Read Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) for Free Online Page A

say.
    “I think so,” she says, dusting herself off and picking debris out of her hair. Looks like she caught a load of stuffing from a Jersey Devil mount. “What about you?”
    “I’ll live,” I say, although the threat of slow-revealing internal injuries gnaws at my conscience. “If you start to swell up anywhere, though, we need to get you to a hospital right away.”
    I sense more movement in the rubble. A section of drywall shifts, and one of the bikers crawls out in a cloud of gypsum dust. He coughs, gives us the thumbs up and lights a cigarette as if this is the third time he’s been in a museum explosion today. He doesn’t appear fazed that his buddies aren’t following him out of the debris.
    “At least our friend the Russians sent didn’t make it out,” I say with a wheeze. The dust is killing my lungs. How that biker can smoke at a time like this is beyond me.
    But I’m wrong. Before the biker can take puff number three, a hammer connects with the side of his temple. It’s not just any hammer, of course. It’s the Cursed Gavel of the Sixth Duke of Devonshire, who used it in court to sentence political enemies to death. Or so they say. I couldn’t tell you what a duke is in the first place.
    My eyes follow the hammer back to a man’s mangled body covered in tatters of a black suit struggling to remain upright on a pair of broken legs. He looks like someone rolled a saucy meatloaf in confetti.
    The biker collapses, cigarette still perched in his mouth. I draw the .45.
    “Exactly who the hell are you?” I say to the Russian.
    Hillary doesn’t bother waiting for an answer. She picks up the nearest club-sized plank of wood and marches toward him. I lower the .45 and let her have the satisfaction of finishing what the bomb started. The Russian wasn’t going to give much up anyway, seeing as how his jaw holds on by a thread. Used to hold on by a thread. Hillary does a hell of number on him. Can’t blame her. Her investment is ruined.
    I hear sirens in the distance. We’re a ways from Austin proper, but none of this took place in a vacuum.
    We’ve got to get out of here.
    I wait to interrupt Hillary when the plank of wood breaks, which it does in short order. I glance over to my Jeep Wrangler. It’s still in good shape, having been parked away from the explosion. Thank goodness. It’s a rental.
    “But I need to explain this to the police so I can file an insurance claim,” Hillary says as we shuffle our battered, dusty frames toward the Jeep.
    “Take my word for it. The police and your insurance policies can’t help you,” I say. I want to follow that up with, “But I can,” except I’m not sure that’s true. All I’ve accomplished so far is getting beaten and blown up. We’re no closer to finding the Iceman than before, especially since our only possible source of information is dead.
    “Where are we going?” Hillary says as she climbs into the Jeep. Dust and debris hitch a ride with her.
    I rummage through my bags in the back seat and grab a pair of binoculars. I stuff it into the center console before pulling out my keys and hopping into the driver’s seat. Firing up the Jeep, I don’t peel out the way the movies would have you believe, where the hero fishtails in a hurried getaway. That just leaves tracks. I’m not interested in leaving a trail of cookie crumbs for someone to follow.
    “We’re going to wait this out, but we’re not sticking around,” I say.
    “What’s the plan?” Hillary says.
    I point the Jeep in the direction opposite of Austin and head toward the nearest hill a quarter-mile or so away.
    “That’s the plan,” I say, pointing at the hill. Austin gets a bad reputation as a featureless flatland. In truth, there are plenty of hills. They’re pretty obvious to anyone standing around on the flat areas, but that’s how the zeitgeist works. It’s the same for topography as it is with legends like the Iceman. One person puts an idea out there, and it’s