Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 9) by Vincent Zandri

artifacts from all eras of Jerusalem’s history. Or so it seems. Pottery from the first century, gold crosses from the Byzantine, a sword and a helmet with a triangular crossbow bolt hole in it from the Crusader period, a half-moon shaped dagger, its handle ornamented with colorful gems from the Islamic era, and, of course, books. Thousands of them, mostly leather-bound, stacked one on top of the other.
    To our left-hand side is a solid brick wall. A black iron safe with gold lettering printed on its door is pressed up against that wall. The safe has to be one hundred years old. The only object occupying the wall is a framed illustration or painting of a man who looks like Jesus but is different in several noticeable ways. Although the man depicted has long black hair, a matching black beard, stunning dark eyes, and is pictured kneeling, his hands crossed one over the other as though praying to his heavenly father, he is also carrying a broad sword which is holstered onto his back by means of a leather thong. He also wears a headdress that bears two purple feathers.
    “Ansar al-Mahdi,” Mahdi whispers to me. “My namesake.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “The man, or God-man, whom your eyes view is Mahdi, the expected one.”
    “And who is this expected one?”
    Magda leans into me. “He’s the one who will come at the end of days. Think of him as the Shia Jesus.”
    Mahdi smiles.
    “Yes,” he says. “You might find many comparisons to your traditional western notion of Jesus in Mahdi in that, like Jesus, we believe him to be the son of God. Unlike your Jesus, however, he is not the kind of man to turn the other cheek when he comes to usher in the day of judgment. He will bear a strong sword that will eradicate all infidels and enemies of God be they Christian, Jew, or Sunni. It will be the end of the world as it exists and the beginning of a brand new one.”
    “Great,” I whisper, “another doomsday cult.”
    “Say what you wish about the Ansar al-Mahdi, good sir,” Mahdi says. “But soon the day of reckoning will be upon us, and no one who does not believe in Mahdi will be spared.”
    “That’s a double negative, Mahdi,” I say.
    “I do not understand,” he says, his face masked in confusion.
    “Think of it as two wrongs don’t make a right.” Then, waving the barrel at the safe. “Sunday school’s over. Now, open the damn safe.”
    Mahdi bites down on his bottom lip.
    “I have already told you that I do not know the combination. How will it be possible for me to open it without knowing the combination?”
    I shoot Magda a glance. She gives me a look with her deep brown eyes like Son of a bitch is stalling . And that’s when I feel something go tight in my stomach, and my throat close up on itself. I turn around quick on the balls of my feet, just as the solid rock of a man barrels his head into my chest.
     
     
     

 

    CHAPTER 19
     
    I go down hard onto my back, my .45 sliding across the stone floor.
    “Chase!” Magda screams as Mahdi grabs hold of her, pulling a knife out from under his robe, pressing it against her throat. The knife is old, if not ancient, the blade curved like a half moon.
    I lunge for the gun, but the man who bear-rushed me draws a semi-automatic from a hip holster, presses the barrel against my head. He’s a house of a man dressed in black fatigues, combat boots, and military style shirt. He’s young, his black hair shaved on both sides of his head to form a sort of Mohawk. An Arabic Mohawk or a version thereof.
    “Don’t . . . fucking . . . move,” he says, voice deep, gravelly. Judging by the wet glare in his eyes, he’d love the opportunity to blow my American brains out.
    “Tell me something,” Mahdi says. “Why is it you seek the codices?”
    I’m looking up at him from down on my back. He looks big and mean in his robe, while Magda is wide-eyed and afraid.
    “Because I like to read a good book now and then,” I say.
    Mohawk slaps me with the barrel.
    My