Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (3 page)

“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 calculating 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.

“Leslie!” I shout above the fire’s roar. “We don’t have time
to wait for the fire trucks. We gotta get out now.”

“We can’t just jump. We’ll die.”

She’s right. We’ll smack the concrete pavement and explode
like water balloons.

I look down toward the street once more. That’s when I see
it. There’s a series of balconies a couple of floors down. If we can somehow
make it down to them, we’ll be safe. But how the hell can we get there without
rope?

I look to my left and see nothing but fire. I look to my
right and see the same expanding fire. But at the same time, I see something
else. The second set of floor-to-ceiling curtains. Miraculously, they have yet
to catch fire.

Bounding up to my feet, I go to the curtains, yank them off
their hooks in one swift pull. The top portion of the fabric is on fire. But I
stamp it out. As I suspected, the fabric is far too thick for me to tear into
with my bare hands. I need something to at least get it started.

Once again I pull out my pocket knife, dig out the blade,
and proceed to make a cut in the top center of the long curtains.

“Help me tear these in two.” I offer her one side of the
curtain.

Leslie goes back down onto her knees, grabs hold of a chunk
of curtain.

“Pull,” I say and together we turn one long curtain into two
long sections of curtain. Then I repeat the process two more times with each
separate section of curtain, making four long strips in total. That done, I tie
each section of curtain to the other using secure sailor’s knots. In the end, I
have about forty feet to work with, which should prove more than enough for
descending two full stories.

“I need something to tie off to.” I immediately begin
looking around the fire-covered room.

“There isn’t anything!” Leslie answers. “Chase, hurry. The
heat is unbearable.”

Wiping the sweat from my eyes, I look behind me at the
broken window. It’s then I see the piece of vertical aluminum window frame.

“That’s it,” I say, once more pulling out my .45, and
shooting out a small concentrated area of glass that exists on the opposite
side of the four-inch-wide piece of frame. The piece of glass disappears.

Shoving the gun in my jacket pocket, I slide the topmost
portion of curtain through the small hole in the glass and tie it off around
the frame. I yank on it to make sure it’s secure and able to hold our
collective body weight.

“Let’s go!” I say, standing, the heat of the fire slapping
me in the face.

“You mean, like out the window?” Leslie swallows.

“You got a better idea? We’re burning up.”

Just then, a section of ceiling drops down onto the office
floor, sending up an explosion of flames. Leslie screams.

“Cover your eyes,” I insist, pulling her tight against my
chest, wrapping my arms around her. Then, pushing her away, “We stay here, we
die. We climb down to that balcony down below, we at least have a chance at
staying alive. Take your pick.”

She looks at me. There’s tears in her eyes. I can’t be sure
if she’s crying or if the tears are the result of the fire irritating her tear
ducts. Probably both.

“We live,” she says.

I grab hold of the curtain and position myself, posterior
first, outside the window, my booted feet planted flat and securely against the
stone wall like a mountain climber preparing to descend a cliff side.

“Grab onto me, Leslie,” I shout. “Do it now!”

She steps onto the ledge, looks down. Coming from down in
Times Square, the collective roar of the crowd. We’re making quite the
spectacle. Another section of ceiling drops and explodes. The wall to Leslie’s
right collapses, sending a plume of fire sailing across the room. It blows
Leslie into me, where she grabs hold of my chest.

“That’s one way to get over your fear of heights,” I shout.

“Just go!” she screams. “Before we both fall.”

“Okay, baby, here we go!”

Together, we begin making our slow descent, one
hand-under-hand and foot-under-foot length at a time.

“Hurry,” Leslie shouts. “I don’t think I can hang on for
another second.”

“You have to hang on, Agent. No choice.”

An explosion comes from Leslie’s office as it reaches
flashpoint. Looking up, I see the ball of flame that spews out of the opening
in the glass. It’s then I know we’ve barely made it out alive. But then I can
see that we’re not that lucky. The top portion of curtain-rope is on fire. It
won’t take but a few seconds for the curtain to burn all the way through,
sending us on a one-way ride to the pavement below.

It’s taking all my strength, but I keep on descending past
the set of windows on the thirteenth floor where a group of office workers are
screaming through the glass, “You can make it! Go! Go! Go!”

Why the hell they haven’t evacuated the building is beyond
me.

Then we make it past the glass until we reach more exterior
stone wall, and finally, down onto the balcony, where Leslie and I collapse
onto one another, the now burnt-through curtain separating from the window
frame above, floating down upon us, gently covering our bodies like a blanket I
might lay out over my daughter before kissing her goodnight.

“I’d forgotten how much fun sex can be with you, Chase,” she
exhales after a time.

“I always make a point of pleasing my agent.”

Just then, the sound of fire engines. Finally.

“’Bout time,” Leslie says. “This is for saving my life, Chase
Baker.” She leans over me, plants a big wet kiss on my parched lips. The doors
behind us slide open and a team of reporters begin flashing away. Behind them
comes a team of firemen.

“Get back!” they shout. “These people are injured.”

Leslie pulls herself off of me, holds up the hand that
houses her engagement ring as if to say, “Don’t shoot!”

“Hope the gynie isn’t paying attention to the live news at
noon,” I say.

“The news is always on in his office,” she says with a
smirk. “Oh well, shouldn’t come as a shock to him that he’s not the only one
who gets to play around.”

“Looks like you’re still not the marrying kind. We have that
in common.”

“Wish we didn’t have it in common.”

“Look at it this way. You would’ve been bored spending the
rest of your life in the lap of luxury.”

But Leslie doesn’t laugh as the fireman helps her up off the
balcony floor and leads her into the safety of the building. A hot New York
literary agent who’s just lost her business and her cheating beau in the time
it takes to read
The End
.

Leslie and I are stuffed into the back of an EMT van which is
headed to the nearest medical center. She sits directly across from me, looking
more dejected than injured, elbows planted on her knees, her face propped up by
her hands, her multi-carat engagement ring sparkling in the brilliant sunlight
that, on occasion, shines through the windows, bathing the back bay in late
spring’s radiant warmth.

“So much for the Leslie Singer Literary Agency,” she laments
into her hands, her eyes now gazing down at her bare feet, neither her sexy
black pumps nor her sheer, dark, thigh-high stockings having survived the fire.
“I should have never allowed you to light up.”

“Come on, that’s no way to talk. You’re the hottest agent in
town. You’re friends with the famous.” I smile for effect. “Plus, you must be
insured. You might end up making a profit in the end.”

She doesn’t look up. She doesn’t move.

“Leslie,” I say, as my smile dissolves. “You
are
insured, right? The Bertelsmann boys would never give you a lease without the
proper insurance in place. I mean, I guess I never should have set a lit cigar
down on the edge of your desk. At least, not immediately prior to engaging in
wild sex atop it.”

She’s not moving, her eyes still locked on the top of her red,
pedicured toes.

“You’ve got to keep up with your payments in order to be
insured, Chase,” she mumbles into her hands. “I’ve been walking a financial
tightrope for ages now. Why do you think I’ve stayed engaged to a cheating
fiancé for all these months?”

My heart aches for my agent.

“Do I get to ask why you didn’t bother to pay your insurance
payments?”

She looks up at me with her big, brown eyes.

“You have to be flush to do that.”

“Leslie, you’re one of the hottest agents in the business.”

“Correction.
Was
one of the hottest agents in the
business.”

“I don’t get it. What gives?”

“Take a look outside the window.”

I shift in my seat so that I can look outside the side-panel
window onto the many stores, eateries, bodegas, bars, and more that make up the
pumping heart of mid-town Manhattan.

“Keep your eyes glued,” she insists.

“Okay, what exactly am I looking at?”

“Keep looking. I’ll tell you when we come to it.”

The EMT van travels a full stop-and-go minute before my neck
starts to ache. I turn back to her, pulling up the collar on my bush jacket,
making sure it’s buttoned, wishing my black T-shirt had made it through the
fire unscathed.

“Give it to me straight, Agent.”

“You happen to see a single bookstore while you were looking
out the window?”

“Come to think of it. Not a one.”

“Ten years ago you couldn’t go half a block without seeing a
bookstore, or a record store, or a video store. Sometimes you’d find all three
times two on a single block. Now they are all as rare as a hailstorms. Maybe
rarer.”

Her words are like a light slap to my forehead. Why, as a
writer, have I never noticed this rather sad phenomenon before now?

“Jeez, Leslie,” I say. “You’re right.”

“Writers are dropping agents faster than landlords are
cancelling the unpaid leases on independent bookstores.”

“Why?”

“It’s the digital age, Chase. Writers, songwriters,
filmmakers, even video game designers are all DIYing it now. Cutting out the
publishers altogether. And when the publishers get cut out of the loop, guess
who quickly becomes an anachronism?”

“The deal-making literary agent.”

“Exactly. Listen, I’m not saying I’m not making a living.
But I’ve got a half dozen young ladies in my office who depend upon me. So when
it comes to payday, I can either make out their paychecks or pay the insurance.”

“You choose to pay them first. Why not cut down on staff?”

She purses her lips, glances down at her feet. “My heart
goes out to them.”

“Well, one thing’s for sure, Sister Mary Leslie, you’ve got
a heart of gold, but you’re a shitty businesswoman. Do yourself a favor. Marry
the rich gynie, even if he does dip his wick elsewhere.”

“Thanks for the shitty advice. But it’s a moot point anyway.
I just got snagged kissing you on a balcony. The headline is probably all over
Manhattan by now: Famous literary agent and famous writer nearly burn to death
while getting laid.”

We come to a sudden, jarring stop. The driver lays on his
horn, then hits the sirens, then hits the horn again.

“Hell is going on?” I say, sliding out of my seat and
opening the back bay door. I step out onto the shiny steel back bumper and make
a quick survey of the situation. Up ahead on the narrow side street, a garbage
truck is blocking all vehicular traffic.

“Thank God neither one of us is dying,” I whisper, patting
the Peru letter that’s still stuffed in my chest pocket with my hand. Then,
poking my head inside, “This is where I get off, Leslie.”

I jump off the bumper, careful not to land on the front
fender of the yellow cab that’s pulled up on our tail.

“Chase,” Leslie shouts. “What the hell are you doing? The
hospital. We need to be checked out for injuries.”

“I’m fine. Besides, I’ve got work to do. You said it
yourself. It’s either pull the typewriter back out or make a dismal return to
sandhogging. Time to write another book.” Once more slapping my chest pocket.
“Who knows, this letter in my pocket might just hold the secret plot to my next
bestselling novel. Or at the very least …”

I’d finish my sentence if only the cabbie pulled up onto the
EMT van’s tail doesn’t lay on his horn.

“Jesus,” I shout, as I turn, pull out my .45, aim it at the
windshield of the yellow cab. The turban-wearing cabbie goes wide-eyed, holds
up his hands in surrender. Then, turning back to Leslie, I stuff the gun back
into my pocket.

“Or at the very least what, Chase?”

“Or at the very least, it might hold the secret to my future
fortune and fame.”

Shutting the bay door, I hop onto the cab’s hood and make a
flying leap onto the sidewalk.

Chase Baker, superhero.