Chase Baker & the Apocalypse Bomb (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book 7) Read online

  Chase, the parent. Finally.

  “So how exactly do I go about finding this last ultraterrestrial in the wild? And what bait should I use? This thing likes Reece’s Pieces, right?” I say, thinking of a famous scene from E.T.

  Biyu misses the joke.

  “The problem, as you’ll soon find out, isn’t finding it. I and the U.S. government know exactly where the U.T. is located,” she says. “The problem is containing it so it can be transported. It’s proven more difficult than anyone expected. There’s a reason this is the last U.T. If you survive your first 10 minutes with it, count yourself lucky.”

  Sounds delightful.

  The two strongmen remove my restraints and hoist me to my feet. At this point they know I’m not a threat. For now.

  “Where to, boss?” I say and itch the depressions ground into my arms by the ropes.

  “You’re headed to Warsaw, Poland,” Biyu says. “My associates will see you to the airport. They’ve arranged a private flight for you, so you’ll be allowed to bring your weapons. You’ll receive further instructions after you land.”

  My memories of flying in planes shouldn’t be anything but mundane, but unfortunately I can recall plenty of times the crew turned out to be baddies bent on killing me instead of cocktail service. I suppose this flight will be less eventful, but nonetheless tense.

  “This is a round-trip flight, right?” I say.

  “No. If you survive the U.T., you’ll have to find another way to California. Remember, though, that I want it alive, not dead. That is critical,” Biyu says.

  “You don’t expect me to survive, do you?” I say, thinking of the last time I saw Ava’s face. I’m glad I keep a picture of her in my wallet. If I die, that’s the last face I want to see.

  Biyu says, “That’s correct. My country demands success despite the odds, and now so do you. You have 48 hours or the deal is off. Good luck, Mr. Baker.”

  The plane ride to Warsaw is as boring as it is long. The two strongmen make sure I don’t so much as lean the chair back in the surprisingly large aircraft.

  After landing in Poland around midnight local time, they silently give me the necessary permits for the .45 pistol and ESEE knife concealed beneath my bush jacket, a thick stack of Polish złoty currency, a black envelope and no further instructions other than “absolutely no phone calls.”

  Which I take to mean it’s entirely appropriate to hit up the first bar the taxi can find for a late supper and a drink. After a plate of boiled pierogi, a few cocktails made from Żubrówka and apple juice that taste like pie, and one declined invitation from a Ukrainian prostitute, I’m feeling loose enough to get started.

  Upon taking a seat in a quiet corner of the sparsely populated bar, I slide my thumb under the black envelope and shake out the contents. A photograph and a single sheet of typed paper fall to the table.

  This is it? I thought there’d be more than this.

  The ink on the paper evaporates instantly between my fingertips, adding a layer of security. I’ll need to review this quickly.

  The type on the sheet of paper simply reads, “DAVE,” and an address of another bar in Warsaw. The photo shows a short man in his 40s or 50s reading a newspaper. He’s dressed in a flannel shirt, oversized pants and suspenders. He looks like a cross between an elf and a Sears catalog.

  The U.T. is named Dave? Seriously?

  I’d expected an exotic creature out of a science fiction movie with a name to match. Tentacles. Saucer-sized eyes. Translucent skin. But this guy looks like a retired Oompa Loompa, minus the orange skin and green hair. Sure, he – I can only guess at the gender, I could be wrong – seems a little out of place. I’d pass him on the street without a second thought, though.

  I wonder how many U.T.’s I’ve walked past and never known it.

  I memorize Dave’s appearance and the address before the ink melts away. After making sure I’m not being followed, I flag down a taxi and head to my next stop. Time to find “Dave.”

  As it turns out, Dave isn’t all that hard to find. After stepping into the kitschy (or is it authentic?) medieval-themed bar, I take him to be the gentleman standing next to a stool chatting with the bartender. He’s dressed exactly as depicted in the photo.

  Gentleman might be a little generous, though, since his chat with the bartender looks like the cooling off phase after a fight. It’s in the way the bartender positions his body at an angle to Dave, and the falling temperature in their words. Dave’s frame, short as it is, is rigid, not the loose sort one would expect at a bar swimming with stiff drinks. And judging by the glass coliseum of empty snifters and mugs on the bar next to Dave, I’d guess his default state is anything but rigid.

  I take a seat a good distance from the bar with a clear view of Dave, taking care that the Colt 1911 and ESEE knife don’t print against my bush jacket from their shoulder holsters. I don’t walk the way the Polish do, if that’s a thing, or any other European. Despite living part-time in Italy, my purposeful gait still says “American” all over it. It’s more of a tell than the gun.

  Not that Euros aren’t confident, but there’s a more relaxed posture to their stride. That’s the slower life for you, something I’ve yet to find.

  A few vodka sippers in suits garrisoned in a corner take note of me, eying my entrance with the kind of attention I hoped to avoid. The other patrons seem to sense their suspicions, because they all turn and look, too. If this were a watering hole back in the States, I’d call it a “townie bar.” It’s a place where only the locals hang out.

  So much for being on the down low.

  Dave doesn’t seem to notice, though. He’s completely focused on his conversation with the bartender. I can’t make out what he’s saying, seeing as I don’t speak Polish, but the bartender keeps shaking his head, growing more and more frustrated about something. I’m mistaken. This conversation isn’t cooling off. It’s heating up.

  Dave points at a bottle of Żubrówka, sporting its signature blade of grass suspended in vodka and picture of a European bison on the label, perched on a shelf behind the bartender. The bartender again shakes his head no.

  Dave’s been cut off, and he’s not happy about it.

  The red-faced bartender thrusts a finger toward the door, signaling its time for Dave to leave. Good thing I showed up when I did.

  But Dave isn’t interested in leaving quite yet. He folds his arms and stands straight as a tent pole, waiting for his Żubrówka. I watch the bartender’s eyes glance toward a rough looking Pole with a scar across his face leaning against the wall watching Dave and drinking from a bottle of soda.

  Security.

  Sensing an opportunity to make an introduction, I get up and head to the bar. In my best Polish, which isn’t saying much, I tell the bartender in a voice loud enough to interrupt his conversation with Dave that I’d like, “Żubrówka z sokiem jabłkowym.” I haven’t been in Poland long enough to learn the language, but I’d overheard someone else make that order at the first bar. Żubrówka vodka and apple juice.

  My imitation works, and I put down enough złoty for a nice tip. This gets a raised eyebrow from the bartender. Poland apparently isn’t accustomed to American-sized tips. I’m no local, and the bartender knows it. I don’t belong here, which means I came for a reason. Instead of minding Dave’s demands, the bartender and Scar Face focus on me. I can’t tell if their curiosity is innocent or not, but I’m suddenly joined by the bar’s security. Dave watches with a similar interest a few steps away. It’s as if I’d barged in on a nightly routine where Dave asks for more drinks and the bartender refuses him.

  Well, excuse me for putting a stop to playtime.

  Scar Face leans in a little too close for my tastes and says in dilapidated English, “You American.”

  With his accent, I can’t tell if that’s an accusation or a question. I feel the weight of the shoulder holsters beneath my bush jacket and nod.

  “Yes? American?” Scar Face says, his dank breath burnin
g away my sense of smell. “Coca-Cola? Obama? iPhone?”

  I nod again, again unsure of his intention.

  Scar Face tries to make eye contact, but I stare straight ahead. Before I can react, he raises a hand in the air and comes down on me.

  But it’s not a strike. It’s a slap on the back.

  “Welcome to Warsawa,” Scar Face says with a smile. “You like Żubrówka? Barman, Żubrówka z sokiem jabłkowym. Proszę.”

  The bartender speaks better English, and he introduces himself as Piotr while refreshing my drink. In the corner of my eye, I see Dave studying my glass. The last free-range ultraterrestrial seems more like Bukowski than E.T.

  “Why are you visiting?” Piotr says.

  I lie and make up a business trip. Scar Face nods the whole time, as if he understands perfectly, although I’m not sure he does.

  “Yes, much business with Polska and America,” Piotr says. “Good friends.”

  “Yes, good friends. What about him?” I say and point a thumb at Dave. “Is he a good friend?”

  “He drink too much,” Piotr says and slaps the side of his neck. “Every night he come to drink. I say no.”

  “I hold my liquor just fine, thank you very much,” Dave says with a British accent. For as small as he is, I didn’t expect his voice to be so Johnny Cash deep. “I don’t appreciate being cut off when I’m well within my limit. It’s rude.”

  “I tell you every night, go to different bar,” Piotr says.

  Dave looks right at me and says, “And every night, he sends this thug with the scar to kick me out. And every night I send him to the floor. How do you think he got that scar on his face?”

  Piotr sighs and says, “Why you do this? Why you make this trouble? Go drink somewhere else. Many places in Warsawa.”

  Dave smiles to himself. “Because I like fucking with you, that’s why. Keeps me entertained.”

  Dave seems less like a highly advanced being and more like every other prick in a bar. Is Biyu is playing a joke on me by sending me here?

  “You break chair and glass every night. Leave. Find somewhere else to make fun with,” Piotr says, practically pleading.

  “Starting to get frustrated, are you?” Dave says. “I know what that means.”

  Piotr just shakes his head and gives Scar Face a knowing look.

  “Sorry, good friend,” Piotr says to me as Scar Face slips on a set of brass knuckles and turns toward Dave. “He is big problem. We talk more when this is done.”

  Dave looks delighted by Scar Face’s intimidating stance despite being clearly outmatched. Or is he?

  The fight that happens next is one of the most bizarre things I’ve ever seen.

  Scar Face picks up Dave by the suspenders and holds him out like a marionette, ready to haul the pint-sized lush out through the door. Dave, grinning, gives a couple swings of his fists that seem more for show than anything else.

  Biyu said no one’s survived an encounter with Dave before. But given the scene in front of me, I’d say that speaks volumes about the ineptitude of secret agencies’ HR departments. They’re hiring the wrong people.

  OK, Biyu. Now I know you’re pulling a fast one on me.

  Scar Face is nearly to the door when something odd happens. I don’t have a clear view, but from what I can see, Scar Face drops Dave and grabs his neck as if he’s choking. Dave sneers as Scar Face takes a knee, gasping for air.

  This goes on for another few seconds before I realize Scar Face isn’t choking on something. He’s choking himself. His hands squeeze tighter and tighter, his thumbs pressing into his Adam’s apple.

  Then a strange sound chirps from all corners of the room. It’s not loud, and it reminds me of the low battery alert from a cell phone. Sure enough, bar patrons pull out their phones simultaneously. I don’t have to read Polish to know what message is on their screens.

  The digital clock on the wall goes out, too. Its blinking zeros above the bar catch my eye. In fact, every electronic device in the room is on the fritz. It’s like Dave is sucking the energy out of the room and using it to force Scar Face to choke himself.

  Reminds me of my ex-wife.

  “Proszę,” Scar Face says in a wheeze. “Let me go.”

  Dave licks his lips and wiggles his fingers. Looking at Piotr, he says, “Can I have my drink now?”

  Piotr looks exasperated. I can tell he’s tired of this routine every night, but he’s not about to give in.

  “How much further do you want this to go?” Dave says to Piotr and tips Scar Face onto the floor with a tap to the forehead. The lights start to flicker.

  “Proszę…give…drink,” Scar Face says in the direction of the bar from the dirty floor.

  “I called the policja five minutes ago,” Piotr says. “I can’t do this every night.”

  “Police, eh? Have it your way then,” Dave says.

  The flickering lights give in and shut down. There’s a gasp as the entire bar does dark, then silence, save for Scar Face’s choking. I listen in horror as the choking morphs into a fleshy twist, then a meaty pop. Dave sniffs and the lights turn back on. The digital clock stops flashing zeros and returns to displaying the correct time.

  A glance at Scar Face shows he won’t be getting back up unless it’s in a body bag. The bar empties as soon as the path to the door is illuminated, the barflies stepping over the carnage on the way out.

  So this is what Biyu was talking about.

  Dave locks the door before waddling back to the bar and taking a seat next to me. “What’re you drinking?” he says.

  “Some sort of bison grass vodka and apple juice,” I say, trying to keep as calm as possible. I place some money on the bar. “How about you let me get this round?”

  “Jolly good,” Dave says in his British accent. “Piotr, I’ll have what he’s having.”

  Piotr looks like he’s going to pass out, but he obliges the order before putting as much bar between he and Dave as possible.

  Dave downs the drink and turns to survey the empty bar. Wiggling in his stool to face me, he says, “You didn’t leave with everyone else?”

  “I wasn’t done with my drink yet,” I say. It’d be true even if I weren’t here to bring him with me.

  “That’s fair. But you’re an American, right?” Dave says.

  I nod, still looking straight ahead.

  “And out of all of the excellent places you could’ve wet your whistle, and I mean nice places where respectable people sip cocktails to socialize instead of simply get drunk, you went out of your way to come to this bar, a bar where there is no sign or address on the street. And then you don’t leave when someone kills himself in a fit,” Dave says as the digital clock flashes zeroes once again. His deep voice sinks another 100 feet and he raises a bushy eyebrow. “You’re not acting like someone on a business trip.”

  Don’t let him know why you’re here. Not yet. But give him enough to stay curious.

  “Oh, I am. It’s a very important business trip, too,” I say and take a sip. I wonder how much longer it’ll be until the police get here.

  “Really? What line of work are you in?” Dave says.

  “Asset recovery,” I say.

  “Like a debt collector?”

  “Not really.”

  “So you don’t collect money. You must collect things. For clients, I take it?”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  Dave looks puzzled. He harasses Piotr for another drink before resuming our conversation. He clears his throat and says, “I don’t suppose you’re here for me, are you?”

  Now I turn to look at him in his beady, black eyes. I hadn’t noticed before, but the pupils hog nearly all the real estate in his eyes. “That’s correct,” I say.

  Dave shuffles in his chair. The lights flicker.

  “So the U.S. finally ran out of mercenaries to hire. They’re down to the last one, and he’s wearing a bush jacket of all things,” Dave says. “No wonder you didn’t take off with everyone else.”
<
br />   “You’re smart, but you’re off just a little. I’m not working for the Americans,” I say.

  “A traitor? Now I’m interested,” Dave says.

  “Not exactly,” I say, thinking of my time with the U.S. Army Rangers.

  “Oh? Then who signs your checks?”

  I get the feeling this is the last question he has in mind. Once he knows the answer, it’ll give him the context to know whether to kill me. I’m not the first person to try to capture him.

  Play it cool.

  “Maybe I don’t want to tell you, seeing as how there are police on the way. What if they haul you off to jail and you start singing about my employer?” I say. “I like to keep things quiet. It’s for the best.”

  “Haul me off to jail?” Dave says and laughs. The lights nearly go out with his cackling. “Are you blind? Did you not see what I made that guy do to himself?”

  “That was just one guy working security at a bar,” I say, egging him on. “What about a few trained police officers?”

  “Are you challenging me to something?” Dave says.

  “No, I just have business with you, and I don’t want the police getting in the way,” I say. “Think you can take them?”

  There’s a heavy knock at the door.

  “I don’t know, mate,” Dave says and hops down from his stool. “Let’s find out.”

  “Don’t move a muscle,” Dave says to Piotr.

  The bartender, his shaking body already halfway to the door, freezes in place as another round of knocking assails the windowless door. Had the policja been able to see inside, the body of Scar Face would be in clear view.

  Seeing as I’m still not sure whose side I’m on, I debate whether to draw my .45. Dave makes the decision for me.

  “Give me your gun,” he says.

  “Who says I have a gun?” I say, trying to save face.

  “Oh, please. Let’s not kid ourselves,” Dave says. He outstretches his ham hand. “Hand it over. There isn’t enough juice left in this place. I need to harness something more powerful.”

  He really is sucking the energy from the room and turning it into something else. It wasn’t a coincidence the lights went out when Scar Face choked himself to death. Now he’s going to use the energy from the gunshots to do the same thing to the police.