Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3)

by Vincent Zandri

Tony turns to me. “Way to wheel and deal, kid.”

  “We’re in kind of a rush. And I’m not a kid. I’m forty-something.”

  “You’ll always be a snot-nosed kid to me,” Tony says.

  “How long does the drone take to charge up, Mr. Bishal?” I say.

  The salesman shrugs broad shoulders. “Under normal circumstances, it could take three hours. That is, you plug it into the wall socket. But I have a device in the back that can power it up in five minutes.” He bears brown teeth to go with his Cheshire Cat smile. “Will cost you just a little bit extra, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say. “Just do it, please.”

  The sweating salesman’s face is beaming at the easy sale. He takes the drone and its accompanying hand-held remote control device in hand and slips into the back room. He returns exactly five minutes later with the drone boxed up. Following him back to the front counter, I pay him from what’s left of my stack of rupees and we are on our way.

  By the time we exit the bazaar, it’s going on two in the afternoon.

  “We ready to head into the forest?” I pose to Tony, as we come upon his Casale Excavating 4X4.

  Everyone looks at one another like “we only have the clothes on our backs.” That’s because we are only wearing the clothes on our backs. Even the weapons Tony and Rudy used in the firefight at the bar were left behind to burn up along with the bodies of the Thuggee bandits.

  “Okay,” I say, “I realize we don’t have so much as a toothbrush between us, but we can get all that stuff in Dumkibas. Agreed?”

  “Time is not on our side,” Anjali says, her now tight face a million miles away from the relaxed expression I cuddled with earlier on in the day. “So, let’s please do this.”

  “I could go for a drink,” Rudy says.

  “We’ll pick up some beer later too, Rudy,” I say.

  He smirks like he only half believes me. Pays to be cynical in a place where you can’t just make a pit stop at the corner 7Eleven.

  Then I say, “Tony, how long will it take to get to Dumkibas?”

  “Depending on traffic getting out of Kathmandu, about three hours. Maybe a little more, or a little less.”

  “We’ll pick up something to eat there as well. Let’s get moving.”

  “Remind me not to hire you as my travel guide, Chase,” Tony says.

  “This ain’t a luxury cruise.”

  “It ain’t no picnic neither,” he says, hopping into the Escape, firing up the engine.

  18

  Wishing for the onset of darkness.

  Because the road to Dumkibas is anything but serene. It’s a mountainous journey, the gravel road is narrow and slick from recent rains. As we drive further into the wilderness, we’re forced to pass black smoke-spitting buses painted in colorful, almost psychedelic patterns. Passing them wouldn’t be so bad if the roads weren’t so narrow, the visibility more than a few feet at most. Pulling out into the lane that supports oncoming traffic, all you can do is hold your breath and pray another bus or truck isn’t presently coming at you from the opposite direction.

  We drive through small towns made up of little more than shanties of scrap wood and tin. The structures are built onto the mountainside (as opposed to into it) with timbers and logs as stilt-like supports. They are connected to the nearest settlement on the opposite side of the deep, dark valley, by means of long rope or cable bridges. The further we drive away from the city and into the heart of Nepal’s wilderness, the more strongly we get a sense of how easy it would be to disappear out here. There are no telephone poles, no electrical wires running alongside the roads, only the occasional satellite dish mounted to a tin-roofed shack or a cell tower hastily constructed beside a pile of used tires.

  …No wonder Elizabeth disappeared so easily…

  It’s fully dark when we make it to the perimeter of the Chitwan Forest. Tony drives the mostly flat, dirt road for another twenty or so minutes until we come to the town of Dumkibas, its scattering of dull generator-powered lights illuminating the thick night. Driving slowly into town, we spot a general store constructed of the same tin and scrap wood we’ve become so accustomed to on the way in. He pulls up out front.

  “What’s your orders, kid…I mean, Mr. Baker?”

  “Been a long time since you asked me that question, Tone.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.” Making a smirk. “Sentimentality is for pussies.”

  To our left sits another ramshackle building with a wood sign mounted above the door. It says simply BAR in big black letters lit up by a single bare light bulb dangling by an exposed wire from the porch ceiling. There are a couple of dudes hanging out on the porch. They’re drinking beer out of bottles. One of them is mid-range height and wiry with a scraggly beard, long hair tied back in a ponytail, and a cowboy hat covering his cranium. He’s also wearing a well-worn hunting vest over a black T-shirt that bears the Led Zeppelin logo from the 1970s.

  The second guy is shorter, a bit stockier. He’s wearing a bush jacket, just like mine. Only difference is, it’s somewhat ratty and even from across the road I can make out the dried blood stains that splotch it. The jacket is unbuttoned, exposing the six-gun he’s wearing at his hip. His baseball cap is pulled down close to his eyes. It sports the logo of the New York Yankees. I love the Yankees. But I’m not so sure he’s the lovable type.

  I turn around in the shotgun seat to see that Rudy is dying for a drink. Apparently, happy hour has come and gone. I can take a hint. Chase the perceptive.

  “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do,” I say. “Rudy, you look like you’re about to pass out. Go grab a beer and a shot, but make it snappy. It’s already dark and I gotta pay somebody extra to take us into those woods under the cover of darkness.” Shifting my focus to my employer. “Anjali, you come with us. Take care of the food and water we’ll need for upwards of twenty-four hours including something for Elizabeth and your son if and when we finally steal them away.” Now Tony. “Tone, you and I will try to gather up some tents, sleeping bags, flashlights, and anything else we need for the jungle.”

  Tony opens the door, steps out.

  Rudy opens the back door. Without a word, he’s on his way across the dirt road to the bar, the two dudes on the porch watching him the entire way.

  Turns out the general store is the last stop for those traveling the road from civilization into the wild. While Anjali gathers enough freeze-dried food for all of us, Tony and I manage to secure three, two-person tents, sleeping bags, LED flashlights, insect repellent, malaria suppositories, and even a couple of pints of whiskey for Rudy.

  The clerk behind the counter, a young Nepalese man with black hair that runs the length of a black and green T-shirt and bears the long-haired likeness of the late Kurt Cobain, also hooks us up with a team of elephants and two out-of-work Sherpas who will take us into the forest within the hour. Anjali finances the entire operation with her American Express.

  …Don’t leave home without it…

  “Elephants,” Anjali says, sighing. “My heart breaks for the poor mistreated animals. Why don’t we drive? We have a four-wheel-drive vehicle, don’t we?”

  “First of all,” Tony says, “there’s no roads where we’re going. Second, the jungle is thick and the only practical way to get around, and do so quickly, is by elephant.” He issues a satisfied smile. “Just like Hannibal crossing the Pyrenees,” he adds.

  But Anjali isn’t in a laughing mood. She’s getting physically closer to her son. The closer we come, the more nervous she seems. It’s as if the protective barrier she’s managed to construct between her and her emotions over the past many weeks is disintegrating with every step closer to our goal.

  Within minutes, we’re back outside, the team of elephants being loaded with our gear. We have everything we need to enter the jungle and locate Elizabeth and Rajesh.

  Everything but Rudy that is.

  That’s when the still of the night is shattered by gunshots.


  …Heart be still…

  “Tony,” I say, “stay with Anjali and the equipment.”

  I run across the street to the bar. Opening the door, I see that Rudy is down on the wood floor, the stocky man with the bush jacket and New York Yankees baseball cap standing over him, his right booted foot pressed down flat on the Brit’s back, his six-shooter in hand.

  “What the hell’s going on?” I say, as I focus on a bartender who’s standing behind the bar, a baseball bat gripped in both his hands.

  “That your friend?” says the big, white-aproned barkeep. “Best get him out of here now before he leaves in a pine box.”

  There’s a scattering of disinterested drinkers seated at the bar and three or four empty tables. Apparently, violent contact is as common in this watering hole as stale beer and sweat. The table closest to Rudy has playing cards set out on them. Some of the cards have been strewn onto the floor.

  Stocky Baseball Cap turns to face me. As does his partner, the thinner one with the cowboy hat.

  “Seems your Union Jack ass-wiping partner doesn’t know the rules when it comes to playing a decent game of cards, mate,” he says through a thick Australian outback drawl.

  …Two big brawls over a simple game of cards in twenty-four hours…my luck—she’s not running so good…

  I feel the weight of the .45 against my left ribcage. Getting to it quickly might be a challenge what with Stocky Bush Jacket already gripping his piece. Eyeing Tall Cowboy Hat, I see him reaching around his back.

  “Easy, Crocodile Dundee,” I say. “I’m sure we can figure a way out of this mess without having to shoot our way out.”

  “I didn’t cheat, Chase,” Rudy says from down on the floor. “It was a simple game of twenty-one.”

  “Your pal was dealing,” Stocky Bush Jacket says. “Which gave him the right to switch the decks.”

  “I didn’t just switch them, Chase,” Rudy insists, his voice muffled and painful. “I just thought a nice fresh deck would be better.”

  My eyes on Tall Cowboy Hat. “My apologies on behalf of my friend. I’m sure he’ll be happy to refund any cash he took off of you.”

  “Chase, I won that money fair and square,” Rudy protests. “Well, mostly anyway.”

  Tall Cowboy Hat is about to make this a two gun against one gun, gunfight. I need to think quick.

  “Jeepers crow, fellas,” I add, “What, no one wants a refund?”

  “Too late for that, Mate,” insists Stocky Bush Jacket. “We’ll teach the Brit a lesson in manners, and then teach you some more manners, and then we’ll be happy to take our pretty green back with plenty of fucking interest.”

  Beside me, on my right-hand side, an empty wooden chair. Reaching out, I grab hold of it, toss it at Tall Cowboy Hat. In the split second he’s forced to raise up his hands to deflect the chair, I reach into my bush jacket, grab the .45.

  “Drop the gun,” I say directly to Stocky Bush Jacket while planting a bead on Tall Cowboy Hat. “Do it, or your boyfriend gets a one-way ticket to nirvana. You do believe in nirvana, don’t you fellas? Heaven for good people? Hell for bad?”

  “You got a way with words, Chase,” Rudy says. “Must be the writer in you.”

  “Rudy. Don’t talk. Talk later. Okay?”

  “Righto, Chase,” he says.

  Stocky Baseball Cap isn’t budging. He’s slowly raising his revolver, his finger on the trigger, his thumb cocking back the hammer.

  I thumb back the hammer on the .45.

  “You’d better think about what you’re doing, pal,” I say. “I won’t hesitate to air your buddy out.”

  Even from a distance of fifteen feet, I can see the beads of sweat forming on Tall Cowboy Hat’s forehead. When I fire off a round that grazes his shoulder, he drops to his knees, screams.

  “Drop your fuckin’ gun, Tavis!” the now injured scraggly haired man insists. “The American means business.”

  “What’ll it be, Tavis?” I say. “You gonna listen to your boyfriend, or what?”

  Tavis eyes his partner down on his knees.

  “Get up, Brucey,” he says. “You’re embarrassing us.”

  Brucey brings his fingers to his shoulder, touches his wound.

  “I’ve been shot. I’m fuckin’ bleedin’. I’m gonna die.”

  “Not soon enough you idiot,” Tavis says.

  “Now,” I say. “Brucey can avoid further embarrassment, and certainly further bullets if you take your foot off of my friend and let him up.”

  “Do it Tavis,” Brucey screams. “I mean it, man. It’s not worth both of us buying it in this hell hole of a town.”

  Tavis lowers his gun, slips his foot off of Rudy.

  Rudy bounds up onto his feet, faster than I thought the short, overweight, middle-aged bartender capable of doing. He sprints to me, presses himself against me like I’m his long lost dad.

  “Walk backward,” I say under my breath. “When we come to the door, slip on out.”

  It’s exactly what we do, back-step our way to the door.

  “Tavis, Brucey,” I say, opening the door, allowing Rudy to slip on out, “It’s been a pleasure. Maybe next time we can cook some shrimp on the barbie.”

  “Fuck you very much,” Tavis says. “I ain’t done with you, Mate.”

  I slip out the door, slamming it shut behind me.

  ***

  Five minutes later we’ve replayed the evening’s barroom adventure for the entire crew.

  “Whad’d I tell you about getting into fights over silly card games, Rudy?” Tony says, shoving a chunk of fresh chewing tobacco into his cheek. He’s clearly upset at his pudgy little friend. “Those two Aussies aren’t just a couple of vacationers. They’re poachers who’ll shoot you dead, cut up your little puff ball body, and feed ya to the tigers in the forest.”

  Rudy cocks his head over his shoulder like a little boy caught with his hand in a cookie jar full of booze.

  “Well, it’s all about how you play the game,” he says, smiling slyly. “And you know what I always say: Rudy can’t fail.” He sings “Rudy can’t fail” like Joe Strummer from The Clash.

  We gather around the back of the general store where the elephants are waiting. Four elephants to act as rides and two more for storage. The two small, leather-skinned Sherpas will walk ahead of us.

  “Tony,” I say, “what about the Ford? The getaway vehicle? I think I put those Aussies in their place for now, but I don’t trust them not to do some damage to our only means of transport out of this place.”

  “Under a tarp in a patch of woods,” he says, nodding toward a wooded area not far away from the store’s backside. “Nobody will bother her there.” Then, “Also, our general store sells more than camping equipment. He raises the tail on his denim work shirt to reveal an automatic, the barrel of which is stuffed inside his pant waist.

  “Nine millimeter?” I say.

  “Of course,” he says. “I need to rely on stopping power.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to.”

  Now, with everyone mounted and the Sherpas out ahead of us with Maglites poking bright holes in the thick darkness, I give the order to proceed.

  “Let’s find Elizabeth,” I say.

  “Alive,” Anjali says. “Just like Rajesh.”

  “Yes,” I say, my heart suddenly sinking into my stomach, “let’s hope we haven’t made this trip for nothing.”

  19

  We trudge through the thick forest for more than an hour, only the occasional mosquito stealing its share of blood from my veins breaking up the monotony but, at the same time, adding to the tension. The jungle is a different world at night. It’s when the place comes alive. Beneath a canopy of trees, every animal, insect, and bird comes out of its hiding place in search of food and love.

  At night, the noise in the jungle can be deafening, but it can also be a spooky place with vampire bats sweeping down so close to your head you feel as if they’re touching you with their fur-covered skin. Sticky cobw
ebs as thick as shoelaces smack you in the face as the elephants transport you between a narrow opening created by two iron trees.

  I take the lead while Anjali rides directly behind me. Behind her is Rudy, who’s drinking whiskey from one of the pint bottles and whistling a tune the entire time like he’s not got a care in the world. Riding on our tail is Tony. Behind him, the two supply elephants. When I feel we’ve gone far enough into the jungle, I give the order to stop and set up camp.

  “Tony,” I say, as the elephant bends down on its front knees and I slide down off its back, “grab up the drone.”

  It’s time we make our first attempt at locating the exact location of our diamond mine.

  The Sherpas set up the tents and gather firewood while Tony and I power up the drone. Anjali is in charge of monitoring her smartphone with the real-time visuals of whatever the drone picks up with its multiple cameras. If my hunch serves me correctly, the bastards who took Elizabeth hostage will be working around the clock to mine the diamond deposit for its infinite riches. And if that’s indeed true, the spot in which they’re working should be lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Unpacking the drone, we need a place in the forest where we’re not surrounded by trees. Lucky for us, the jungle territory inside and outside the boundaries of the Chitwan National Forest contains as many open plains of tall grass as it does deep cover. Following the light of the moon, we walk towards an opening that’s no more than one hundred paces from our camp. From this point on, it’s just a matter of powering up the droid and synching the infrared night-vision camera with Anjali’s iPhone. When the camera sync is complete, I set the drone onto the grassy floor while Tony powers it up via the remote control.

  “You ever use these before, Tony?”

  “You’re not an excavator unless you have one of these in your arsenal these days,” he says. “There’s no more accurate way to lay out a site, believe me. Your father would have loved these little babies. Plus they’re fun to fly. It’s a goddamned toy.”

  “Tony, you have changed, my friend. Smartphones, computers, unmanned drones. What’s next, Google Glasses?”