Free Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) by Benjamin Sobieck Page A

looking more and more like the Cold War that ended 25 short years ago. With every annexation, Russia tempts NATO into a military response that could quickly turn into World War III. And with every missile defense system NATO allies install in eastern Europe to check Russia’s incursions, the more anxious the Russian Bear grows about its ability to control its economic destiny in the shape of oil and gas exports. Where there is uncertainty, the more radical voices cut through the confusion, urging their respective sides to raise the stakes higher and higher. The U.S. and Russia already wage proxy wars in places like Syria. How long until the political pressure pounding on the fault lines of conflict send cracks from Damascus to Moscow and Washington, D.C.? Could hybrid super-soldiers conducting covert missions be the catalyst to pulling the world into a large-scale war?
    I sure hope not, but I don’t want to find out. We need that Iceman back and to stop Doctor X’s program. The world needs us, too.
    “There’s only one problem,” Doctor X says.
    “You can only think of one?” I say as another gooey string of snot rappels down Helper 8’s face.
    “It’s relatively easy to create a hybrid, or a humanzee as some call them, but successive generations yield results like Helper 8. Despite the Russian government supplying me with an ample amount of, shall we say, volunteers , the failure rate is still too high and the specimen pool too low. There are only 10 super-soldiers in existence. Three of them are here in Texas, including Helper 8. Actually, there are four if you count the Iceman, now residing in a secure location. I intend to thaw and study the creature since it was my most successful super-soldier to date. But I digress,” Doctor X says. He looks straight at Hillary and I. “To be blunt, I need more breeding partners. I need more humans.”
    Hillary backs up to the Jeep. “You can’t be serious.”
    “Quite. You have an opportunity to be a part of history,” Doctor X says as Helper 8 raises the SKS and aims it at Hillary and I. “I assure you, your participation will be strictly voluntary. Either you volunteer, or I volunteer you. Now which will it be?”

 
    18.
     
    The prospect of breeding with a chimp or other ape lacks the appeal I normally seek in a sexual partner. We may be 99 percent genetically identical, but call me old-fashioned if I can’t quite overcome that final one percent. The same goes with forced volunteering. If I wanted that kind of logic and servitude, I’d re-enlist in the military.
    I drive this point home by flipping on my .45’s laser sight and planting a red dot between Doctor X’s eyes. All the laser work recently might dampen the effect, but I find the timeless quality of having a gun pointed at you is immune to cliché.
    “We’ll be taking our Iceman and leaving now,” I say, squeezing the .45 ever tighter in my hands.
    By now, I’m realizing that even if we did get the Iceman back, there’s no way it’s returning to the Museum of the Bizarre. It’s too dangerous. That thing needs to be thawed and ran through a wood chipper. Hillary might disagree, but we can cross that bridge when we get there.
    “Oh, please. Put your toy down, or I’ll have Helper 8 put it down for you,” Doctor X says. “Bear in mind that I’m immune to injury.”
    “He’s bluffing. Shoot him, Chase,” Hillary says from her position against the Jeep.
    Even if he isn’t, I bet he’s more concerned about Helper 8 than himself.
    It only takes a few inches of adjustment to shift the .45 from Doctor X to his grotesque creation, but somehow Helper 8 gets the drop on me. It plows into me with a hard shoulder, sending me to the ground in a single bound I didn’t think was possible with legs that crooked. The slimy heat of the creature leaves a greasy stain on my bush jacket that smells like the bottom of an undertaker’s shoe. I only need a moment to gather my senses, but that’s all the