The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  We slipped into the Mercedes and pulled out onto the street with the top down. With the wind blowing in the wintry night, I took in all that Laney was saying, which only unleashed a tidal wave of uncertainty.

  “Who else is left?”

  “Someone we believe will break Kasim. Her name is Sarina.”

  “Fatima’s wife.” My jaw dropped hearing a name from the past. “We cut a deal with her to connect us with Kasim. In return, we offered to get her out of the country. She disappeared the day before we traveled to the compound in Mosul. How’d she…”

  “You’ll have to ask Collinsworth yourself to get more details.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Scottsdale.”

  A few moments passed as we rode in silence. The Mercedes cut across to Sunset Boulevard, then continued west toward Santa Monica. I considered telling Laney about the video posted to the IP address. Even after all that she had said, there was a sense she was holding back, so I decided to wait. She’d landed a few bombshells, and my instincts pushed me to know for sure from Silicon Swindler when the video was posted before I said a word.

  “I need a location for Marcus Nicholson. He’s the CEO of Urban Chain.”

  Laney punched the name into her cell. “Why is he important?”

  “With any luck, he’ll confirm if what you’re saying about Fatima is true.”

  “Pinged his cell — Broad Street, Malibu.”

  I accelerated through the light, hugged the turns in traffic, and kept my eyes on the road ahead. “What do you know about Level 10 malware?”

  “With the right programmer, it can hack any mainframe computer, or other computerized technology, and control those systems without detection.”

  “Prince Azim is planning to trade the malware for something he wants.”

  “Chase, how do you know this?”

  “I’m the one who auctioned it to him.” Checking the rearview mirror, I kept my gaze from drifting in her direction. “The moment it’s plugged in, we’ll know and can stop anything bad from happening, but for now I need the Prince in play.”

  Laney rolled her eyes, disappointed. “By then it’ll be too late.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  The Mercedes winded through Westwood along Sunset Boulevard headed for Pacific Coast Highway. Handling the S650 Cabriolet, courtesy of Elena, was going smoother than our conversation. Not even an Obsidian knife blade could cut through the tension.

  “Chase, you allowed Level 10 malware to get into the hands of God knows who without a second thought to the damage you’ll cause.”

  “Dax programmed a spider web into the malware,” I replied, as if I knew what that meant. “When Azim passes it on and it’s plugged into a computer, you’ll know, and I’ll be able to leverage Azim to find out who used the electro-disruptor to kill Dad.”

  “You could be charged with espionage.”

  “Only if you turn me in,” I retorted. “Oh wait, you’ve done that already.”

  “There is no conclusive proof the electro-disruptor was the cause. You never said anything about this when I agreed to our immunity deal.”

  “You still don’t get it… the NTSB investigation was railroaded. My guess it was done by someone on your side — someone like Vaughn.”

  “You can’t hinge your theory on the flight manifest or the NTSB report. Anyone could’ve manipulated either one — from the inside or outside.”

  “The fact is Prince Azim knows who has the electro-disruptor, and that’s all the proof I need to know it caused the crash.”

  “I want to believe you, but without a name… stronger evidence… something…”

  “Anyone who’s tied to me is in danger because the Prodigal is hunting me.”

  “Chase, you don’t believe what Collinsworth told me?”

  “In London, someone tried to collect the bounty.” Pulling my sleeve up, I revealed the tattooed numbers on my forearm. “Fatima sent a message on a video at this IP address. He showed the final minutes of Dad’s life as a warning because he believed I’d been killed. And he promised more attacks were coming.”

  Laney stared hard at my arm. “Collinsworth lied?”

  I shook my head. “Uncle Randy is a straight shooter. He told you what he believes is true — which is why we need to confirm the video’s upload date.”

  “Marcus Nicholson.”

  “He’s a programming genius, who’ll want what I’m offering.”

  “I’m trusting you, Chase. Don’t make me regret it.”

  Laney pushed as hard as she could, knowing a break of silence was more powerful than further interrogation. Leaning back in my seat I punched the accelerator, satisfied that I’d finally won an argument. Maybe she was coming around to see that I was right — or maybe she was making up for her betrayal. Lover’s quarrels were always about a deeper hurt than the words which sparked a reaction. Were we lovers? Hell, anymore I wasn’t sure we were friends. But within the last hour, bombshells were dropped from both sides, leaving us standing shoulder to shoulder on a battlefield surrounded by landmines.

  “Chase, did you know it was a clandestine operation?”

  “When we arrived in Baghdad, we went straight to a safe house. No briefing. No contact with any of our forces. From the start we were on our own hitting the local neighborhoods to build our sources and spread our backstory of being black-market smugglers. Slowly there were those who emerged with stolen Iraqi artifacts. Mostly low-level stuff, but we were in the game. Uncle Randy and Dad told us we were under the President’s orders, so there were no second thoughts.”

  “Collinsworth swore the President had no knowledge.”

  “He’s always played his relationships close to the vest — extremely loyal. During the time we were in deep cover, there was a growing debate between politicians who believed once Mosul was captured, the oil was payback to the US government. While protestors marched in the streets of DC shouting peace and love, we were on the ground searching for those with deadly intentions who slithered their way into pumping millions into their jihad. We were the ones willing to operate out of bounds to hunt the demons in the desert.”

  “How many operations did you and Dax handle?”

  “Honestly, I lost count. Maybe it’s a way to deal with what we did while we were there. But I’ll tell you this much for sure, once you’ve been the hunter, you know when you’re being hunted.”

  I slowed at a stoplight with the Pacific directly ahead, then turned onto Pacific Coast Highway, about six miles south of Broad Beach, hearing the roar of the surf.

  “How did you meet Sarina?” Laney asked.

  “We knew she traveled to Baghdad the same time every month to visit her mother who was battling cancer. An informant at Ibn Sina Hospital contacted us when she was there, and we surveilled her like clockwork. Every time she was in Baghdad, she was shadowed by Akram Kasim. We thought it was Fatima’s way of protecting his wife, but a few months in we realized there was more going on between them.”

  Vivid memories turned back the hands of time.

  “An opportunity presented itself when she was at Ibn Sina. I cornered her in an elevator alone and offered her the American dream. Turns out she wanted to escape. Sarina agreed to vouch for us as smugglers with Kasim. He agreed to do business with us because he trusted her, and the deals happened quickly. Kasim brought us artifacts and we paid him in cash. Close to half a million exchanged hands. A few months later, the operation escalated when he told us about the Artifacts of Exile stolen from Hussein’s palace. We guaranteed him twenty million on one condition — we meet Fatima face to face. When Kasim agreed, we followed Uncle Randy’s orders and contacted US commanders on the ground — none of them knew we existed. A CIA operative was put in charge of the mission, and that’s when we met Wilkins and his SEAL team for the first time.”

  “How did the Artifacts of Exile end up in the hangar?”

  “Dad suggested the collection slip through the cracks. After the raid, in all the com
motion, we loaded the crates onto an RC Engineering jet instead of a military transport. Dad said it was the ‘spoils of war.’”

  “Did you have any further contact with Sarina?”

  “After I thought I’d killed Fatima, we were on Uncle Randy’s jet home.” I noticed Laney didn’t correct me this time around. “Dax was shot twice that night. He was stabilized, but we needed to get him stateside. I don’t know what happened to Sarina — only that Uncle Randy said she’d be given a new life. I never thought it’d be Scottsdale.”

  Starbucks illuminated the turn for Broad Beach, a narrow street lined with mega-million-dollar beach houses on one side overlooking the Pacific. Laney pointed out a Cape Cod inspired home surrounded by an eight-foot ficus wall. I parked in the driveway next to a Porsche Taycan.

  A white security door was the only access. I hit the intercom. No response. I dialed Nicholson’s cell. No answer. A camera overhead, partially hidden by the ficus, captured our every move. Laney found her footing first as she climbed the wall. I was a few feet behind, but we scaled over the top at the same time, landing in a beautifully manicured yard. Across the grass, the front door was wide open as Metallica blared from inside the house.

  On instinct, I pulled my Sig Sauer from behind my back. Laney pulled her weapon too. We moved in tandem toward the door, paused on opposite sides, and were about to enter when gunshots whizzed by my ears. Ducking low, weapon readied, I shot a look at Laney who showed no sign of fear. After the initial gunfire there was silence.

  “Marcus,” I shouted, “it’s Chase Hardeman.”

  Another hail of gunshots kept us locked down. This time when the gunfire stopped, Laney moved into the house, firing several rounds. I swore under my breath, then joined her as I fired rounds of my own. So far, I hadn’t seen an intruder, and didn’t know whether Marcus was the shooter. I grabbed Laney’s shoulder, to let her know I was behind, then laid more cover fire as she moved stealthily from an entryway into a large living room.

  BANG!

  My ears rang as the sounds around me were muffled. Laney seemed to move in slow motion. Then the world returned to full speed from the initial flash bang. An intruder dressed in black wearing a motorcycle helmet darted across the room. Laney fired, lodging bullets into the walls and shattering a floor to ceiling glass window. In full stride, the intruder turned a weapon on Laney and returned fire. I lunged to push her out of the way, but was too late. Bullets hit her squarely in the chest, sending her rolling onto the floor. Losing sight of the intruder, we tumbled until we stopped next to one another. Reaching over, I grabbed her clothes, expecting to see blood on my hands. Instead, I felt the Kevlar underneath her cotton blouse.

  “Laney!” I shouted. “Are you okay?”

  With a grimaced inhale, she opened her eyes, looked at me, and groaned. “Yeah.”

  I pressed the butt of her gun into her palm. “Stay here.”

  Glancing over the cushions of a leather sofa, I scanned an empty room, then hurried across the space, through the windowless opening, and out onto a balcony. In the distance, running along the beach was the intruder. Jumping over the railing, I scrambled across the jagged rocks before landing on the sand. Pumping my legs and arms in pursuit, my chest burned as my heart exploded through my chest. Each stride gained ground, until I was only a few yards behind. With every ounce of strength left, I dove forward, wrapping my arms around the intruder’s legs before tumbling to the sand with a thud. I was first on my feet with the Sig Sauer pointed at the target.

  The intruder rolled over, with helmet on, the weapon lost in the sand.

  “Don’t make another move,” I demanded. “I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

  For a split second, I was distracted by a red flashing light in the sky. The intruder took full advantage by lunging at me. In defense, I fired back, but the rounds missed their target.

  CLICK. CLICK. Empty.

  In desperation, I dug my elbow into the side of the helmet as the intruder’s shoulder slammed into my ribs. Defenseless, the blows struck with force and precision, leaving me seconds away from unconsciousness. My fingers reached for my Sig Sauer lying inches away on the sand. Grabbing the barrel of the gun, I slammed the butt against the helmet shield. With each blow, the intruder’s punches lost its force as I hammered until the protective shield cracked, leaving only shards of fiberglass. On my back, I stared up at a reflection — shock, hatred, anger, rage — the eyes of Abu Haji Fatima glared back at me.

  The helicopter hovered above the beach. Fatima landed several more blows before scurrying to escape. With no bullets left, I tossed the gun, and chased after him. He boarded the helicopter as it ascended. I barely grabbed hold of the landing skids. The pilot veered sharply while my feet dangled over the water below. Muscles burned as I swung my legs sideways, back and forth, before rolling on top of the metal and standing on the landing skids.

  Fatima’s shadow emerged, boots flying through the darkness with enough force to knock me off the skids. Arms and legs flailed, until I plunged into the water like hitting concrete at thirty miles an hour.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Neighbors were outside on their balconies with flashlights by the time I swam ashore and trudged up the beach. A searing pain ripped through my bones, only adding to the damage done in London. Fatima had landed heavy blows that left me winded. I’d done the same, but not enough to finish him off.

  Laney waited on Nicholson’s balcony, her gun by her side. As the seconds ticked, a faint wailing of sirens grew louder. No doubt the entire beachfront called 911 once an unwelcome disturbance struck amid their peaceful hideaways.

  “Did you find Marcus?” I called out, catching my breath.

  “All clear,” she replied. “No one else is in the house.”

  Climbing the steps I met her at the top. “Hundred yards up the beach are two guns. One belongs to me…” I shivered from my soaked clothes. “The other belongs to Fatima.” She stood grim-faced as I added, “Nothing like looking into the eyes of a ghost.”

  We stepped back inside the Cape Cod where bullets had pierced a Van Gogh, ripped through a display case of awards, and even lodged into a bronze statue of soldiers raising the Stars and Stripes. It seemed Marcus Nicholson — AKA Silicon Swindler — was a self-absorbed collector… and patriot.

  “He couldn’t have been here for us,” I said under my breath. Two rounds had torn through Laney’s cotton blouse. Kevlar protected her heart. “That was too close.”

  “Feels like I got punched by a gorilla.” She holstered her weapon and picked the Bureau badge off the floor. “It’s not the first time I’ve been shot at — but you never get used to it.”

  No dead body. No kidnapping. No one knew we were coming.

  My shoulders slumped, head tilted back. “I had that son of a—”

  Laney checked her cell. “I’m still getting a signal from Nicholson”

  “Marcus has to be here somewhere. His cell goes with him everywhere.”

  “Once LAPD arrives, they’ll lock this place down.”

  “And start asking questions we can’t answer.”

  Taking two steps at a time, I bounded up the stairs to the second floor where I entered the first room — an office with high-tech digital hardware. Next, was an indoor sauna. Then four bedrooms. I cleared each one with only the master bedroom left. Ocean-view doors were locked. A plush bed was untouched. An analog clock sat on a nightstand. Dropping to my knees, I searched underneath the bed. Nothing. On the other side of the room there was a walk-in closet lined with every pair of Jordans ever made, perfectly pressed jeans, all black t-shirts on hangars, and a full-length mirror.

  Where the hell is he?

  Laney’s voice carried upstairs as she announced herself loudly to the responding officers who had just arrived. I cursed under my breath at the thought that my gun was in the sand waiting to be scooped up as evidence. Walking back into the bedroom, my eyes locked on the analog clock. Everything in the house was high-tech, state
of the art, and in line with Nicholson’s persona. Taking a closer look I noticed the second hand ticked in the same spot, as if time were suspended. My fingers felt a smooth button on the back. I pressed it and listened to what sounded like air releasing from a seal.

  “You shot up my house, man.” Nicholson cautiously stepped out from the walk-in closet. “How am I going to explain this to my insurance?”

  “You’re still breathing,” I said, relieved. “Where were you hiding?”

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Safe room. Never used it before.”

  “Why didn’t you come out sooner?”

  “Door’s glitchy.” He noticed I held the clock — a trigger to open the safe room. His brow furrowed. “What are you doing here? And who’s the babe with you?”

  “Shut up, Marcus.” I closed the door slightly. “Cops are here, so I don’t have much time. That babe downstairs is a federal agent, and she needs your help.”

  “You and Lev ripped me off with the island deal.”

  “Will you focus for a second?” I hissed. “Do what I say, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I should tell the cops what I saw — you and the Fed shooting at some ninja dude inside my house.”

  “Listen, you could be the one who owns the greatest collector car in history.”

  “Now we’re negotiating?” Nicholson retorted. “What’s the car?”

  “It’s a legend — the Rossino Otto.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  That’s why it’s a legend, you dumbass.

  Laney’s voice grew louder downstairs. I asked, “Marcus, are you in or out?”

  “I was just bustin’ your balls.” He smirked. “I’ll play along, but as soon as the cops are gone, you better not screw me. What do you want me to do?”

  “Tell them it was a break in.” I stepped into the walk-in-closet, where the mirror was opened to a fortified room, then slipped out of my wet clothes and grabbed jeans and a t-shirt. “We arrived at the same time and Agent Kelley went after the intruder.”