The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “Who’s flying it then?” Dax asked.

  “We assume it’s Collinsworth.”

  He bantered, “No stealth escort?”

  “The President feels it’s too risky.”

  “Sacrifice one to save millions,” I said under my breath. “Dad was right about him.”

  “There are other ways.” Laney removed a syringe from her pocket. “We’ll use this to track the flight path and destination.”

  “Chase hates needles,” Dax mused. “He might need to lay down.”

  Laney smiled, but it faded quickly.

  Pulling up my sleeve, I exposed my forearm — the one with the tattoo from London. My legs grew weak at the sight of the needle so I looked the other way. I felt a prick, then pressure. Seconds later it was done. Imagining the serum flowing through my veins, I was a human GPS.

  “No matter where I end up, you’ll know?”

  “CIA operatives use it all the time. They say they’ve never had a problem.”

  “That’s what people say,” Dax interrupted, “before you bungee jump without a safety harness.”

  I slapped him on the back. “Good pep talk.”

  “Time to go,” Laney said.

  The three of us walked toward the rear of the freight aircraft. I thought back to the flight with Dad when we delivered a dozen rare automobiles to the United Emirates for Prince Ali Azim. Leaving the Prince in New York, I wondered how it turned out with the King. To think, there was a possibility they knew where the Rossino Otto was hidden, and I might never get a chance to see it with my own eyes. Strangely, I was at peace with it.

  I fist bumped Dax. “See you in a few days, Gazelle.”

  “Now you’re the comedian.” He turned his face quick, then stepped away.

  For a long moment, Laney and I said nothing. Anger and resentment were buried beneath the grief, but it had lessened. She leaned in and kissed my cheek.

  “I’ll be here when you get back,” she said in a whisper.

  I climbed the ramp until I was at the top of the cargo hold, then looked back at Dax and Laney, who were on the tarmac waiting as the ramp automatically raised. I felt as if I was joining the likes of Columbus, Polo, Magellan, Captain Cook, Noah — stepping onto a vessel headed into the unknown.

  Buckled in a side seat near the cockpit, which I confirmed was empty, my eyes closed as I said a quick prayer. If there was a God, maybe he’d let me live through this. As I kept my eyes closed, the aircraft taxied along the tarmac, increased speed, then lifted gently off the runway.

  Once the freight aircraft was airborne, I took a look around. First, I poked my head into the cockpit and was mesmerized by the controls being operated by an invisible pilot. Staring out the cockpit windshield at the sunrise, I thought of how I’d never see another one with Dad in the Caymans. I hoped one day I’d be with him on the other side.

  The steady hum of the engines kept me awake, so I explored the cargo hold where the pallets were stacked. A part of me was convinced I was being watched, which was highly likely considering the technology built into the aircraft. It didn’t matter, I’d see Uncle Randy soon enough.

  Tugging at the cover on one of the pallets I lifted it up. Beneath was a solid square cube of cash wrapped tight. Counting the number of pallets, it wasn’t millions — it was billions. I remembered what McIntyre said about the $2 billion, and knew I was staring at the spoils of war.

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  REYKJAVIK, ICELAND — NINE HOURS LATER

  As the aircraft descended, I rolled off a cot bolted to the side of the cargo hold and peered out the windshield of the cockpit. A few hours of sleep was more than I’d gotten in days. Blue skies and snow-covered mountains were breathtaking. Buckling into the co-pilot seat, I gazed out the side window at a city below lined with multi-colored rooftops. The aircraft leveled off and flew toward a vast mountain range, leaving the city behind. Rubbing my forearm, I wondered if the tracker was working.

  The aircraft slowed dramatically, barely clearing the mountaintops, before hovering like a helicopter. A strange sensation, to be at a standstill in midair inside a jumbo cargo plane. Gripping the armrest, my eyes were fixed on the two mountains as the aircraft descended between them, landing in an open clearing covered in snow.

  Since Dad’s death, I’d gained a clearer picture of the weapons and capabilities manufactured by Uncle Randy and his empire. Grabbing my jacket, I left the backpack behind, and headed toward the rear of the cargo hold. As the ramp lowered, I clenched my fists and readied myself for the unexpected. Russian mercenaries boarded, but no words were exchanged.

  How many more were in Uncle Randy’s death squad?

  I followed the Russians to a Jeep and climbed inside. Less than five minutes four-wheeling up the side of a mountain, we reached a rugged cabin overlooking the clearing below. A perfect vantage point without being in the line of fire.

  If the tracker was working, then Bouchard was ordering fighter jets and missiles. No way he wanted to part with billions, and even more — Uncle Randy played him like a fiddle, and for any man in power that was a tune that struck the wrong chord.

  Trudging through the snow, I climbed the steps and entered the cabin, while the Russians stood guard. Inside, it was warm and cozy with a fire blazing. Facing the door, Uncle Randy was seated in a leather chair smoking a pipe. On a side table next to him was the tablet.

  “Chase, can’t say I’m surprised you agreed — you have questions.”

  “And you have two warheads that left me no other choice.” I fought the urge to dive across the room, wrap my hands around his neck, and squeeze the life from his body. “Why’d you do it?”

  “I warned your father not to reveal what we’d done in the Red Venture Group. We were covert — out of reach of politicians and Bouchard — and the lines we crossed were the cost of fighting a war. But after that night in Mosul, he grew a conscience.” Uncle Randy’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward. “You and I both know, he saw nothing wrong with shaving a piece of the prize off the top for himself, including the Artifacts of Exile. I was willing to let it slide, but he wasn’t willing to do the same in return.”

  “Two years ago, you smuggled Abu Haji Fatima out of the country days after the raid.” I clenched my fists, remembering that night all too well. “He was using weapons manufactured by your company to fight against us. And you’ve used him to do your bidding ever since.”

  “Thanks to you, no one will ever find him, or connect me to Akram Kasim or Tama Fatima.” Uncle Randy smirked. “I thought you’d be the one to pull the trigger, but I guess Swanson beat you to it. And the others who died on the sidelines are simply casualties of war.”

  “You don’t care about anyone, as long as you’re the last one standing.” I inched forward, knowing the seconds were ticking. “Dad’s blood — and everyone else’s — is on your hands. You’re a terrorist fighting against your own country.”

  “Careful how far you push me, son,” Uncle Randy barked. “You want the truth, well here it is. Your father was a coward who was afraid of paying the price for what we had done. While he was treasure hunting, I was protecting our freedom.” He slammed his fist against the armrest. “Don’t you see, you won’t survive in this world if you have a conscience — when you’re attacked, fight to win. Never surrender to fear.”

  Recognizing Dad’s words, I slipped my hand into my pocket feeling for the anti-malware thumb drive. “Uncle Randy, you’re a blind old man who’ll spend eternity in hell.”

  “My sight is crystal clear, and as far as I can see, I’m $2 billion richer and headed off to paradise.” He pulled himself out of the chair and picked up the tablet. “Chase, I’m giving you one last chance to go with me.”

  I stood defiant. “I’ve got too much to lose.”

  Uncle Randy laughed, “You’ve got nothing left, son.”

  Knowing the Russians were armed outside, I fought the urge for as long as I could. Channeling the warrior spirit of Wilkins and Swanson, li
ons lingering in the tall yellow grass, I pounced with every ounce of strength, driving my shoulder in Uncle Randy’s chest.

  Startled, he stumbled backward, never believing I’d have the guts to do it. With his arms flailing, he knocked over a lamp sending it crashing to the floor. It was enough to get the Russian’s attention. On top of Uncle Randy, my fists landed with fury, leaving his face bloodied.

  I needed more time.

  Grabbing the tablet from the floor, I darted toward the back of the cabin knocking into walls and furniture along the way. Bursting through the back door, my heart thumped. Dead ahead was a forest with huge trees. The harder I pushed through the snow, the more my body burned as bullets ricocheted off tree trunks beside me.

  Glancing back to see how close they were, Uncle Randy stood in the doorway wiping the blood from his face while the Russians gained ground.

  Nearing the edge of the forest, knowing I was a dead man, I snatched the thumb drive from my pocket and stuck it into a port on the tablet. A split second later, semi-automatic rounds knocked me off my feet. Pain seared through my lungs. Scrambling on my knees exposed, I dug frantically through the snow, keeping one hand pressed against the wound.

  Stumbling into the forest, my eyes were glued to the tablet screen. More bullets whizzed past. Nearly there, keep pushing. Organs were shutting down, blurring the trees around me, and dimming the rest of my surroundings. Uncle Randy yelled, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  Gunfire ceased.

  Heading deeper into the forest, each breath was shallower than the last until my legs crumpled beneath me. Facedown in the snow, I stretched for the tablet, but it was out of reach. Crawling on my stomach, leaving a crimson trail across the stark white snow, my fingers barely touched the screen before the world faded into a magnificent bright light.

  EIGHTY-EIGHT

  A fluorescent light flickered.

  Two weeks in the hospital, three days after waking from a coma, and doctors finally cleared me to be discharged. Gunshot wounds punctured my right lung and lodged in my right shoulder. Special Forces found me in the snow, bleeding to death, and kept me alive. One day, I’d thank them personally.

  Seated on the edge of the bed, staring at the tattoo on my forearm, reminded me of how close I’d come to the other side. Pulling myself up, still stinging from the surgery, I shuffled over to the window. Staring out on the city, the days ahead were the greatest mystery.

  Unemployed. Homeless. Broke.

  While I recovered, Dax distributed millions to the families who would spend the rest of their lives without the one they loved — taken from them because of what started with the Red Venture Group. Hard to believe, Dax and I never knew it existed, yet we were their operatives.

  Dax stood in the doorway. “Ready to go?”

  “I’ve been ready.” I turned gingerly. “Margaret?”

  “Got her all hooked up.” Dax grabbed my overnight bag. “Woman’s home the first six months, then she’ll transition into permanent housing. Also got Grams set up for monthly deposit. I’ll keep an eye on her to make sure she’s spending the money wisely.”

  “Already calling her Grams,” I chuckled. “And you’re a financial advisor?”

  “I don’t mind, bro. She’s a feisty lady.”

  “Did you leave gas money in the budget?’

  Dax burst out with a roaring laughter, just like Dad. “Enough for half a tank!”

  Leaving the hospital, life returned to where it had been — Dax and I against the world. On the way to the Marina, we stopped in Highland Park.

  Sleepy’s wife, Anita, was in the front yard playing with her twin girls, Sofia and Bella. Drinking cervezas on the front porch were more of Sleepy’s homies.

  With an envelope in my back pocket, I climbed out of the Range Rover borrowed from Elena and met Anita across the fence.

  “Dax said you wanted to see me.” She did a once over, taking in the bandages and how I walked like a ninety-year-old. “You don’t look so good.”

  “It’s been a rough month.” It was almost to the day that Fatima killed Sleepy. I tried to calm the butterflies. “Anita, we got him.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes, then rolled down her cheeks. “¿El diablo está muerto?” The devil is dead.

  I nodded. “It’s over.”

  “Thank you, Chase.” Anita reached across the fence, hugged me, and whispered, “I miss him every day.”

  “Me too.” I fought back tears of my own. “I’m so sorry.”

  She let go and wiped her face. “You honored your promise.”

  “If you ever need anything, you know where to find me.” I reached into my back pocket and removed the envelope. “Start a new life with your girls, away from here.”

  Anita took the envelope and opened it, something I hadn’t expected. Her eyes widened as she looked at the amount on the check. Feeling awkward, I wasn’t sure if she was going to hug me again or burst into tears. Instead, she stared at me with determination. She didn’t need to say anything more. Waving to the twins as I left, I raised a fist to her homies who returned the gesture holding up cervezas.

  Back in the Range Rover, Dax pulled away from the curb, leaving Sleepy’s barrio in the rearview.

  “Kinda makes you feel like Santa Claus,” he said.

  “A little bit,” I mused, then checked the gas gauge. “We got enough?”

  “We’ll make it on fumes.”

  Leaning back in the seat, I dozed off with nothing left to give. When I woke, we were parked in the lot at Marina Del Rey near Dock 52. Dax carried our bags as I punched in a four-digit code at the security gate. We walked between the boat slips toward the Vihkrovs mega yacht — Midnight Moon.

  “Did she say when she was coming back?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t going to ask the Black Widow of Bratva.”

  Reaching the end of the dock, we boarded the mega yacht, which seemed to be empty. Elena avoided my calls in the hours before boarding the cargo plane to Iceland, and she wasn’t at the hospital when I woke. Not being able to talk with her left me questioning whether our relationship was in limbo. Dax swore she’d called to check on me, and she was letting us stay on their yacht — but I needed to hear her voice.

  “RC Engineering is under investigation by the Feds.” Dax set our bags down inside the main parlor. “After Collinsworth’s disappearance the stocks are tanking.”

  “No one will ever believe the story.” I slumped into a plush sofa and kicked my shoes off. “Hell, I still don’t believe it.”

  “You know Prince Azim stopped by to visit while you were in the coma.” He handed me a bottled water, then opened a beer for himself. Reaching into his wallet, he removed a metallic card and showed me a hologram on one side. “He said this was a gift from the King.”

  Staring at the hologram, I recognized it from the base of the clay mold — it was an emblem from Rossino Renaldt’s Royale collection, different from the auction invitation. “What do we do with it?”

  “A little bit of magic.” Dax reached underneath the glass table, retrieved a holojector, then slid the card into a slot. A 3-D map floated in front of us. “And a little bit of rock and roll.”

  EIGHTY-NINE

  AGADIR, MOROCCO

  A city along the southern Atlantic coast known as a resort destination, with its Berber, Arabian, and European influences was a perfect place for a fugitive to hide in plain sight. Crescent beaches. Seaside promenades. Medieval quarters. Local marketplaces. One could easily disappear in the crowds.

  For the last week, Elena followed the same routine. Morning coffee at a sidewalk cafe, followed by a two-mile walk along the beach where tourists rode horses and camels. Afternoons spent in her room at the Hotel Sofitel, monitoring a surveillance camera mounted across the street from a beachfront estate. At night she lounged at the Flamingo Night Club, brushing off the worst pick-up lines she’d ever heard. Every moment, and every movement, focused on a heavily guarded target.

  Checking out e
arly from the hotel, she left her luggage with a Petit Taxi driver, then walked the boardwalk with ice in her veins. With each step, she heard Michael’s voice ringing in her ears. Hidden behind dark glasses, she slipped her hand into her jacket and gripped the gun. Crossing the street, men who feared her father were ready to betray Judas to save themselves.

  Seated at the corner cafe, with his back to her, an older man was consumed with his morning paper. Elena closed in, noticing his private security casually step away, and removed the gun from her jacket. With the weapon by her side, she strolled past, pointed the silencer at the back of his head, and pulled the trigger. As he slumped forward, she continued walking never looking back, knowing it was pure retribution — a $100 million payday and a secret she would take to the grave.

  Before she landed in LA, the headlines would read: Billionaire, Randall Collinsworth, found dead in Agadir, Morocco.

  NINETY

  DAVAO CITY, PHILIPPINES

  Bouncing along a muddy road, humidity seeped through my clothes as Typhoon Wilma roared off the coast of the Philippine Sea. Dax was next to me, gripping a handrail overhead as the jeepney skidded off the main road. We were in close quarters with SEAL Team Mongoose, who were locked and loaded.

  It was one of the perks of having President Bouchard on speed dial. Even the most powerful man in the free world owed favors to those who kept his secrets.

  We waited until after dark before setting Operation Blurred Lines into motion. The weather worsened as we drove the flooded roads of the dump site, surrounded by tin shanties and cinderblock structures where thousands of scavengers raised their families near the base of a mountain of trash.

  Not only had the 3-D hologram given us a possible map to a buried treasure, it offered us a location where Tama Fatima had recruited her terrorist cell.

  I double checked my Sig Sauer and Flak Vest — Dax did the same. No wisecracks. All business. A sense of brotherhood vibrated through my bones riding alongside the most badass elite unit ever to fight in the shadows. Adrenaline rose from the deserts of Iraq, fueling a piece of my soul that relished the rush.