Read Chase Baker and the God Boy: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series Book No. 3) for Free Online Page A

busy
staring at his smartphone while working on a pint. I approach him.
    “Yo, Cal.” Reaching into my pocket,
retrieving not the thick wad that Dr. Singh gave me, but the far thinner one I
grabbed earlier. “I believe this belongs to you.”
    Matt races over, snatches the Euros
off the bar.
    “You mean, they belong to me .”
    Reaching into my pocket, I pull out
the big wad, slip off three five hundred euro notes.
    “This cover it, Matt?”
    He gives me bug eyes.
    “That’ll do nicely,” he says, in
his Irish brogue. “It’ll cover the beer too.”
    “Good. Then give Calum back his
cash.”
    Calum, sets down his phone, takes a
hit off his pint, holds out his sledgehammer of a hand. “No hard feelings,
Chase. Don’t know me own temper sometimes. Plus, that man in the funny turban…the
way he looked at me with his eyes. Made me feel real bad for tossing you out
the window, even if you did deserve it.”
    “That’s why our necks won’t allow
us to look backward.” I shake the iron-gripped hand. Then, look around the
sparsely populated bar. “Say, Matt, you didn’t happen to see a stranger walk in
a few minutes ago.”
    “It’s Florence, Chase,” Matt says
trying to imitate my New York accent. “Just about everyone who walks in here is
a tourist which makes them a stranger.”
    Peering around the long, narrow bar
room, I make out a couple of college-age kids drinking pints of Guinness. Also
a tall, dark man standing at the far corner of the bar. He’s sporting a trim,
salt and pepper beard. For a split second, I believe I’ve found my man.
    But then, I take notice of the
person seated a few stools up from him—a woman. She’s on the small side, if not
petite, but sporting a shapely body packaged in a short black skirt, a white
button-down shirt that’s unbuttoned just enough to reveal a pair of fine
breasts supported by a black pushup bra, and gladiator sandals. Her black,
shoulder length hair is lush and parted neatly above her left eye. She’s typing
on an iPad while sipping Prosecco from a long-stemmed glass.
    Calum drinks another swig of beer,
wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances over at the woman, then
back to me.
    “Not bad, huh?” he says under his
breath. “She breezed in about fifteen minutes ago, set up shop right there.
Wonder if she’s single.”
    As if sensing the subject of our
conversation, she turns and gives me a look with these wide, dark eyes and equally
dark brows that are as mesmerizing as they are attractive. When she smiles at me,
I know I’ve found my contact. After all, Dr. Singh never specified a gender
when he informed me about making contact with his associate.
    “Excuse me, gentlemen. Looks like I
have a date.”
    Grabbing my beer off the bar, I step
over to the woman. “Saving this stool for someone?”
    She looks up, smiles a sultry smile.
“It is reserved for you, Chase Baker.”
    Her accent is not Italian, nor is
it English, but something more exotic. Asian if I have to guess. Judging by the
rich, coffee with milk color of her skin, maybe Indian or Pakistani.
    “Where you from?”
    “My mother is from Pakistan. My
father is from India. I was born in Varanasi. Made for a complex relationship,
two sworn enemies defying their parents, marrying for love anyway.”
    “What’s your name?”
    She holds out her hand.
    “I’m Anjali,” she says.
    I take hold of the small, warm
hand. Give it a gentle squeeze. Releasing it, I sit myself down, steal another
sip of beer.
    “Dr. Singh said you’d have some
information for me.”
    “Is there a place we can go that’s
more private? I’d rather not discuss details in front of your pals.”
    Like boss, like employee…Secrecy
is essential.
    In my head, I picture the Ponte
Vecchio. It’s not nearly as packed full of tourists at night as it is during
the day.
    “I know just the place.”
    Packing up her iPad, she shoves it
into her leather bag, drinks