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

hard to convince people otherwise. The first impression really is the one that counts.
    “That doesn’t look like a plan. That looks like a hill,” Hillary says.
    “Exactly,” I say, gently steering the Jeep onto a dirt road that winds its way to the backside of the hill. We’re not completely hidden, but we’re out of view from the museum.
    I kill the engine and offer Hillary a bottle of water from my bags. We down one after another, inflating what the intensity of the explosion took from us. 
    “I don’t get it,” Hillary says. She gets a nervous twitch in her right eye. “We’re going to wait behind this hill and then what?”
    “This Russian guy, he wasn’t working alone. If he were, he wouldn’t have blown himself up after stealing the Iceman. That’s actually quite helpful,” I say.
    “How so?”
    “Three things,” I say. I unload the .45 and give it a quick field strip on my lap. A spare T-shirt helps to clean the layer of dirt and dust from the parts. “First, it means your Iceman is still out there. It’s probably in good condition, too. No one going through that much trouble to get it is going to destroy it.
    “Second, if I’m right about the first thing, we’re dealing with an organization, very likely the Russian government or some secret wing of it, with a specific purpose in mind for the Iceman. This organization is going to act logically. It might be full of assholes that harass museum curators, but at least those assholes will follow a degree of common sense. 
    “Third, that means someone from said organization is going to check up the success of the bomb. It won’t be a thorough check. Might just be a drive by. He, she or they won’t show up until the first responders, media and gawkers clear out. That means we have until late tonight to wait for our special visitor. We can watch from the top of the hill with the binoculars.”
    “Where’d you learn to do all this? Writing books?” Hillary says. She picks up the ‘nocs and holds them up to her face.
    I grin. Working as a lone wolf, it’s not often someone compliments the sixth sense I’ve honed through the years.
    “I try,” I say and holster the .45 after snapping its pieces back in place.
    “Might want to try again with these binoculars,” Hillary says and lowers the pair from her eyes. “Not a lot of good these will do at night.”
    Good point.
    “We’ll count headlights then,” I say. I fire up the engine, turn on the AC, flip on the radio and lean the seat back. “Best thing to do now is grab a little sleep before the fun start tonight.”
    Hillary pretends to follow suit, but I catch her quietly sobbing once she thinks I’m asleep. A lifetime of her earnings was wrapped up in that museum, and it all disappeared in an instant. It reminds me why I don’t like getting too attached to people or dreams. Hurts like hell when I lose them.
    I adjust in my seat, keeping my eyes closed. Hillary goes silent.
    Am I doing this right?
    Then, feeling the .45 and the ESEE knife weighted against the rising and falling of my body like children napping on their father’s chest, I know the answer.
    Yes.

 
    11.
     
    After the sun sets, Hillary and I hike up the hill to watch for headlights below. The moon is in full, Olympic gold medal form, giving us plenty of light to pick our way through the dusty outcrop. We choose a spot behind a conveniently placed slab of rock that offers a decent view of the museum’s remains below without giving away our position. I kick away the cacti and a few stray scorpions before settling down.
    Spotting the visitor, if one even shows up, will be a challenge. It’s not like the headlights will spell out the words, “Here’s the person you’re looking for, Mr. Baker.” I’ll know it when I see it. The vehicle will pause ever so slightly as it rolls by. It may even stop. The angle of the vehicle might also change to inspect the wreckage. That’s what I’m watching for anyway. Traffic is