Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) Read online

  The pistol discharges once more, her face lighting up again. I squeeze harder, my thumb jammed against her carotid artery. I’m hoping she passes out from lack of oxygen to the brain, but she’s stronger than she looks. She manages to shift her head just enough to squeeze her chin beneath my grip. Opening her mouth wide, she clamps her teeth tight onto my hand, on the soft flesh between my thumb and index finger.

  I let loose with a scream that must be audible all the way down to Rome.

  The pistol discharges again. I pull my hand from her mouth, make a fist and belt her in the mouth, not once but two, three times. The force of the blow knocks her head back against her spine, and she loses her grip on the pistol.

  The pistol drops to the floor.

  We both dive for it, my hand managing to snatch it first. But she also grabs hold of it. At the same time, her eyes are focusing on the leather bag set on the edge of the couch. She pulls on the pistol and begins reaching for the bag.

  The pistol fires again and the mirror above the sink shatters. That’s when I feel the knee jam up into my crotch. I let go of the pistol as I enter into a new dimension of pain altogether. A pain so intense I feel my insides drop like a plane crash, the searing throbbing in my midsection electric and all consuming. She bounds up, goes to the case, grabs hold of it. She reaches for the door lock, unlatches it.

  My body is paralyzed, crushed under the weight of my pain. But my brain is not dead. I know that Vanessa — this blonde peril — is about to get away with stealing a priceless set of manuscripts. That they will end up being sold on the black market to the highest bidder. That they will end up stored inside someone’s personal vault. Or worse, destroyed. Not that my client isn’t trading on the vast underground black market of rare books. But, at least, he is committed to preserving them for posterity.

  Or so he claims.

  On another hand altogether, I don’t deliver the manuscripts to his front door, I’m out a whole lot of cash. Not to mention the humiliation of having my ass kicked on a train by a beautiful woman who lured me into her bed.

  The lock releases on the door.

  She lowers her hands to the latch. I need to stop her . . . now. But I’m down on my side, curled up in the fetal position like a newborn baby with its guts punched in. My window of opportunity is maybe two seconds at most. After that, she will be gone. Or, at the very least, she will grab the nearest porter, claim I attacked her. They’ll lock me up and deliver me to the police at the next stop.

  I swallow something cold and bitter, and despite the pain, thrust my arms out for her ankles. I manage to grab her right ankle. Yanking it back with all my strength, she goes down hard and flat on her face. At the same time, the pain in my midsection begins to retreat, and I am able to throw myself on top of her, pinning her with my body weight.

  I grab the pistol, toss it onto the couch behind me. Then, I grab the leather satchel, pull it out of her hand, toss it back up onto the couch beside the gun. Pulling her hands behind her back police style, I hold them tightly in my fist while removing my belt. That’s when I wrap her wrists together in the belt so tightly I can almost feel her circulation cease up.

  I pull her up by the wrists and her arms bend in a way God never intended.

  “You son of a bitch,” she growls, her voice strained and angry. “You will go to hell for this.”

  “Tell it to the devil,” I say.

  Opening the bathroom door, I shove her inside, push her down on the toilet. Bending down onto the floor, I pick up her black panties and shove them in her mouth. Then, ripping off one of her stockings, I tie her ankles together. Ripping off her second stocking, I tie her wrists to the towel rack above the toilet. As a parting gift, I look her in the eye and say, “this is for Papa Hemingway.”

  Cocking back my arm, I make a fist and punch her lights out.

  CHAPTER 5

  Taking a few seconds to straighten myself out using what’s left of the shattered mirror, I grab hold of the case, strap it around my shoulder where it shall remain until I get to New York City. Or, at least, until I’m thirty thousand feet in the air on my way there.

  Stepping out into the narrow corridor, I’m shocked the space isn’t filled with the railroad’s version of a SWAT team. But, thus far, the coast is clear. I find out just how wrong I am when the far car door bursts open, uniformed men and women coming through, all of them armed.

  I merely press my back against the wall as they slip past. One of them stops, turns to me.

  “We heard shots,” he says in a heavily accented voice.

  “Not this car,” I say. Lifting my hand, index finger pointed towards the far door. “It came from another car. That way.”

  He barks something out in in German. “Nicht schissan.”

  The team empties out of the car, heads into another. I proceed to the bar car where I drink three tall beers before the train pulls into Venice.

  CHAPTER 6

  Mott Street

  Chinatown

  New York City

  12 Hours Later

  The world around me is exploding.

  Guns, cannons, grenades, karate kicks and chops, shouts, screams, missiles launched and exploding, jet planes dive bombing, racecars speeding, a cute little pudgy Italian plumber with a thick mustache by the name of Mario bouncing on vertical and horizontal shifting building blocks. I’m not in a war zone or the nut house for that matter, but I am standing inside a place where the competition is fierce, and the stakes are high. Higher than an all-time high score, in fact.

  The man I’m here to see is positioned before an oversized high-def monitor, both his hands gripping a panel-mounted joystick. Broadcast on the screen are two animated versions of super-muscular men duking it out with punches and kicks that, in real life, would kill a man made of flesh and blood on the spot.

  The name of the game is Tekkon and the parlor is called Chinatown Fair. I’m told this is the very last video game arcade in Chinatown which is kind of amazing when you consider that you could not walk an entire city block without running into a video game parlor back when I was a kid. But then, you couldn’t go very far without running into a Blockbuster video store, or a record/CD store, or an independent bookstore either, for that matter.

  The bookstores you can still find, but not nearly as many as there were back in the olden days. You know, back when I was a teenager. But there are a handful of antique bookstores around that sell one-of-a-kind and rare books, some of them so rare they must be stored not out on the floor or even inside a glass case, but inside a vault or a safe.

  My client, who is currently pounding the shit out of an overly muscular ‘roided up woman dressed like a sorcerer with a half man/half dragon, owns just such a rare bookstore. He’s also the caretaker of an estate estimated to be worth close to a billion dollars thanks to the sale of his free-to-play video game development company which he began on his personal laptop back in college ten years ago. Or so he tells me.

  His name is Yami Kuro which means Black Cross in Japanese. But he’s also an American and his friends refer to him as Cross. I, too, enjoy the privilege of calling him Cross, especially now that I am officially delivering the literary find of this or any other century.

  I’m careful to stand off to the side while he finishes his game. Nor do I speak a word. And when the muscle-man/lizard finally knocks out the sorcerer lady with a stunning and gravity-defying double drop kick, he turns to me and with a smile on his face, stating, “Am I good, mofo, or what, yo?”

  “You’re good, mofo,” I say. “But then, you owe me lots of money, so until you pay up, I’m going to call you the good mofo all day.”

  He laughs. His face is Asian, but his style is entirely American. He’s a little shorter than my five feet nine inches but thin and wiry. He might be an expert at martial arts when it comes to maneuvering his video game characters, but he’s also earned his black belt and several subsequent belts in Budokai Karate. And he’s got the trophies on his office wall to p
rove it. At his tender age, he hasn’t yet put in a lifetime of collecting and trading rare books. But he seems to be genuinely interested in the trade, and he wants to see his collection preserved for all time. Which, as a writer, is one of the reasons I enjoy working for him.

  The dude cares about books.

  But then, working for him also means I don’t have to dig around in the dirt like I do for most of my projects. I wish I could say the same for my not getting shot at.

  The words GAME OVER appear on the big LED screen. His face takes on the noticeable expression of disappointment, just like my eleven-year-old daughter’s does when one of the video games she’s playing on her Play Station comes to a sudden end.

  Cross releases his grip on the joystick, steps away from the game. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says The Beatles on the front in white letters. It’s the same catchy white logo that used to appear on Ringo’s bass drum. He’s paired the shirt with skinny jeans and blue, low-top Converse sneakers with the laces untied. If I didn’t already know he was worth a fortune, I might confuse the baby-faced man as some kid skipping school.

  He spots the leather bag strapped to my shoulder.

  “You still have them, don’t you, Chase? Please don’t tell me you lost them on transit, just like Hemingway’s first wife. Now wouldn’t that be like totally ironic, yo.”

  “Am I good, mofo, or what?”

  He reaches out, touches the bag like he need not see what’s inside to know that it’s the genuine article. The “true gen” as Hemingway used to say. He pulls a vape cig device from his jeans’ pocket, flicks it on so the tip illuminates in baby blue light. He inhales the vapor and, while holding it inside his lungs, says, “Let’s go back to the store and open it, yo.”

  He holds out the device for me.

  “Me no smokee the vapor pipe,” I say in my best Sitting Bull impression. Not that I have even the slightest clue what Sitting Bull sounded like.

  He exhales a stream of vapor.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, Baker,” he says.

  “Too bad for my lungs.”

  He re-pockets the e-cig device and goes for the door.

  I follow, recalling how much fun it used to be to sneak into the boy’s room to smoke real tobacco cigarettes. Back in the olden days when I used to ride my bike to the mall to play Asteroids in the video arcade.

  CHAPTER 7

  At first glance, the Reliquary Bookshop looks like any other independent bookstore that’s been around for decades and decades. Located in the East Village in a side alley off of Green Street, Cross bought it off the original owners back when he sold off his video game development operation. From what he’s confessed over the past few weeks, he’d always wanted to be a writer but didn’t have an ounce of talent. Which is why he did the next best thing by purchasing an antique and rare bookshop.

  “Who knows, Baker,” he once told me, “maybe one day collectors will be paying thousands for a rare copy of The Shroud Key.”

  Truth is, the mere notion of leaving such a legacy behind after I become dust boggles the mind. Too bad I won’t be around to see it happen. But then, maybe my daughter can reap the rewards.

  The front room of the bookshop is a huge square with nearly two levels of floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with volumes. Antique throw rugs cover the wood floor. A long leather couch with a wood harvest table pushed up against its back is positioned in the middle of the floor. Numerous rare editions are displayed on the tabletop.

  Soon as we’re through the door, Cross high-fives the woman working the front desk. She’s an attractive young woman in her early thirties with rich, smooth skin the color of coffee with a lot of milk in it. A blue, red, and white silk scarf covers her head, part of which is draped over her shoulder. She smiles at me with a pair of the largest dark brown eyes I’ve ever witnessed.

  “Magda,” Cross says. “Please meet Chase Baker. Chase is a bad ass explorer like Indiana Jones, and he has secured a new find for us.”

  “More like James Bond,” I say. “But life’s too short to be splitting hairs.”

  She politely comes around the desk, holds out her hand, the wrist of which supports maybe a half dozen silver bracelets.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones-Bond-Baker,” she says.

  “Magda is actually a big time doc,” Cross explains. “Doctor Magda Azzahra, NYU Professor of Biblical History specializing in the New Testament. She’s super cool and helps me out with the shop from time to time.”

  When she takes her hand back, I can see that she’s wearing a tight-fitting blue button-down, the sleeves casually rolled up the forearm, the tails of which hang loosely over faded Levis. For footwear, she’s wearing black boots with high heels.

  “Let’s do this, yo,” an excited Cross says. “I wanna check out my prize.”

  “The world’s prize,” I say, patting the leather bag. “You promised, remember?”

  Cross smiles.

  “How could I forget,” he says, nodding emphatically. “Like I promised, in time, the lost Hemingway books will be offered up to the New York Public Library.”

  Unless somebody comes along with a better offer . . .

  Then, turning his attention to his new employee. “You see, Magda. Chase is not only an explorer, he is also a very good writer. A man who loves books, new and old. But mostly, he is very good at finding things. Difficult if not impossible to find things. He’s got a real talent for it.”

  “Just like Indy,” she repeats.

  “More like your average construction laborer,” I say. “I was trained as a sandhog. A digger. My dad and I worked on a whole bunch of archaeological sites back in my younger days, and I was able to pick up a few tricks of the trade.”

  “Where does the writing come in?” she asks.

  “I graduated with an MFA in Writing from Vermont College. There was a time I wanted to be Hemingway.”

  “Speaking of which,” Cross says. “Let’s get this show on the road, yo.” He begins making his way across the carpeted floor. “Magda, please lock the front door, and meet us in my office. I want you to bear witness to something pretty freakin’ special.”

  Magda slips past me, locks the deadbolt on the door, turns the old, string-supported, wood placard around so that the word “Open” is facing us, the word “Closed” facing Johnny and Janie Q. Public. When she turns back toward me, she places her hand on my shoulder. The touch sends a quick, but pleasant, electric jolt throughout my body. I like touchy girls. Especially super attractive ones like Magda.

  Her hand still pressing against my shoulder, she says, “I’ll tell you a little secret, Mr. Baker. Cross just thinks the world of you. He sees you as so adventurous and worldly and talented. Like the Most Interesting Man in the World on those Mexican beer commercials. A real Renaissance man if there ever was one. Everything he would like to be.”

  She slips her hand off while I look her in the eye.

  “Let’s hope that what I’ve brought him is the real thing.”

  “I’m sure it is,” she says. Then, winking before leaning in toward me, so close I can smell her lavender scent. “I happen to fancy the adventurous type myself,” she whispers. Pulling slowly back, she moves on past me toward the back office.

  Half a day ago, I was fighting for my life inside a train car speeding through the Austrian Alps. Now, I’m being touted as the next best thing since Guttenberg press. I guess I can chalk it all up to a day’s work for Chase Baker — Renaissance man and lover.

  Cross’ back office also doubles as a secondary bookshop, stuffed with volumes too rare and, in some cases, too priceless to be housed on the general floor. The room is rectangular with windows at the far end protected from intruders by vertical iron bars. A mahogany desk that surely cost more than my apartment is set in front of the window. To my right is a fireplace that looks like it still works. Two leather chairs have been placed in front of it. To my left, the wall is covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Hung in the center
of the bookcases is an old oil painting of a white-bearded man wearing a black suit and old-fashioned collar and tie.

  I find myself drawn to the man.

  “That’s the original shop owner,” Cross says. “Man by the name of . . . get this . . . Herbert Lepenhagen. Started the store just after the end of the First World War. Brought over dozens of volumes from Germany including one of the original King James volumes dating back to 1613.” He elbows me. “You wanna see it?”

  My pulse picks up. Just like it always does at the mere mention of precious antiquities.

  “You gotta ask?” I say.

  “Right on,” Cross says. “But first, let’s see what you’ve brought me.” Then, to his attractive helper. “Yo, Mag, why don’t you open up a bottle of champagne?”

  I’m a little surprised to see that Magda knows the place so well. I’ve been working with Cross on and off for a number of weeks, and I’ve never met her until now. I guess I must have missed her whenever I came to the shop. She shuffles over to the far inside corner of the room where a small refrigerator is attached to a larger bar. She opens the fridge, pulls out one of the dozen or so chilled bottles inside.

  Pulling off the leather bag, I carry it to a long table that’s set up behind the two chairs, set it down. Unlatching the two belts that secure the bag flap, I carefully pull out the old leather sheath, and set that down beside the bag.

  “Cross,” I say, “maybe you should do the honors.”

  You can practically feel the excitement oozing out of his pours. Digging into his jeans pocket, he comes back out with a pair of white gloves and slips them on. Carefully opening the satchel flap so that the dry leather doesn’t break, he reaches inside and delicately pulls out a stack of papers that also includes carbon copies.

  He takes a step back to read the title on the very top page.

  The Feast, by Ernest Hemingway is clearly visible.

  There’s some handwriting on the top of the page. It’s very faded but legible. It reads, Maybe new title. Bitch of a novel so far. Rewrite like a son of a bitch.