I fall to my belly and crawl toward the nearest cover, a slab of rock the shape of a bed sheet and only six inches above the ground. I suck my gut in and press into the earth, making my body as flat as possible. Threading the rifle onto the slab, I peer through the scope and hope I can find Silent Man before he does me.
No such luck.
I see a flash of light reflecting from Silent Man’s scope, then comes the shot. The rock in front of me pops and sends a stone shard across my left temple. He’s reloading and re-sighting, which gives me about two seconds to get to better cover, but I don’t see any close enough. I need a Plan B. Now.
The sun is directly above both of us, meaning if I can see the reflection from his scope, he can see the reflection from mine. He’s not aiming at me. He’s aiming at the light.
Leave the rifle. If he’s looking through the scope, he won’t see me slip away.
I abandon the rifle and sprint toward a boulder 25 yards away. Silent Man cracks off another shot. I flinch in anticipation, but it’s a relief to hear the metal-on-metal destruction of the bullet splitting apart the rifle.
Sliding into the shadow of the boulder, I wait to see whether Silent Man falls for my ruse. The rumble of the ATV firing up says he does, and he’s coming to make sure I’m dead. Thumbing the hammer back on the .45, I wait for him to get in close enough for a shot. At more than 50 yards away, I’ll need more than luck to hit a moving target perched upon a speeding ATV. I’ll need divine intervention. It’s moments like these I wish I believed in those things.
The .45 holds seven shots. I watch the ATV get closer and visualize how to line up each one.
This is it. If I fail, he’ll turn around and wait me out. Messing this up is as good as suicide.
Silent Man figures out my game earlier than expected, spotting me by the boulder. He brakes and fishtails the ATV into a 180-degree turn. It’s in that moment that I unload with the .45.
Misses. All misses. It doesn’t look like a single shot connects. Silent Man speeds away on the ATV.
I load a fresh mag into the .45 and wipe my eyes. Forget the runestone. Gone are my chances of making things right with my daughter, Ava. The obituary might mention how I saved the world in my adventures, but I’ll be no hero to her.
I stare at the .45 and wonder if suffering behind this boulder is worth it. I’d only be delaying the inevitable. At least turning the gun on myself keeps Silent Man from savoring my demise.
Just as I’m about to pull the trigger, something stops me. Maybe there’s hope after all.
33.
The rumble of the ATV slows to a dull whine, then stops. It doesn’t sound natural, so I stretch my neck out the side of the boulder. The ATV is paused in the middle of navigating a rock pile. Silent Man slumps onto the handlebars.
One of those shots connected after all.
With the adrenaline pumping, people don’t always die right away after getting shot, even in the vitals. For 30 seconds, Silent Man didn’t know he was already dead.
I wait for signs of life, then slink out from the boulder. If he’s tricking me, it’s a good one. Keeping the .45 up, I heel-toe it toward the ATV to make sure I’m the only one still alive in The Pit. When I get within 10 yards I plant a shot into Silent Man’s back for good measure.
That’s it. All alone. Now to figure out how to dig up this runestone.
I help myself to a bottle of water from the ATV after shoving Silent Man off and taking the reins. The vehicle idles like a sick dog, but it’s not quite in the grave yet. I take a seat and press the throttle to keep the engine awake.
Gnawing on the jerky, I think through the options. My eyes trace the ruts in the dirt from the ATV running back toward the rock wall. They’re straight as a ruler until the tracks swerve into a fishtail where Silent Man made a sudden U-turn. That gives me an idea.
After washing the salty snack down with another bottle of water, I gun the ATV back to the rock wall and stop next to the 14 in Roman numerals.
I’ll get the ATV to do the digging for me.
While holding down on the handle brakes, I push the throttle as far as it’ll go. The tires whip into a violent spin, kicking dirt in every direction as the ATV slides in place. It takes several starts and stops to let the engine cool, but I finally find myself inside a wide hole about three feet deep. That’s when I spot something unusual. Several small stones stacked on top of each other jut out from the smooth rock wall at the bottom of the hole.
I drive the ATV up the gentle incline of the hole and return to the stones. It looks like they’re plugging an entrance to something inside the wall.
Bingo.
I claw at the cool dirt to reveal more and more stones. Taken together, the “cave” they block isn’t much larger than I am wide. After picking away the stones, I’m left with a cramped, dark crawlspace leading deep into the wall. If this isn’t where they hid the runestone, I’m not sure I want to know what’s in there.
My first instinct is to wiggle my way in headfirst, but I’m not sure of the dimensions. People came in much smaller sizes 100 years ago, hence them calling this glorified mail slot a “cave.” I need to be about 20 years slimmer to fit in there without it becoming a one-way trip.
I slip a hand down the crawlspace and probe the interior, although I’m not sure what the runestone is supposed to feel like. Is it big? Little? Heavy? Light? I don’t know, but I’m positive it’s beyond my reach. My hand comes back with nothing but darkness and grit. I need some light.
I drive the overheated ATV back into the hole so it faces the crawlspace, then flip on the headlights. One of them is smashed to bits, but the other fires a beam of light into the crawlspace. I hunch down and take a look. I don’t need a degree in Norse writing to know what sits 10 feet away inside the crawlspace.
The runestone is about the size of a phone book, and more or less just as square. It’s covered on all sides by symbols similar to those on the Kensington Runestone, the one on display in a Minnesota museum. Do they tell the story of Vikings’ encounters with Chinese explorers in North America? I have no idea. But even if it’s a recipe for blueberry pie, it’s an incredible piece of history.
Once again, my conscience wrestles with what to do with the runestone. If its apparent story of Chinese influence in the Americas is true, it’d be a major psychological victory for one of the U.S.’s biggest rivals, but only if I choose to find a way to get it out of the crawlspace. I just as easily could re-bury the runestone and focus instead on getting the hell out of The Pit.
On the other hand, why not take it with me? Maybe I should give it to an expert I can trust. Translate the text, then give it to the U.S. government. Let Uncle Sam figure out what to do with it. If it winds up in a hanger full of occult information too sensitive to release, so be it. At least I did the patriotic thing.
Or maybe, just maybe, there’s a third option that doesn’t favor one nation over another. One that takes the side of someone I can get behind.
Yes. Go with what you’ve been thinking all along.
I rise from the hole and down another bottle of water, mulling over how explorers usually get to name their discoveries. I’ve got a good one in mind.
34.
Noon
Gramercy Park
New York City
July 4, 2016
“Eat it quick. It’s hot out here,” I say and set the gelato down on the table outside Ava’s favorite dessert stop. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem for you, though.”
Ava picks at the gelato like she’s not sure whether it’s poisoned. Looking off to the street, she says, “I don’t like chocolate.”
“I thought chocolate was your favorite,” I say.
“How would you know?”
Out of the mouths of babes…
I sigh and say, “I wouldn’t. In fact, I don’t know a lot about you. I know picking you up from your mom’s for an afternoon of gelato isn’t going to make up for the time I haven’t spent with you.
But I want to change that, starting today.”
That got her interest. She’s coming into an age where questioning the wisdom of the world around her is a part of her identity. Good. The world is full of lies. I don’t need to put another one out there.
“OK,” Ava says, trying hard to keep a tough face.
I pull a newspaper from my bush jacket and smooth a page out onto the table. “Did you read about what they found in Minnesota?”
“Yeah. Some stupid rock,” Ava says.
“Don’t call yourself names,” I say and point to a picture. “Read the caption.”
Ava leans forward. “Experts say the Ava Runestone may contain evidence of trading posts established by American Indian tribes and a previously unknown group of explorers from the Far East.” She looks up from the newspaper. “The Ava Runestone? Is that…?”
“Yes. It’s named after you,” I say.
For the next couple hours, I tell her about Biyu, Fiddler and how we wound up stuck in The Pit. Just as I do when talking about my military service in Iraq, I skip over the parts involving killing. I try my best to explain the political implications of the Ava Runestone, but she’s more interested in how I eventually escaped The Pit.
“It wasn’t easy, but I made it up the gravel chute by using the ATV’s winch as a pulley to lift me up and out. I made it back to civilization and called some of my old construction buddies working mines in northern Minnesota on the Iron Range. I knew they’d have the tools to get the runestone out of that crawlspace. That’s exactly what we did,” I say.
I leave out the part about returning a second time for the bodies. They deserved better than to rot down there. Even those neo-Nazi shits had families, and I owed it to them to be the better person. But something strange happened when we went to fetch the bodies. We couldn’t find any.
In fact, all the evidence of my time in The Pit went missing. The gear. The ATVs. Even the coals from the fires. The only thing I found was a scrap of paper with a Chinese symbol on it. Biyu was right about those spy satellites after all. We beat them to the runestone by a matter of hours.
“Finish the story, dad,” Ava says between mouthfuls of gelato.
“Staring at the runestone inside that crawlspace, wondering what to do with it, I took the side of truth. Regardless of politics or race, that runestone belongs to history. If the Chinese really did explore the Americas before anyone from Europe, then so be it. People try to manipulate history to suit their own interests, and I think it’s time to set an example. If something is true, we might as well learn from it, even if the truth makes us uncomfortable, rather than run away from it or bury it in a cave,” I say.
“I know what you mean, dad,” Ava says. “Does this mean you’re not running away anymore?”
“Not if I can help it,” I say. “Now finish your gelato. The parade is about to start.”
I hand her a miniature U.S. flag on a stick and walk a couple blocks to the parade route for the Fourth of July procession. It’s a great feeling to stand next to her and watch the floats go by. She even lets me put a hand on her shoulder.
It’s a start.
Even though she’s getting into an age when parades are cheesy kid stuff, we manage to have a fun time. As I watch Ava wave the flag to a group of marching veterans, I can’t help but notice the tag beneath the red, white and blue fabric.
Made in China.
THE END
Further Reading
Although there isn’t any indication of a second Kensington Runestone in the real world, a good deal of information is available about the presence of Chinese explorers in the Americas. Click here for an article that summarizes the evidence.
The exceptionally curious may also want to check out the controversial book 1421: The Year China Discovered the World by Gavin Menzies.
Other Titles in this Series
Catch Chase Baker’s other exciting adventures in these great reads, and watch for new installments soon.
The Shroud Key (#1)
Chase Baker and the Golden Condor (#2)
Chase Baker and the God Boy (#3)
Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse (#4)
About the Authors
ABOUT BENJAMIN SOBIECK
This is Benjamin Sobieck’s first work inside the Chase Baker universe created by Vincent Zandri. He is the author of the crime novels Glass Eye: Confessions of a Fake Psychic Detective, The Invisible Hand (New Pulp Press) and Cleansing Eden, as well as the crime fiction humor anthology, 8 Funny Detective Stories with Maynard Soloman, Gal-Damn Detective. His non-fiction work includes The Writer’s Guide to Weapons (Writer’s Digest Books) and various pieces for weapons and outdoors magazines, including Gun Digest, BLADE, Deer & Deer Hunting and Living Ready. Sobieck is a member of the International Thriller Writers, and his website is CrimeFictionBook.com.
ABOUT VINCENT ZANDRI
Vincent Zandri is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than sixteen novels, including Everything Burns, The Innocent, The Remains, Orchard Grove, and The Shroud Key. He is also the author of the ITW Thriller Award and Shamus Award nominated Dick Moonlight PI series. A freelance photojournalist and solo traveler, he is the founder of the blog The Vincent Zandri Vox. He lives in New York and Florence, Italy. For more, go to http://www.vincentzandri.com/.
Chase Baker and the Vikings’ Secret (A Chase Baker Thriller No. 5)
Benjamin Sobieck © copyright 2015
Cover by Elder Lemon Design.
Chase Baker is a character created by Vincent Zandri. This work was authorized by Vincent Zandri.
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published in the United States of America
Chase Baker and the Vikings' Secret (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 5) Page 9
