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

my turn to come clean,” I say. I give her a bit about my background, where I’ve been, what I do and why Russian agents making off with the legendary Iceman is right up my alley.
    “How did you know to come here?” Hillary says.
    “The last words of a dying man I shared a hospital room with told me to come here. Older guy. Didn’t get a good look at his face, though,” I say, scanning her face for any recognition. “You know anything about that?”
    Hillary looks puzzled. It’s not for show, according to my built-in bullshit detector.
    “What about this partner of yours? Still alive and kicking?” I say.
    “Of course. I just spoke to her yesterday on the phone,” Hillary says. She cocks her head to the side. “Wait a minute. You came all this way based on that ?”
    “Indeed I did,” I say. “You’d be surprised by both the frequency and horribleness of my decision-making.”
    Hillary laughs. It’s more out of relief than for my sense of humor. She knows I’m not there to cause trouble.
    “Can I ask you to make another bad decision?” she says.
    “It’s my specialty. Fire away,” I say.
    “I can’t pay you right now,” Hillary says, showing me her empty palms. “But if you help me find the Iceman, I’ll give you a stake in the Museum of the Bizarre. Is 15 percent of the business enough for you?”
    The entrepreneurial spirit runs deep with me, but I like cash jobs. Getting paid in stock feels a little like a scam, but in this case I can make an exception. I’ll find the Iceman, Hillary will get her business back in order and maybe I’ll figure out who that dead guy was back at the hospital. My curiosity is burning like the boot print in my groin.
    “Passive income is the best income,” I say, quoting my father. “Make it 20 percent, though. There’s a surcharge for beat downs.”
    “Deal,” Hillary says.
    We shake on it, seeing as how it’s doubtful any of the bikers are notaries.
    “I’d like to take a look at the spot where the Iceman was stolen,” I say. “But I need to know one thing before we get started.”
    “What’s that?” Hillary says.
    “Is the Iceman real or a fake?”
    Hillary doesn’t miss a beat with her response. “I’ll let you know when you find it.”
    Fair enough. So long as the check clears the bank, I don’t care if the Iceman is Jimmy Hoffa in a gorilla suit.
    One of the bikers opens the door to the shed and sticks his meaty head in. In more of a grunt, he says, “I think he’s here.”
    “The Russian?” Hillary says.
    “Yeah.”
    Hillary motions for me to follow her out the door.
    “Let’s go give him a warm, Texas welcome,” she says.

 
    9.
     
    The visitors are gone from the Museum of the Bizarre. In their place, standing between a sarcophagus and a collection of moon rocks, is a bald man in a black suit holding a MAC-10. The bikers close in on either end of his exposed flanks, once again choosing not to tie their manhood to the presence of firearms in their hands when tire irons, fists, clubs and chains will do.
    I slip behind a sturdy, metal display case and watch as Hillary approaches the gunman. I don’t want to wait to find cover if the bullets start flying, and I can cover Hillary with the .45 from here. The bikers are on their own if they catch any lead.
    “You should’ve taken my offer the first time,” the man in the suit says.
    Hillary isn’t kidding about the Russian accent. He’s practically talking through a bowl of borscht.
    “I’m done with your offers. Here’s one of my own. You either bring the Iceman back or I tell my friends to rip your arms and legs off,” Hillary says with crossed arms and a tone that doesn’t waver. She’s not messing around. Neither are the bikers. They perk up at the suggestion of tearing this guy’s limbs off.
    “You mistake me for a fool. The Iceman is worth so much more than this…this…museum, if you could call it that,” the gunman says. “The time to negotiate is over. Now you