Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (17 page)

Keogh III locks his gaze upon his maker. I can tell he’s trying
his best to work up something to say to a man who not only gave him life so
long ago, but who should also be long dead by now. But instead of making words,
all he can manage is to open and close his mouth while his Adam’s apple bobs up
and down inside his thin, if not sickly, pale neck.

At the same time, Keogh II eyes his long-lost son like a
young father who is getting his first real peek at his newborn baby. The old
pilot holds out his arms as if to bear hug his aged and dying boy.

“Behold your father, son,” he says.

But something very strange happens then. Keogh III doesn’t
step forward, enter into his dad’s loving arms. Instead, he takes a deliberate
step backwards. And then another, just to prove he meant the first one.

“I don’t know if you’re real,” he says with a shake of his
head, “or if you’re someone’s idea of a joke. But whatever you are, I don’t
want you touching me. Got it?”

“Son,” Keogh II says, his voice suddenly painfully hoarse,
his smile now turned upside down, “why do you speak to me this way?”

Keogh III exhales, bites down hard on his bottom lip. His
face is pale, and so gaunt it almost hurts to look at it. “If you’re real…If
you are genuinely my father and not some crazy imposter who’s followed me down
here in order to confuse me and sabotage my mission, then what I want to ask
you is this: Did it ever occur to you to maybe find a phone and give me a call
at some point over the past seventy-five years?”

“Son,” the old flier says, “there are no phones down here.
There’s no real time to speak of. How was I to know that you have grown up, and
aged as much as you have?”

“You would have known had you attempted to contact me.”

“Look at me, son. You’re right. In many ways, I’m not real.
Since crashing into the jungle, I’ve been given a special gift. And it’s
something you would never understand.”

The cancer-ridden Keogh nods. “I’ll just have to take your
word for it, old man.” Then, turning to me, “Enough of this useless chatter.
Time to get down to business.”

Keogh III is accompanied by two men dressed entirely in
black. They wear jungle boots, cargo pants, and work shirts with the Keogh
Enterprises logo sewn into the chest pocket over the heart. The logo comes in
the shape of an old DC-11 propeller driven cargo plane from the 1930s and 40s.
They’re both holding black Heckler and Koch HK416 automatic weapons, the
barrels of which are aimed precariously at us.

“I’ll give you this much, Mr. Baker,” Keogh III says, “you
are positively dripping with tenacity.”

“What a surprise to see you too, boss,” I say. “Thanks for
answering our calls.”

Keogh III maintains a tightlipped, pale face. He’s wearing
an olive green bush jacket and matching pants, both of which are soaked
through. The clothing swims on his sickly, near skeletal-like frame. For
footwear, he’s sporting the identical black jungle boots as his men. His black
and gray baseball cap sports the same Keogh Enterprises logo as the shirts,
only larger and more colorful.

“Frankly, Mr. Baker,” he says, his voice hardly more than a
whisper, “I didn’t expect you to live long enough for me to ever speak to you
again.”

Leslie takes a step forward, nudges me in the bicep.

“It was him all along,” she says. “He’s the son of a bitch
who set us up. He was his own mole. The mole that Pedro spoke about.”

“Yes,” I say, staring at the rifle barrels. “But why? Why
send us on this mission only to kill us off in the process?”

“Because I wanted you to confirm for me what this crazy
bastard couldn’t confirm,” Keogh III says, his eyes poised on his father. “That
a trail did indeed exist in the jungle and that it would lead me to this cave
in the mountain. Once that was done, I’d have no use for you.”

“Who you calling crazy bastard?” Keogh II barks, his eyes
once more filling with tears. “That’s no way to speak to your father.”

The old pilot approaches his even older son once more, again
opening up his arms for a hug. Now that they’re standing so close, the family
resemblance is uncanny.

“Back off, old man,” Keogh III insists. Then, holding his
bare hand out to me, “I’ll be glad to relieve you of your weapon, Chase.”

Exhaling, I place it in his palm. Then, his eyes on Leslie,
“You too,” he says.

She surrenders her AR-15.

“Peter Junior,” Keogh II says, “don’t you want to hug your
father?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, old man,” the younger Keogh
says, “I’m dying. I’m also thirty-plus years older than you right now. But you
are going to reverse that for me.”

“Son,” Keogh II says, bearing the frown of the truly
confused, “I don’t understand.”

“You are in the possession of the most coveted
archaeological prize known to man,” Keogh III says. “The Golden Condor. The
very aircraft or, should I say, spacecraft, that was flown here by ancient
aliens from another solar system. It’s here in this cave. I want it for two
reasons.”

“And those reasons are?” I chime in.

“That aircraft is going to save my life,” he says. “And then
it’s going to make me the wealthiest man in the world.”

“You are out of your mind, son,” the old pilot says. “You
have been stricken not only with a cancer but with a sickness that’s far
worse.” Crossing his arms over his chest. “Greed.”

“Shut the hell up, old man.”

Keogh II’s eyes suddenly lose their teary sadness and
instead become the eyes of an angry man.

“You watch your tone, sonny boy,” he grouses, lowering his
arms.

If things aren’t bizarre enough, I’m watching a
forty-two-year-old father scold his seventy-five-year-old son.

“Marcus,” Keogh III says.

Immediately, the goon standing over my employer’s right
shoulder shifts himself so that he’s facing the line of shoulder-to-shoulder
natives to my right.

“Patrick,” Keogh III adds.

That’s when the second goon positions himself so that he’s
facing the line of natives on my left.

“Proceed!” Keogh III orders.

Shouldering their weapons, the goons commit mass murder.

It takes only a matter of seconds for the slaughter to be completed.
Afterwards, the goons change out their clips and stand at attention, awaiting
new orders.

Keogh II’s face goes pale under his leather flight cap. He
eyes the death and destruction all around him, the blood pooling on the stone
floor as the members of the ancient Tupi tribe bleed out.

“You will be sorry for this,” he whispers angrily to his
offspring. “You are not my son. No son of mine would commit a sin like this.”

“Save it for later, Dad,” Keogh III says. “For now, I want
you to lead me to the Condor. You are going to pilot that plane to a place that
will save my life and make me young again, just like you, my father, my maker.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You won’t refuse. Trust me.”

“And how is that, sonny?”

“Marcus,” Keogh III says again.

That’s when the goon cocks his weapon once more, aims it at
Leslie, and fires.

The single shot hits her in the stomach.

Leslie collapses to the floor like sack of rags and bones.

I drop to my knees, press both my hands against her wound.
But the blood is gushing out from between my fingers.

“You evil son of a bitch!” I shout. “I will kill you for
this.”

“I’m going to die anyway, Chase. And so is your lovely
Leslie. That is unless dear old dad here leads us to the Golden Condor.”

I press my hand against Leslie’s jugular. She’s alive, but
the pulse is fading fast.

“You hang in there, Les,” I say. “I’m gonna get you help.”

She looks up at me with wide eyes. She’s in too much pain
and shock to talk.

“You see, Chase,” Keogh III says, “you and me have the same
problem now. If we don’t get to that aircraft immediately, we both lose
something we can never get back.”

I look up at the old pilot.

“Peter,” I say. “You gotta help us.”

That’s when I see him feeling for the six gun that’s been
hidden until now by his leather aviator’s coat.

“Now now, Dad,” Keogh III says. “Old men of one hundred
fifteen shouldn’t be playing with guns.”

Keogh III reaches for the gun, snatches it out of his
father’s holster.

“Genuine relic,” he says, shoving the barrel into his pant
waist.

Keogh II nods, exhales as though shamed to have been robbed
of his weapon so easily.

“Follow me,” he says in a dejected tone. “The aircraft is
docked overhead.”

While I cradle the bleeding Leslie in my arms, the two goons
follow close behind, their weapons poised on our backs. Keogh II leads us up a
set of narrow stone stairs to another room, this one far wider and longer than
the one below it. But like the first smaller room, this area too is illuminated
in the golden glow of wall-mounted fire lit torches.

Positioned in the very center of the room is a sight like I
have never before witnessed.

The plane is at least as large as a modern fighter jet, only
its skin isn’t metallic, but instead, golden, as if constructed of solid gold
sheets. The wings are short, but swept, while the back stabilizer is shaped
like a V. There seems to be one power source of an engine which is mounted to
the very top of the fuselage directly over a cockpit that resembles a bird’s
beak.

A condor’s beak.

There’s no landing gear to speak of. Instead the aircraft
simply hovers ten feet above the stone floor. It’s one of the most remarkable
objects I have ever witnessed.

“Come this way, everyone,” Keogh II encourages us to follow.

I trail close behind, Leslie bleeding so badly, the blood is
pouring onto the floor.

When Keogh II positions himself directly under the belly of
the craft, he turns to me and orders me to stay where I am. What he has to do
now, he must do by himself.

Standing straight and stiff, his arms held tightly against
his sides, he positions his face upwards, so that he’s gazing up at the
underside of the craft. That’s when two beams of bright laser light shoot down,
striking both his eyes. He wobbles for a second or two until the laser lights
cease. A loud metal against metal bang occurs then, which reverberates
throughout the room, and the plane’s underbelly begins to open up, the bottom
hatch lowering itself down onto the stone so that it provides us with a ramp
for entering into her.

“Now,” Keogh II says. “This way.”

I go to him and carry Leslie up into the craft.

There’s nothing inside the Condor that resembles an airplane.

No seats, no doors, no porthole windows for gazing outside
the craft. The low-ceilinged metallic tube contains only several floor-mounted
tables that are made of metal, or something like metal. I lay Leslie on one of
these tables while the rest of the men enter into the area behind me.

“Everyone lies down on one of the tables,” Keogh II insists.

“What about you?” his son asks.

Keogh II taps a bare wall with his index finger as if a
panel of buttons exists there, and an invisible door slides open.

“I’m flying,” he says.

Positioning himself down into a cockpit-like chair, an
assemblage of pedals, levers, and periscope-like viewfinders slowly emerge from
out of nowhere and mold to his exact physical specifications. I am reminded of
the familiar stone carving of the ancient Incan pilot who appeared to be flying
a craft outfitted with identical instruments and controls. For decades
scientists have been trying to explain that carving. Now an explanation is
finally at hand.

The hatch closes and the craft goes pitch dark.

“What now?” I say.

“Just close your eyes,” Keogh II insists.

I close my eyes and a strange sensation emanates up from the
steel table. It’s a kind of electrical charge that doesn’t paralyze me, but
instead holds me in place like a half dozen invisible thick leather belts and
straps have been wrapped around me and buckled secure. Even my pulse and
heartbeat seem to be slowing so that I suddenly feel like I’m not entirely
awake, as though by lying back on this hard table, I have somehow automatically
entered into a dream-state.

A loud thunder follows and then a clockwise circling
movement occurs. I open my eyes to sneak a look into the cockpit, and that’s
when I see that the two metallic sheets or shields that were covering the
windshield have been lowered. Keogh II punches something and we begin heading
in the direction of a stone wall, until the stone wall rapidly lowers and like
a rocket we shoot beyond the cave and the mountain.

“This is it, people,” the old flier barks, his voice
resonating in my head.

Those are the last words I remember hearing before he
punches something else, and I pass out from excessive forces of gravity.