The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  With the duffle slung over her shoulder, she moved stealthily down the hall before stopping at a utility closet. Cheers erupted from the hub as she grabbed a loaded forty-five from the bag. Caught off guard, she slipped the duffle inside the closet and hurried to see what the commotion was about.

  “How long ago was this?” Vaughn shouted, standing in the center of the hub.

  An analyst answered, “Fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Backtrack and see if we can pick up his trail.”

  Seeing the street camera footage of her brother one block from the parking lot sent a chill down her spine. Another series of live cameras appeared on screen as the hub resurrected to life. Holding the forty-five in one hand, she reached in her pocket with the other and retrieved her cell. With a press of a button she activated the ERD. The incapacitating agent rushed through the ventilation system. Within seconds, confusion struck as the hub was filled with gas.

  Vaughn glanced in her direction and for a moment the world stopped. When their eyes met, he reached for his sidearm, but she fired first. The bullet missed its mark but caught the attention of the room. Stumbling forward, Vaughn was struck by a mix of the incapacitating agent and the pills she’d given him earlier, as he fired back along with several others. Bullets ricocheted off the walls as Tama darted down the hallway toward the utility closet.

  Only a matter of seconds left.

  She pulled the gas mask on tight. As she turned around, Vaughn stood in the hallway bracing himself against the wall with gun raised. Before he pulled the trigger, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor. Behind her mask, Tama gave a cold-blooded smile as she pressed an icon on her cell.

  At exactly 6:19 AM, downtown Los Angeles lost all power.

  SIXTY-THREE

  LOS GATOS, CA

  After arriving at The Inn shortly after midnight, the early morning hours were spent hovered around a portable command center inside a hotel room monitoring surveillance from agents in the field near the ranch property.

  Agent Larry Johnson, who spoke with Laney and Vaughn on the phone, took the next shift so Laney could get some sleep in an adjoining room.

  Curtains closed. Heater on. Total silence.

  Facedown on the bed, wearing the same clothes from the day before, she wrestled with hypnagogia — a phenomenon that occurs when one is in-between sleep and wakefulness. After days on the hunt — worn, bruised, stitched, frustrated, confused, broken-hearted — she struggled to rest as her mind continued the chase.

  A knock at the door broke the spell.

  Johnson said with urgency, “I think there’s a problem.”

  Rolling over and sitting on the edge of the bed, Laney rubbed her eyes, pulled her hair into a ponytail, then grabbed her cell from a nightstand. “Something happen at the ranch?”

  “You need to see this for yourself.”

  Johnston stepped from the adjoining room and Laney followed. Standing in front of the mobile command center, where surveillance at the ranch seemed quiet, she took it all in. A moment passed before she realized what Johnson was talking about. Her eyes shifted to a news reporter on the TV screen as a ticker scrolled across the bottom.

  MASSIVE POWER OUTAGE IN LOS ANGELES.

  “I haven’t been able to reach Agent Vaughn,” Johnson said.

  Laney texted Vaughn: POWER OUT THERE?

  She turned the volume up as the reporter stepped out of frame. A camera zoomed in to Mayor Osoria who stood behind a microphone outside his Hancock Park home wearing jeans and a polo shirt.

  “In light of the last few weeks,” he began, “I want to reassure all Angelenos that we do not believe this to be an act of terrorism. With social media, conspiracies are already spreading, but as far as we know right now that is not the case.”

  Laney checked her cell. No text.

  Mayor Osoria continued, “What I can tell you is that at 6:19 AM a series of electrical grids servicing the downtown area experienced a significant surge resulting in a widespread power outage. As the situation is unfolding, we are working to determine the scope of the outage as DWP is on the ground in the impacted areas. As soon as we know more, we will pass that information along.”

  Laney dialed Vaughn’s cell. Voicemail.

  “Until we are able to determine the extent of the damage, we have temporarily blocked access to downtown, including the 101, 10, and 5 freeways.” Mayor Osoria paused as he checked with the Police Chief. “For those who live in the area, or who are in one of the high-rises downtown, we will be dispatching LAPD and LAFD systematically block by block to check on everyone. As you can imagine, this will take quite some time, so if you are needing to contact a loved one in the area, please be patient. Cell service is overloaded right now.”

  Mayor Osoria turned his gaze toward the camera. “While this is an unprecedented event, we will do what we do best as Angelenos and work together to restore power as quickly as possible.”

  As reporters shouted questions, Laney turned the volume down.

  “I’m sure Agent Vaughn will call as soon as he’s able,” Johnson said.

  Laney nodded, unconvinced. “Let’s stay on the ranch for now.”

  For a few hours they settled in and watched the wind blow at the ranch, while the situation in Los Angeles escalated. With one eye on surveillance and the other on the latest news reports, Laney grew more unsettled. After numerous attempts there was no response from Vaughn.

  By early afternoon the first footage emerged of thousands of people walking the streets headed away from downtown. Everyone was on foot — including the LAPD and LAFD personnel. It was a mass exodus that left a city and country on edge.

  One reporter approached a disheveled middle-aged man in a suit.

  “Excuse me, sir, can you tell us what happened?”

  He stopped to catch his breath. “I was at work when the power shut off. Had to go down thirty-seven floors. Hundreds of people were outside. Cars were disabled and left in the streets. We didn’t know what the hell was going on.”

  “Were you able to call for help?”

  He held up his cell. “Damn thing wouldn’t power on until a half mile ago.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Johnson said in disbelief.

  “Neither have I.” A knot in Laney’s stomach twisted as she dialed her cell again. “C’mon Russell.”

  The reporter turned back to the camera leaving the business man to continue his trek. “We’ve been hearing the same story from dozens of people. Our sources have confirmed the outage is estimated to be as wide as a six-mile radius. Areas affected include Huntington Park, Commerce, Montecito Heights, Silver Lake, Koreatown, Mid-Wilshire, Boyle Heights, and the downtown area.”

  Turning back toward the sea of humanity behind her the reporter added, “This is happening all across the city with those evacuated being led to emergency centers in South Gate, Inglewood, West Hollywood, Glendale, Monterey Park, Montebello, Alhambra, and Pasadena. It is a massive response that is stretching the city’s resources to its limits, a much different scene than earlier this morning. We will continue to monitor the situation on the ground. Back to you in the studio.”

  Laney’s cell buzzed. Blocked number.

  She answered anyway. “Hello?”

  “Laney, it’s Dax. Someone’s plugged…”

  “Where are you?”

  “Elena’s apartment on the west side. I can’t reach Chase so I called.”

  “Stay off your cell. I’m on my way.”

  Laney hung up as there was a knock at the door. Johnson answered and was greeted by Simon Adams, POTUS’s Chief of Staff.

  “I was never here,” he said to Johnson. “Now give us the room.”

  Adams entered and closed the door, leaving Johnson in the hall. “Agent Kelley, I assume you know why I’m here.”

  SIXTY-FOUR

  NEW YORK MED — VIP FLOOR

  When I packed the night before, I imagined heading off to the Emirates, but instead we land
ed at JFK. Unlike the King’s procession of three chartered flights, a massive security team, and a forty-vehicle convoy, arriving with his ostracized blood relative garnered no entourage.

  For hours we waited in the lobby, which was the first sign the Prince and the King were at odds. Remembering Azim opening up about his childhood, I wondered if this would be a wasted trip. Maybe the King didn’t even remember him.

  Too many old wounds — not enough time for forgiveness.

  I was relieved when one of the King’s men summoned us to the VIP floor where the royal family had booked every room, even though the King was the only patient on the floor. Before being allowed on the VIP level, I gave up my cell and was cut off from the outside world.

  Another hour passed waiting in an empty room where the news broadcast updates on the power outage in Los Angeles. It was unnerving to see thousands of people walking through the streets. How many others were holed up in their homes, apartments, and offices?

  “He is awake.” Prince Azim stood in the doorway. His sullen face showed how grave the King’s health had become — or maybe it was the state of their relationship. “He has agreed to meet with you.”

  My shoes squeaked against the tiled floors as we walked toward the King’s room. Along the way there were others in empty rooms who were part of his entourage, possibly family, but none acknowledged the Prince.

  When we stopped outside the door, Azim spoke softly, “You must go in alone.”

  As I pushed the door open, I wondered if I was walking into the lion’s den. Inside, the King leaned back in his bed. Sunken face and unkempt beard, with piercing eyes that never left me. His frail state, evidenced by the monitors beeping and IVs flowing, were not of a king but of a man on the verge of the other side.

  Standing next to the bed, I steadied myself.

  “King Azim, I am honored you would allow me a few moments.”

  “Michael spoke of you often,” his gravelly voice replied. “He was very proud of the man you had become.”

  “Your family has always been special to us.” Knowing the King and Dad were friends lessened the nerves. “The Prince was gracious to bring me here.”

  “Ali is a thief,” he said bluntly. “While he is blood, he is not family.”

  I breathed in deeply, unsure of how to respond. “If Dad were still alive, he’d tell you there were many times I drove him to the edge with my choices, and vice versa.”

  “And yet you loved and respected each other.”

  “Even when we chased our own dreams — our own legacies.”

  “Ali is reckless, filled with the disillusionment of money, cars, and women.” King Azim’s eyes narrowed. “He knows nothing of the damage he has caused.”

  “Until a few weeks ago, I didn’t know the danger I’d placed Dad in until it was too late. If he was here today, I’d be sure he knew how sorry I was and how much I loved him. But I’ll never get that chance.”

  “Very soon, I will die.” King Azim shifted, using the remote to lift the bed upright, then pointed to a chair. With my heart racing, I pulled the chair close. “Before that hour comes, I will make peace with those I love — but never my enemies.”

  “You once said to Dad that before one breathes his last breath, he should do everything in his power to cut off the head of the snake — to strike first against his enemies.”

  “It was because Michael first said to me, ‘when you are attacked, fight to win…’”

  A lump lodged in my throat. “…never surrender to fear.”

  “Because of your father, I have supported President Bouchard’s efforts to fight against terrorism. Some say I have bought political influence to protect my people. However, millions were given to fund your covert efforts in the Middle East.”

  “Then you are the only one who can help me cut off the head of the snake.”

  He picked up a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and took several drags before extinguishing the butt. On the edge of my seat, I hoped for favor from the King. He mustered up another breath, exhaled deep, and broke the silence.

  “Ali told me a woman in Los Angeles traded a location of the Rossino Otto for a copy of the Level 10 malware — software created by Marcus Nicholson to benefit our governments in a war against our common enemies. Handing this software over without regard for the consequences was reckless and unforgivable. Ali will be held accountable.”

  “I thought the malware was Russian.” He shook his head. I wasn’t about to confess that I was the one who auctioned the malware. And I wondered whether the Prince had told the King a fairytale. Was it an invitation, or a location? No time to guess. “Who is the woman?”

  “Your father asked for my assistance in transporting the Artifacts of Exile and Abu Haji Fatima’s wife, Sarina, into Saudi Arabia for safe passage to America.” His eyes gained new life. “At first, I believed it was she — however, I have since learned, a second transport left the Emirates days afterwards. Loaded onto this plane were American weapons recovered from Fatima’s stockpile, as well as one passenger.”

  Right away my mind raced to the woman being either McIntyre or Tama — but the more pressing question was whether the passenger was the Prodigal.

  “Is that how Fatima escaped?”

  “There is only one who knows.” He motioned me closer, until we were inches apart, then whispered a name that stopped me cold. “Collinsworth.”

  Bursting from the room, my stomach in turmoil, I almost knocked Prince Azim over as he hovered near the door.

  “I need my cell,” I said, panicked. “Right now!”

  Azim turned and argued with the Arabic security guard standing nearby — the same man who brought us to the VIP floor. After a few seconds back and forth he relented and handed over my cell and Azim’s as well. I turned mine on, seeing the numerous missed calls and texts from Dax. My heart pounded through my chest as I headed for the elevator.

  Dax answered on the first ring. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

  “There’s no time for that now. I need you to find Uncle Randy.”

  “Chase, there’s something you should know.” The elevator doors opened. Azim followed me inside. “The malware’s been activated.”

  Air sucked from my lungs. I asked, dazed, “Did you call Laney?”

  “She’s already on her way. Told me to stay off my cell, but I wanted to wait until you called. Chase, they’ve shut down a six-mile radius of downtown Los Angeles.”

  Six-mile radius.

  “I’ll call you back.” I hung up and turned to Azim. “Who is the woman you met with in LA?” He stared at me eyes wide. Elevator doors closed. I pounced, shoved him backwards, my fingers wrapped around his throat. “I need a name.”

  Fear swept across his face as he grunted, “I can show you.”

  I released my grip, knowing I still needed him. “What do you mean?”

  Azim scrolled through his cell, then pointed the screen at me. The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. We stepped out into the lobby with my eyes glued to a photo of a woman standing on a sidewalk. It wasn’t McIntyre. From Azim’s cell, I texted Dax and called him back. At the same time, I pulled Azim over to a waiting area and shoved him into a seat.

  “We need to find out…”

  Dax interrupted. “She’s Yasmin Avakian — the FBI analyst.”

  “Cross check facial recognition with all photos on the Prodigal drive.”

  “I’m running it through now. What’s going on, Chase?”

  “I think Uncle Randy smuggled Fatima out of Mosul,” I said in disbelief.

  “Mother…” Dax paused. “There’s a match.”

  My cell buzzed with a photo from Dax. I held up Azim’s cell, stared at mine, and knew Dax was right. On my cell was a photo similar to the militia one with Fatima, Kasim, four horsemen, and the unknown hijab woman. This photo was the same group, except the woman’s face was no longer hidden. Sarina was right. I was looking at Abu Haji Fatima’s sister — Tama.

  “Chase,
I don’t know how I missed it.”

  “We know what she looks like and where she is,” I answered. “Send it to Laney right away.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’m heading back from New York. I’ll call before I land.”

  “This is insane.”

  “It’s happening, Dax.”

  Hanging up, I turned toward Azim, who waited in silence. “You’re going to stay here and make amends with the king — and I’m going to borrow your jet.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Two dead. Thirteen hostages.

  After gas infiltrated the ventilation system, Tama used her CrossFit strength and technique to drag Vaughn across the hub, locking him in his office. Then she pulled the other thirteen and locked them into another office next to Vaughn. All were unconscious. Within the next hour they’d wake to find themselves in glass prisons.

  She was winded but had trained over the last year. With all entry and exit points secured on Level 2 and street level security cameras powered on, no one was coming in without her knowing. Before removing her gas mask, she programmed the ventilation system to pump clean air into the space. Her plan hadn’t gone off as intended, but she was leveraged by the Prodigal.

  Entering the interrogation room, her mind turned to Kasim as she flipped a switch and the lights blinked on. His head was lowered as he hung from the chains. When he lifted his chin, their eyes met, and they were one again. She unlocked the restraints and wrapped her arms around him.

  “I thought I had lost you forever,” she whispered.

  His hoarse voice replied, “Where is Abu?”

  “My brother is alive, but he is not free.”

  “How is it possible?” Kasim held his bandaged hand. “He sent a message to kill the Americans — and to find you.”

  Tama composed herself. “We have been betrayed, Akram.”

  Kasim rubbed his wrists and stepped past, his gaze locked on the empty hub where the computers and lit offices glowed. “Tama, what have you done?”