The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “Chase, where are you?”

  I blinked. “I’m right here.”

  Elena grabbed my hand in the backseat of an SUV. Being with her fueled my veins and reassured me that my choice was the right one. It wasn’t about chasing Dad’s legacy any longer. What I thought would bring satisfaction, in the end, unleashed brokenness in my soul. No victory parades. No medals of honor. No presidential commendations. No heir to the Hardeman Auction empire. My reward for bravery and courage against evil and terror was nothing more than emptiness. I longed to grieve over Dad’s death, but it was impossible without vengeance.

  We rode in silence, in stark contrast to the morning I spent with Laney when she pushed me to the brink. That day I caved, but with Elena there were no secrets.

  Innocence was lost whenever ambition, betrayal, and self-survival reared its head. For those willing to step into the other side of the mirror through sacrifice, loyalty, and alliances, there was bound to be judgment. I’d be judged for proving my loyalty to the Vihkrovs. Case and point: stealing the Bugatti. But I needed their alliance, even if it meant living in the darker side of their world for awhile.

  Those who play by the rules never win.

  A fighter left dormant in the desert needed to be reawakened — a smuggler turned soldier who moved seamlessly in the shadows. Maybe there was more honor in being true to oneself, instead of pretending to be who one wished to be. Becoming more than Dad’s son meant crossing the lines to embrace the darkness. I’d hunted Abu Haji Fatima once before, and if the Prodigal was really alive, I’d do it again.

  The driver pulled over to the curb at Vartans — a Middle Eastern hotspot in Glendale. Elena had picked out a dark suit without a tie for me, while she wore a tight-fitting dress that curved in all the right places.

  She was as striking as she was dangerous.

  A melodic lute played on stage as a belly dancer chimed and worked her hips around a lively room. We were ushered to a table where the Vartan brothers — Davit and Samvel — greeted us with straight vodka shots.

  “Welcome to Vartans,” Samvel announced in a heavy Armenian accent. “Chase, it has been a long time.”

  I pulled a chair for Elena, then sat beside her. “How long’ve you been open?”

  “Six months.” Davit glanced at Elena. “We have a beautiful investor.”

  “Chase, our condolences to you from our family,” Samvel said thoughtfully.

  “Thank you.” An awkward moment passed. “Dad always liked you two.”

  Davit was already buzzed. “Elena, I am in love with you.”

  I kissed her and said, “I never should’ve let her slip away the first time.”

  “We must celebrate.” Samvel poured another round of vodka shots, then held up his glass. “To good friends… good memories… and to Michael, may he Rest in Peace.”

  Our glasses clinked, and I downed the liquor. It burned through my chest and numbed the edge. Samvel waved his hand at a waitress, who brought over a vintage bottle of Vijay Cab and poured each of us a glass. Two more waiters carried large trays over their heads as they walked between tables, dodging the belly dancer, then set the platters in the center of our table. Falafel. Hummus. Kabobs. Jasmine rice with turmeric. Tabouli. Eggplant. Pita. Without hesitation, we dug into the feast and drank together.

  “Chase, are the Feds still after you?” Davit asked between bites.

  “We reached a mutually beneficial agreement.”

  “So, no cell at the Twin Towers?”

  “Not yet. How about you two?”

  Davit nodded toward Elena. “Business has never been better.”

  When I first met the Vartan brothers, they were low-level runners for the family business. It was strange to see them taking over the reins from their parents who moved to New York. As far as the IRS was concerned, the businesses were legit — on paper — as long as the Vihkrovs’ laundered money stayed off the books.

  A twinge of envy struck. They’d inherited something.

  “Wait…” Samvel said. “Where is Dax?”

  “He was in an accident,” Elena answered. “Not serious.”

  “He needs to come and party with us!” Davit shouted, his eyes glossy.

  “I’ll tell him,” I said, “once he’s back on his feet.”

  “We must leave tomorrow,” Elena chimed in. “Can you make arrangements?”

  Samvel texted on his cell. Instantly, there was a response from his cousin — an air traffic controller at LAX. “There is a shift change at eight-thirty.”

  “Perfect,” Elena replied. “Same payment as last time.”

  Samvel texted the cousin back: CONFIRMED. 10K.

  We partied at Vartans until well after midnight. As the hour grew later, the crowd grew younger. By the end of the night, the music pumped and the alcohol flowed. We slipped out the back, where anvil cases were loaded into the SUV, and climbed into the backseat. On the drive to Elena’s Westside apartment, she leaned into me as I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. She’d never asked if I loved her. Never pushed me to be with her. Never stepped away when I needed her. And yet, there was a haunting sense the secret we shared would always keep us apart.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  WICKER CASTLE — EAST LONDON

  An English manor overlooked a sweeping grassy knoll sloping down to a glassy lake. Famous for its poison garden, the original stone castle reconstructed in an Italianate style during the Victorian era stood as a monument of epic tales from William the Lion to the War of the Roses. Stone dragons guarded the front gates leading to a rocky, cascading tunnel opening to a main courtyard.

  From the backseat of a Bentley, I watched Dmitry Vihkrov emerge from the castle surrounded by bodyguards. Many feared him. Countless loathed him. Governments sought to arrest him, while his adversaries lurked ready to topple the Vihkrov empire. Even so, he was someone Dad trusted, which meant he was my best hope at finding answers. Maybe it was because the two of them blurred the lines to cement their legacies. A secret to success, yet an Achilles to failure.

  Dmitry greeted Elena with a kiss on both cheeks, then offered me a warm embrace. His piercing stare cut through the facade splitting at the seams.

  “Chase, your father was a brother to me. Those responsible will pay ten fold. You have my word.”

  “Thank you.” His words brought comfort amid a rage that threatened to burst the levies of grief. Dax lumbered toward us, awkwardly getting used to a cane. To see him struggle left me broken. “Dmitry, meet Dexter Thompson — we call him Dax. He’s the one who tracked down the Bugatti.”

  “I see you are on the mend,” Dmitry said as he shook Dax’s hand vigorously, “from your brush with the grim reaper.”

  “Just grateful to be shaking your hand instead of his,” Dax replied. “I owe my life to your daughter.”

  “Hopefully she is not keeping score,” Dmitry mused. Elena smirked at her father’s dark humor. Dax’s cheeks flushed with all eyes on him. He never liked being center stage.

  Dmitry turned toward me. “We have some business to discuss.”

  Elena took the cue and ushered Dax inside the main house. Dmitry and I crossed the palatial grounds, lost in its peaceful serenity. Much larger than the Montecito estate, it was still a well-guarded fortress to protect the Russian mobster. He wasn’t a large or imposing man, but his hardened face and deep scars along the jawline proved his resolve to survive. With a single word he made people disappear — and with those same words he could usher me further into the other side of the mirror.

  “Elena has fallen for you,” he stated, deliberately. “Against my wishes.”

  “She’s special to me, Dmitry. But being together is not safe.”

  “Yet she refuses to listen — to either of us.”

  “Once she makes up her mind…”

  “Impossible to convince her otherwise.” We stopped at the edge of the lake, breathed in the crisp air, and eyed the overcast skies. “Chase, your father tried to protect you.”


  “He kept so many things from me…now he’s gone.”

  “Love and loyalty bring great consequences.”

  “With the Bugatti returned, I hope you’ll see my loyalty to your family is as strong as his.” I braced myself for what I was about to say. “All that’s happened is because of me. I’m the one who must stop those behind it all. Dmitry, I’m here — and I’m ready.”

  “While there is no love among thieves, loyalty among friends has its limits.” Dmitry picked a handful of pebbles, and one by one skipped them across the lake, rippling the still water. “A dark web bounty is on your head. When they come for you, I will not be able to intercede.”

  I stopped cold at his warning. “Tell me what I must do?”

  “Auction the Bugatti tonight.” Dmitry handed over a black metallic card. “Elena must have told you already that in order to be invited to bid on the Rossino Otto, one must offer their most prized possession on the altar. Chase, you must be willing to do the same.”

  Nodding slowly I asked, “How can you be sure the Rossino Otto is real?”

  “Your father possessed proof of its authenticity.”

  “Dmitry, we both know he was a storyteller.”

  “But he never lied to me. A rare occurrence in my world.” Dmitry dug his hands deep into his overcoat pockets. “The Rossino Otto changed hands only twice. Once when it was taken from the chambers of Hitler’s Berghof at the end of the war, and a second time from a secret room in Hussein’s palace shortly before the coalition forces invaded Baghdad.”

  “No one has ever seen it. No photos. No sketches. No clay molds.”

  “Which is why it is a legend — a priceless treasure lost in the abyss of history.”

  Flashing lights from the crash site struck hard, forcing me to slow my breathing. Knowing Dad kept me off that flight left me wondering how many pieces of the puzzle he’d put in place before that night. “Dmitry, proof of its existence burned in the wreckage.”

  “And you believe the one behind your pain is the Prodigal.”

  “What has Elena told you about Mosul?”

  “She has not spoken of it.” Dmitry turned and faced me. His dark eyes locked on me. “There are associates within the Iraqi government who believe Abu Haji Fatima stole the Rossino Otto during the invasion and kept it hidden in Mosul for many years. However, after the Americans killed him those rumors faded.”

  “I’m the one who killed Fatima — at least I thought I did.”

  Dmitry’s brows raised, his forehead creased. “Your father knew of this?”

  “We were in Mosul to retrieve the Artifacts of Exile from Fatima. When the night was over, Dad got the artifacts and the President got a dead terrorist.”

  “Spoils of war,” Dmitry said under his breath. “Yet you are not convinced of his death?”

  “The attack at Tanets was from his right hand — Akram Kasim.”

  “Chase, it is rumored the invitation for the Rossino Otto will come from the Prodigal.”

  My legs grew weak. I kneeled with my face down. Fear rushed through my body nearly knocking me off balance. “Then it’s true — he’s alive.”

  “My contacts in Iraq also believe the Prodigal is the one who has placed a bounty on your head.” Dmitry turned up the collar on his coat as the day grew a few degrees colder. “If he is alive, we will know soon enough once we receive the Rossino Otto invitation. Chase, I have given you my word, you will have your chance at revenge. Now you must give me yours…”

  “I swear to you, Elena will be kept from the fight.” That would be easier said than done, but those were the words a father needed to hear. Not wanting to go deeper, I turned the focus back to the Rossino Otto. “Prince Azim has already bought his way into the bidding.”

  “Azim is resourceful when he needs to be. Stay close to him.”

  “I offered to authenticate the Rossino Otto. It was a lame bluff in the moment.”

  “Find where your father has hidden the proof. When the time comes, we will need it.”

  “The Feds believe Dad laundered a hundred million in the Caymans.” I held up the black metallic card. “If you’re able to track it down, then it’s yours as repayment.”

  He glanced back toward the castle. “I will see what can be done.”

  “Even with all the craziness that surrounded him…”

  Dmitry finished the sentence for me. “There was no one like him.”

  “I can’t let him go.” My voice quivered. “Not yet.”

  “We will each carry a piece of your father with us.” Dmitry placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Chase, I must warn you, where you desire to go there are no rules — no mercy.”

  I shook my head and clenched my jaw. He was a truth teller.

  My cell interrupted us. Reading the caller ID, I hesitated.

  “Surveillance and satellites are blocked,” Dmitry reassured. “It is safe to answer.”

  I stepped away, confident the property was secured, and exhaled deep.

  “Before you start… I can explain… let me get a word…”

  “You stole a forty-million-dollar Bugatti!” Laney’s voice cut sharply through the line. “Do you know how many Federal laws you’ve broken? You and Dax will be international fugitives unless you get your asses back here. Vaughn’s ready to label you both as threats to national security — and he’s got the Vihkrovs in his crosshairs.”

  It was the fiery spirit I loved about Laney, yet now it was a razor’s edge.

  “Laney, hold on a second.” I glanced over my shoulder to see Dmitry and his bodyguards headed up the hill toward the castle. Unwavering I asked, “Did you find Wilkins?”

  “Yeah, I found him.” She paused. “But he’ll only talk to you face to face.”

  “I’ll be there within twenty-four hours.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  “Who’d ever thought Laney would turn out to be a character from Homeland.” Dax’s breath frosted in the chilly night. “So, you convinced her to give us immunity, then cut a deal with the Vihkrovs by swearing to a Russian kingpin the Black Widow won’t get a scratch — and now you’re saying the Feds are after all of us.”

  “When you put it that way it sounds… I should’ve told you sooner.”

  “I might’ve been knocking on death’s door, but I’m seeing this crystal clear.”

  “Laney found Wilkins, but he’ll only talk to me.”

  “We already know what he’ll say.” Even though Dax was a few steps behind, I sensed what was coming next. “You believe me, right?”

  “Sure… it’s just when I shot him, he was dead.”

  “You’re the one in the crosshairs with a dark web bounty.” From behind, he nudged me with his cane. “No one’s coming to rescue us, bro.”

  “You would’ve died if Elena hadn’t been there. That counts for something.” I slowed until we were side by side. “Auctioning the Bugatti is Dmitry showing us the way.”

  “Everyone’s riding their own horse in this race.” Beads of sweat formed on Dax’s forehead as he struggled to keep pace. “If we’re not careful, we’ll be the ones who get bucked.”

  He was right, but it was hard to hear it. I’d trusted Dad. I’d trusted Laney. And I was trusting Elena and Dmitry. But more importantly, I needed to trust Dax. He’d been by my side the longest, and had paid a heavy price.

  “On the flight back, we need to take a look at the Prodigal hard drive to see who we can reach out to in Fatima’s network. And we need to find whatever proof Dad had that the Rossino Otto was real. I don’t have a clue where to start with that one.”

  “Don’t forget about the Level 10 malware,” Dax pointed out. “It hasn’t been activated since you dropped it off at Prince Azim’s place.”

  GPS coordinates blinked while we strolled in the frigid cold along the River Thames. House of Parliament. London Eye. St. Paul’s Cathedral. On any other night, these iconic landmarks would fill a tourist’s Instagram feed. But in all its beauty, a gloominess loomed o
ver London as drops of rain turned into a torrential downpour.

  We neared Tower Bridge to the constant tapping of Dax’s cane as it dug into the pavement. He mumbled, “You know you’re not the only one looking for payback.”

  My eyes locked on the cane as he pushed ahead. “Dax, I don’t know how this will end.”

  He grumbled over his shoulder, “That’s never stopped us before.”

  The GPS marked our destination beneath Tower Bridge. Brushing the rain from my jacket, I set the umbrella against a stone wall. We were alone — two Americans sightseeing after midnight.

  Dax hobbled over to the edge of the river and gazed out on the eerie darkness. Once he caught his breath, he turned and faced me.

  “Now what, Sherlock?”

  I removed the black metallic card Dmitry had given me. Dax grabbed it and methodically walked along the stone wall. A light from his cell illuminated the moss-covered stone. After a few minutes, he stopped at the far end and waved me over. Looking over his shoulder I noticed a small marking etched into the stone — the same emblem engraved on the black metallic card. Dax inserted the card into a slim gap between the rocks. We both stepped back when a deep, low rumble echoed off the bottom of the bridge. For a moment we stood in front of an entryway no larger than a foot wide and four feet tall.

  “You’re a bloodhound,” I said.

  “Call me Watson.”

  Slapping him on the back a renewed determination surfaced. “Damn right.”

  Ready to leave our conversation where it belonged — behind us — I was first to enter the dark hole with the light of my cell pointed ahead. It was narrow but opened up high enough to walk upright. From behind, Dax’s cane clinked as we walked about a hundred feet until we reached a fork in the tunnel.

  Dax whispered, “Listen.”

  A rhythmic thump seemed to guide our steps toward the left side of the underground maze. Around the next corner, a soft, blue glow filled the tunnel.

  I stopped abruptly as the floor disappeared into the abyss. I glanced back at Dax, then slid down a hole. In a split second, the music grew louder as I braced myself for the bottom. Surprisingly, I landed on my feet in the center of strobe lights crisscrossing over a wave of humanity swaying to a techno beat.