Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) (7 page)

“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.”

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.

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.”