The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

“Anita, Bella, and Sofia’s lives are wrecked because of me.”

  “You could not have stopped this.”

  “He never would’ve been there.” I accelerated as the rage seeped deeper into my bones. “I’ve gotta make this right somehow…”

  “My father has requested for you to sell the Bugatti tomorrow evening — in London.”

  Knowing I owed the Vihkrovs a debt, I replied, “Consider it done.”

  Only four 1936 Bugatti Type 57SC Atlantic aero coupes were ever built. One was displayed at the Petersen Museum, another in a private garage of a famed clothing designer, and a third in a private collection of a baron. No one knew the whereabouts of the fourth Bugatti, which was owned by Dmitry Vihkrov, before the Feds seized it at the downtown garage.

  I dialed Dax on my cell. “Hey, how’re you feeling?”

  “Like I went ten rounds with Tyson.” His voice filled the speakers. “I walked down the hall twice, so I guess that’s progress. How’d it go with Anita?”

  “As bad as you’d imagine. She’s taking it hard. I don’t think the girls know exactly what all this means. They’ve got a lot of people around them, though.”

  “I should’ve been there, bro.”

  “She understood why you weren’t there.” I checked the rearview mirror. “Did you leave a tracker on the Bugatti?”

  “Not sure how you convinced Laney to hand it over, but I’ve been keeping eyes on the collection using your laptop. I knew they’d never look in the air filters.”

  “Text me the address.”

  We listened as Dax tapped on the keys. “You need a wingman.”

  “I’m with him,” Elena chimed in. “Are you packed for a trip to see Big Ben?”

  “Seriously?” Dax answered, his voice containing more life than it had in days. “I’ve been wearing a gown since I woke up. It’s a little breezy in the back but I can make it work.”

  “You’ll need a doctor’s note from the Russian,” I joked, a momentary escape.

  “Won’t be the first thing I’ve forged in my life.”

  “Chase has a closet full of clothes in my room,” Elena said. “I will send the helicopter to bring you to us.”

  Before Dax embarrassed himself, or me, I disconnected the call. A second later, a text message dinged with an address about forty minutes away. My body sunk lower in the seat as the Maserati floated along the freeway.

  “You know, I think the Bugatti was the first car Dad sold to your father.”

  “And it is still his most prized possession.”

  I nodded, knowing there was always a deal in play with Dmitry. We’d saved the Bugatti once, before the Feds’ first raid — not a consolation for missing the signs with Laney or Vaughn — but since they took control of the downtown garage, Dmitry’s prized collectible was officially property of the US government.

  “Why sell it now?” I asked, a bit curious.

  “A bargaining chip to bid on the Rossino Otto.”

  “It’s his way in to get an invitation.”

  Elena’s brows raised. “That is what we have been told.”

  “When I delivered the Mercedes to Azim, he mentioned the same thing. He’s handing over the Level 10 malware in order to get his invite.”

  “Until the Bugatti is sold, all we are certain of is the Rossino Otto is still being sold by someone on the dark web. We do not know who, when, or where until we are accepted into the bidding circle.”

  “A ‘36 Bugatti for a shot at a myth.”

  “And your father’s killer.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  SILVER STRAND BASE — IMPERIAL BEACH, CA

  Laney and Vaughn arrived at the perimeter of a training facility for US Special Ops Forces, part of Naval Base Coronado. After meeting with Sarah Wilkins, they burned a few hours searching downtown San Diego — only stopping to grab a burger at Hodad’s in the East Village. With no hits on Wilkins or his truck, Vaughn called in a favor to get access to the military base while Laney waited to hear back from DOJ, Homeland or Yasmin about any other leads to Wilkins.

  Vaughn checked a text and groaned. “The Agency is requesting Akram Kasim be transferred to another facility.”

  “We need another shot at him.”

  “Which is what we should be doing, not searching for a SEAL with PTSD.”

  At the gate, a soldier in camo fatigues climbed into the SUV and pointed them toward the barracks. Laney was familiar with the city-like layout of the base from her time with the SEALs as they re-enacted realistic critical urban warfare. Vaughn parked at a barracks with an emblem of a Mongoose painted on the exterior. Once they were out of the SUV, the soldier left them to enter the barracks.

  Inside, the space was lined with cots, folding tables, whiteboards, caged weapons, and a stench of sweat and testosterone. Pinned on one wall were candid snapshots of bearded armed men posing in a desert. In the center of each of them stood Commander Brian Wilkins.

  Laney said under her breath, “What sent a warrior with his skills into the darkness?”

  “Special Agent Kelley, I watched you on the news.” Laney and Vaughn were startled as a large man rolled off a cot. Broad shoulders. Mop of blond hair. Steely stare. He shook their hands with his bear paw. “Reggie Swanson. I was Brian’s number two.”

  “I’m guessing you know why we’re here,” Vaughn said.

  “Sarah called a few months back when Brian went missing. Sounded like he was having a hard time adjusting. Never thought it was as bad as she said. In all the years we served together, I never saw him show the slightest hint of cracking. He was always in control. After Mosul, we all knew he wasn’t the same, but we thought he’d be back. Once a SEAL always a SEAL.”

  “Have you searched for him?” Laney asked.

  “We have a saying — the only easy day was yesterday. I guess I was waiting for him to put yesterday behind him and walk through those doors on his own.”

  Vaughn countered, “You have no idea where he might be?”

  Swanson slipped on his boots and glanced away from them. “His family was his world. No way he’d leave them behind without staying close.” He stood and towered over them with his arms crossed and head cocked. “Why the sudden interest?”

  “Abu Haji Fatima,” Laney stated.

  Swanson’s steely glare turned more deliberate. “A dead terrorist?”

  “We’ve seen the classified footage,” Vaughn said. “Commander Wilkins was on the rooftop that night with Fatima before the feed cut out.”

  “If you’ve seen the footage, then you know what happened.” Swanson glanced toward the door. “President Bouchard told the world we got him, remember?”

  Laney examined the photos on the wall and recognized crates similar to the ones at the hangar that contained the Artifacts of Exile. PROPERTY OF THE US GOVERNMENT.

  She asked, “What intelligence was gathered from the compound?”

  “Classified.” Swanson buckled his belt and holstered his weapon, movements sharp and quick. “Look, I’d like to help you two out, but it’s above my pay grade.”

  “Hard drives? Files?” Vaughn pressed. “Surely you remember what was taken.”

  Laney added, “Knowing this will help us find Commander Wilkins.”

  Swanson’s gaze fixed on the door. “We were in and out in less than twenty minutes. Objective was to secure Fatima, dead or alive. He was the payload. Any other questions, I suggest you pipe them up to a higher power.”

  Laney handed him a card. “If you think of anything else.”

  “I really hope you’re able to bring Brian home,” Swanson said.

  “We’ll do our best.”

  Laney and Vaughn left the barracks staring at the one photo Laney swiped from the wall. It wasn’t the answer they expected, but it might be something. Clearly, they’d struck a nerve with Swanson. SEALs were trained the same — to never leave anyone behind. Swanson’s lack of candor on the intelligence gathered meant there was more to the story than what they’d seen on the vide
o.

  “Looks like the same crates from the hangar,” Laney pointed out.

  “They’re crates, Laney.” Vaughn’s lack of sleep needed a refill of caffeine. “And they’re not going to lead us to Wilkins, which is why we’re chasing our tails into a rabbit hole.”

  Laney’s cell buzzed. She answered on speakerphone.

  “Yasmin, you got something for us?”

  “Satellite imaging picked up a dark-blue truck parked in an alley near Westfield Horton Plaza off Front Street. Checked the street cameras nearby for a license plate. Matches Wilkins’ DMV records.”

  “Send us the address and keep eyes on it until we get there.” Laney sensed a renewed optimism. “What’ve you heard about Kasim being moved?”

  “Transfer orders arrived a few minutes ago. He’s gone by the end of the week.”

  Laney turned to Vaughn. “Russell, you need to stall them.”

  “We’ll be back as soon as possible,” he grumbled to Yasmin, then shot a look at Laney. “I’m running out of aces.”

  THIRTY

  SUN VALLEY, CA

  Smoke billowed from the Maserati as it pulled to the side of Sunland Boulevard, a winding road that joined Burbank with the foothills. A few months earlier, fire raged across the mountainsides leaving them resembling the surface of Mars.

  Elena’s long legs emerged from the driver’s side as she sauntered around to the front of the car, staying in clear view of the security cameras pointed in her direction. She popped the hood and peered over the engine long enough for whoever was watching on the other end to notice. As an insurance policy, she unbuttoned a few more buttons on her blouse to entice her prey, embodying the name Dax had given her — the Black Widow of Bratva.

  A chain-link fence opened automatically as a security guard approached. Elena flipped her hair away from her striking eyes, and offered a clearer view of her curves.

  I knew that look.

  His eyes locked on her as she lured him further into her web.

  About fifty yards away, I kneeled in the brush and waited until the security guard’s back was to me, then slipped through the entrance unnoticed. Rolling the dice, I knew there were other guards on duty and more cameras unseen. But there was little time and little choice. If I got caught, I’d use Laney as a get out of jail free card. Yeah, right.

  I picked the lock and moved swiftly down a corridor, deeper into the main warehouse. No alarms. No security guards. Most likely due to government cutbacks. In the vast space, my gaze was consumed with two yachts. A jet. Hundreds of cars. For someone whose DNA was to strike the next deal, this place was hard to step away from. It was a vast treasure chest hidden by the Feds. I used the activated tracker to find the collection from the garage. How I wished Sleepy and his homies were with me to take back what belonged to me. Sleepy’s death, and the graveside, washed over me, and for a moment my legs refused to move. Bracing myself, a sea of memories pulled me backward.

  C’mon, Chase. Keep it together.

  The 1936 Bugatti Type 57SC Atlantic in all its glory stood out from the rest of the cars. Iconic red-and-white emblem. Riveted spines that swept over the cloud-gray teardrop body. From the straight-eight, dual-overhead cams, supercharged engine to the six exhaust pipes that growled the beast alive, there were few equals to one of the most expensive collector cars ever known in history with a staggering price of forty million.

  Crouched near the smoothly curved rear wheel, I settled my nerves as I stared at my reflection in the gleaming chrome. Knowing exactly where to find the key hidden inside the chassis, I slipped inside the two-seater cockpit — a masterpiece of burgundy interior, lacquered dash, and an oversized wheel positioned on the opposite side. A step back in history where a vision from a locomotive engine sparked a legendary designer to greatness.

  My cell buzzed. Elena.

  “Hi darling, I am afraid I am having car trouble.” Her voice dripped with honey. “I am waiting for roadside assistance. Oh — not to worry. I have a nice man here to help me. I should not be too long.”

  She’d given me the signal. It was time to go.

  A voice shouted, “Hey, what’re you doing?”

  Turning the ignition, the rolling sculpture rumbled to life as two security guards darted in my direction. My boot punched the accelerator, narrowly missing them. In the rearview, they scrambled in opposite directions. When the Bugatti skidded out through the back of the warehouse, I shifted gears and the beast roared like the king of thunder. Close behind, the security guards gained ground in a dark sedan. The power of the supercharger fueled the adrenaline that rushed through my veins. Gripping the steering wheel tight, I held on as the Bugatti picked up speed and blasted across the property.

  At the front entrance, Elena stood with the third security guard who was unaware of what was headed his way. As he spun around, Elena moved quickly to close the hood of the Maserati and within seconds peeled out, fishtailing across the dirt before hitting the paved road. In tandem we barreled down Sunland, knowing it was only a matter of time before the Feds were airborne.

  The Maserati and Bugatti hit the on-ramp to the 5 Freeway, never stopping for the carpool light, picking up speed to over ninety miles per hour. Driving side by side was a rush. When Elena glanced over before the Maserati screamed ahead, it only spiked the thrill. A mile up the freeway a semi-truck cruised in the center lane. As the Maserati approached, the back ramp dropped. Sparks sprayed in all directions. Elena lined up the Maserati perfectly, slowed just enough, then drove straight up the ramp into the trailer. To see it from my vantage point was both electric and terrifying.

  My turn was next.

  Switching lanes, I lined the Bugatti up knowing it would be tight to fit both cars inside the fifty-three-foot trailer. Stealing the Bugatti and delivering it to Dmitry Vihkrov without a single scratch seemed impossible. Easing off the accelerator, the first attempt at the ramp missed by a few inches when the semi-truck veered slightly.

  I hit the brakes, sending the Bugatti swerving into another lane, leaving cars careening off concrete guard rails. A quick glance in the rearview confirmed the crash blocked most of the lanes of traffic, including the dark sedan stuck behind them on the shoulder.

  The trailer ramp continued to spray sparks across the freeway. Shaking off my first attempt, I lined the Bugatti up and pressed the accelerator as the wheels gripped the metal and sent the beast lunging forward into the trailer. In a split second, I slammed on the brakes stopping inches from the Maserati’s back bumper. Miraculously, the Bugatti was without a scratch. The hydraulic ramp raised and left the inside of the trailer pitch black.

  Whether the guards had identified us or not, Laney would believe soon enough that I betrayed her and broken our deal. While improvise and compromise usually end in broken promises, if there was an ounce of trust left between us then she would realize our deal was shaken with an iron grip.

  Elena opened the Bugatti door and swung her leg over my lap. Her lips kissed my neck as her body moved to a steady rhythm. She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it on the passenger seat. Clearly, the adrenaline was flowing through her veins too. When her hands slipped lower on my body, I surrendered to the Black Widow of Bratva.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Commander Brian Wilkins climbed from the bed of his truck and locked the shell to guard his belongings. He limped down the sidewalk near a row of sleazy motels, then ducked down a side alley. With his camo hoodie pulled tight, the cold seeped deeper into his bones. When he reached the dumpster, he rubbed his hands together before starting his routine.

  Being alone on the streets, digging for scraps like a dog, wasn’t how it was supposed to end. Living forgotten in the land of the free was a reminder of how far he’d fallen, and how much he’d lost since returning stateside. As a SEAL he was trained to adapt, to protect, and to complete the mission. In the aftermath of Mosul, as an amputee, he was not the same warrior he’d once been. These days, the dosage of meds played tricks on his mind. Time was lost some
where in between, leaving him unsure of reality.

  A black SUV with tinted windows stopped in the middle of the street, backed up slowly, then turned down the alley. Wilkins noticed a man and woman exit the SUV as he kept digging for leftovers. A half-eaten, day-old bagel. A few swigs of a bottle. He shoved the rest of the bagel in his mouth and swallowed the rest of the beer. As the strangers approached, he wiped his scraggly beard with his forearm, counted their strides, and braced himself.

  The man asked, “Brian Wilkins?”

  For a moment all three froze. Then the chase was on.

  Wilkins scrambled toward the fire escape and pulled himself up with ease. The two strangers were not far behind. Four floors up, he ducked inside an open window, knocking a woman to the floor who’d just stepped out from a bathroom wearing a towel and rollers in her hair. She screamed at the top of her lungs as Wilkins stumbled through the apartment, then burst out into the hallway.

  From behind, the man grabbed him by the shoulder and swept his leg out from under him, sending him tumbling to the floor. While the first blow knocked him off balance, the second sucked the air from his lungs. He rolled over, instincts kicking into overdrive, and reached for his sidearm. No weapon.

  Survival reverted to training.

  On his knees, Wilkins sprang forward, sending the man flailing backward. Even with the prosthetic leg, the force gave him the advantage to punch with fury and precision, before wrapping his arms around the man. With one heave, he picked the man off his feet and slammed him against the wall. Another knee to the stomach and the man dropped on all fours gasping for air. Wilkins grabbed the gun from the man’s holster and pressed it against his attacker’s forehead.

  Wilkins barked, “Who the hell are you?’

  “Vaughn,” the man gasped. “FBI.”

  Wilkins wiped blood from his mouth as he heard a woman’s voice shout from behind. He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, pulled the fire alarm, then scrambled up another two flights of stairs to the roof. He wasn’t as fast as he used to be, but he was quick enough. Reaching the edge of the building, he never hesitated as he jumped toward an adjacent rooftop. His landing wasn’t pretty, but he managed to scramble to his feet — ignoring a sharp pain from his residual limb as it dug into his prosthetic. For a second he surveyed his surroundings, searching for a way to disappear, never seeing the woman who leapt from the same building.