Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

The berth is narrow with a sleeper bed on the right-hand side that’s been returned to the wall storage space by the porter. In its place is a long couch with armrests on each end. A square mirror is mounted to the wall above the sink to my left, and a private bath sits in the far corner beside it.

As if expecting me, a silver bucket of champagne is sitting out on the small counter space beside the sink. There’s a bottle of champagne chilling inside a pile of ice and two glasses resting on cloth napkins. Outside the large window, the green, mountainous, Austrian landscape speeds by. Vibrations can be felt coming up through the floor of the carriage, through the leather soles on my cordovans, into my feet. Or maybe it’s the sheer stunning beauty of my new, mysterious friend that’s making my legs tremble ever so slightly.

“Won’t you have a seat?” she says.

“Nice berth,” I say, turning myself to be seated. “Must have cost you a few euros.”

She reaches out, takes hold of the strap on my bag. I yank it out of her hand. She gazes back at me startled.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just assumed you’d like to hang up your bag.”

Once more her eyes connect with mine, and I feel a cold, steely chill run up and down my backbone. Gently, I slip the bag off my shoulder, take a seat on the couch, careful to position the bag tightly between my left side and the far armrest.

“That better?” I say.

“I just want you to be comfortable.” She turns, pours us each a glass of champagne. She hands me mine and sits down beside me. Close to me.

She raises her glass.

“So,” she says, “what shall we drink to?”

“What’s your name for starters?” I ask, the effervescent champagne sloshing around in my glass with the movement of the train.

“Forgive me,” she says, lowering her glass, resting it on her stockinged thigh. “I am Vanessa. Vanessa Gabor.”

I respond with my name. Then, “And where does Vanessa Gabor hail from?”

“Israel,” she says. “I’m here on holiday. And what brings you to Austria, Mr. Chase Baker? Are you on holiday also?”

“The culture,” I fib. “I’m a rare book dealer. I’ve been spending my time seeking out some rare editions.”

Raising her glass back up.

“To culture,” she says. “And the great writers in and out of our time.”

She drinks.

I drink.

She gets up, pours us two more drinks.

“Clever use of the Hemingway title,” I say, sipping more champagne.

“Excuse me?” she says, sitting back down.

“In Our Time,” I say. “Hemingway’s first collection of short stories.”

“I didn’t realize I’d said that. One of my very favorite books. It was, how you say in America, a game changer for literature.”

“Score one for the pretty lady on the train,” I say. “You know much about Hemingway? His writing?”

“A little,” she says, raising her free hand, making a small space between her index finger and thumb-pad. “I used to teach English in London. Now I work for the Israeli Antiquities Authority.”

My pulse picks up. She’s onto me. Or what am I saying? She’s been onto me since I stepped onto the train. Is she really interested in Hemingway and his early works? Or is she interested in something else? I’m a treasure hunter. Maybe I’m in trouble with the Israeli government.

She drinks down her champagne. I do the same. She pours us two more. Already, I’m feeling the effects. I feel good. Lighter than air.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Baker?” she asks, that smile on her face looking more and more inviting with each passing second, with each bit of rail bed covered.

I feel myself smiling. “I am.”

Using her free hand, she pushes her skirt up on her thighs so that lacy tops of sheer black thigh-high stockings are exposed, the black elastic straps to her garter belt plainly visible.

“Tell me, Mr. Baker,” she goes on. “Do you find me attractive?”

Judging by how tightly my trousers are now fitting, I find her extremely attractive. She reaches out, gently takes hold of my hand, places it on her thigh, uses it to push her skirt up far enough so that her black silk panties are exposed. She spreads her legs slowly.

“I think it only fair to warn you,” she whispers, as she pulls me in closer to her, “I laced the champagne with Molly. Do you know what Molly is, Mr. Baker?”

Chase Baker slipped a Mickey . . .

Rookie mistake if I don’t say so myself.

If I weren't so filled with desire for her, I would make a fist and ball it in her mouth. But instead, the drug takes over, seducing me as much as she is. I set the champagne glass down onto the carpeted floor and kiss her.

When I come up for air, I say, “It’s a sexual enhancer. That’s what Molly is.”

“Combine it with a soup of intoxicants and you won’t want to ravish me. You’ll want to devour me.”

Well, you walked right into this one, Chase old boy . . .

Pulling off my jacket and tie, I climb on top of her, unbutton her gray shirt as fast as I can. I unclasp her bra and expose her breasts. Pulling off her skirt, I unclip her garters one at a time and pull off her panties. As the train enters a tunnel and the exterior daylight is eclipsed, I enter into her. I listen to her moans and screams as the world around us turns black and the train shrieks through the tunnel. This is not making love but, instead, something far more primal and physical, the skin bleeding where her nails dig into me, where her teeth bite through my shirt.

When we both arrive at that special place, the train pulls through the tunnel, and the sunlight returns. It’s then I see not only those two stunning blue eyes that attracted me to Vanessa in the first place, but my own gun staring me in the face.

CHAPTER 3

“I’ll be happy to relieve you of the books, Mr. Baker. My client is prepared to stop at nothing to see their return.”

Slowly, I shift myself back onto the couch. At the same time, I pull up my pants, button them, buckle the belt. I press my backside against the leather satchel.

“Your client wants them returned?” I say, hands raised. “Having them returned suggests they were his to begin with.”

She thumbs the safety down, her index finger tickling the trigger. She’s playing for keeps.

The train sways. For a moment, I think she might slip off the couch.

“The tracks are rough along this part of the journey through the mountains. I wouldn’t want to press the trigger accidentally. Now, why don’t you hand over the books? Before something disastrous happens.”

My hands are still raised over my shoulders. “You’re going to kill me and dump me off this train first chance you get, Vanessa. At least tell me who your client is. Because it certainly isn’t the Israeli Antiquities Authority.”

“My client is beside the point.”

“So then, what is the point, Vanessa?”

“Your death,” she says, “and nothing more.”

I feel a giant smirk growing on my face, just as the train enters into another tunnel, and the lights go out.

I lunge for the gun.

CHAPTER 4

She presses the trigger as I grab hold of her wrist. The discharged cartridge illuminates the berth for a split second, like lightning flashing in the dark night sky. It’s enough for me to see the panic on her face. With one hand now wrestling for the pistol, I grab hold of her throat with the other.

The pistol discharges once more, her face lighting up again. I squeeze harder, my thumb jammed against her carotid artery. I’m hoping she passes out from lack of oxygen to the brain, but she’s stronger than she looks. She manages to shift her head just enough to squeeze her chin beneath my grip. Opening her mouth wide, she clamps her teeth tight onto my hand, on the soft flesh between my thumb and index finger.

I let loose with a scream that must be audible all the way down to Rome.

The pistol discharges again. I pull my hand from her mouth, make a fist and belt her in the mouth, not once but two, three times. The force of the blow knocks her head back against her spine, and she loses her grip on the pistol.

The pistol drops to the floor.

We both dive for it, my hand managing to snatch it first. But she also grabs hold of it. At the same time, her eyes are focusing on the leather bag set on the edge of the couch. She pulls on the pistol and begins reaching for the bag.

The pistol fires again and the mirror above the sink shatters. That’s when I feel the knee jam up into my crotch. I let go of the pistol as I enter into a new dimension of pain altogether. A pain so intense I feel my insides drop like a plane crash, the searing throbbing in my midsection electric and all consuming. She bounds up, goes to the case, grabs hold of it. She reaches for the door lock, unlatches it.

My body is paralyzed, crushed under the weight of my pain. But my brain is not dead. I know that Vanessa — this blonde peril — is about to get away with stealing a priceless set of manuscripts. That they will end up being sold on the black market to the highest bidder. That they will end up stored inside someone’s personal vault. Or worse, destroyed. Not that my client isn’t trading on the vast underground black market of rare books. But, at least, he is committed to preserving them for posterity.

Or so he claims.

On another hand altogether, I don’t deliver the manuscripts to his front door, I’m out a whole lot of cash. Not to mention the humiliation of having my ass kicked on a train by a beautiful woman who lured me into her bed.

The lock releases on the door.

She lowers her hands to the latch. I need to stop her . . . now. But I’m down on my side, curled up in the fetal position like a newborn baby with its guts punched in. My window of opportunity is maybe two seconds at most. After that, she will be gone. Or, at the very least, she will grab the nearest porter, claim I attacked her. They’ll lock me up and deliver me to the police at the next stop.

I swallow something cold and bitter, and despite the pain, thrust my arms out for her ankles. I manage to grab her right ankle. Yanking it back with all my strength, she goes down hard and flat on her face. At the same time, the pain in my midsection begins to retreat, and I am able to throw myself on top of her, pinning her with my body weight.

I grab the pistol, toss it onto the couch behind me. Then, I grab the leather satchel, pull it out of her hand, toss it back up onto the couch beside the gun. Pulling her hands behind her back police style, I hold them tightly in my fist while removing my belt. That’s when I wrap her wrists together in the belt so tightly I can almost feel her circulation cease up.

I pull her up by the wrists and her arms bend in a way God never intended.

“You son of a bitch,” she growls, her voice strained and angry. “You will go to hell for this.”

“Tell it to the devil,” I say.

Opening the bathroom door, I shove her inside, push her down on the toilet. Bending down onto the floor, I pick up her black panties and shove them in her mouth. Then, ripping off one of her stockings, I tie her ankles together. Ripping off her second stocking, I tie her wrists to the towel rack above the toilet. As a parting gift, I look her in the eye and say, “this is for Papa Hemingway.”