Chase Baker and the Vikings' Secret (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 5) Read online

  Vincent Zandri Presents

  Chase Baker and the Vikings’ Secret

  (A Chase Baker Thriller #5)

  By Benjamin Sobieck

  Edited by Vincent Zandri

  Eight Geats (Swedes) and 22 Norwegians on an exploration journey from Vinland to the west. We had a camp by two skerries one day's journey north from this stone. We were out to fish one day. After we came home we found 10 men red of blood and dead. AVM (Ave Virgen Maria) save us from evil.

  We have 10 men by the sea to look after our ships, 14 days' travel from this island. Year 1362.

  --Text translated from the Kensington Runestone, apparently left by Norse explorers in 1362 in what is now Minnesota, 130 years before Columbus arrived in the Americas. The controversial artifact is currently on display in a museum in Alexandria, Minnesota.

  1.

  Undisclosed location

  Boundary Waters Canoe Area

  Northern Minnesota

  June 27, 2016

  I don’t realize the first shot is actually a bullet until I see the second one connect with the mule standing beside me. Splinters erupt from the thick pine a few feet away and bite into my neck. I instinctively give the fresh wound a slap with my hand, thinking it’s another deer fly or mosquito out to prove yet again why it’s nature’s biggest prick. Plenty of them in these deep woods. Thick enough to grab a handful right out of the air.

  The mule seems just as surprised as I am at the shooting. Only a moment ago it stopped on the narrow trail, knees buckling from the gear on its back, and watched Biyu drink from her canteen. Now it looks at the blood on the ground as if it bubbled up from the earth like the roots choking the trail.

  I expect Biyu to say something in her Mandarin-spiced English, but she just stares as the mule realizes it’s not going to finish this steep hike up the ridge. The pack animal’s knees finally give out, sending the gear spilling off its back as it rolls onto the ground. Tents, food, water, radios, cameras, matches and my .45 scatter over the side of ridge, the same one we just spent half the day greasing with our sweat to get up.

  Biyu told me she doesn’t like guns, especially pistols. Made me pack the .45 Colt Model 1911 into my gunnysack and put it on the mule. Didn’t want it “accidentally going off,” as if I haven’t carried a .45 on me for as long as I can remember. Biyu doesn’t understand the U.S. In her home country, China, she tells me only the government gets to have guns. That way, you don’t worry about random bullets heading your way while hiking in parks like this one.

  Way to tow the government line. It’s fitting, though. She’s a journalist on a state-funded expedition into the exotic and mysterious Orient of North America known as the Midwest United States. My, how the times have changed.

  But this isn’t China. This is the U.S. You damn well better have a gun, because every other psycho has one. Or 27. This isn’t about morals. This is about pragmatism. And now it’s biting us in the ass.

  I don’t have to look in Biyu’s eyes to know she’s watching my gunnysack with the .45 roll down the ridge. The irony burns even brighter given she hired me as protection for her little adventure. I thought that meant bears, but it turns out she’s anticipating a creature known as the Wendigo that guards our destination, a gigantic crater in the middle of the woods known as The Pit. Or so legend says. I wanted to ask Biyu if the Wendigo would graciously allow me to rummage through the gunnysack to get at the gun prior to attacking, but her check cleared the bank before we left yesterday.

  Chase, the gentleman.

  But this is no Wendigo. This is someone firing at us from somewhere below the ridge. Someone who knows how to work some distance between Point A and Point B with a rifle. Probably watched us through a scope, then waited to shoot when we paused in a gap between the trees lining the trail.

  I take a quick inventory of the pines around us. Sure enough, there’s a wide space between two of them facing down the ridge. And wouldn’t you know it, I happen to be standing right inside the gap.

  All of this happens in the course of a few seconds, even though it feels like I’ve been standing here thinking for hours.

  Move your feet. Get out of this shooting lane.

  I glance at the trail up ahead. A fat row of pines isn’t more than 20 paces ahead.

  “Go, Biyu. Move,” I say, pronouncing her name like bayou, which I think is pretty close. My finger points ahead on the trail. “Get behind those trees.”

  Biyu is already one step ahead of me, literally. I hear a third shot, but nothing seems to connect with it around us. We take shelter behind trees as thick and round as tractor tires.

  Jack Fiddler is already there, cursing as loud as the sun is hot on his freakishly pale skin. He’s the third person on the expedition, the one who sold Biyu on coming out here in the first place. Says he’s the only person who knows how to get to The Pit, which makes perfect sense given legend says there’s no way out of it.

  Or not.

  “You OK?” I say to Biyu, leaving Fiddler to curse into his crotch. He crouches on the trail with his head tucked between his knees.

  “Fine. I’m fine,” Biyu says, her accent showing more now that she’s out of breath. She squats down. “What was that?”

  “Shooting. Shooters. G-g-guns,” Fiddler says.

  I know he’s shaken up, but this is how Fiddler talked since we left. It’s not a stutter, though, or anything medically excusable. More like a lack of sunlight and social interaction. Which is what I’d hoped Biyu and I could share in one of those tents that’s currently wrapped around a rock down the ridge.

  Strike two for today.

  “I assume the Wendigo is packing heat? We are close enough to The Pit, aren’t we?” I say.

  Five minutes ago, Fiddler said The Pit was 20 minutes away. Of course, he said that an hour ago, too.

  “No one knows we’re out here,” Biyu says and wipes her face with her sleeve. It mashes the bugs nursing on her skin, staining the cotton sleeve red, green and gross. “Maybe it’s hunters? Did they think the mule was a deer?”

  “Hunters, no. Poachers, maybe. It’s summer. Nothing is in season,” I say. “Or maybe they’re headed to The Pit like we are, after whatever it is we’re after. Which isn’t something anyone has filled me in about yet. Now would be a good time.”

  Biyu shakes her head. “If we find it, you’ll know. But now, Mr. Baker, I need you to do what I hired you to do.”

  “Protection? These trees are putting me out of a job,” I say. I’m the only one smiling at the joke.

  A fourth shot air balls it into the woods behind us. A branch cracks and crashes to the ground.

  “We better keep moving. Then we’ll figure out what the hell is going on,” I say.

  “What about our supplies?” Biyu says.

  “They’re no use to us if we’re dead. Come on.”

  I yank Fiddler’s scrawny frame up by the collar and shake the last bouts of cursing from him. Biyu rises from her squatting position behind the tree, then cries out in pain.

  I turn and see why. That third shot must’ve caught her as she ran. The left leg of her jeans is dark with chaps of blood.

  Shit.

  2.

  The Middle East during the Arab Spring. Deep inside the Amazon. In the mountains of Nepal. Of all the places to bite it, this is it? In the most remote corner of Minnesota? The flyover land’s flyover land? I’d rather clock out in front of the TV.

  “I can’t move,” Biyu says. Her good leg props her up against one of the pines.

  I look to
Fiddler, who can barely function on two good legs. He’s terrified out of his mind and back on the ground. Pukes for the second time today.

  Some guide.

  I hear motion from behind us on the trail. It’s the mule. It shrugs off the gunshot wound and somehow wiggles back to its feet. Free of the burden of the gear, it hobbles back down the ridge, slipping around a curve out of my sight.

  “Tough as a mule.” Now I understand the saying.

  That’s followed by another shot. Only this time it sounds a lot closer. Almost like there’s…

  “Someone coming up the trail. Look,” Biyu says and points.

  So there are two shooters now? Who the hell are these people?

  Sure enough, coming up the curve and heading toward us is what I can only describe as a militia-type guy. Decked out in surplus camo from head to toe, he hoists a bolt-action rifle with a fat scope to his shoulder.

  “Hit the deck,” I say and fall to my belly. I figure he can only spot the top half of Biyu and I from his position lower on the trail.

  Fiddler is already one step ahead of me. Biyu lets herself go limp to the ground.

  It works. There’s no follow up shot, but that doesn’t mean we can get moving just yet.

  The woods go quiet. Even the bugs seem to know to pipe it down. I can hear the footsteps of the shooter shuffle up the steep trail toward us.

  Muscle memory guides my hand to draw my .45 before my actual memory remembers it’s somewhere down the side of the ridge. My fingers search the pockets of my bush jacket for anything to get us out of this jam. The contents are too basic, although they’ll probably come in handy later seeing as how we have zero supplies.

  That’s when I remember the knife in the Kydex sheath belted to my hip. It’s an ESEE-5, not too different from the fixed blade beater I used back in Desert Storm. Of course, that one mostly served to open mail and MREs, but it’s not below tight spots, either. And I might have just the idea for how to crack open this one.

  I hoist myself onto my elbows and draw the knife. The report from the shooter’s rifle feels like it barely misses my ear.

  On second thought, maybe I don’t have a plan after all.

  I look to Biyu.

  Or need one.

  Despite the festering agony of her wound, Biyu manages to slip a hand under her soiled cotton shirt. She tugs on a lanyard I didn’t notice before laced around her neck. Her hand comes out holding a stick that looks like an oversized wet dry marker.

  A signal flare. She’s going to give us some cover to make an escape.

  Biyu gives me a knowing glance. I nod back. We’re on the same page. She’ll pop the flare once the shooter gets a little closer. I’ll toss her over my shoulder and try not to get shot while booting Fiddler’s ass up the trail. I’m not the Olympic athlete I convinced myself I was back in my younger years, but the thought of dying at the hands of some random psycho in the woods is all the rejuvenation I need.

  The trick will be moving quickly enough without hurting Biyu’s leg any more than necessary. She’s still alive, which is a good sign her femoral isn’t severed. This tells me she’s hit somewhere in the lower left leg. Still not good, but not as bad as it could be. A tourniquet should hold her over for now. I think.

  Chase, the TV doctor.

  I untie the blue bandana from my head, roll it into a ball and toss it to Biyu. She knows what to do with it. Her fingers cinch it into a tourniquet around her lower thigh. Pretty handy for someone billing herself as a mere journalist. I suspected there was more to her. Most women wouldn’t opt to go deep into the woods with a couple strangers 10 signal bars away from decent cell phone reception. Or maybe that’s just the women I invite.

  I recognize the brand of Biyu’s flare. We’ll get 60 seconds tops before the flare clears, even with how the thick trees can hold the smoke down. That’s not nearly enough time to outrun a bullet. We’ll need more and then some.

  Think, Chase. Think.

  I motion for Biyu to toss me the flare. She looks at me like I’m offering to gnaw off her toe. The shooter’s heavy footsteps are so close. He’ll be here in seconds.

  “Trust me,” I say as quiet as I can. I grin at her, but I can’t tell if it helps or hurts, especially with a knife in my hand.

  Biyu relents and flips the flare to me. I stay flat to the ground and sheath the knife, then dig in my bush jacket. I pull out a small bottle of super glue. I brought it along for sealing cuts, just in case. It’s not like there’s a Minute Clinic out here.

  I gather my gear and belly crawl behind some brush to the side of the trail. Biyu must think I’m bailing on her, because she unleashes profanity so fierce it goes from Mandarin to English and back again.

  Fiddler, of course, is in his own world, and barely seems to notice. He’s in the fetal position in the middle of the trail, with Biyu a few feet away at the base of a pine.

  “Trust me,” I say again from behind the brush, more for myself than her. Even I think my plan is batshit crazy.

  I lay the super glue on thick across the flare. The shooter will be within spitting distance in no more than 10 seconds once he huffs it up the rest of the trail.

  I breathe hard behind the brush. It’s damn hot out in the afternoon sun, but it can’t compare to the heat coating my face. Makes me itch. My nerves are getting the better of me. Can’t let that happen. This either works or I’m dead, and the odds aren’t 50-50.

  I can see the shooter clearly now. He’s a younger guy, but he looks like he walked out of a documentary on Vietnam with all that surplus military camo. The shooter slows his gait and slings the rifle over his shoulder. The scope won’t do much good at this range. He draws the pistol holstered to his hip instead. It’s a Colt .45 like mine.

  At least he has taste.

  The shooter stays silent as he looks over Biyu and Fiddler. He smiles to himself when his eyes cross hers. Doesn’t seem to spot me behind the brush, though.

  “Looks to me like you’re lost, cutie,” the shooter says.

  That’s my cue. I get to my knees behind the brush and pop the top on the flare. Leaning back, I chuck it as hard as I can at the shooter’s chest.

  The flare sticks to the loose jacket on the shooter’s chest, but that’s as far as my luck will take me. The flare doesn’t ignite.

  “What the hell?” the shooter says. He can’t decide whether to rip off the flare or shoot me.

  Turns out he doesn’t have to decide. He’ll settle for both.

  3.

  The shooter wraps his gloved left hand around the flare and tears it from his chest. He tries to shake it loose, but the glue is already bonded. He tosses the glove to the ground, then looks up at me. Judging from the expression on his face, the one on mine doesn’t capture my finest moment.

  I’m a dead man.

  The shooter raises the .45 and plants the front sight over what I can only assume is my center mass. Biyu turns as pale as Fiddler. Fiddler takes one look at the shooter and decides the view is better between his knees.

  I want to ask the shooter who he is for the sake of my afterlife’s resumé, but something prevents him from answering. From the ground directly beneath him, the flare decides it’ll go ahead and ignite now.

  Made in China, no doubt.

  A beefy cloud of orange snakes its way up the shooter’s leg and wraps itself around his face. The shooter coughs through a “motherfucker” and tucks his head into an elbow. His finger slips and cracks off an errant shot.

  I look down at my stomach expecting to see blood. Nope. I’m fine. And I don’t feel like sticking around for a second opinion.

  The shooter keels over, clutching his stomach and rubbing his eyes. I’d feel bad for him if he hadn’t tried to kill me out of the blue for no apparent reason.

  I spring to Biyu and help her up. Her leg isn’t holding up too well, so I hoist her into my arms and shuffle her into a fireman’s carry. OK, more like a modified fireman’s carry, given my physique.

  That
’s when I spot the wound on Biyu’s head. That asshole’s last gunshot shaved a part of her scalp off. She’s conscious, but there’s no telling if she’ll go into shock. We need to get the hell out of here. Now.

  “Come on,” I say to Fiddler, communicating my urgency by kneeing him in the back of the head. Sticky warmth from Biyu’s bad leg radiates down my side.

  The shooter shouts something, maybe a name, but I can’t tell.

  Dammit, Fiddler. Get up.

  I give him another knee, but no luck. He’s shutting down again. Sure, he’s the only one who knows how to get to The Pit, where whatever it is Biyu’s after is waiting. I’ll take my chances without him. Let the shooter put up with this pain in the ass.

  I turn and double-time it up the trail toward the top of the ridge. That convinces Fiddler there isn’t room for him on my shoulders. He shuffles to his feet and darts ahead of me.

  “How far is The Pit from here?” I say between breaths. The trail gets steeper yet.

  “Twenty minutes,” Fiddler says.

  “It’s been 20 minutes for a while now,” I say, trying to keep up with his emaciated frame.

  “Trust me,” Fiddler says. It almost sounds like he’s mocking me.

  “I’m not sure I have 20 minutes of this in me,” I say. The trail turns a corner and comes to a part in the trees. I think of the second shooter somewhere off in the distance. “Watch yourself, Fiddler.”

  Sure enough, a shot grinds a branch above Fiddler’s head into toothpicks. He makes it to the other side of the clearing, but I’m not so sure about Biyu and I.

  “Hang on,” I say to Biyu and barrel it through the clearing. She’s silent as a shot breaks open something way too close to me.

  I hope I’m not carrying a corpse.

  My foot slips a bit, and I get a clear look at how high up we are on this ridge. It must be 200 feet of hurt to the bottom from the trail. The rocks get more pointed and the incline more brutal the farther up this ridge we go.