Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) by Vincent Zandri Page A
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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our packs. After all, we won’t need as
much now and we’re only here for forty-eight hours.”
“Let’s hope so,” she says.
Rodney whistles to get our attention.
Leslie and I turn, focus our eyes on him.
“We got a go from Keogh,” he barks.
I nod, knowing full well that the danger we just encountered
is not a one-time-only deal.
“Let’s go get this thing done and then get the hell out of
here,” I say. “Keep your eyes and ears open, everyone.”
“Open wide,” Leslie says, her confidence brewing despite the
death that weighs heavy in the air, like the thick jungle humidity.
21.
We walk for another two uneventful, but tense, hours. The path
beneath our feet is widening while, at the same time, the tree-lined canopy
above our heads is getting taller and thicker, so that what’s left of the late
afternoon sun is almost completely blocked out, like an unexpected partial
eclipse. But then, just like that, the darkness is replaced with bright
sunlight as the canopy is suddenly broken by an unexpected opening in the
jungle.
Rodney stops, turns.
“You hear that?” he says, his voice soft but strong at the
same time.
I stop, listen.
I hear water. Water flowing. Taking another step forward I
confirm my suspicion. What lies before me is a deep gorge. At the bottom of the
gorge is a high, swift-moving river that’s filled with rapids. Leslie stands
beside me. Carlos’s video camera pressed to her shoulder, she’s filming the
river.
Rodney adjusts the Giants baseball cap on his head, catcher
style, so the brim goes around the back.
“There’s our access across the gorge,” he says.
A few feet before us is the entry to a long arcing rope
bridge, the floor of which is constructed from thin wood panels that, to the
naked eye, appear older than my long-deceased grandfather.
Leslie slowly lowers the camera, runs her forearm over her
sweaty brow.
“You want to cross that,” she says like a question.
Rodney retrieves his water bottle, takes a deep drink.
“I’ve seen worse,” he says.
“Where?” I say.
The big man replaces his water bottle on his hip.
“I lied,” he says. Then, turning to me, his white-knuckled
hands holding tightly to his AR-15, “I guess as team trailblazer, you get the
honor of going first.” Then, grinning, “Age before balls.”
“You’re one hell of a nice guy, Rodney, you know that?”
“So my mother tells me anyway.”
Making my way to the bridge entry, I’m able to look down
into a gorge that must be two hundred feet deep. The power of the rapids is so
intense, I feel the cool mist of the clean river water rising up into my face,
coating it.
“Chase, I’ve got a lot invested in you,” Leslie says. “Be
fucking careful.”
“Thanks for the kind words,” I say. “I think.”
Taking hold of the thick ropes on either side of me, I take
a step out onto the first, damp-soaked wood plank, distribute maybe half my
weight onto it. The slippery plank holds. Swallowing a breath, I take a second
shaky step onto the same board. Releasing some of the tension in my arms, I
bear almost my entire weight onto the board. That’s when I hear a sharp crack,
and the bottom drops out from under me.
22.
Leslie lets loose with a scream.
Rodney shouts, “Chase, hold on!”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice, as I grip the ropes
tightly while flexing my arms to support my entire body weight, preventing my
body from falling through the bridge. As luck would have it, only a portion of
the first board has split off. Maybe one-third of the entire three-by-one-foot-long
piece. If I place my feet on the still intact portion, it seems strong enough
to hold me.
Glancing at what’s left of my team over my left shoulder, I
bark, “Wait until I’m in the center of the bridge. Then you two follow. Leslie,
you’re next. Rodney, you follow. Wait until she gets to the center before you
even think of proceeding. We need
much now and we’re only here for forty-eight hours.”
“Let’s hope so,” she says.
Rodney whistles to get our attention.
Leslie and I turn, focus our eyes on him.
“We got a go from Keogh,” he barks.
I nod, knowing full well that the danger we just encountered
is not a one-time-only deal.
“Let’s go get this thing done and then get the hell out of
here,” I say. “Keep your eyes and ears open, everyone.”
“Open wide,” Leslie says, her confidence brewing despite the
death that weighs heavy in the air, like the thick jungle humidity.
21.
We walk for another two uneventful, but tense, hours. The path
beneath our feet is widening while, at the same time, the tree-lined canopy
above our heads is getting taller and thicker, so that what’s left of the late
afternoon sun is almost completely blocked out, like an unexpected partial
eclipse. But then, just like that, the darkness is replaced with bright
sunlight as the canopy is suddenly broken by an unexpected opening in the
jungle.
Rodney stops, turns.
“You hear that?” he says, his voice soft but strong at the
same time.
I stop, listen.
I hear water. Water flowing. Taking another step forward I
confirm my suspicion. What lies before me is a deep gorge. At the bottom of the
gorge is a high, swift-moving river that’s filled with rapids. Leslie stands
beside me. Carlos’s video camera pressed to her shoulder, she’s filming the
river.
Rodney adjusts the Giants baseball cap on his head, catcher
style, so the brim goes around the back.
“There’s our access across the gorge,” he says.
A few feet before us is the entry to a long arcing rope
bridge, the floor of which is constructed from thin wood panels that, to the
naked eye, appear older than my long-deceased grandfather.
Leslie slowly lowers the camera, runs her forearm over her
sweaty brow.
“You want to cross that,” she says like a question.
Rodney retrieves his water bottle, takes a deep drink.
“I’ve seen worse,” he says.
“Where?” I say.
The big man replaces his water bottle on his hip.
“I lied,” he says. Then, turning to me, his white-knuckled
hands holding tightly to his AR-15, “I guess as team trailblazer, you get the
honor of going first.” Then, grinning, “Age before balls.”
“You’re one hell of a nice guy, Rodney, you know that?”
“So my mother tells me anyway.”
Making my way to the bridge entry, I’m able to look down
into a gorge that must be two hundred feet deep. The power of the rapids is so
intense, I feel the cool mist of the clean river water rising up into my face,
coating it.
“Chase, I’ve got a lot invested in you,” Leslie says. “Be
fucking careful.”
“Thanks for the kind words,” I say. “I think.”
Taking hold of the thick ropes on either side of me, I take
a step out onto the first, damp-soaked wood plank, distribute maybe half my
weight onto it. The slippery plank holds. Swallowing a breath, I take a second
shaky step onto the same board. Releasing some of the tension in my arms, I
bear almost my entire weight onto the board. That’s when I hear a sharp crack,
and the bottom drops out from under me.
22.
Leslie lets loose with a scream.
Rodney shouts, “Chase, hold on!”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice, as I grip the ropes
tightly while flexing my arms to support my entire body weight, preventing my
body from falling through the bridge. As luck would have it, only a portion of
the first board has split off. Maybe one-third of the entire three-by-one-foot-long
piece. If I place my feet on the still intact portion, it seems strong enough
to hold me.
Glancing at what’s left of my team over my left shoulder, I
bark, “Wait until I’m in the center of the bridge. Then you two follow. Leslie,
you’re next. Rodney, you follow. Wait until she gets to the center before you
even think of proceeding. We need
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