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

“Is that an airplane?” Keogh grunts through pain-gritted
teeth as they begin to move in the direction of the big golden bird.

“The human beings here don’t understand the word
airplane,” he explains, talking slow and softly over his left shoulder. “They
only understand the concept of the bird. So that’s what they call it.”

“The bird.”

“You would know this bird as a condor.”

“But there are no condors in Peru. Only far up north and
far down south.”

“It is still a condor, Colonel. No matter how you look at
it.”

“It is a beautiful sculpture anyway. Magnificent even.
How long has it been here up in this cave?”

“For many, many generations. So long, in fact, only the
Gods would know for sure.”

Keogh is stunned at the news. It would mean that the
bird/plane would have been constructed in ancient times. But that’s impossible.

“Who built her then?”

“So many questions from a man whose legs need emergency
repair or else face the doctor’s blade.”

“I might be in pain, or even dying. But the still alive
explorer in me is curious as all hell.”

“No one knows who built her. Legend has it that she one
day appeared above the jungle from out of the heavens, and landed in this
cave.”

“Wait. What do you mean landed? As in, that thing flew
here?”

This time, the man turns all the way around so that he
can look into Keogh’s eyes.

“Yes, the bird flies. What other purpose would a bird’s
wings pose?”

Keogh can’t believe what’s coming from the man’s mouth.
It must be the stuff of legend and that’s all. Modern flight wasn’t tamed until
thirty-seven years ago. If what this man is telling him is true, this “bird”
must be thousands of years old. Yet he is insisting that it was flown here.

Having arrived at the bird, they come to a stop beneath
the bird’s belly. The English-speaking native issues a loud order in what Keogh
recognizes as the ancient Incan language of Quechua, and just like that,
everyone drops to their knees as if in reverence of something that’s about to occur.

There comes a noise and loud bang that seems to make the
cave rattle, and then a bright light emanates from the belly of the bird. The
light is square-shaped as it beams from out of a big door that is being opened.
The door is slowly opening from the top and lowering itself via hinges
installed in its bottom, much like the bow door on a military cargo ship. When
it is entirely opened, an amazed Keogh can see that the door also serves as an
entry ramp.

“What in the world is happening?” he says.

“The bird not only flies,” the English-speaking man
whispers. “It contains tools and machines that can heal your legs quickly.
Then, once you are rested, you will perform the sacred duty the Gods have
brought you here to perform.”

“And what duty is that, sir?”

“You will fly the Golden Condor back home for us.”

“And where exactly is home?”

The man slowly raises his head, reverently looks up at
the black cave roof, and smiles.

“The heavens,” he says.

Bertelsmann Building, Times Square

New York City

May 2014

I don’t just close the door to my agent’s swank,
fourteenth-floor office after entering into it for our scheduled 10 a.m.
meeting. I lock it. I also don’t bother with politely taking a chair in front
of a glass desk that’s so big and wide, a pilot flying over it might confuse it
for a small lake if only a roof weren’t covering this steel and concrete
skyscraper.

Instead I go around the desk, set my callused hands on the
narrow shoulders of Leslie Singer, my brown-eyed, long and dark-haired agent of
nearly five years, and spin her around so that she faces me. Bending down, I
plant a kiss on her thick, red lips.

Coming up for air, I look into her eyes and smile.

“Yes, you may kiss me,” she says, her eyes wide and sparkling.
“And do you know why you may kiss me, Chase? Because my gynecologist fiancé …
the very man who claims to love me and
only
me … makes it a point to
kiss and more than kiss every skirt he can get his hands on. Including his
clients.”

“Is this a bad time, agent lady?” I say, forcing a pretend
frown. “Because I can go grab a cold shower and come back.”

“You, client man, will remain right where you are. And
that’s an order.”

That’s when I squat at the knees, slip my arms under her
legs, and lift her up onto the glass desk, knocking over a cup full of pencils
and pens and sending two manuscripts onto the floor. Chase the wicked.

“I thought we arranged this meeting so we could discuss your
future, Chase Baker,” she says, her breathing growing heavy.

Looking down, I catch my reflection in the table top. I
might have shaved and combed my hair once I landed this morning at JFK
International Airport. But I like the scruffy look and my hair is so short
these days a comb would be useless.

Leslie looks me up and down.

“Glad you dressed for the occasion,” she says. “You dress
just like The Man in the Yellow Hat from the
Curious George
books.”

“Hey, I just got off a plane less than an hour ago,” I say,
patting the well-worn passport stored in my top left breast pocket. The pocket
over my heart. “I haven’t even seen my little girl yet.”

“Who are you kidding?” she laughs. “You would have worn that
getup anyway.”

It’s the truth and she knows it. What’s also the truth is
that I’ve just flown in from West Africa via Paris where I was on assignment
for a glossy called
Living Ready
who hit me up for a survival in the
bush story, pictures
and
words. While I survived the bush with little
more than mosquito bites, the fifteen-hundred-buck payday barely covered my
flights. But then, that’s showbiz, as they say. But it does explain why I’ve
arrived for my meeting not in a business suit but instead my red-clay-soiled
cargo pants, ten-year-old lace-up Chippewa work boots, and black T-shirt under
a
National Geographic
bush jacket, the sleeves rolled up all the way to
my elbows.

On the other hand, the tall, thirty-something Leslie is
looking stunning today in her black miniskirt and matching black silk blouse.
With the skirt hiked up high on her thighs, I can see that her sheer black
stockings are of the thigh-high variety. My favorite. They match the black lace
push-up bra that’s clearly visible beneath her blouse.

I kiss her again and pretend I don’t notice the big giant
engagement ring on the second finger of her left hand, her cheating
gynecologist hubby already waiting for her arrival later this afternoon at his
WASP-infected seaside Hamptons “escape.”

“You called this meeting, Ms. Singer,” I say. “Are we going
to discuss my future or not?”

I proceed to unbutton her shirt, starting at the top and
working my way down. But she pushes my hand away.

“Wait just a minute,” she says. “My future husband may not
be honorable, but I still haven’t made up my mind if two wrong turns equal the
right path.” Then, as if she’s suddenly made her decision, she reaches out for
the phone, picks it up, and using her extended pinky finger punches 0. “Linda,
no calls or interruptions until I give you the all clear. You got that? Good.”
She hangs up. Looking back into my eyes, she says, “You see that wood box on
the end of the desk to your left?”

I look. “So what?”

“You’ll find a couple of primo Cubans in there just for you.
Thought you might enjoy a welcome back smoke.” She slides down off the desk.
“Go ahead. Light up while I freshen up.”

Looks like two wrong turns does indeed equal the right
path…

She comes around the desk and disappears into her private
bathroom. I open the lid on the box, pull out a cigar, and cut away the end
with the blade on the new pocketknife I picked up at the duty-free at JFK after
mine was confiscated prior to boarding the plane in Paris. Digging around in a
pocket on my bush jacket, I pull out a box of wood matches I snatched from a
beachside watering hole in Cotonou, and fire the cigar up. Inhaling the good
Cuban tobacco, I feel the soothing nicotine enter into my blood stream. If my
nine-year-old daughter, Ava, were here, she wouldn’t just pull the cigar out of
my mouth, she’d probably toss a glass of water in my face.

“Are you begging for lung cancer, Daddy?” the
long-brunette-haired future pop star would say.

I look out the window onto the towers that form the
perimeter of Times Square.

“It’s a beautiful spring day,” I say, loud enough for Leslie
to hear me through the door.

The door opens and she emerges looking even more ravaging
than before.

“I’m overwhelmed by passion,” she says, setting herself back
onto the desk. “You may approach me now.”

I go to her, as ordered.

She grabs hold of my bush jacket by its lapels, pulls it
off, lets it drop to the floor. She pats the .45 that’s shoulder holstered to
my left ribcage.

“You bring a pistol to my office? How did you manage to get
that through airport security?”

“What if we need to shoot our way out for some reason?” I
say. “And I stored it in a locker at JFK prior to my departure for Africa.”

“Good thinking,” she giggles. “But I don’t like guns. I
mean, think about it. It’s not like imminent danger surrounds us. I think
you’re living inside one of your novels.”

I set my cigar on the edge of her desk, so that the burning
end is facing outwards.

“Shut up and take me, Agent,” I say.

She unbuckles my holster and the pistol falls. Then she
pulls off my T-shirt, revealing a torso that’s not too badly put together for a
man of middle age—laceration, bullet, and burn scars be damned. I continue
unbuttoning her shirt until it’s dangling off her shoulders. That’s when I
allow gravity to work in my favor as it slides down her narrow back to the desk
top. Reaching around I unbuckle her bra strap and allow the delicate garment to
drop, revealing pert white breasts and perfect round nipples that stand at
attention.

Bending slightly at the knees, I slip my hands into her lace
black panties and slowly slide them down past her thighs, then down over her
knees, taking my sweet time the whole way.

“Oh, before I forget, Chase,” she says, her voice deep and
breathy. “You have mail.”

“Jeez, can it wait?”

The panties drop to her feet which are covered in black
pumps. I drop down to my knees, pull off the underwear and both pumps all at
once. I then begin kissing her stockinged legs, starting at her feet,
progressing up her calves to her thighs. When my lips reach the point of her
thighs where the stockings end and bare skin begins, she opens her legs for me.
Not wide, but wide enough. Her breathing is harder now, and she’s beginning to
moan a little.

“Or maybe I should read my mail now?”

“Not on your life,” she insists, placing her right hand
behind my head, pushing me into her.

I go to town, as they say, with Leslie, no longer moaning,
but crying out, loud enough to necessitate my reaching up with my hand, cupping
her mouth. After a time her body begins to tremble and I know that my cue to
stand has arrived. That’s when she grabs hold of my belt buckle, unbuckling it.
She unbuttons my pants, pushing them down. I enter into her and together, we
rearrange her desk in ways she never might have imagined. The phone drops to
the floor, and so do some manuscripts.

It’s then, over Leslie’s bare right shoulder, I see the
letter. It’s a plain white envelope that’s addressed to me in blue ballpoint. I
happen to catch the return address. It’s from Lima, Peru. Now two things on my
body are piquing with interest.

“Are you there yet?” Leslie screams into my hand.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m almost there, Agent.”

She thrusts her hips under me and more things drop off the
desk. But I have no way of knowing what exactly as we both come to that special
place together on Leslie’s desk in the fourteenth-floor office of the Singer
Literary Agency.

When we’re done, I roll over onto my back on her big desk.

“That was wonderful,” she says, not without a laugh.

“This is exactly the kind of shenanigans that can get a girl
fired.”

“Not me. I own the joint.”

In my head I’m picturing three or four of Leslie’s female
assistants, or “girls” as she refers to them, positioned outside the office,
their ears pressed up against the wood door.

“I forgot about that little detail. I’m a lucky man.”

“Yes and no,” she says.

“What’s that mean?” I say, rolling onto my left shoulder,
facing her.

“It means, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat, that you need to start
making some money. Or …” She allows the notion to trail off.

“Or what?”

“Start thinking about going back to sandbagging.”

“It’s sandhogging,” I correct. Then, “I thought
The
Shroud Key
was killing it on the charts. I nearly got myself killed on my
quest to find the mortal remains of Jesus Christ, and I thought the novel I
wrote about it was a testament to my talents both as a writer and a daring
adventurer.” I smile for effect.

“You love yourself, don’t you, Chase?”

“I aims to please, even if the person I’m pleasing is me.”

“In all seriousness,
Shroud Key
is still selling
well. Or
was
selling well anyway. But none of the books on your backlist
are selling right now and you need a new novel, like right this very second.
This isn’t like the old days when you put out one manuscript every two years.
Readers want three books per year.”

“That might intrude upon my travel plans.”

“That’s the reality of the modern literary market, Chase.
You seen your latest royalty statement?”

“That’s your job to send it to me.”

“I have. Your problem is, you don’t read your mail. Snail or
email. You’d rather be reading Arrival and Departure boards at airports.”

“Explain.”

“
Shroud Key
earned out its fifty-grand advance, but
not much more. Meaning you need a new book.”

“I hate advances.”

“Think about going Indie after this one. You get to keep all
your royalties. Minus my fifteen percent of course.” She rolls over, smiles at
me.

“And conjugal meetings.”

“That too. Especially considering the fragile nature of my
current relationship. But get that cute little ass of yours into a chair and
start typing. Our living depends upon it.”

“Might have to do some on-site research first.”

“Where exactly this time?”

“It’ll come to me.”

She pokes me.

“Make sure it comes to you soon, Chase,” she insists. “There
now, agent/client pep talk officially over and done with.”

“I have the best agent in the world,” I say, kissing her
gently on the mouth. “Too bad she’s making the mistake of marrying a less than
trustworthy gynie.”

“Hey,” she perks up, “with self-publishing all the rage
these days, anyone who types the word ‘spit’ onto a series of blank pages sixty
thousand times can get their book published. That said, literary agents aren’t
quite in demand like they used to be. A girl has to look out for herself.”

“A summer estate in the Hamptons and a three-bedroom
apartment on the Upper West Side. You’ve looked out for yourself pretty damned
well, Agent.”

“I, like you, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat, am an explorer and
a survivor.”

“You’re also an opportunist who’s about to marry a total
jerk.”

“Look who’s talking, grave robber.”

“I don’t rob graves. I unearth ancient antiquities for the
purposes of study and on-site research for my novels.”

“Dangerous work if you can get it.”

“And this isn’t? What if the gynie were to find out about
us? He might come after me with a pair of stirrups.” On instinct, I find myself
sitting up. “You smell smoke?”

I look down at her. She’s making a Samantha
Bewitched
gesture with the nostrils on her pretty little nose that tells me she also
smells something she shouldn’t be smelling at the present moment. Until she
bounds up.