Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (5 page)

Walking.

I’ve traveled enough in my life to know that you don’t
always get around this big blue planet by means of a map or compass or even
GPS. You get around by listening to your gut. And right now, as I walk the busy
downtown Manhattan street, I’m once again listening to my gut speaking to me loud
and crystal clear. It’s telling me,
“Don’t look now, Chase, old boy, but you
are being followed.”

It’s not just the voice that alerts me. It’s also the
dryness in my mouth, the tightness in my stomach, and the fine hairs on the
back of my neck that stand up at attention.

I don’t dare gaze over my shoulder.

Not yet.

I keep walking like I’m oblivious. Just another chump making
my way back to my apartment after a long trip, hoping the two bags (my North
Face Venture 90 and my twenty-year-old Tough Traveler shoulder bag) I had sent
on to my apartment from the airport will have arrived before I do. But then,
quite suddenly, I stop and about-face.

That’s when I spot him.

The strange little man in the blue suit ducking into a dark alley.

I don’t hesitate to go after him.

Breaking out in a sprint, I head for the alley opening,
dodging the innocent bystanders who block my path by running around them or
simply pushing them out of the way. When I come to the alley, I stop and pull
out my .45, thumbing off the safety. I gaze into the empty, shaded alley. Two
tall brick walls flank me. Moisture and damp drip from numerous metal
downspouts. Rusted, over-filled dumpsters occupy the long runway. I hear a
noise and a commotion coming in the direction of the first dumpster. Raising
the gun, I plant a bead on it. But that’s when I spot a rat the size of a house
cat pop its head out, its nose whiskers twitching as it pushes aside an empty
box and some newspapers, then jumping down into the alley, scattering off for
the protection of a hole in the wall.

I step inside the alley, hearing my footsteps echoing
against the brick walls. Then, up ahead, a man scoots across the width of the
alley. He opens a door and enters into a building. It’s him. The bald man in
the blue suit.

I give chase.

I find the door, grab hold of the opener, and twist. But
it’s locked.

“Son of a bitch,” I whisper to myself. Looking over one
shoulder, then the other, I plant the barrel of the .45 against the opener and
press the trigger. The lock shatters into so many metal fragments. Pulling the
metal door open, I’m greeted with a set of concrete and metal stairs. I bound
up them two at a time, until I come to the first landing. I see him looking
down at me through the opening in the center of the wraparound staircase.

“Wait,” I shout. “Stop!”

But he keeps running up the stairs. I follow, gaining on him
with my every lunge. Apparently he smokes too much, because it doesn’t take me
long to shorten the distance between us by only a single staircase. He knows
I’m gaining on him, because instead of climbing more stairs, he scoots off to
the right, bolts through another door.

I shoot up to the door and throw it open before he has a
chance to lock it. But it doesn’t matter. Because now I find myself inside a
crowded department store. Not just any department store, but one that
specializes in Asian products. This must be the self-defense department,
because the walls are filled with perfect replicas of ancient weapons. From
where I am standing, I spot qiang spears, jian and dao swords, and flying
knives.

Stepping into the open store, I pocket my .45 before someone
spots me with it. I scan the store with my eyes, but I don’t see the little
man. Is it possible he got away? I walk up one aisle and down another, and
still he is nowhere to be found. For a time, I hold my ground and simply
observe. But after a period of five minutes or so, I decide to head back the
way I came and abandon the search, chalking the whole experience up as just
another strange occurrence.

I head back across the floor and enter into the back,
off-limits hallway, until I come to the emergency exit. Placing my hand on the
opener, I’m about to open the door, when a flying knife impales itself into the
thick wood.

“Don’t turn around, Mr. Baker,” comes the odd, nasally voice
I’ve come to recognize in a very short time. “Don’t even breathe or I will
destroy your liver.”

I feel the sharp tip of a second flying knife pressed
against my abdomen.

To the right of the exit door I spot another door. It says
For Employees Only. I can’t be sure, but if I had to guess, it’s a bathroom.
The bald man is smaller than me, thinner. I’m wondering if he’s quicker too.

Only one way to find out.

Spinning fast, I grab hold of his wrist. I squeeze the wrist
hard and the knife falls from his hand to the concrete floor. Then, reaching
into my pocket, I grab the gun, thumb back the hammer, press the barrel to his
now sweat-soaked forehead.

“Let’s take a powder, Baldy,” I say, pulling him into the
bathroom.

I lock the deadbolt before dragging the bald man to the toilet.

“Knees,” I bark.

“Please, Mr. Baker,” he says. “I was only doing my job.”

“Knees,” I say again. Sharper this time, while thrusting my
right knee into the back of his knee, collapsing him entirely.

Since he’s got no hair for me to grab hold of, I grab the
collars on his suit jacket and oxford button-down and shove his head into the
toilet. I hold him there for maybe five or six seconds until he begins to cough
and choke. Then I pull him back out.

“Who do you work for? And why are you following me? Sharing
cab rides with me?”

He takes a minute to catch his breath, his face soaking and
dripping in toilet water.

“Chase, you hate me, don’t you?” His words are choking out
of him along with the rancid water.

“I don’t even know you, pal, which is kind of the point.”
Pushing him back toward the bowl. “Now tell me what I want to know or drown.”

I push, but as his head descends beyond the bowl’s rim, he
cries, “Wait. Please, wait.”

I pull him back out.

“You ready to talk?”

“I was sent to take care of you.”

“I can see that. So who sent you?”

He hesitates.

“Tell me,” I insist, pushing his head back toward the bowl.

“Keogh.”

I have to think for a brief moment, but then it comes to me.
The letter inside my bush jacket pocket. Or, the invitation for drinks at JFK,
I should say. Why would Peter Clark Keogh the Third graciously invite me for
drinks only to sic one of his goons on me? I have an idea or two.

“Let me guess, Baldy,” I say, “your boss, PCK the Third, was
afraid I might not show.”

“Something like that,” he whispers.

“Threatening me with flying knives your idea of persuasion?”

“I was afraid you might disappear now that you knew I was
following you. My mistake, Mr. Chase. Please forgive me.”

I let him go.

“Get up, Baldy,” I say, returning the hammer to the safety
position on the .45, but keeping it gripped in my hand. “Clean up.”

He slowly stands, goes to the sink. First he washes his face
and head with soap and water, then he dries himself with paper towels. He
finishes by straightening his tie and his suit jacket so that it’s as perfect
as possible.

“You’re a funny little man, Baldy,” I say. “I really should
kick the living snot out of you and then tell PCK the Third to go fuck himself.
But since my gut tells me he’s got more pretty green than Trump and wants my
attention so badly he’s willing to have me followed, I can’t help but be more
than a little curious.”

He turns, smiles half-heartedly with his thin bee-lips.

“I shall arrange our transportation,” he says. “Where shall
I pick you up?”

“No dice, Baldy,” I say. “Where’s your boss now?”

“Inbound,” he says, “from Berlin.”

“Man who likes to get around. I like PCK the Third already.
Tell you what. We’re not going to wait until four o’clock. You and I are going
to see him now.”

“But it is his habit to shower and nap after a long flight.
He is not a well man these days.”

“He can shower after I’m gone,” I say, unlocking the
deadbolt. Then, waving the pistol barrel at him, “Let’s get a move on, Baldy.”

He brushes past me, opens the door.

“Mr. Chase,” he says, “would it be terribly inconvenient for
you to refer to me by my Christian name?”

I slip the .45 into my bush jacket pocket.

“I’m kind of getting used to Baldy, Carlos.”

“As you wish,” he says.

Together, we head for the back staircase while I silently
make the decision to can the Baldy crap.

Carlos pulls his cell phone from his pocket, makes a call.
Within three minutes, a big black sedan with tinted windows pulls up to the
corner of Prince and Houston.

“Excellent service,” I say.

Carlos opens the back door for me.

“After you,” he insists, smiling that bee-lipped smile
again.

“You first,” I say, reaching into my pocket, pressing the
barrel of the .45 outward so that it tents the fabric. “I’ve had enough
surprises for one day.”

“Of course,” he says, slipping inside.

I follow.

The driver sitting behind the wheel is big and bulky. He’s
wearing a black suit and his thick dark hair is slicked back with product. His
eyes are covered with aviator sunglasses.

“Mr. Keogh has just landed, Carlos,” the driver says into
the rearview. “Will you be notifying him of our early arrival?”

“I’ve already forwarded a text.”

With that, the driver pulls away from the curb and heads for
the Williamsburg Bridge which will take us to the expressway that eventually
hooks up with JFK International on Long Island. On the way, I send Leslie a
simple text: “How are you?”

“I’ll live. But my business is dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I type in with my thumbs, picturing the
long-haired agent sitting on her couch in her robe, having just showered, a
full glass of blood-colored Merlot set out before her. “Plans?”

“Chill. Try and figure out the best way to pawn my diamond.”

“Uh-oh. He saw the news.”

“He asked me for the truth. I asked him for the same.”

“Sorry times two.”

“Where are you?”

“On way to JFK.”

“Leaving town so soon?”

“Meeting the mysterious Peru letter man for drinks.”

“He’s flying in to meet you? Must be important.”

“Whatever it is, I hope there’s lots of money involved.”

“I’ll say a novena.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Anything for you Chase (chills going up and down my
spine).”

“LOL. Stay close to the phone. I don’t know who these people
are. I might need you.”

“I’m your babe, Chase Baker.”

“I almost feel sorry for the gynie.”

I pocket the cell phone.

We arrive some sixty stop-and-go minutes later. The driver
pulls up to Terminal 4, Delta’s international terminal, and we get out.

“I’ll text you when we’re done,” Carlos informs the driver
before closing the door. Then, to me, “This way, Mr. Chase.”

We proceed through a pair of sliding glass doors and enter
into a crowded, high-ceilinged airplane hangar of a building.

Carlos holds out his hand.

“Your sidearm, please,” he says, with a straight face.

“Hey, Carlos, I’m not that kind of guy—”

“I understand you carry the proper credentials on your
person. But it will be much easier for us to get where we’re going if you’re
not carrying a gun.”

Reluctantly, I reach into my pocket, hand it to him, grip
first.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the gun in hand, slipping it
into his jacket pocket. “Wait here.”

Before I have a chance to argue, he slips away into the
crowd.

A few minutes later he returns. In his hand is a key to a
locker. He hands it to me.

“12C,” he says. “Should anything happen to us, the lockers
are located along the far west wall of the terminal. But then you surely know
that already.”

“What can possibly happen to us?”

“Anything, I’m afraid.”

“Good to know,” I say, as I follow him toward an overhead
sign that reads, “All Gates.”