Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) by Vincent Zandri Page A
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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world, anyway.
I glance at my watch.
4:30 in the morning.
Where did the night go? It’s not like me to sleep for hours on end without waking. My ride to the airport is scheduled for dark-thirty. It will be the break of dawn within a half hour. Which means, I’ve got to get my ass up and out of bed.
Crawling out of bed, I run myself under the shower and get re-dressed in the uniform I require for a trip to Israel and Palestine. Levi jeans, cotton work shirt with breast pockets, bush jacket stuffed with passport, cash, notebooks, medical history — including vaccination records, should the worst happen and I end up at the hospital. The jacket also houses some simple first aid items like surgical tape, Band-Aids, a small tube of Neosporin, a little bottle of Advil, and even fishing line and a hook. Lastly, I strap an old black nylon bag around my shoulders. This isn’t a man purse so much as it’s what I use to cart around the treasure I might be going after which, in this case, will constitute seven very special ancient metal texts.
Slipping my shoulder holstered .45 caliber Model 1911 over my shoulder, I also slip two extra magazines into the left-hand pocket on my jacket. No need for leaving it behind since I’ll be flying in Cross’ private jet and I can bring a howitzer aboard if I feel like it. It’s still dark, but the pizza joint is open downstairs, and I head down for a quick coffee. It’s while I’m carrying it out of the shop that I spot her getting out of a taxi, tossing an orange and blue Tough Traveler knapsack over her shoulder.
Magda.
The taxi pulls away, and she stands there staring at me.
I say, “Is it me? Or did I somehow expect not to see you again until I returned the ever triumphant explorer, the fate of the world resting in my hands in the form of seven metal books, the seventh one of those sealed until the day God unseals it?”
She approaches me, takes the cup of coffee, steals a careful sip, then hands it back to me.
She says, “After I left you last night, I went home and tried to sleep. But all I could think about were the codices. How important it is that they are found. How important that the seventh seal isn’t breached. How very important it is that we are able to examine them first before handing them over to Cross.” She smiles. “Plus, I figured two sets of eyes are better than one.”
I sip some coffee. It’s still piping hot.
“Or maybe you just missed me,” I say, not without a sly grin. Chase the tease.
Her smirk says it all.
“I’ll plead the fifth on that one.” She looks at her watch, and adds, “That’s pretty good coffee, by the way.”
“Coming right up,” I say.
Naturally, I get the hint. Chase the gentleman.
I head back into the pizza joint, grab her a coffee and bring it back out. That’s when the black Suburban with tinted windows pulls up.
“Looks like our ride is here,” I say.
Both the driver and passenger side doors open, and two men emerge from inside the big SUV. They are not big men, but huge. Both of them dressed in traditional Hasidic Jewish garb. Black pants and matching suit jackets. White shirt with the tassels hanging off their belts on both hips. They’ve got these big black Stetsons on their heads, and long black hair that’s braided on both sides hanging down to their shoulders.
“Chase Baker,” says the taller of the two, his voice a combination exotic Israeli and tough-guy Brooklyn Heights. “We’ve been instructed to accompany you to the airport.”
“I think there must be a mistake,” I say. “You must be confusing me for someone else.”
“Why should there be a mistake?” the second, shorter Hasidic Jew says in the same oddly accented voice. He takes a step forward on the sidewalk, halting under an inverted ark of sodium lamplight. “You trying to say we look funny?” He opens his black jacket just enough to reveal the pistol grip on a Mini-Uzi 9mm machine pistol.
These guys might be men of God,
I glance at my watch.
4:30 in the morning.
Where did the night go? It’s not like me to sleep for hours on end without waking. My ride to the airport is scheduled for dark-thirty. It will be the break of dawn within a half hour. Which means, I’ve got to get my ass up and out of bed.
Crawling out of bed, I run myself under the shower and get re-dressed in the uniform I require for a trip to Israel and Palestine. Levi jeans, cotton work shirt with breast pockets, bush jacket stuffed with passport, cash, notebooks, medical history — including vaccination records, should the worst happen and I end up at the hospital. The jacket also houses some simple first aid items like surgical tape, Band-Aids, a small tube of Neosporin, a little bottle of Advil, and even fishing line and a hook. Lastly, I strap an old black nylon bag around my shoulders. This isn’t a man purse so much as it’s what I use to cart around the treasure I might be going after which, in this case, will constitute seven very special ancient metal texts.
Slipping my shoulder holstered .45 caliber Model 1911 over my shoulder, I also slip two extra magazines into the left-hand pocket on my jacket. No need for leaving it behind since I’ll be flying in Cross’ private jet and I can bring a howitzer aboard if I feel like it. It’s still dark, but the pizza joint is open downstairs, and I head down for a quick coffee. It’s while I’m carrying it out of the shop that I spot her getting out of a taxi, tossing an orange and blue Tough Traveler knapsack over her shoulder.
Magda.
The taxi pulls away, and she stands there staring at me.
I say, “Is it me? Or did I somehow expect not to see you again until I returned the ever triumphant explorer, the fate of the world resting in my hands in the form of seven metal books, the seventh one of those sealed until the day God unseals it?”
She approaches me, takes the cup of coffee, steals a careful sip, then hands it back to me.
She says, “After I left you last night, I went home and tried to sleep. But all I could think about were the codices. How important it is that they are found. How important that the seventh seal isn’t breached. How very important it is that we are able to examine them first before handing them over to Cross.” She smiles. “Plus, I figured two sets of eyes are better than one.”
I sip some coffee. It’s still piping hot.
“Or maybe you just missed me,” I say, not without a sly grin. Chase the tease.
Her smirk says it all.
“I’ll plead the fifth on that one.” She looks at her watch, and adds, “That’s pretty good coffee, by the way.”
“Coming right up,” I say.
Naturally, I get the hint. Chase the gentleman.
I head back into the pizza joint, grab her a coffee and bring it back out. That’s when the black Suburban with tinted windows pulls up.
“Looks like our ride is here,” I say.
Both the driver and passenger side doors open, and two men emerge from inside the big SUV. They are not big men, but huge. Both of them dressed in traditional Hasidic Jewish garb. Black pants and matching suit jackets. White shirt with the tassels hanging off their belts on both hips. They’ve got these big black Stetsons on their heads, and long black hair that’s braided on both sides hanging down to their shoulders.
“Chase Baker,” says the taller of the two, his voice a combination exotic Israeli and tough-guy Brooklyn Heights. “We’ve been instructed to accompany you to the airport.”
“I think there must be a mistake,” I say. “You must be confusing me for someone else.”
“Why should there be a mistake?” the second, shorter Hasidic Jew says in the same oddly accented voice. He takes a step forward on the sidewalk, halting under an inverted ark of sodium lamplight. “You trying to say we look funny?” He opens his black jacket just enough to reveal the pistol grip on a Mini-Uzi 9mm machine pistol.
These guys might be men of God,
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