Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) (23 page)

CHAPTER 42

A twin-engine Cessna taking off on a major city street causes one hell of a commotion and we nearly slam into a delivery truck that’s driving right for us. But we somehow manage to take flight just as the Israeli army arrives on the scene. I’m guessing our ability to take off so quickly, or not get shot down for that matter, has nothing to do with luck, but instead, having God on our side and the intact seventh codice in my pocket.

At my insistence, we fly back in the direction of Megiddo, over the eastern edge of the West Bank and up into the fertile valley. Surveying the landscape, it’s not hard to see that the thousands, if not millions, of resurrected dead bodies no longer occupy the green countryside, walking aimlessly in their living dead state. Instead, they have returned to their earthly graves. Or perhaps they never left them in the first place. In other words, the sealing of the seventh codice might have very well erased the thirty-minute apocalypse that began in the Megiddo Valley and ended on the top of Golgotha.

But how can that be, Chase?

My only answer is the one we’ve all heard a thousand times before: God works in mysterious ways.

Ten minutes into the flight we are circling the valley and descending.

“There’s Magda,” James says, the optimism having returned to his voice. “She’s back, and she’s alive.”

“And the girls,” Itzy says.

Glancing into the back, I see that even Moshe is smiling, despite the pain that must be throbbing in his leg.

Turning to Cross. “Can your plane handle three more people?”

He nods. “We’ll find room for everyone,” he says. “Now, get set for landing.”

“Trays up everyone,” I announce. “And please turn off all electrical devices. We wanna wish you a pleasant stay in Meggido and thank you for choosing to fly Armageddon Air.”

He puts the plane down, and we exit the Cessna. I make my way immediately for Magda, and take her into my arms.

“I thought I’d lost you for good,” I whisper into her ear.

Her thick, dark hair smells of flowers, and a gentle breeze causes it to touch my face. I kiss her neck, then her soft cheek, and finally her tender lips.

When we come up for air, I look into her eyes. She smiles gently.

“What happened to me?” she asks. “I remember Mahdi taking hold of me, making me kneel down on the grass. Then, I remember that plane landing very close to me.” Raising her right hand, she snaps her fingers. “After that, nothing.”

“Nothing,” I say like a question.

“Well, not exactly nothing. For a little while, it was like I was living a dream. I remember dark clouds and lightning and explosions. I heard people screaming. Thousands of them. But then, darkness took over and the next thing I know, I’m waking up on my back, the two girls kneeling over me, rubbing my forehead and face with a wet kerchief.”

The Orthodox girls . . . Funny how I don’t even know their names . . .

“There’s somebody else who’s almost as glad to see you as I am,” I say, cocking my head in James’ direction.

He pushes up the brim on his old hat and, like me before him, he takes her in his arms. He hugs her so tightly I can almost hear her joints cracking.

“Magda,” he says, a tear rolling down his face. “My goddaughter. I would never have forgiven myself if I lost you for good.”

Magda sheds a tear or two and damned if my eyes don’t fill up. I’ll say one thing for witnessing the end of the world, it kind of makes you appreciate every minute of every day. It also makes you appreciate the people who make life worth living.

Shifting my focus, I see Cross consulting with his camera crew who, like Magda but unlike Mahdi and his Soldiers of the Expected One, have survived the ordeal unscathed. My employer is shaking his head as if not quite understanding or believing something that’s being said between them. Or perhaps there’s a disagreement going on.

But when he turns to approach me, I see that he’s carrying my black bag. The bag in which I stored the other six codices. He must have found it on the ground where Mahdi dropped it. When he’s within a few feet of me, Cross hands me the bag.

“These are for you,” he says, his expression not without disappointment. “Deliver the books to the proper authorities. Have them examined and studied and do whatever you gotta do to make sure they never fall into the wrong hands again.”

“Yo,” I say, strapping the bag around my shoulders.

“Yo,” he says, holding out his fisted hand. “Give me the rock.”

I do it.

Magda places her hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll make sure they are well taken care of, boss,” she says, “and that you get all the credit you deserve for making their retrieval possible.”

Cross’ face actually turns red with embarrassment, as if he’s not used to such “awe shucks” moments.

Now, turning to the Hasidic brothers, I find them chatting it up with the Orthodox girls. I have no idea what they’re saying to one another, but I can recognize young, like-minded, identical faith-based people hitting it off when I see it.

Cross looks at his watch.

“Listen up, people,” he says. “Let’s get back in the plane. You have a connection to make.” Turning to his men who are still fooling with their camera equipment. “I’ll be back after I drop these guys at the airport in Tel Aviv. Gonna take me a couple hours so keep working on the problem.”

“What problem, Cross?”

“All that footage they got of the Apocalypse,” he says. “None of it came out. It’s just blue screen. Not even the stills I snapped on my smartphone came out. It’s like the event never happened at all.”

God works in mysterious ways . . .

“Oh, it happened all right,” I say. “Just not yet.”

He nods, smiles. Then, his brow furrowing, “What exactly did you just say, yo?”

“Never mind,” I reply. Then, issuing everyone a dramatic John Wayne-windmill-arm-wave. “Let’s go people! Daylight’s wasting!”

We all begin to cross the green field where one day Jesus will return and the day of judgment will be upon the world. But, I like life. Like it a lot, in fact. And not that heaven can wait, but, truth be told, I hope the end of the world happens much later than sooner.

Much, much later.

Epilogue

Monsey, NY

One Month Later

It’s a beautiful sunny day in Monsey.

The grass in the field is lush and green and mowed so carefully it resembles a putting green. Every one of the white folding chairs is occupied while the two sets of brides and grooms take their respective positions under the two side by side, flower-covered Huppas. As the presiding Rabbi recites from the ketubah, or the marriage contract, aloud in Hebrew, I take hold of Magda’s hand and squeeze it tightly.

“Wouldn’t it be cool if someone turns water into wine later?” I whisper into her ear.

“We don’t need a return of the Messiah right now,” she whispers back. “Or are you already forgetting what we went through with the seventh seal?”

“Still fresh on the brain,” I say, “even if at my age, I tend to forget things more easily.”

“No water into wine,” she adds. “But we could use a few drinks, old man.”

When the reading is finished, Moshe and Itzy and their new brides, the Orthodox girls, or should I say, Sarah and Elizabeth, crush one napkin-covered glass per couple with the soles of their shoes. Everyone cheers “Mazel Tov!” as the happy couples make their way down the center aisle of the makeshift, outdoor synagogue.

One might never know that Moshe had been shot in the leg just a month before, his limp is so subtle. He looks every bit the proud new husband in his new black coat and matching Stetson, his beard long and clean, the tassels that drape the side of his face newly curled. It’s the same story for Itzy, his face beaming with an ear to ear grin under his own impressive curls.

Cross is sitting a few rows up, snapping pictures with his smartphone. At one point, he turns and nods, as if to say, “Yo.” I nod back at him. He has no idea how close I came to killing him. But in the end, I’m glad I didn’t.

When the couples have passed by, it’s our turn to leave the ceremony and head to the outdoor reception right next door. Magda is still holding my hand when, suddenly, Sarah and Elizabeth unexpectedly toss their wedding bouquets into the gathering crowd. The bouquets soar over the heads of the guests and, as if by divine intervention, descend directly in front of us so that we can’t help but catch them.

Magda and I look at one another holding our respective bouquets. The entire wedding party is eyeing us.

“You really wanna do this, Chase?” she says. “Somehow, I don’t see you as the marrying type.”

Looking into her deep, brown eyes, I want to wrap my heart around hers. But then, she’s got a point. I’m not the type to be tied down. Not at this point in my long life.

“I hear you loud and crystal clear, Mag,” I say, holding the flowers out with both hands like I’m about to punt a football, then turning my back on the crowd. “On three.”

“Ready,” she says, turning her back to the party. “One, two—”

“Three!”

Together, we fling the flowers overhead and into the crowd. When we spin around, we discover that two young people — a young man and a young woman — are the lucky recipients. The crowd cheers once more.

Wrapping my arm around, Magda, I say, “You know, if I were a little bit younger, I just might consider settling down and making an honest woman of you. You certainly are the beautiful, brainy type.”

She giggles as we approach the open bar.

“Me, an honest house frau?” she says. “Never. I prefer my space, my do-whatever-I-want-when-I-wantness.”

“It’s part of what makes you so attractive,” I say, approaching the bar. “You’re a free spirit.”

“What’ll it be?” asks the bartender.

“Two champagnes,” I say. He hands them to me, and I give one to Magda.

“What shall we toast too?” she says.

“To freedom,” I say. “And to a long life. And to marriage.”

“I thought we just agreed marriage isn’t for us, old man?”

“Let’s be married, just for tonight. We can pretend we’re a young couple living in a small apartment above a sawmill on the left bank in Paris. I’m a struggling young novelist, and you’re a hopeful student of the Bible working on her doctorate. When tomorrow comes, we can be single and old again. Whaddya say, Mrs. Baker?”

She clinks my glass, takes a deep sip.

“Imagine,” she says, cocking her head over her shoulder, making her eyelids go all aflutter, “me, Mrs. Chase Baker, walking the banks of the Seine, arm and arm with my man. Makes my heart melt.”

“Well, isn’t it pretty to think so,” I say.

THE END

If you enjoyed this Chase Baker Thriller novel, don’t forget to start at the start with
THE SHROUD KEY
. For more information on the Chase Baker Thriller Action/Adventure Pulp series, go to
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