elbows.

  On the other hand, the tall, thirty-something Leslie is looking stunning today in her black miniskirt and matching black silk blouse. With the skirt hiked up high on her thighs, I can see that her sheer black stockings are of the thigh-high variety. My favorite. They match the black lace push-up bra that’s clearly visible beneath her blouse.

  I kiss her again and pretend I don’t notice the big giant engagement ring on the second finger of her left hand, her cheating gynecologist hubby already waiting for her arrival later this afternoon at his WASP-infected seaside Hamptons “escape.”

  “You called this meeting, Ms. Singer,” I say. “Are we going to discuss my future or not?”

  I proceed to unbutton her shirt, starting at the top and working my way down. But she pushes my hand away.

  “Wait just a minute,” she says. “My future husband may not be honorable, but I still haven’t made up my mind if two wrong turns equal the right path.” Then, as if she’s suddenly made her decision, she reaches out for the phone, picks it up, and using her extended pinky finger punches 0. “Linda, no calls or interruptions until I give you the all clear. You got that? Good.” She hangs up. Looking back into my eyes, she says, “You see that wood box on the end of the desk to your left?”

  I look. “So what?”

  “You’ll find a couple of primo Cubans in there just for you. Thought you might enjoy a welcome back smoke.” She slides down off the desk. “Go ahead. Light up while I freshen up.”

  Looks like two wrong turns does indeed equal the right path…

  She comes around the desk and disappears into her private bathroom. I open the lid on the box, pull out a cigar, and cut away the end with the blade on the new pocketknife I picked up at the duty-free at JFK after mine was confiscated prior to boarding the plane in Paris. Digging around in a pocket on my bush jacket, I pull out a box of wood matches I snatched from a beachside watering hole in Cotonou, and fire the cigar up. Inhaling the good Cuban tobacco, I feel the soothing nicotine enter into my blood stream. If my nine-year-old daughter, Ava, were here, she wouldn’t just pull the cigar out of my mouth, she’d probably toss a glass of water in my face.

  “Are you begging for lung cancer, Daddy?” the long-brunette-haired future pop star would say.

  I look out the window onto the towers that form the perimeter of Times Square.

  “It’s a beautiful spring day,” I say, loud enough for Leslie to hear me through the door.

  The door opens and she emerges looking even more ravaging than before.

  “I’m overwhelmed by passion,” she says, setting herself back onto the desk. “You may approach me now.”

  I go to her, as ordered.

  She grabs hold of my bush jacket by its lapels, pulls it off, lets it drop to the floor. She pats the .45 that’s shoulder holstered to my left ribcage.

  “You bring a pistol to my office? How did you manage to get that through airport security?”

  “What if we need to shoot our way out for some reason?” I say. “And I stored it in a locker at JFK prior to my departure for Africa.”

  “Good thinking,” she giggles. “But I don’t like guns. I mean, think about it. It’s not like imminent danger surrounds us. I think you’re living inside one of your novels.”

  I set my cigar on the edge of her desk, so that the burning end is facing outwards.

  “Shut up and take me, Agent,” I say.

  She unbuckles my holster and the pistol falls. Then she pulls off my T-shirt, revealing a torso that’s not too badly put together for a man of middle age—laceration, bullet, and burn scars be damned. I continue unbuttoning her shirt until it’s dangling off her shoulders. That’s when I allow gravity to work in my favor as it slides down her narrow back to the desk top. Reaching around I unbuckle her bra strap and allow the delicate garment to drop, revealing pert white breasts and perfect round nipples that stand at attention.

  Bending slightly at the knees, I slip my hands into her lace black panties and slowly slide them down past her thighs, then down
over her knees, taking my sweet time the whole way.

  “Oh, before I forget, Chase,” she says, her voice deep and breathy. “You have mail.”

  “Jeez, can it wait?”

  The panties drop to her feet which are covered in black pumps. I drop down to my knees, pull off the underwear and both pumps all at once. I then begin kissing her stockinged legs, starting at her feet, progressing up her calves to her thighs. When my lips reach the point of her thighs where the stockings end and bare skin begins, she opens her legs for me. Not wide, but wide enough. Her breathing is harder now, and she’s beginning to moan a little.

  “Or maybe I should read my mail now?”

  “Not on your life,” she insists, placing her right hand behind my head, pushing me into her.

  I go to town, as they say, with Leslie, no longer moaning, but crying out, loud enough to necessitate my reaching up with my hand, cupping her mouth. After a time her body begins to tremble and I know that my cue to stand has arrived. That’s when she grabs hold of my belt buckle, unbuckling it. She unbuttons my pants, pushing them down. I enter into her and together, we rearrange her desk in ways she never might have imagined. The phone drops to the floor, and so do some manuscripts.

  It’s then, over Leslie’s bare right shoulder, I see the letter. It’s a plain white envelope that’s addressed to me in blue ballpoint. I happen to catch the return address. It’s from Lima, Peru. Now two things on my body are piquing with interest.

  “Are you there yet?” Leslie screams into my hand.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m almost there, Agent.”

  She thrusts her hips under me and more things drop off the desk. But I have no way of knowing what exactly as we both come to that special place together on Leslie’s desk in the fourteenth-floor office of the Singer Literary Agency.

  When we’re done, I roll over onto my back on her big desk.

  “That was wonderful,” she says, not without a laugh.

  “This is exactly the kind of shenanigans that can get a girl fired.”

  “Not me. I own the joint.”

  In my head I’m picturing three or four of Leslie’s female assistants, or “girls” as she refers to them, positioned outside the office, their ears pressed up against the wood door.

  “I forgot about that little detail. I’m a lucky man.”

  “Yes and no,” she says.

  “What’s that mean?” I say, rolling onto my left shoulder, facing her.

  “It means, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat, that you need to start making some money. Or …” She allows the notion to trail off.

  “Or what?”

  “Start thinking about going back to sandbagging.”

  “It’s sandhogging,” I correct. Then, “I thought The Shroud Key was killing it on the charts. I nearly got myself killed on my quest to find the mortal remains of Jesus Christ, and I thought the novel I wrote about it was a testament to my talents both as a writer and a daring adventurer.” I smile for effect.

  “You love yourself, don’t you, Chase?”

  “I aims to please, even if the person I’m pleasing is me.”

  “In all seriousness, Shroud Key is still selling well. Or was selling well anyway. But none of the books on your backlist are selling right now and you need a new novel, like right this very second. This isn’t like the old days when you put out one manuscript every two years. Readers want three books per year.”

  “That might intrude upon my travel plans.”

  “That’s the reality of the modern literary market, Chase. You seen your latest royalty statement?”

  “That’s your job to send it to me.”

  “I have. Your problem is, you don’t read your mail. Snail or email. You’d rather be reading Arrival and Departure boards at airports.”

  “Explain.”

  “Shroud Key earned out its fifty-grand advance, but not much more. Meaning you need a new book.”

  “I hate advances.”

  “Think about going Indie after this one. You get to keep all your royalties. Minus my fifteen percent of course.” She rolls over, smiles at me.

  “And conjugal meetings.”

  “That too. Especially considering the fragile nature of my current relationship. But get that cute little ass of yours into a chair and start typing. Our living depends upon it.”

  “Might have to do some on-site research first.”

  “Where exactly this time?”

  “It’ll come to me.”

  She pokes me.

  “Make sure it comes to you soon, Chase,” she insists. “There now, agent/client pep talk officially over and done with.”

  “I have the best agent in the world,” I say, kissing her gently on the mouth. “Too bad she’s making the mistake of marrying a less than trustworthy gynie.”

  “Hey,” she perks up, “with self-publishing all the rage these days, anyone who types the word ‘spit’ onto a series of blank pages sixty thousand times can get their book published. That said, literary agents aren’t quite in demand like they used to be. A girl has to look out for herself.”

  “A summer estate in the Hamptons and a three-bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side. You’ve looked out for yourself pretty damned well, Agent.”

  “I, like you, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat, am an explorer and a survivor.”

  “You’re also an opportunist who’s about to marry a total jerk.”

  “Look who’s talking, grave robber.”

  “I don’t rob graves. I unearth ancient antiquities for the purposes of study and on-site research for my novels.”

  “Dangerous work if you can get it.”

  “And this isn’t? What if the gynie were to find out about us? He might come after me with a pair of stirrups.” On instinct, I find myself sitting up. “You smell smoke?”

  I look down at her. She’s making a Samantha Bewitched gesture with the nostrils on her pretty little nose that tells me she also smells something she shouldn’t be smelling at the present moment. Until she bounds up.

  “Jesus, it’s fire.”

  I slide off the desk, glance to my right, and immediately see that not only has the lit cigar fallen to the floor, but so has a stack of manuscript pages that are now ablaze. Some of the pages have drifted under one of the floor-to-ceiling drapes, setting it on fire.

  “Don’t look now, but it’s about to flash.”

  The words aren’t out of my mouth before the drape in the room’s far left corner goes up, setting fire to the wooden bathroom door at the same time.

  The alarm goes off, but the sprinklers don’t come on. Leslie goes to the phone, shouts into it, “Linda, everyone out! We’re on fire! We’re right behind you!”

  The fire quickly races across the ceiling and begins running down the wall that surrounds the office door. Our one and only way out of the office.

  “Call 9-1-1,” I order.

  She pulls on her skirt, throws her shirt over her naked chest, buttoning the center button only. Picking up her phone, she dials 911.

  “Phone’s out!” she barks.

  “Already?” I say, pulling on my pants and stepping into my boots before putting on my bush jacket and pulling the .45 from its holster. “Here,” I add, pulling out my cell phone from the jacket pocket and tossing it to her. “Use mine.” That’s when I notice the letter addressed to me from Peru. I snatch it up, stuff it into my jacket pocket before it too, ignites.

  Taking the phone in hand, she dials 911. In the meantime, I go to the office door. But it’s not only surrounded by fire, it too is now on fire. There’s no way we’re making it through there alive. I turn back to Leslie. She tosses me the phone.

  “It’s been called in,” she informs as I snatch the phone from out of the heated air. “They’re on their way.” She smiles. “We’re saved.”

  I look up at the ceiling. It’s almost entirely covered in creeping fire. The wall behind me is also covered. Even the bathroom is engulfed in red/orange flames. In my head I’m ca
lculating the chances of Leslie and me surviving the ten minutes it will take for the fire trucks to get here through the thick Manhattan traffic. The calculation I come up with is zero chance.

  “Leslie, I want you to listen to me. This room is about to flash over. When that happens, it will literally cook us alive.”

  “What do we do?”

  I hold up the .45.

  “We shoot our way out. Right through that window.”

  Pointing the pistol barrel at the floor-to-ceiling glass, I pump the trigger. The room explodes in gunfire, causing Leslie to cover both ears with her hands.

  “Told you we might need my gun,” I shout, proudly observing the wide semicircle of bullet holes I’ve shot into the safety glass.

  “Yeah, I feel much better now that you’ve shot the glass dead,” Leslie says, with a roll of her eyes.

  “Ye of such little faith,” I say. Then, “Help me with something.”

  I go to her desk, positioning myself on the far right side of it. Leslie comes to me, stands beside me.

  “When I give you the word, we’re gonna push your desk through the window in the exact spot that I just carved out with my gun. You with me here?”

  “You’re the Man in the Yellow Hat. How could I not be with you?”

  “Okay, grab hold.” She does it. “Ready. Set. Go!”

  Together we shove the heavy glass and metal desk across the smooth tile floor until it connects solidly with the bullet-weakened section of window. To my surprise and delight, the piece of window shatters on contact, sending millions of glass shards and the heavy desk sailing down into Times Square below.

  “Christ, I hope we didn’t just kill someone,” Leslie moans.

  “Chance we gotta take.”

  I go to the window, drop onto my knees, and look out. Fourteen stories down I can see the crowd of onlookers that has gathered in the streets to watch the inferno. I can also make out the now shattered desk and the many pieces of window glass. Luckily, I’m not seeing any dead or injured bodies. Unluckily, I’m not seeing any fire trucks. I don’t need to sneak a look over my shoulder to see that the fire in the office is only growing in strength with the introduction of fresh oxygen.