The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “I’m not sure we should be discussing this, Mr. Collinsworth.”

  “Agent Kelley, I assure you I have the necessary clearance. And the fact that it is only you and me in this room should speak volumes as to the situation we are facing.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The President and I were roommates at Harvard. Many in Washington consider me to be one of his most trusted and loyal allies. Others believe I’ve been granted certain privileges in return for my loyalty. Perhaps they are right. Politicians tend to bend the rules, leverage power, and twist the truth for their own gain in order to receive something in return. While I have remained on the fringe, I’m afraid I find myself wrapped up in that world far too often these days.”

  “Mr. Collinsworth, why am I here?”

  “A few years ago, Michael and I presented options to the President in the war on terror — to cut off the snake’s head before it slithered its way into our society. We were given carte blanche to establish a clandestine operation funded by the black budget to track down the most wanted terrorists without oversight from any government agency. Chase and Dax were the first to be recruited as covert operatives, and they reported directly to me.”

  Laney tried to take in all the underlying ramifications of what was being said. “I thought they sold terrorist treasures on the black market.”

  “There is much you don’t know about those two boys.” Collinsworth smirked. “Baghdad and Mosul were like the Wild West when Chase and Dax arrived under the guise of American smugglers. Within months they infiltrated several known cells and neutralized low-level targets. From there, the list of terrorists that were captured or neutralized grew at a rapid pace. While they believed they were operating off the grid, I placed one of my best handlers to keep eyes on them. Chase and Dax never knew she was there, even when she orchestrated the raid on Fatima’s compound.”

  “The President told the American people Abu Haji Fatima was dead,” Laney said matter of factly. “Chase believes he’s alive — and Wilkins corroborated before he died.”

  “Ah yes, Wilkins…” Collinsworth folded his arms and tilted his head. “What the President said is true, even though I see you believe the contrary.”

  “I follow the evidence, and so far there’s a huge question mark whether Fatima died at the compound, survived the crash that left Wilkins wounded, or whether he’s walking the streets of LA on a hunt for revenge.”

  “My presence here is to protect the President and to stop you from making a terrible mistake.” Collinsworth reached beneath the conference table and retrieved a leather briefcase. He set a series of photos on the table. Laney stepped forward, her eyes focused on images from the helicopter crash. She stopped cold as she recognized Commander Wilkins on a stretcher with his number two, Reggie Swanson, standing beside him. Beneath the top few photos were several others showing Abu Haji Fatima dead inside the wreckage.

  “Chase is hunting a ghost,” Collinsworth said. “He must be told immediately.”

  “I don’t know where he is right now.” Her gaze remained on the photos knowing that she needed Chase to see them with his own eyes. “But he’s supposed to bring Dax in for questioning by the morning.” She stepped closer to Collinsworth. “You could’ve told Chase yourself. Why bring me here?”

  “Akram Kasim,” he answered. “If he is somehow behind Michael’s death, then I will do whatever is in my power to bring him to justice. We both believed you would protect Chase, and that is why you are the only one who can be trusted with what I have told you. No one else within the Bureau or Agency. If you believe as I do, that Kasim is still a threat, then we must know if he has targeted another attack.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Kasim will not confess unless you have leverage.”

  Collinsworth removed a photo from his pocket and handed it over. The photo showed Abu Haji Fatima, Akram Kasim, and the other terrorists killed at the club surrounded by military soldiers in a nondescript desert. But what stood out in the photo to Laney was a woman dressed in a black hijab that covered everything except for her eyes.

  “You recognize those men from the shooting at Tanets?” Collinsworth began. “Each were leaders of Fatima’s militia, which makes their presence in Los Angeles more troubling than their attempt to kill Chase. I’m convinced there is more at stake.” He paused for a moment as Laney stood stone-faced. “Dead terrorists will not give us the answers we need, but this woman can.”

  Laney studied the woman’s dark eyes. “Who is she?”

  “The one who introduced Chase and Dax to Kasim. In return she was promised asylum and immunity in the US. However, to protect the Oval Office, her identity was redacted from all internal black ops reports.”

  “Mr. Collinsworth, I need a name.”

  “Her name is Sarina.” Collinsworth gathered the photos and closed the briefcase, leaving Laney holding the single photo. “She is Abu Haji Fatima’s only surviving wife.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Scottsdale, Arizona.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  At eight years old, weekends began at the crack of dawn headed toward another farm where Dad auctioned jars of jam, antique curio cabinets, secondhand tractors, and the occasional rusted car forgotten in an old barn. Once restored to their former glory, those hidden gems were resurrected on the auction block. Those early beginnings grew to auctioning the rarest cars in the world.

  After Mom died, those weekends turned a father and son into a mentor and protégé. Being raised in the family business engrained a rush for the deal, love of collector cars, and the yearly trek to the Brickyard. Dad rented two buses filled with his employees for a day at the Indianapolis 500 to watch Hardeman Racing compete for the coveted prize. He loved every minute, even though years of racing resulted in nothing more than an endless money pit.

  When I was ten, I slipped away from the group on our annual Indy adventure, and found my way across the speedway to buy my own Indy car with my own cash — from the Brickyard’s gift shop. I stared at a die-cast model of number twenty-three on a shelf so high that I stepped on the bottom shelf on my tiptoes to reach it. A cashier watched in amusement while I counted my change and neatly stacked the dollar bills. I’d waited an entire year, but as I left the store with my most prized possession tucked safely in my pocket, the spring in my step lasted only a few moments.

  Hundreds of thousands of spectators stood between me and Dad. When the thunderstorm that loomed over the speedway opened with a crack of lightning, the race was called and those crowds headed for the exits. Confusion. Fear. Paralysis. Tears flooded. Call it luck or divine intervention, but a woman who worked for Dad recognized me and returned me to the bus. Catastrophe avoided. When I boarded the bus, Dad was oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t on it already. After the team’s Indy car placing thirty-third, he was in rare form.

  “I’m telling you, I’ll find the Renaldt Royale Bessler,” he bellowed. “And I’ll silence all the naysayers when I sell it for a world-record price.” No one believed him, but he signed their paychecks so they applauded and egged him on. By the time he was done, the bus was pulling out from the parking lot as he turned to see me in the row behind him.

  “Well, did you get it?”

  I removed the Indy car from my pocket and held it up. “I got lost.”

  “It’s a beauty.” Dad leaned in and placed his hand my shoulder. “Son, you’re never lost if you find your own way.”

  His words faded into a vault of memories even though his voice lingered beside me. Staring blankly at the ceiling, I allowed the moment to pass while a numbness clouded my consciousness. As I reached to scratch my neck I noticed my forearm wrapped in gauze, and felt the restriction of more bandages around my throat. All of it was a mystery. Rolling over, I managed to sit upright on the bed and tried to shake off a heavy drowsiness.

  How different life would’ve been if I’d rejected the offer from Dad and Uncle Randy. It was their idea to go
deep cover in the Middle East, but I was the one who jumped at the chance. Of course, Dax was in too.

  When you walk in the footsteps of terrorists, there are times when darkness swallows the light because a war against evil is rarely black and white. Those who choose to fight step into the gray of the battlefield to defend what they value most. Power. Religion. Survival. Ambition. Most importantly, to avenge freedom. But I made choices that blurred the lines. No one except for Dax knew how far I’d fallen in the days leading up to the raid on Fatima’s compound.

  So, the truth is, there was no one else to blame. I was the one who brought hell to the doorsteps of those I loved.

  Elena and Dax were seated across from one another when I entered the main cabin. Both looked up with relieved eyes once they saw me.

  “Sleeping Beauty,” Dax announced. “That was quite an apple.”

  “How long’ve I been out?”

  “Since we left London.” Elena waved me over, so I joined her on the sofa. She rubbed my shoulders. Her hands were strong and the pressure eased the tension. “We found you after you were given a heavy sedative.”

  “That circus dude tried to collect the bounty,” Dax added. “He nearly slit your throat.”

  Elena’s words finally hit — we found you. “Elena, you were there?”

  “You wouldn’t have survived without her.” Dax grabbed the rooster mask next to him and held it up like a trophy. “She’s a helluva shot too.”

  I felt the stitches beneath the bandage on my neck. “Where’s the Bugatti?”

  “My father returned to Saint Petersburg, along with the Bugatti.” Elena’s eyes grew glossy as her hand slid down my back. “He will be glad you are okay.”

  “What about the Rossino Otto invitation?”

  Elena shook her head. “We will find another way.”

  “We were set up, bro,” Dax said. “You were the prize.”

  “Seems to be a running theme. Listen, I’m sorry I got you both into this.” I turned to Elena. “Your being with me isn’t what Dmitry wants.”

  “My decision is final. He will understand once it is over.”

  “The Prodigal is behind the bounty,” Dax blurted. “He’s alive, Chase.”

  “Dax, I never should’ve doubted you.” Eyeing the bandage, I noticed Dax and Elena’s eyes follow mine so I unwrapped the cloth. A chill shot through my veins at the sight of crudely tattooed numbers etched into my forearm. Taken aback I whispered, “He’s not done with me.”

  “It’s an IP address,” Dax pointed out. Recognizing the shocked look on my face he added, “Maybe we should wait until…”

  “Give me your tablet.” Reluctantly, he handed it over already opened to the IP address. I stared at the video box on the screen trying to come to grips with the tattoo. “Have either of you seen it?”

  Silence speaks volumes. Hit play.

  Dad was seated inside an aircraft. Right away I knew it was the one he’d leased from Uncle Randy. A bit of turbulence shook the camera, grew worse when the lights cut out, then switched to night vision. Amidst the green hue, the flight attendant sat across from Dad. More shaking before Dad stood and stumbled down the aisle. For less than a minute he was out of the frame. Then the camera shifted as the jet seemed to nose dive. Dad fell back into frame slamming against the side of the cabin. No words could describe the rage within as Dad’s final moments on this side left me numb.

  “Michael Hardeman was a terrorist,” a voice seethed. “And his death is a great victory. Eye for an eye. Soul for a soul. Death to the wicked. Praise be to Allah. America is a fallen nation, who wages war against the innocent, while hiding the poison within their own people. We must rid the world of this evil — as I have done to the one who killed my sons.” Abu Haji Fatima leaned forward out of blackness. His soulless eyes glared into the camera. “War is coming.”

  The video cut out.

  FORTY

  BLACK SITE — DOWNTOWN

  Laney took the stairwell to a lower floor where she used her Level 4 clearance to access a detainee wing. Security opened a secondary entrance leading to a corridor lined with twelve-inch-thick steel doors. No bars. No windows. A video screen was mounted on the wall next to each one. The last door housed their most dangerous prisoner — Akram Kasim.

  On the chopper ride back, Laney considered going straight to Scottsdale. Collinsworth’s message was clear — the photo was for her eyes only. But she didn’t know him well enough to trust him, so she decided to wait for Vaughn.

  Buzz… clank.

  Vaughn entered the underground prison and sauntered down the corridor. His pace was one of exhaustion yet determination. Laney had never met another agent at the Bureau who had Vaughn’s endurance, especially when there was still a potential threat. Even though she was in charge of the operation by a thread, Vaughn had pulled rank since the attack at Tanets and set the pace, pushed the limits, and expected Laney to make the tough calls.

  “Yasmin went home for a few hours to recharge,” he said. “It’ll take at least that long for her team to cross reference the evidence from Tanets, Hardeman’s garage, and Wilkins’ truck to see if there’s any crossover. We’re also tracking the origin of the C4 and running Wilkins’ DNA to see if we get a match to any of the others from the crime scenes.” Vaughn stood next to Laney, both stared at the monitor where Kasim kneeled with his face pointed toward the floor. “You ready to take another shot at him?”

  “I met with Randall Collinsworth.”

  “Suppose it was only a matter of time. He’s Michael Hardeman’s brother from another mother, and knew we’d question him about the Artifacts of Exile being inside his hangar.”

  “We didn’t talk about any of that,” Laney admitted, unsure of whether to disclose everything Collinsworth had shared about Chase. “Turns out he and the President were roommates at Harvard.”

  “He met with you on behalf of the President?”

  “Actually, I’m not sure who sent him. He swears the President has no knowledge.” Laney stretched her aching back, still feeling the bruises from Kasim. “Michael Hardeman and Randall Collinsworth were involved with a clandestine operation signed off by the President. They hunted terrorists without any official oversight and kept the black ops clear of the Oval Office. Chase and Dax were the first ones they recruited.”

  “Now we know who warned the Hardemans about our investigation.” Vaughn leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, dividing his attention between Laney and the security monitor. “Confirms our theory that Kasim is here for payback.”

  “Collinsworth believes there’s a mole inside the Bureau.”

  “Your sixth man,” Vaughn suggested. “Does he know who?”

  “He’s in the dark, like us. Hopefully when Chase brings Dax in, we’ll get a better idea of who was at the garage the night Robles was killed. I won’t believe it’s Wilkins until we have proof.”

  “Is he bringing the Bugatti back?”

  “Russell, forget about the Bugatti.” Laney reached into her pocket, then showed Vaughn the photo. She pointed out their dead suspects from Tanets. “Abdul Bashar. Sami Abboud. Omar Hadid. Fareed Khalid. All generals of Fatima’s army — known to the Agency as the four horsemen.”

  “Fatima’s top men were here at the same time.” Vaughn pointed to the woman dressed in a hijab. “Who’s she?”

  “Sarina introduced Chase to Kasim in Baghdad, which led to the raid on the compound, in exchange for an off-the-books deal for asylum.” Laney glanced down the corridor, knowing she’d left out the helicopter crash photos. “Russell, she’s one of Fatima’s wives.”

  Vaughn’s brows raised. “Talk about burying the lead.”

  “Right now, she’s our best shot to break Kasim.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Scottsdale, Arizona.” Laney checked her cell. “Collinsworth assured me no one else knows her identity, so we can’t run this through proper channels.”

  “It’ll be a red flag if we’re both gone.�
��

  “You should stay here and interview Dax… I mean… Dexter Thompson.” Laney slipped the photo back in her pocket knowing there was one way to get Sarina Fatima to talk. “I’ll need Chase to go with me.”

  Vaughn exhaled deep, not hiding his disapproval. “We don’t know how he’ll react once we tell him about Wilkins.”

  “That’s a risk we’ll have to take.”

  “What about Kasim’s transfer?”

  “Postponed until further notice.”

  “Collinsworth?”

  “Seems the Bureau, Agency, and Oval Office bend the rules for someone who secured the largest contract in DOD history. My guess is he knows where the bodies are buried.”

  Laney’s cell buzzed. She checked her text: Tanets. 8 PM.

  “We’re on with Chase in an hour.”

  FORTY-ONE

  “So much for digging our feet in the sand and getting drunk.”

  Dax spoke the uncensored truth — whether I was in the mood to hear it or not. To think we were an hour away from selling the Artifacts of Exile, and the rest of the collector cars, when the contingency plan imploded. Since that night, it had been a downward spiral — Sleepy, Tanets, Dax, London — leading us back to where we started.

  Entering the house on Bird Street felt foreign, even with the framed photos of Dad and me throughout the space. Auctions in Monterey. Fishing in Alaska. At the finish line on the Indy track. The Renaldt Royale Bessler clay model remained in the corner behind protective glass. Even though packing wasn’t on the radar, this was no longer home, it was a four-million-dollar payday from Ron Levowitz.

  “What’re we doing here?” Dax asked.

  “Searching for an oasis in the desert.”

  Watching Dad’s final seconds pushed me closer to the edge of no return. Grief paralyzed me from breaking down — yet tears flowed within, washing over every shattered piece of me. Holding it together, I gripped Dad’s words: When you’re attacked, fight to win. Never surrender to fear, son. Leaving that night in Mosul behind, I dreamed of being a deal maker like Dad, but the Hardeman auction legacy was over. It was time to do what I did best — hunt evil in the dark.