“Maybe what it means is that the Kali Statue isn’t a map at all but, instead, a marker that indicates the precise location of the Daundia Khera.”
“Why do you say that, Chase?”
“If Kashmiri wants to summon the devil, I’m guessing he believes the God Boy can do it. He also needs the funds to build an army like no one has seen. That diamond deposit, if found, contains more precious gems that any other mine on Earth. If uncovered, the Thuggees won’t have to worry about buying tanks because they’ll be able to afford every rogue nuclear weapon on the planet and the delivery systems capable of attacking every city in Israel and the US. It would trigger the end of times.”
“There’s something else. That diamond deposit is said to contain unearthly powers. If unearthed it would summon a thousand devils.”
“And Rajesh? What happens to the kid if we don’t find him?”
She looks into my eyes. “In my mind, Rajesh is to serve as the sacrificial lamb.”
“They’re going to kill him?”
“If they sacrifice such a special, spiritual boy in the name of Kali, Rajesh will be immediately reincarnated into something so wicked no one will be able to stop him. The Thuggees will have their evil leader and they will have their nuclear arsenal. They will conquer anything or anyone they want.” She steals a moment to breathe. “The world will belong to Satan…to the Thuggee…to the new terrorists.”
We both stare at the river for a beat.
“We should go,” Anjali says.
“Yeah, we should. But answer me one question. That email about the Kali statue. From whom did it originate?”
“Do you really need for me to say it, Chase?”
“Yes,” I say, hearing the sound of the name even before she speaks it.
“A woman by the name of Dr. Elizabeth Flynn,” she says.
Just the sound of her name causes my bones to shudder. A cesspool of emotions well up and boil over. But it all makes sense to me now. Kashmiri must have found out about Elizabeth’s work in Nepal near the Chitwan forest where she disappeared five years ago. When he discovered she was close to uncovering the Golden Kali Statue, he had his bandits move in and abduct her. With Elizabeth, and now the God Boy, in his possession, his plan to unleash Hell on Earth could be completed.
“What about you?” I ask. What’s your stake in this, besides playing the role of dutiful employee?”
Anjali stops, turns to me, the lamplight glowing in her now damp eyes.
“Rajesh is my son.”
8
A private jet waits for us at the Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola. Having run back to my apartment to change into a pair of cargo pants, a tan work shirt, Chippewa work boots for footwear, and my worn-in bush jacket (pockets stuffed with everything from passport to a mini first aid kit), Anjali and I are escorted to the runway via private van. Once aboard the jet, we’re greeted by a pilot who smiles and shakes my hand with all the eagerness and enthusiasm of a professional politician.
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Chase Baker,” the Indian man greets me. “I’ve heard much about your exploits.”
“I hope you still respect me,” I say. Then, “What, no copilot?”
“God is my copilot.” He laughs, then introduces us to a female flight attendant whom he calls Beatrice. She’s tall, tan, with dark hair cropped short, and a tiny green jade stud pierced into her perfect nose. Her outfit is a dark blue miniskirt and matching jacket, a pair of gold wings pinned to her lapel.
“Once airborne, she will serve you drinks and dinner,” the pilot adds. “Now, please, take your seats and buckle up. We’re about to take off.” Reaching, he pats my side. “Oh, and Mr. Baker, I am going to have to ask you to surrender your weapon for the flight.”
I shoot Anjali a look. She nods. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back when we land.”
Reluctantly, I pull the automatic from its shoulder holster, hand it to the pilot.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Chase,” he says, heading back into the cockpit.
Anjali and I head to the passenger section, take two of the six available seats, she on the port side of the aircraft and I on the starboard side. Beatrice brings us champagne and offers a choice of meat or fish for dinner. I choose beef while Anjali goes with the fish. Maybe we can share. Chase the hopeful and the hungry.
Questions float around my brain like stars. Are Anjali and Singh still married? Singh told me he’s been living in the States for the past five years. Why did he leave his wife and his boy? Did he leave them out of shame? How, exactly, did Rajesh get kidnaped? Why does Anjali seem to have no fear over partnering up with me in going after her son while Dr. Singh says it’s too dangerous…that too many eyes are on him? Whose eyes?
Once airborne, I’ve barely consumed my first glass of champagne when I begin to feel sleepy. Unusually sleepy. But then, it’s past midnight and the nap I took earlier didn’t really cut it. Renaissance men like me need their beauty rest.
Stealing a quick peek at the very quiet Anjali, I can see that her eyes are closed and that she’s caught up in a deep sleep. She’s snoring ever so lightly, her left hand still wrapped around her drink which rests on her foldout tray.
That’s when I decide, What the hell. I’ll close my eyes for a few minutes until it’s chow time.
I fall immediately into a cavernous sleep. And that’s when she comes to me.
Elizabeth, with her long, strawberry blonde hair, standing beside me at the train station in Varanasi. It’s five years ago, but it’s also right now. Right this very second. We’re holding hands, but our palms are cold and perspiring. Not because we are so in love, but because we’ve reached a crossroads. Elizabeth, the archeologist obsessed with uncovering the Golden Kali Statue, and I, the sandhog wanting her to forget about the impossibility of ever finding it. Wanting her to come with me to New Delhi, and from there, back to the US to be married, start a family of our own.
We are surrounded by people. So many people it’s as if there’s not enough oxygen to go around. Hordes of Indian travelers dressed in colorful tunics. Some men proudly sport the turban of the Sheik. Others wear nothing on their heads. Women with long, black hair veiling their faces, a perfect circle tattooed in the center of their forehead. Exotic and alluring.
The trains come and go at the busy station, the smell of locomotive exhaust tainting the air, carriages covered with the men and women who either can’t afford to ride inside or just can’t find the room. Old men peddle hot peanuts while small, impossibly thin, young boys jump down onto the tracks as soon as the trains pull out. Their sole objective is to collect the used clear plastic water bottles which they will then fill with common tap water, passing the cholera-tainted poison off to unsuspecting tourists as fresh spring water.
I turn to Elizabeth, kiss her on the cheek, squeeze her hand. She looks up at me, brushes back her hair, allows it to rest on her white T-shirted shoulder.
“Do you love me?”
“You know how much I do,” she says. “If anything should happen to me, just remember how much I will always love you.”
“What on God’s earth can happen to you, honey?”
“Just promise me you won’t forget.”
Then, something happens that breaks my heart. A single tear drops from her eye.
The train arrives in a loud cacophony of metal wheels against rails, high-pitched whistles, and a thunderous locomotive engine. When it comes to a stop, the air brakes hiss and spit smoke.
Grabbing my heavy pack off the concrete platform, I throw it over my shoulder.
“This is it!” Heading for the train as the doors open and the arriving Indians pour out of the first class cars. “Our new life begins now.”
Without thinking, I enter the car while checking our tickets for our berth number. In India, if you don’t grab your space immediately, someone else will snatch it up and it will be hell trying to dislodge them from it. Opening the door, I toss my bag onto the first class full-length seat that will
also serve as a bed when nightfall comes. About-facing, I go to grab hold of Elizabeth’s pack. But she’s not standing there.
Leaning my head out the door into the narrow corridor, I search for her. She is nowhere to be found. There are only the Indian people filing into the car with all the steady intensity of the sand that pours into an hour glass. The atmosphere is at once chaotic but somehow organized. The first whistle, indicating that the train is about to pull out, echoes through the train station.
“Elizabeth! Elizabeth!”
Another whistle. The trains here don’t wait for anyone. Too many people to transport. Not enough rail cars to accommodate them all. Not enough time.
Too…many…people…
I turn, go to the window.
There’s a wave of people still struggling to board the train. I’m looking for Elizabeth, trying to pick her out of the crowd. I look for her khaki cargo pants, hiking boots, T-shirt, her hair held in place by a red bandana, the bronze and diamond-studded Kali key strung around her neck by the thick leather strap—she should be easily visible. But there are simply too many people.
Taking a step back, I open the door once more, push myself out into the corridor. But it’s an impossible dream with the many men, women, and children trying to get through with their bags and luggage. The train begins to move. I feel the initial bucking, followed by the forward motion.
I go back to the berth, back to the window. As the crowd disperses, I suddenly see her, standing in the exact spot where I left her on the platform. Her arms crossed over her chest, her green eyes glowing and filled with tears. I try to pull up the window, but it’s stuck.
“Elizabeth!” The train begins to move along the rails, leaving the platform slowly behind. “Elizabeth…!”
It’s no use. She didn’t miss the train by accident, or because of the onrush of people. She did it on purpose. She’s going back to Nepal. Going back to dig for the Golden Kali Statue.
As the train begins to pick up speed, I place my right hand on the glass of the window as my eyes fill with tears. I am helpless, the loneliness settling into my sternum like a rock.
“Elizabeth…”
Raising her right hand to her mouth, she blows me a gentle kiss.
The train moves faster now and just like that, she is gone along with the station. Vanished into nothing, but engraved in my brain.
My love is gone.
In my heart, I know I will never see her again…
Then … a bang and the aircraft shudders.
Sleepy eyes go wide. Peering over my left shoulder, I see something that takes a long moment to register. Precisely because, it’s something I should not be seeing at thirty-three thousand feet above sea level.
The pilot with his hands wrapped around Anjali’s throat.
9
Shake the cobwebs out of my head. It doesn’t take an Einstein to know that someone slipped a mickey into my drink. That someone being the friendly flight attendant.
“O’ Kali!” The pilot is shouting. “O’ Kali mother!”
There’s something going on with his eyes. They are wide, unblinking, and glowing, like an energy from within is being released. A bad energy. A wicked energy. Just the sight of them steals my breath away.
Slipping my hand inside my jacket for my .45, it’s not there. Pilot took it off of me earlier. I could dig through my jacket pocket for my Swiss Army Knife, but no time for that. Instead, I dump my drink, crack it against the edge of a solid plastic and faux wood tray, breaking the glass to form a crude knife. A swift kick knocks it out of my hand.
Raising my head, I see Beatrice staring me down, her body having taken on the offensive posture of a black belt. Her eyes have gone just as wide as the pilot’s, the whites glowing with rage. Is it possible I’m caught up in a Tarantino movie and just don’t know it?
Raising my hands, I try to reason. “I’m sure we can work something out, Bruce Lee.”
Before I have the chance to register her left leg coming up, she swift kicks me in the jaw with a right foot saddled in a black pump. I fall back, my head slamming against the port-hole window. Groggy, I shake my head.
“Does this mean the dinner service is discontinued?”
Reaching into her jacket, she pulls out a knife. A twelve-inch fighting knife to be precise. Something an ISIS assassin would brandish on the internet.
“Kill her now,” she barks to the pilot. “In the name of Kali, slice her throat.”
The pilot produces an identical knife from an ankle sheath, brings it to Anjali’s throat. Maybe it’s the sharpness of the blade pressed up against the soft skin that wakes her. But her eyes suddenly open.
“You bastard!” she screams, bringing her right knee up swift and hard, nailing the pilot in the sweet spot. Not even his evil eyes can protect him from a swift kick to the balls.
He shrieks, pulls the knife away.
Beatrice comes after me with her own knife, but I shift myself forward at the last possible moment. She lands in the seat on her face and chest. Grabbing hold of her arm, I pull it behind her back, bending it in a way God did not intend. The knife drops from her hand, falls onto the seat. I pick it up, jump across the aisle, and bury the blade into the pilot’s ribcage.
He drops on the spot.
“Chase!” Anjali shrieks.
Turning, I spot a pistol barrel staring me down. My own pistol poised in the hand of Beatrice, our not-so-friendly, bright-eyed flight attendant.
“Duck!”
The shot singes my hair as it blows out the window next to Anjali’s seat. The abrupt change in air pressure sends the pilotless plane into a nose dive. It also begins to pull us, along with the pilot’s body, towards the gaping hole, as if an angry God himself has gripped us in a pair of invisible hands.
“Hang on,” I shout while feeling for Anjali’s seatbelt, buckling it around her waist, pulling the strap as tight as it will go without cutting into her stomach.
She fires again, but she’s out of balance and another hole appears above the busted out porthole. At first the hole is small. About the size of my fist. But the force of the escaping air is shredding the plastic and metal fuselage. That’s when the dead pilot’s body lifts off the seat, his head and shoulder pressed into an ever-widening hole that is joining with the shot-out window to form one big, man-sized opening. For a brief second, I consider grabbing hold of his legs. But he’s already dead. A second later, the pilot is sucked out of the hole and making his way back down to Earth the hard way.
But now, it’s my turn to get sucked out of the opening.
My legs lift up off the floor. I’m being yanked out of the plane right behind the dead pilot. Not exactly the way I pictured my inevitable demise, preferring instead to drift off to sleep in my ripe old age and never wake up.
Beatrice fires again and another hole appears beside the big one. I’m holding on to the metal frame beneath Anjali’s seat, double-fisted. The plane screams as it speeds towards the earth like a missile. Peering over my left shoulder, I see the flight attendant floating towards the opening. She, too, is being sucked out. My pistol still gripped in her hand, her face painted with panic, she tosses the automatic out the hole while attempting to grab ahold of something. Anything.
…Christ, there goes my gun…
“Please…help…me!” she screams. But her words are barely audible with air rushing in and the plane in rapid decent.
She begins to claw at the seats while her entire body lifts up, the powerful vacuum-like suction pulling her head-first out the opening. Glancing over my shoulder through the breach in the fuselage, I watch her limbs waving and kicking spastically as she enters into a three-mile drop without a chute.
…Don’t let the door slap you in the ass on the way out…
Looking up, I see the look of desperation on Anjali’s face.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of this.”
But unless she can read lips, she has no clue what I’m saying.
Choices: I can either continue to hold onto the seat and ride this bird to the ground in which case we’ll be vaporized by the crash, or, I can make my way to the pilot’s cabin, hand-over-fist, and attempt to level her out at an altitude and speed that will cut down on the exterior air pressure.
Easy peasy, right?
Problem is, I’m not a pilot. But I have to at least try.
Pulling myself into the aisle, I grab onto my seat. That’s when something catches my eye. The rear lavatory door. It’s blown open. Stuffed inside the cramped compartment, seated on the toilet, are two people—both of them duct-taped together.
It’s the rightful pilot of this aircraft and his flight attendant. Chase Baker the charmed.
10
A wave of warm optimism fills my veins. I can only hope the pilot is still alive. And if he is alive, I hope he’s conscious enough to pull us out of this dive. Quickly, I make my way the ten or so feet to the lavatory, crawling on my stomach for the entire distance. For some reason, if I crawl, the suction is not so bad. When I look up, I can see the pilot’s eyes are wide open. So are the flight attendant’s. Also, their whites aren’t glowing or burning red or turning anything other than their natural, God-given color. More good news. Raising myself up, I pull the tape off his mouth.
“You the real pilot?”
“Cut me loose,” he shouts while alarms blare from inside the cockpit. “Do it now. We’re dropping three thousand feet per minute. Three minutes before this thing careens into the Arabian Sea.”
Reaching into my jacket, I find my Swiss Army knife, flip open the big blade. Pressing the business end of the blade on the tape that binds his wrists together, I cut. While he pulls his hands apart, I reach down and cut the ankles. Without issuing a single word, the pilot drops down to all fours, begins speed crabbing his way to the cockpit.
Meanwhile, I pull away the tape that gags the flight attendant and free both her wrists and ankles.
“Thank you,” she says, mouthing the words.
Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) Page 5
