The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “You’re determined to die one way or the other,” McIntyre answered. “Either the Feds will find a loophole to lock you away until you rot, or the person you’re searching for will put a bullet in your skull. Either way, my gut tells me you won’t stiff your biggest client since he’s all you’ve got left.” She brushed past me, then stopped at the vault opening. Without looking back she said, “Elena, please inform your father my debt is paid in full.”

  TWENTY

  Highland Garden Apartments, located two blocks south of Eagle Rock Boulevard, was evacuated two hours earlier due to a suspected gas leak. Residents were kept on the other side of a barricade that blocked both ends of the street, stranded out in the brisk evening. But no one noticed the black Suburbans cruise down a back alley. Until the building was secured, it was better their presence remained unknown.

  Vaughn followed protocol to clear the apartments floor by floor, combing through every square inch in search of possible IEDs or worse. For the last hour, he scoured through the one-bedroom apartment on the second floor rented to Sayid Haddid — who they now knew was Akram Kasim.

  Laney arrived shortly after ten o’clock, climbed the steps of the rundown building, and headed for number 204. She entered to find Vaughn pacing in front of a wall covered in photos. All of which had one thing in common – Chase Hardeman.

  “Looks like we weren’t the only ones running surveillance,” she said.

  Vaughn pointed down the line. “Chase entering the downtown garage, at the Van Nuys hangar with his father and Randall Collinsworth, founder and CEO of RC Engineering. And then we’ve got your boy at the marina with Elena Vihkrov, and even a few of you love birds out to lunch by the beach. Looks like they were shadowing for at least a few months.”

  “Gives us motive.” Laney ignored the jab from Vaughn, knowing the more she avoided talking about her relationship with Chase, the better it was for her to lead the investigation. “They realize Chase is going to bolt, and they take a shot at him.”

  “Doesn’t answer why the full-on assault.”

  “Russell, they were tracking him for a reason.” Laney pointed at the photo from the Van Nuys hanger, where in the background she recognized the same US government crates. “Chase said Kasim was a contact in Baghdad.”

  “You think it ties back to the Artifacts of Exile?”

  “Maybe Kasim was the middle man who knew how to find the artifacts. We already know he was the right hand to Abu Haji Fatima.” Laney was grasping at a theory, so playing it out was the only way to narrow down the truth. “Russell, all of it ties together somehow.”

  “Deal goes sideways, Fatima is killed, and Kasim comes after Chase?” Vaughn rubbed the back of his neck, then shook his head slowly. “Why wait so long for payback?”

  “When Abu Haji Fatima was killed, followers like Kasim went underground.” Laney stepped closer to a photo of Michael Hardeman, Chase, and Randall Collinsworth boarding a jet. “Russell, do you have any idea how your name got on the flight manifest?”

  “I told you, someone must’ve tampered with the log.” Vaughn downed the rest of his coffee, clearly bothered by the question. “What? You’re thinking the crash is connected to all this?”

  Laney nodded. “Timing is too perfect for it not to be.”

  “I was supposed to meet Michael Hardeman when he landed. He had a name but was adamant he needed to tell me in person. I was never going to be on the plane with him.”

  “And the next thing we know, he’s dead and your name appears on the list.” Laney recognized a few of the photos — a wall of memories when she was someone else. Her gaze paused on the ones of Chase and Elena Vihkrov embracing aboard a yacht. She reminded herself how much she trusted Vaughn. “Whoever added you to the manifest, left us an easy clue to find.”

  “You mean like leaving all this out in the open?”

  “Exactly,” Laney answered.

  Vaughn pulled one of the photos from the wall. A soldier dressed in fatigues with a camo American flag stitched on his sleeve. “We can identify everyone here, except for this guy.”

  Laney snapped a photo, then sent a text to Yasmin: Need a name. Stat. She said under her breath, “Satartafie almawtaa.”

  “The dead will rise,” Vaughn echoed. “Our sixth man?”

  “Someone caused the crash, tried to set you up, and left this here for us to find. If that someone wasn’t Kasim or his men, then our sixth man is still out there.” Laney stood beside Vaughn with her hands on her hips. “Which means the attack at Tanets isn’t the end game.” She snapped stills of the collage on her cell. “Crime scene was littered with shell casings, fingerprints, witnesses, and dead jihadists, but the garage was the total opposite. A perfect hit. And none of the shell casings found at the club match the slugs pulled from Mario Robles.”

  “What about the blood inside the garage? Does it match Dexter Thompson?”

  “Yasmin’s still working on it — maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Vaughn stood next to Laney, both taking in the wall of surveillance. “So, we’re looking at only one piece of the puzzle.”

  “When we’re done here, we need to take another shot at Kasim.” Laney glanced toward the bedroom. “What’s in there?”

  Vaughn handed over latex gloves. “Don’t step on the flying carpet.”

  Laney left him in the living room and entered a close-quartered bedroom. Her gut told her a suspect was still on the loose, which meant Chase’s life was in danger, and anyone else who found themselves breathing in his world. She couldn’t help but wonder if the Vihkrovs were behind it all. But a sixth man theory was pure fiction unless Akram Kasim sung like a bird. In the next face-to-face, she’d need more than a pen to get a confession.

  Inside the bedroom, clothes were scattered, rolled up sleeping bags were set in one corner, and a prayer rug was laid out on the floor, leaving the room even more cramped, dingy, and suffocating. Laney slipped on the gloves and rummaged through the clothes before sliding the mirrored closet door open. Nothing. She ran her fingers over the window trim, then wiped the cobwebs and dust onto a raggedy curtain. Pulling the curtains open revealed an empty pool in the courtyard below — a far cry from the romantic weekend she’d spent with Chase in Coronado.

  Before the operation fell apart, she was in deep cover. Too deep. Spending her days strolling along the beach with Chase was an escape from the end. Lounging poolside, there were times when she forgot about the mission and the aftermath. Even though she’d dug up enough evidence for the Feds to file embezzling charges as leverage for a bigger threat, she’d kept it from Vaughn because she wasn’t ready to let go. If she’d given him the evidence sooner, maybe none of this would’ve ever happened.

  When the jet crashed, any hope of a future with Chase burned in the wreckage. She wished she’d told Chase the truth. She loved him that much. But she was sworn to a creed of fidelity, bravery, and integrity which meant she was the final roadblock to the contingency plan. Both had played with fire and paid the price when they got burned. Now innocent people were dead, and she couldn’t shake the feeling she was responsible.

  C’mon, Laney. Keep it together.

  Forcing her attention back to the dingy room, she searched for the tiniest thing out of place — like a faceplate with a missing screw. She kneeled, retrieved a Swiss Army knife from her pocket, and with steady hands loosened the one remaining screw. Carefully pulling the plate away from the wall, she set it gently on the carpet. With her cell, she illuminated the hole and found no electrical wires for the outlet.

  “Russell,” she called out. “You need to see this.”

  Vaughn’s heavy footsteps thumped down the hallway. He poked his head inside the room. “What’ve you got?”

  With two fingers, Laney reached inside the wall and retrieved a plastic case with a mini CD inside. “Snake eyes.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  VIHKROV ESTATE — AFTER MIDNIGHT

  The cool marble beneath my feet soothed my aching bones as I w
andered an empty corridor. Since returning Stateside, late night walks were a routine. Surrounded by the opulence of Dmitry Vihkrov’s wealth didn’t stop me from being lost in the dirt alleys of Baghdad and the destruction left in Mosul.

  Before Elena fell asleep, I asked her about the electro-disruptor. She said nothing more than she’d followed her father’s orders. The Vihkrovs delivered what I believed proved Dad’s death was no accident. Nothing of that magnitude was given without an expected loyalty. Dmitry and Elena gave me a gift — one with strings attached. Whatever they asked of me, I was bound to oblige. I reminded myself, there was no turning back since there was nothing left to go back to.

  Being complicit in selling Level 10 malware to Prince Azim alone was enough to land me in solitary. Regret washed over me, even though I’d been given something more valuable than a vault of gold. But I wasn’t satisfied knowing the electro-disruptor was the murder weapon. Like Dad’s infatuation with securing the Artifacts of Exile in the desert of Mosul, I needed to find a way to get my hands on the electro-disruptor.

  The Hardeman way was the secret to Dad’s success, and the downfall to his demise. Time would be the judge whether I’d suffer the same fate.

  Drops of guilt melted into the marble floor as a surge of anger rushed through my veins. Dad left the chips stacked against me with no idea how to win.

  The door creaked open as I slipped into the room. A lamp illuminated the corner where machines hummed and beeped to a steady rhythm. Monitors cast a glow across Dax’s face. Peaceful. One look at him, I knew bending the rules and even breaking the law was worth the risk. I squeezed the thumb drive in my hand — hopefully a key to unlock a piece of the puzzle to Dad’s killer.

  Strangely, even after all she’d done, I fought the urge to call Laney and tell her about the electro-disruptor and the Level 10 malware. Instead, I slumped into a recliner and watched Dax for a while. With each rise and fall of his chest, it seemed he was stepping further away from death’s door. Before long, I dozed off.

  A ray of light stretched across the terra-cotta floor. My head throbbed. Pain shot down my spine and pressed against my lower back. Another restless night was over. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept through the night. It’s possible it was as far back as before basic training at Pendleton. With Dad gone, the nights grew darker while the aches and pains lingered.

  A gravelly voice said, “Dude, you snore like you’re ninety.”

  Dax’s voice spiked a surge of energy as I hurried over to the bed. Looking down, his eyes were heavy, his voice was weak, but he was awake.

  “It’s about time you returned to the living,” I said.

  “I was hoping I’d wake up to the Black Widow of Bratva. Instead, I’m looking at your ugly mug.”

  “You remember her?”

  “How could I forget?” Dax grunted as he pressed a button to partially raise the bed. Wincing in pain as he sat up he mumbled, “I should’ve known better.”

  I chuckled, a bit half-heartedly. “The sidekick always gets shot.”

  “Well, you ain’t the Lone Ranger, and I sure as hell ain’t Tonto.”

  “You’re right, you’d never sleep in a teepee.” It was good to have him back, but there were questions burning to be asked. “Do you remember anything?”

  “It’s all a bit fuzzy, bro.” He blinked several times, then squeezed his eyes shut, as if he was forcing memories to the surface. “Sleepy showed up with Laney’s passport. He hung out while I got the live auction ready. Then the power shut off. Next thing I know, a laser light landed on Sleepy’s chest. Two or three shots. Sleepy went down. Never had a chance.”

  “Night vision?”

  “Must’ve been.” Dax opened his eyes and reached for a bottle of water. His hands shook. It was hard to know if it was the medication pumping through his veins or the trauma of reliving a nightmare. “I dove for cover and crawled on all fours until I found my gun on a shelf near my laptop. Footsteps sounded like one person, but I can’t be sure.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I hid until the place was silent, like a graveyard. I thought whoever it was had left. Figured it was a hit on Sleepy for something he’d done. But when the lights turned on, I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  “Abu Haji Fatima.”

  “How’d you know?” Dax asked surprised.

  “When I first saw you, you repeated the name Prodigal over and over.” I needed to know whether Dax hallucinated, or if he’d seen a ghost risen from the dead. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as you’re sitting there, he was real.” Dax drank gingerly from the bottle. “He unloaded on me. I knew I’d been hit and my body was in shock. Seriously, I was a headed for the Lord’s Prayer, bro.”

  “How’d you end up in the alley?”

  “Drawing a blank on that one. Somehow I ended up ducked behind a car, firing back until I was out of ammo. Then I blacked out. Next thing I know, I’m face down on the ground. Someone grabbed my shoulder and turned me over. She stared down at me, like an angel.”

  As Dax recounted what he’d survived, I faced a fork in the road. One path justified him as delirious from bleeding out. The other left me questioning whether I’d really killed Abu Haji Fatima, even though I’d stood over his dead body. Fatima couldn’t have survived being hit at point blank range. Still, Dax sounded convinced, which made me second guess that night in Mosul.

  He asked softly, “Chase, you believe me, right?”

  “Of course,” I replied, unsure of whether I was absolute. “Look, all that matters is you’re alive.”

  “Amen to that.” Dax shifted uncomfortably. “Hey, where’s Laney?”

  My eyes gazed at his vitals. “You must be hungry.”

  “Starving. Let’s call room service.”

  “You’re crazy,” I laughed. “We’re not at a resort.”

  Dax glanced around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “I was gonna ask – where are we?”

  “Vihkrov’s estate in Montecito.”

  His brows raised. “You didn’t tell her I called her the Black Widow, did you?”

  I shook my head. “I figured you’d tell her yourself.”

  “Maybe we should leave that part out when I thank her.” Dax stared at the medical gear. “How long do I have to stay hooked up to this mess?”

  “We gotta ask the Russian.”

  “Chase, whatever you’re thinking – I’m in.”

  “Good, ‘cuz there’s something I need you to do.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  BLACK SITE — EARLY MORNING

  Thirty minutes curled up on a chair in the dark was all Laney needed to catch her second wind. After the apartment building was cleared, she returned downtown with Vaughn and waited for Yasmin to break the access code on the mini CD. The clock ticked at a snail’s pace, so she slipped away from the bullpen to recharge. Solitude helped her think while her mind raced through the last few days on a never-ending loop.

  Laney had learned from Vaughn, a twenty-year veteran, that once the hunt was on nothing else mattered. Food. Sleep. Sanity. He was the one who approached her about going undercover and spearheading the operation to infiltrate the Hardeman family and business. She accepted, knowing nothing more than Michael Hardeman was previously the Governor of Indiana years earlier before failing in his run for the presidential nomination. It was a decision she regretted the closer she grew to Chase. Why do it? To prove herself as an asset to the Bureau. And to prove to Vaughn his mentoring was worth the effort. She never planned on falling in love. No one ever does.

  Six months engrossed in deep cover turned her into someone who was willing to operate in the gray. While Vaughn was her handler — a lifeline to the real world — in recent months, she’d gone off script and kept the truth from him. More than she ever thought she would. She knew better than to let down her guard and get too close. Vaughn warned her more than once, but she didn’t listen. In the end, he was right. It was a mistake and a
choice she couldn’t defend. Standing in the garage with Chase in handcuffs was inevitable. While it marked the end of her deep cover operation, her love for him remained a dangerous distraction.

  A door cracked open, allowing light to flood the room.

  “Wake up, sleeping beauty,” Vaughn said.

  Laney covered her eyes with her forearm and groaned. “Five minutes.”

  When Vaughn left the door open, Laney rolled out of the chair pulling her messy hair into a ponytail. She perched amber-framed glasses on the bridge of her nose as her eyes adjusted. After three straight days of wearing contacts that were like razors sliding along her corneas, she decided to ditch being stylish and go with being practical. She stretched her aching muscles, then grabbed a mug filled with black sludge from Vaughn.

  “Yasmin worked her algorithm magic.” Vaughn waved the mini CD in the air. “It was an Agency code.”

  Laney’s brows raised. “This keeps getting better.”

  “We’ll let them know we’ve got it.” Vaughn itched the graying stubble on his chin. “After we take a look at it.”

  Vaughn and Laney walked through the bullpen, which was filled with analysts and agents, each working a different aspect of the operation. They slipped into another room next to where Akram Kasim was interrogated before being moved to a cell deeper underground.

  A flash from the night Chase called her with the news about the crash stopped her cold. She’d known an hour earlier yet consoled him as if his words were an utter shock. Vaughn wanted to pull her out that night, but she refused. She convinced him she was about to get a name. Of course, there were other motives in play.

  “Yasmin found two matches from the blood at the garage,” Vaughn said. “One belongs to Mario Robles, and the other is a match to Dexter Thompson.”

  “So it’s possible Dax was there at the time of the shooting,” Laney replied. “If he was shot by our suspect, that might explain why Chase won’t bring him in.”