Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (16 page)

CHAPTER 30

My initial fears revolved around Abba giving me a hard time about my commandeering some of his explosives. I assumed he’d be dead set against it. They don’t even belong to him, technically speaking, but, instead, the Israeli Antiquities Authority. But, Abba surprises me when he grows a smile that seems to stretch from ear to ear. He inhales a generous portion of smoke and exhales it.

“I like the way you think, Mr. Baker,” he says. “What is it you have in mind?”

I tell him. To be honest, it’s not much of a plan. But, now that we have Abba on our side, I figure we can attack the store from two different angles at the same time. Front
and
back. We wait until nightfall and use the dark of night to conceal us. Assuming the store will either be empty or sparsely populated at that hour, we use the advantage of surprise to get inside quick, neutralize whoever is guarding the place, blow the safe, grab the books and get the hell out.

“With any luck,” I say, “we’ll be back on the plane for New York by early morning.” Turning to Magda and James. “So, what do you think?”

James nods. “Crazy, and simple enough that it just might work.” Locking eyes on the still smoking Abba. “You have mobile detonators for that TNT?”

“Good old fashioned fuses,” he says, “and one of these.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a red Bic lighter.

Magda stands. “We’re going old school.” She looks at her watch. “It’s five o’clock. It will be dark in two hours. How long shall we wait?”

“We go in three,” I say. “In the meantime, I suggest we all rest up. Could be a long night.”

“I’ve got just the place,” Abba says, setting down the hookah tube, standing. “Follow me.”

We follow him back out into the underground excavation area to a tunnel that’s supported by heavy beams and steel trusses. On the opposite side of the tunnel is a square opening that surrounds an old stone well. Beyond it is another trailer-like building constructed of prefabricated walls. Abba unlocks the door, steps inside. We follow. The place is a sleeping quarters with half a dozen bunk beds set up side by side.

“There’s a bathroom on the opposite end through those swinging doors,” he adds. “Also a kitchenette stocked with food and drink. Take whatever your heart desires. I’ll come back in three hours to wake you up.”

With that, he bids us a temporary farewell, closing the door behind him. I approach the closest rack and jump up onto the top bunk. Staring up at the plain, eggshell colored ceiling, I bid everyone a goodnight.

“I’m going to raid the fridge,” James says, tossing me a distinct wink of the eye while holding up his smartphone. “Maybe catch up on my Kindle reading.”

“I’m going to get some sleep,” Magda says, taking the bunk below me.

As James leaves the sleeping quarters and disappears into the kitchen area, I have the distinct feeling we won’t be seeing him again until it’s time to raid the bookshop.

I couldn’t be happier about it. 

We lie in silence for a minute or two that seems like forever, our hearts pounding away in our chests. I’m staring up at a ceiling that’s so close I can reach out and press my palm against it. I can’t see Magda lying on her back below me, but I can feel her, listen to her breathing, imagine her pulse pounding rapidly through her veins.

We’re one hundred feet below the surface of the earth. We occupy the ground that surrounds the Western Wall of the Second Temple. The Temple built by Herod the Great, a wall that contains a stone so large, no one on earth to this day understands how it was transported to this site, much less put in place. Maybe God did it. Maybe a force greater than God. Something beyond our reasoning and understanding.

“Chase,” I hear whispered. “Are you awake?”

I roll over onto my side, allow my hand to slowly descend. Magda’s hand reaches up, touches my fingertips. A series of wonderful, warm electric jolts wracks my body. I slide my fingers gently along her fingers until our palms come together, and I close my fingers around her entire hand. It’s then I slide off the bunk, plant my feet on the floor, and climb onto the bottom bunk beside her.

Releasing her hand, I run it through her thick, dark hair and bring my lips to hers. She kisses me passionately, her eyes closed, our tongues dancing together, our bodies pressed together. I begin to unbutton her blouse, and she begins to undo my work shirt. I unclasp her bra, slip it off, take her breast in my mouth, my tongue caressing her erect nipple.

Her hands shift and she unbuckles my belt then unbuckles hers. Soon, our pants are off, our underwear pulled down around our ankles. I roll onto her and enter into her warm wetness. Her heart pounds against my own, our rib cages clashing, our mouths once more connected, our breathing so rapid I feel like I might pass out if it should go any faster. She’s moaning, and I know she’s about to reach that special place. It’s all I can do to hold off until she reaches climax. When she does, she digs her nails into my bare back, and I sink my face into her neck so hard it’s like I can somehow enter into her body, climb behind her ribs and wrap myself around her heart.

When the moment passes, we come up for air and roll slowly onto our backs, my right hand holding tightly to her left hand. We are deep inside an archaeological dig of unfathomable biblical, historical significance, and we are on the trail of seven ancient codices that, should they remain in the wrong hands, can mean the end of civilization. But somehow, all those things — those life and death things — seem a million miles away. Right now . . . right this very second in time . . . there is only me and Magda and that thing that is happening to the both of us. That thing that can only come from two hungry hearts.

For a while, we just lie there, listening to a quiet filled only with the sounds of men and women pounding metal objects against stone, or the occasional voice shouting out an order, or laughing, or warning of one thing or another. We relish the moments that come immediately after being together when you don’t care what time of day or night it is, or what kind of state the world around you is presently engaged in, or whether you’re going to live for another day or perish. You just simply exist as one, in the present, in that precious moment that is so very fleeting.

Then, “Chase, do really believe in the Seventh Seal?”

I turn my head, look into her lovely face.

“Kind of question is that, Mag? We’re going after it, aren’t we? We’ve come all this way. We’re doing a pretty good job of getting shot at. Moshe is down and out.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I guess what I’m saying is that I believe the ancient codices to be important archaeological relics. At least as important as this wall behind us. Like the wall and like the Dead Sea Scrolls, they need to be examined and studied under a microscope in a museum.”

“But,” she says like a question.

“But there could most definitely be some real truth behind the breaking of that seventh seal,” I say. “The supernatural aspect, I mean. And if that seal is broken by a group like Mahdi and his Soldiers of the Expected One, we could easily be witnessing the beginning of the end.”

We grow quiet for a minute while our separate thoughts race through our brains. The thoughts are not very pleasant.

“I guess no one should be taking a chance on the seal being a phony,” Magda says after a time.

“I’m surprised you, of all people, are second-guessing yourself, Mag.”

“I’m not second-guessing myself,” she says. “It’s just that a part of me . . . maybe a big part of me . . . wishes it weren’t so.” She pats her heart. “But here, deep down, I know the truth about that final seal. It must not be broken, Chase. Under no circumstance, must it be breached.”

I squeeze her hand.

“Listen,” I say, cuddling up against her. “Let’s try and get some rest for a little bit. We’ll need to have all our collective wits about us when we go after those codices in a little while.”

She leans into me, kisses me tenderly on the mouth.

“Night,” she says, as if we’re lying in her bed back in New York, the somehow comforting sounds of city traffic driving past along the streets and avenues down below.

“Night, Mag,” I say.

And together, we fall into a deep sleep.

I’m climbing a hill made of limestone, the western side of which is shaped like a skull with two holes for eyes, a piece of stone that protrudes outward like a nose, and another narrow opening that resembles a mouth. The ascent is gradual, but the weight that bears down on my shoulders is so great, it feels as if I am climbing Everest on a hot summer’s day. A blood trail stains the whitish-brown gravel, and there’s a linear divot that’s been carved into it as though with a heavy board.

When I come to the top of the hill, I see three crosses, and the men who occupy the one in the center and the one on the left. The two men are in agony, their faces twisted and distorted, their bodies thrusting and heaving against the boards to which they are nailed. Maybe a dozen Roman soldiers inhabit the place, a handful of them playing dice on a patch of flat gravel, a few of the others just monitoring the site of the execution, keeping the peace.

At the foot of the cross in the center are two women dressed in black and a young man. The women are on their knees weeping while the man stands, his eyes glued to the man who occupies the cross. My eyes are also glued to the man.

Jesus.

He’s wearing a crown of thorns and blood drips down from each individual thorn wound, streaking His filthy, bearded face and matting His long black hair. The dark red, almost black, blood drips from the nail wounds in His ankles and wrists. His chest heaves as he gasps for precious air. His eyes are closed when I stare up into his face, His head hung low and defeated. But then, His eyes snap open, and he peers not at me, but into me with piercing blue eyes. Eyes that, despite the scourged, scarred, and battered body, are alive and healthy.

“Behold your maker, Chase,” Jesus says from upon His cross.

“How did I get here?” I say.

“You never left.”

“I don’t understand. I live in the twenty-first century. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Why do you say that? You have come here to seek me out that I might help you save the world. I’m the only one who can help you with that.”

“You’re saving the world now, by dying on the cross.”

“But the world will need saving again. When I return.”

“When the seventh seal is broken.”

“Just because the seventh seal breaks, doesn’t mean I’m coming back to save the world again. But be warned, if the seal is broken, and I’m not ready to return, it can mean the end of mankind and the dawning of a new era of darkness and evil. A world where the undead will rule the earth and the righteous and repentant will be persecuted. For only myself or Satan can break the seal. If he breaks it, an age of horrors will be upon you. It won’t be me who knocks down the stones that block the western gate of the temple. It will be Satan.”

“If you’re not ready to save the world again,” I say, “then who will do it for you?”

Jesus smiles.

“That’s your job, Chase. Find the seven codices and take them back to New York. Make sure they are locked away forever and that no evil man can ever lay his hands upon them again.”

Overhead, storm clouds are gathering. The two kneeling women are weeping and wailing louder than ever. The man who stands by their sides is shushing and attempting to console them. Then, one of the soldiers catches my eye.

“You there!” he screams. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

That’s when I feel two men tackle me, force me to the bare ground. They strip me of my clothing, beat me with their fists, then pull me up onto the third cross. They nail my wrists to the crossbeam and my ankles to the vertical beam. The pain is so excruciating I can’t even work up the oxygen required to scream.

The sky opens up with lightning and a downpour begins, the rainwater mixing with the blood that pours out of my wounds. I manage to turn my head and once more make eye contact with Jesus.

Struggling for the words, I say, “How am I going to save the world if I’m nailed to this cross?”

Jesus smiles once more. “You dumb ass. You should have run when you had the chance, Chase.”

A streak of lightning flashes from the sky, hits Jesus on the head. The thunder is explosive, and so loud, it robs me of what little breath I have left. The streak of lightning does not disappear, however. It continues to pour down onto His head while the earth trembles and the rocky ground on Skull Place opens up . . .

“Chase wake up . . . Chase, wake up!”

I open my eyes and see Magda’s face. She’s no longer lying beside me, but kneeling down on the floor, fully dressed. Behind her stands James.

“You were having one hell of a nightmare, mate,” he says. “Must have something to do with falling asleep so close to the Wailing Wall and the old temple where Jesus Christ Himself prayed. The memory buried in this ancient rock and soil is enough to mess with anyone’s head.”

Sweat soaks my face. Soaks my entire body. Acting on instinct, I rub my wrists as if they have truly been pierced with nails the size of spikes. But, of course, there’s nothing wrong with them. Buttoning my pants and buckling my belt while still under the covers, I then slip out of bed and do my best to regain my bearings. That’s when I see Abba standing beside the door to the trailer, two young women standing beside him.

The women are dressed like Orthodox Jews with black kerchiefs around their smooth black hair. They wear long dark skirts and sandals over their wool-stockinged feet. Their shirts are long-sleeved and brown. They also carry Uzis which are strapped to their shoulders.

“It’s time,” Magda says. Then, turning to Abba. “Abba brought his own small army.”