Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (8 page)

Quietly I set the beer can down on my writing table beside my
laptop, and then pull the .45 from my jacket pocket.

“Lu,” I say aloud, knowing that it’s possible the pit bull
could be responsible for the noise, but knowing in my gut that she’s isn’t.
After all, Lu’s favorite pass time aside from eating is sleeping.

I hear the noise again. It’s a short, sharp slap. Like wood
against wood, followed by the sound of my mattress creaking, like someone just
sat him or herself down on my bed.

Sliding back the cocking mechanism on the .45 so slowly I
feel the bullet entering the chamber more than I hear it, I take it lightly
over the wood floor to the apartment’s compact bedroom. The door is closed, but
not entirely. Hiding my body behind the wood door, I try to capture a glimpse
into the room through the narrow crack between the door’s edge and the wood
frame. I see the bed. Rather, not only can I make out the bed, but I can
plainly see that someone is lying in the bed, under the covers.

I thrust the door open, hold the pistol barrel onto the
figure in the bed.

“Don’t move,” I say. “Just slowly pull out your hands, and
then let me see your face. Do it now.”

I see movement coming from under the blanket and sheet. A
drop of sweat rolls from my forehead, down my left cheek, where it remains
suspended under my chin. For all I know, there will come a shotgun blast from
under the blankets and my inside are about to be spattered all over the wall.
Too late now.

Suddenly, a hand emerges from under the covers. Then another
hand. They are beautiful hands. The hands of a beautiful woman. A head emerges.
The head is veiled in shoulder-length brunette hair, and the face is one I
recognize well.

I pull back the pistol and thumb on the safety.

“Christ almighty, Leslie,” I say. “A text warning me of your
arrival might have been nice.”

“That would have spoiled the surprise, Chase Baker. Now
aren’t you glad you’ve entrusted me with a key?”

I wipe the sweat from my chin with the back of my free hand.

“You scared me half to death.”

“I thought the Man in the Yellow Hat doesn’t scare so easily.”

“It’s called grace under pressure.”

“Well,” she says, pulling off the covers to reveal her
entirely naked body. “Are we going to talk? Or are we going to have an
adventure together?”

“I choose adventure,” I say, jumping onto the bed.

Afterwards, we’re drinking red wine from the same plain little
drinking glasses they use in the Italian restaurant downstairs. Taking my time
in order not to skip over any detail, I fill Leslie in on the assignment Keogh
III just laid in my lap. When I’m done I pour more wine and ask my agent what
she thinks.

“First off,” she says, “you were right to take the job. You
need it. But you never negotiated a price and that will be my job.”

“Thought you were done with agenting.”

She cocks her head, flips back her thick hair with her free
hand, sips some more wine.

“I’ve decided to maintain a small list of writers who sell.
I’ll work from out of my apartment.”

“Did I make the cut?” I smile.

“It just so happens you did, Man in the Yellow Hat.” Lifting
up her right hand, she makes a pinching gesture with her thumb and index
finger. “By this much. A smidgeon.”

“Wow, I feel blessed.”

“You are blessed. Very blessed, and I’ll tell you why.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because I’m not only going to remain your ever loyal and
superlative agent, I’m going to go you one further.”

I’m silent for a minute, wondering just what it is she has
up her sleeve. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

“I’m waiting.”

She sets her hand on my naked thigh.

“With the gynie not being entirely happy with me now, and me
not being entirely happy with him, I’m as free as a bird to do anything and go
anywhere I want.”

I’m beginning to see where this is going, and because I can
see where it’s going, I feel my pulse pick up.

“Not a chance,” I say. “Not only do we have no idea who
we’re dealing with in terms of my expedition leaders, Rodney and Carlos, but
we’re heading into territory that is entirely uncharted, even by today’s
digital GPS standards. We don’t know what we’re going to encounter once we get
past Machu Picchu and enter into the Amazonian canopy. Plus, there’s lots of
spiders and snakes and creepy crawler things that girls hate.”

She smiles and shoves herself closer to me, as if her skin
on my skin will become more of a convincer.

“What’s the matter, Chase?” she says. “You afraid I might
break a nail?”

“I’m afraid your shrunken head might be used as a charm on
some native’s necklace.”

“You’re being dramatic, letting that fiction mind run away
with itself. Head hunters are long gone. The natives in the Amazon have
smartphones, satellite TV, and Netflix accounts.”

“How do you know?”

“I read
National Geographic
.” Shrugging her
shoulders. “Or look at the pictures anyway.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She drinks down her wine, holds out her glass for more. I
fill it.

“Listen,” she says, “do you want me to negotiate the right
price for this job or what?”

“Sure.”

“Then I’m your partner.”

“Partner.”

“Take it or leave it,” she says, slowly slipping her hand
from my thigh to another, more sensitive place altogether. “Besides, you owe
me. I might not be without an agency if you hadn’t set that lit cigar on the
edge of the desk of all places.”

I take a drink of wine and think about it for a brief second
or two. I know my agent. When she gets an idea in her head, not even a hammer
drill can pound it out of her.

“I thought you were planning on spending the rest of your
years lounging on the beach in the Hamptons.”

“Change of plans. I’d rather avoid the Hamptons and all the
gynie’s rich friends right about now.”

“Adventure,” I say. “You want adventure.”

“Exactly, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat. On a daily basis I read
about adventurers and the faraway places they explore where they fall
romantically in love. It’s time I experienced some of the real thing.”

“Curious George,” I say, kissing her on the mouth.

“Curious horny Leslie,” she says, rolling her naked body on
top of mine.

Keogh’s men pick us up at precisely five the next morning. As
Rodney gets out from behind the wheel of the sedan, his big brown eyes
immediately lock on Leslie.

“Who’s the dame?” he says, while pulling down on the brim of
his blue and white New York Giants baseball cap. He’s dressed like a Navy Seal
in combat boots, army fatigues, and a tight T-shirt that tells me five sets of
bicep curls are far more important to him than sex.

“My agent,” I say, stuffing my knapsack into the trunk of
the car, which Carlos has opened for me. “She’s my partner and she’s coming. No
negotiation.” Hefting Leslie’s backpack, I toss it into the trunk beside mine.

Carlos closes the trunk.

“It shall be nice to have a beautiful woman coming along for
the ride,” he says in that soft, almost effeminate tone of voice. He’s wearing
a bush jacket and khaki pants that are professionally pressed. For footwear,
brand new Timberland hiking boots. For headgear he’s wearing a brown, suede
fedora that probably cost more than my entire uniform of cargo pants, lace-up
jungle boots, and my well-worn bush jacket. Leslie might be a newbie when it
comes to jungle trekking, but she knows enough to wear hiking boots over wool
socks, tight-fitting cargo shorts, and button-down shirt under a cargo vest
that supports a new Canon Rebel camera and two extra zoom lenses. Her headwear
consists of a wide-brimmed, oilskin Australian outback hat with a shoestring
strap that hangs down under her chin just in case a stiff wind blows.

We pile into the car, Keogh’s men up front with Leslie and
me in back.

Rodney starts it back up and pulls out.

“She can come with us,” he says, speaking to me with his
eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. “But she’s your responsibility, Baker.
You got that?”

“Damn straight,” I say.

Carlos turns, smiles.

“This is going to be fun,” he says. “In just a matter of
hours we will be in the jungle, and soon after that, we will become world
famous for locating an aircraft that is a thousand years old. We will turn the
history of western civilization onto its back.”

“Hold that thought, Carlos,” I say. “One step at a time.”

Leslie sets her hand on my leg, gives it a squeeze.

“Thanks for letting me tag along,” she whispers into my ear.

“I owe you,” I whisper back. “Me
and
that damned
Cuban cigar.”

I set my left hand onto my chest, feel for the .45
shoulder-holstered there. Security in the form of gunmetal, lead, and explosive
powder.

“Let’s hope you’re thanking me later,” I say. Then I close
my eyes and pray for a quick, preflight nap.

We land in Lima some eight hours later. From there we hop a
connecting flight that takes us up to the Sacred Valley. The twin prop plane
bounces around the turbulent air of the Andes Mountains like a leaf in a
windstorm and it’s all I can do to keep our previous in-flight breakfast of
microwaved scrambled eggs and bacon from coming up on me.

“My God,” Leslie says, as soon as she disembarks from the
plane, “I can hardly breathe.”

Rodney pulls his sidearm from a pea green military-style
holster that also supports a twelve-inch fighting knife.

“That’s because you’re more than seven thousand feet above
sea level.” He smiles, clearly the type to enjoy life the more uncomfortable it
gets. “That’s the equivalent of a mile and a half.”

“Shouldn’t the air be cooler?” the lit agent turned explorer
says, while wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with a red bandanna she
then wraps around her neck, Boy Scout style. Or should I say, Girl Scout.

“It is cool,” Carlos chimes in. He’s lighting a cigarette
with a good old-fashioned Zippo. “You just don’t feel it as much because you’re
in the Amazon jungle. All you feel is the humidity.”

“Welcome to the Sacred Valley,” Rodney says, “where the only
thing sacred is the name.” He turns to his left, extends his arm and points.
“Over there through that foggy haze is Machu Picchu.” He turns further left.
“Over there is the Urubamba Province and the Urubamba River. The road we’ll
take today will follow the river around the base of Machu Picchu until we come
to an entry point into the jungle that our guides have already established for
us.”

Pulling my .45 from my shoulder holster I thumb the clip
release and check the bullet load. When all looks good, I slap the clip back
home, make sure the safety is on, and slip it back into my holster.

“Soon as everything is unpacked we’ll grab some water,” I
say to Leslie, as I squeeze a good amount of insecticide onto my palm from a
small plastic bottle. “Also, bring along some waterproof matches, some energy
bars, and make sure your phone is fully charged just in case you get lost.”

I toss her the insecticide.

“Why would I get lost?” she says, snatching the bottle out
of mid-air.

Rodney shoots me a grin.

“Come on, people,” he barks, “everyone helps unload. The
flyboy has other charters to fly today.”

With the unloading completed, Rodney assembles us all on the
airstrip. Placed on the flat ground behind him are not only our knapsacks, but
also the equipment we’ll need to carry with us on what we anticipate as a
two-day expedition into the jungle. The equipment includes machetes, hand-held
GPS direction finders, insecticide, LED flashlights, mosquito netting, tents,
sleeping bags, washbasins, cooking equipment, water and water decontamination
pills, freeze-dried food, and more. We’ll also be carting an impressive
assortment of weapons. AR-15s with attached grenade launchers, .9mms for
sidearms (I’m sticking to my .45), twelve-inch fighting knives in leather
sheaths, assorted explosives, and other destructive treats. We have C4 charges
and accompanying detonators should we need to blast our way into the cave where
supposedly the aircraft is housed. We also have portable digital film equipment
for recording our every step and for which Carlos is in charge.

“You’d think we were starting a small war,” Leslie says,
folding her arms over her chest.

“The rule of thumb in the jungle,” Rodney says, as the sound
of a truck entering onto the opposite side of the airfield breaks up the
relative quiet, “is never get out of the boat. But since we won’t be in a boat,
the rule will be, never be caught in a situation you can’t shoot your way out
of.”

“I like the way you think, Rodney,” I say. “You would have
made an awesome hippie back in the sixties. Peace, love, and understanding.”

“Rodney hates hippies,” Carlos notes, hefting a video camera
up to his face, his right eye now hidden by the viewfinder. “Smile,” he says.
“You’re on Hopelessly Lost in the Jungle Candid Camera.”

“Can it, Carlos,” I say. “That’s bad luck.”

“My apologies, fearless leader,” he says, lowering the
camera.

“Actually Rodney is the fearless leader,” I say. “I’m just
trail master, and a timid one at that. Isn’t that right, Rod the Mod?”

“Okay, everyone,” Rodney barks, his dark, round face painted
with a sheen of sweat. “Cut the chatter. Our guides have arrived and it’s time
for our timid trail master to assume the, ummmm, position.” Pulling a bag of
chewing tobacco from his pocket, he stuffs a pile into his jaw, chews, and
spits a wad of black mucus to the ground. “You ready to lead us through the
dangerous jungle, Chase?”

“Still glad you came along for the ride?” I say to Leslie
out the corner of my mouth.

She turns to me, pulls her camera from her bush vest, snaps
a picture of my tight, scruff-covered face.

“I feel like I’m caught up in a testosterone war,” she says.
“But I wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Thank God for fire.”

Hope you’re still smiling tonight when the spiders and
snakes come out,
I want to respond, but it’s probably better that I keep my
mouth shut and start focusing on the job Keogh entrusted me with.

Our team of guides is comprised of four men who are clearly
descendants of the ancient Incans. They are short, but stocky, and dressed in
baggy-fitting blue jeans, leather boots, and hand-knitted llama wool ponchos.
Covering their heads are wool hats shaped like cones and that possess flaps for
ear protection as well as fuzzy-tipped tassels. Their faces are as dark as milk
chocolate and weathered like old leather, while their eyes are even darker, but
at the same time, somehow bright and alive. All four are chewing something that
is clearly not gum since every few seconds they spit the remnants of the
substance to the ground.

“They chew coca leaves,” Carlos says. “For energy and to
curb their appetite. Some of these men will hike for a full day without eating,
sustaining themselves only with the leaves. You should try it.”

“I survived on the stuff back in ninety-five,” I say, “when
I was unearthing those mummies in the mountains outside Cuzco. I shed ten
pounds.”

“I could stand to lose five pounds,” Leslie laughs. “Where
do I get some?”

“You stay away from it,” I say. “It’s not cocaine, but the
drug is derived from the leaf. Tell you what. You can enjoy some coca tea later
on. It’s better than coffee but safer than chewing the raw leaf all day.”

The men disembark from the truck.

“
Vease bien hijos de puta
,” says one of the men
directly to Rodney. The shorter and older of the three who seems to be the
leader.

“
Besas a tu madre con esa boca!
” Rodney barks in
response, he being the only member of the team, aside from Carlos, fluent in
the language. All the men let loose with belly laughs as they begin loading the
equipment onto the truck. When the job is done, Rodney hops up into the truck’s
flatbed, turns to us.

“Okay, people,” he says, “the bus is ready to go.”

“We’re riding in that?” Leslie says.

“This ain’t a joyride in Central Park, lady,” Rodney shouts,
spitting another cheek full of tobacco juice.

Leslie glances at me, rolls her eyes.

“Maybe it’s better if I stop offering up my opinions to the
support staff,” she suggests.

“Maybe it is better,” I say, offering her a hand to help her
up onto the truck.

As I climb in, I feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck
stand at attention. My gut tells me someone’s eyes are focused on us. Setting
myself down onto the hard flat surface of the truck bed, I turn to peer over my
left shoulder. In the distance, a green military Jeep occupied by two men is
coming up on the landing strip.

“Rodney,” I say, “let me borrow your binoculars.”

“Is the trail master interested in the scenery?” he says,
handing them to me.

I place them to my eyes.

Both men are seated in the front of the Jeep. The driver is
sporting long black hair and his narrow face is covered with a scraggly black
beard. The one in the driver’s seat also has long black hair, but he’s clean
shaven. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, and for warmth, a worn Levi’s jean jacket.
The one in the passenger side wears an olive green baseball cap and a
military-style jacket with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’s cradling
an AK-47 like it’s his newborn baby.

The eyes of the two men are focused on us. The fact that
they are stopped, however, tells me they are choosing to keep their distance.
For now.

“We’ve attracted an audience, Rodney,” I say, handing him
back the binocs. “Ballsy of them to reveal themselves out in the open.”

“What’s your take?” he says, his face having suddenly turned
serious. “Curiosity seekers?”

“Bandits?” Carlos poses, while taking a drag on a new
cigarette. “Bandits don’t care about revealing themselves to anyone. They fear
no one.”

Stealing a glance at our guides, I try to gauge their
reaction to the presence of our new curious new friends. While I’m certain
they’ve taken notice of the Jeep and its occupants, they don’t seem frightened
or concerned one way or the other. This might be a good thing or a bad thing.
Take your pick.

“Could be bandits,” I say, once more locking my eyes on the
Jeep. But in the back of my head I’m remembering the trouble I had with the
Tupac Amaru Rebels the last time I spent time in Peru. Since then, the group
has all but disbanded what with the country’s introduction of new terrorism
laws and military might. But could it be that the group has resurrected itself?
I could pose this question to my crew, but maybe it’s better that I don’t. Why
get them worked up for nothing? Sometimes it’s what you don’t say that matters
most. Chase the cautious.

The Incan workers stuff themselves into the front of the
truck, start up the engine. The truck bucks, then begins moving forward.

I turn to Leslie. “Last chance to get out and go home.”

“Not on your life, Mr. Man in the Yellow Hat. I’m here for
the duration, and you’re here to get the goods to write a wonderful new book
that will make us wealthy beyond our wildest dreams. Maybe then I can get my
agency back.”

“Not putting too much pressure on me, are you?” I smile, but
knowing the dangers that might be lurking about in the jungle, there is little
to a smile about.

“You deserve every bit of it,” she says.

I was afraid she’d say something like that.