The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “I agree with him. You should leave as soon as possible.”

  She shook her head. “Chase, this was not only an attack on your family.”

  I squeezed Dax’s shoulder. Maybe it was a way to let him know I was there.

  He mumbled as if caught in a dream. “No… no… no…” Suddenly, he sat straight up, wide-eyed, his heart rate and vitals spiked. “He’s alive! That mother…”

  The Russian who’d stayed near the bed calmly increased the sedative.

  Dax groggily leaned back and the vitals leveled off. Once his eyes closed, his body relaxed. His sudden outburst was unnerving. A twinge of fear struck as I determined whether it was a moment of hallucination or utter clarity. I sensed Elena’s eyes locked on me, knowing she’d want answers — eventually. For a while, we stood over him, watching his chest rise and fall to the rhythm of life.

  The French doors opened to a sprawling backyard where gray clouds rolled in from the ocean, awakening a strong breeze that swayed the thick-rooted palm trees.

  My nerves were rattled. My will enraged. My mind stuck on overdrive.

  Seeing Akram Kasim at Tanets, pointing a semi-automatic at the back of Laney’s skull, I snapped. A wave of memories flooded my mind. How did he end up there? I assumed he’d been rounded up the night of the raid. I needed Dax coherent enough to ask if a ghost was resurrected from a desert grave. Watching the clouds approach, I wondered if they mirrored the hours and days ahead.

  “I swore I’d never put Dax in danger again.”

  “You did what needed to be done,” Elena replied, always willing to stand in my corner.

  “I tried to put the war behind me, but I don’t think God forgives men like me.”

  “Wars never die — only those who refuse to fight.”

  Elena’s beauty glowed in her slender figure, striking European features, and a confidence spoken with every word. A born leader who would one day rule the Vihkrov empire. More cunning than even her own father. Beneath her beauty lurked a darkness that seduced me. She never flinched at death, as if she knew firsthand the consequence of ending a life.

  On many summer nights, she stared deep into my soul, peeling away a web of remorse that entangled me. She convinced me that lines needed to be crossed out of a relentless loyalty to family. She accepted me for who I was — not who I wished to be — or who Laney believed me to be. Elena recognized the demons beneath my skin who crawled into those dark corners. She was there to help lock them away. Love bound us together, yet it was also what kept us apart. Sure, I’d fallen hard for Laney, and never imagined she’d betray me, but betrayal would never be true of Elena.

  “The Feds seized the Swiss account,” I said softly. “And they’re guessing you helped me set it up.”

  “What about the money your father kept in the Caymans?”

  I stopped cold. “How’d you know about that?”

  “He asked for our help — and we obliged.”

  “Well, they’ve seized those account numbers too. Once the paperwork goes through it’ll all belong to the government.”

  “I am sorry, Chase.”

  “A few weeks ago, losing that much money would’ve been suicidal. But now everything’s turned upside down. Losing Dad. Dax nearly dying. Sleepy being killed. I swear to you, Elena, this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

  “You are a fighter.” She gently touched my arm. “Michael would have been proud.”

  A lump lodged in my throat as I swallowed hard. “I think it’s time you tell me about the Rossino Otto.”

  “Chase, you must be willing to step into the other side of the mirror.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Dax asleep. “I’ve got nowhere left to go.”

  SIXTEEN

  BLACK SITE — DOWNTOWN

  Four stories beneath street level, a large industrial-sized room buzzed with cutting-edge surveillance. Agents, analysts, and government personnel focused on identifying the four terrorists killed inside Tanets. With twelve civilians deceased, and dozens more injured, reporters snatched sound bites from eyewitness accounts where perspective shifted with each survivor. So far, no one on the outside had a clear image of any of the terrorists.

  Within the walls beneath the chaos, all attention, resources, and expertise concentrated on finding an evil lurking beyond the headlines and boundaries of judicial guilt. Extremism void of morality, doused in warped religious rhetoric, so dangerous the only justice was elimination.

  Inside a stark white room, bordering the hub of intelligence, Laney itched to confront the fifth terrorist on the other side of a two-way mirror – Akram Kasim. Clean shaven. Dark features. Cold eyes. Digitized titanium restraints secured his hands to the table, monitored his vitals, and detected his level of truthfulness once the interrogation began. For the moment, he stared straight ahead as if peering through the mirrored glass.

  Vaughn entered the solitude, away from a tornado of activity swirling on the other side of the door. He dropped a file on a desk, poked a few keys on a keyboard, and pulled up a heavily redacted report on a flat-screen.

  “Nice press conference, by the way,” he said.

  “You should’ve been the one to do it.” Laney checked Kasim’s vitals on a monitor, knowing that Vaughn had put her in front of the cameras as a safety net. She wasn’t going back undercover with Chase or anyone else — ever. “I can’t do my job if I’m paraded in front of the press.”

  “Like I said before, your cover’s blown. You were in too deep. Trust me, it’s better this way. Besides, orders came from the Director.” Vaughn stepped towards the two-way mirror with his back to Laney. “I asked about the operation to capture Abu Haji Fatima, and the Agency confirmed that we’re looking at his right-hand man, Akram Kasim.”

  “Chase was right.” Laney scanned the report on screen, but there wasn’t much left after all the redactions. “Kasim was his contact in Baghdad and Mosul.”

  “Which the Agency will neither confirm nor deny.” Vaughn turned and pointed toward the file. “Off the record, I’ve got proof Chase was in Baghdad and Mosul, but not much more.”

  Laney opened the file and scanned surveillance photos of Akram Kasim at a local eatery somewhere in the Middle East. Seated across from him hidden behind sunglasses was a bulky, scraggly bearded, American. If she hadn’t spent the last six months intimately with him, she never would’ve recognized Chase with the extra thirty pounds.

  She glanced up at Vaughn, who still had his back turned. “The Agency won’t confirm he was part of the operation?”

  “A confidential source inside the Department of Defense sent me those photos.” Finally, Vaughn faced Laney. “No one’s talking. But from the report we know whatever happened over there involved Akram Kasim, which confirms we neutralized a terror threat on American soil.”

  Laney nodded. “Still doesn’t answer why the report is so heavily redacted.”

  “Possibly to protect the identities of the SEAL team.”

  “I remember when the President announced Abu Haji Fatima was killed. Now we’ve got his right hand in custody, and that’s got people nervous.” Laney eyed the surveillance photos, sensing there was more there. “What about Chase’s military record?”

  “After basic training, he was stationed with Dexter Thompson at Camp Pendleton,” Vaughn answered. “Based on official records, neither were deployed to Baghdad, Mosul, or any other base overseas. By all official accounts, they remained in Pendleton the entire time.”

  “First the plane crash, the hit at the garage, then the attack at the club.” Laney stared through the two-way mirror at Akram Kasim, then pointed at the photos zeroing in on a common denominator. “Chase was in the Middle East. He’s the one person at the center of all this.”

  “Before last night, you’re sure he wasn’t on to you?”

  “Russell, I know I got too close, but so did he.”

  “So you’re not positive.”

  “He was blindsided.”

  “You spent six mo
nths with the guy and he never said a word about Baghdad, Mosul, or Fatima?” Vaughn stared through the other side of the mirror. “Laney, we both know there’s a reason why the DOD left him out of the report. But for now, we stay focused on Akram Kasim.”

  “Agreed.” Laney sat on the edge of the desk and folded her arms. Her mind raced through the weeks and months she’d spent undercover. Not a single word was mentioned about Abu Haji Fatima or Akram Kasim. “What do we know about him?”

  “Homeland confirmed that Kasim entered the country on a refugee status through Germany a year ago under the alias Sayid Haddad. We’re working under the assumption he was part of a terrorist cell. So, we need to identify the other Johnny Jihad’s to know if they arrived around the same time to see how they’re connected. Our team is surveilling the address listed on Kasim/Haddad’s employment records, and are waiting for the go ahead to secure the apartment.”

  Laney nodded slowly, still deep in thought. “What about the van at Tanets?”

  “Rented from Low Budget Rentals in Northridge.” Vaughn tapped on the keyboard as he searched through a growing list of intel. “It’s been wiped for fingerprints, but so far no other identities have hit our database.”

  “You think the DOD or the Agency are running interference?”

  “Who knows?” Vaughn shrugged. “We should have ballistics later today to see if the slugs recovered at Tanets match our victim at the garage.” Another file opened to a snapshot of a Brazilian passport with Laney’s face on it. “We also recovered this at the garage. Looks like Chase was planning on taking you with him.”

  She knew what Vaughn was thinking. Just what she would think about an agent who got too deep undercover without realizing how far they’d wandered from reality. Vaughn’s dedication to the investigation stared back at her during the press conference. And his concern was evident when he forced her to stand front and center. She admired that about him, whether she was ready to admit it or not.

  Staring hard at the passport, Laney judged her own state of mind. Had falling for Chase compromised the investigation? Was she blinded to who Chase really was? Was her heart too entangled to objectively pursue the evidence? Could she still effectively lead the investigation? Truth was, she wasn’t sure. And her guess was, neither was Vaughn.

  “What else?” Laney asked.

  “We’ve compiled all cameras within a six block radius of Skid Row. We might’ve found something useful.”

  A video played on the screen where a shadow crossed the street and entered the garage, then the timecode jumped eight minutes forward when the shadow reappeared outside headed toward the same street Laney and Chase walked that night. Another edit cut to a different camera angle where the shadow passed by them on the sidewalk.

  “I missed it,” Laney said in disbelief. “Any match to Kasim or the other suspects?”

  “We’re working on cleaning up the footage, but it’ll take some time.”

  “If they knew about the garage, it’s possible Kasim and the others were watching Chase for a while.” She nodded at the snapshots of the dead terrorists from the club, realizing they might’ve been watching her too. “One of them could be our shooter.”

  Vaughn played out the scenario. “Chase is on the run, they were out of time, and Vihkrov’s club was their last chance. We found blood in the alley at the garage and in an upstairs office at the club. Both are a match to Dexter Thompson. So, it’s possible Thompson was inside the garage at the time of the shooting. Still doesn’t explain a motive.”

  “I need to talk to Chase.” Laney checked her cell. “I planted a tracker inside his wallet a few days ago as a precaution.”

  “You know, when this is over you’ll need to let him go.” When Laney didn’t respond Vaughn stacked the photos and handed them over. “I’ll head over to the apartment. Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

  Vaughn slipped out, leaving Laney rubbing the stitches on her cheek, wrestling with an ache in her stomach, and staring icily through the glass.

  Time to settle the score.

  SEVENTEEN

  Elena stood in the center of the room in front of a full-length mirror wearing a low cut, form-fitting black dress draped perfectly over her toned body. She turned to one side to reveal a high slit up her thigh to make one wonder. I reached for the clasp near her neck and fastened the dress, then stared at her bare back down to the fringe of her waist. My fingers lingered near her skin as a sweet perfume filled my nostrils. Intoxicating.

  “When Dad visited you in Saint Petersburg, what’d he say?”

  “He told us the Rossino Otto was going to be auctioned on the dark web by invitation only, and believed he had a way to get us in.” Elena studied her reflection in the mirror. “My father offered protection when he told us his life was in danger because of what he had found.”

  “The Rossino Otto is real?”

  She stepped away from the mirror and wrapped a long string of pearls around her neck, as if baiting me to ask the question again. The pearls dripped between the cut of her dress, flaunting her most striking features. She caught me staring and smirked. Busted.

  “He traced the Rossino Otto from the hidden chambers of Hitler’s Berghof,” she said, “to a secret room in Hussein’s As-Salem Palace.”

  “Dad was always a great storyteller — mostly fables when it came to legends.”

  “For decades, he believed the Rossino Otto was a myth, until a source in the Emirates provided proof of its existence. We confirmed through another contact in Mecca that the Rossino Otto was taken from Hussein’s palace during the invasion of Baghdad. It is believed the same person has kept the Rossino Otto hidden since. A year ago, rumors surfaced that the Rossino Otto was going to be sold on the dark web for two hundred million.”

  “And Dad believed it was finally happening? I bet he was itching to bid — and Dmitry too.” Why Dad hid a hundred million in the Caymans was clear. He was chasing the biggest treasure hunt of his life. “How would you be able confirm its authenticity?”

  “Engraved markings on the collectible — and a unique key to start the engine.” Elena slipped into her heels. “When your father left Saint Petersburg, we agreed to be equal partners. Once he returned to Los Angeles he planned to contact his source and enter us into the bidding.”

  “Who knows what the markings or ignition key look like?” I asked.

  “Your father knew — and whoever is in possession of the Rossino Otto.”

  “He never shared those details with either of you?”

  “Chase, you know how our fathers work. Trust is always leveraged.”

  “Do you know if the Rossino Otto sold?”

  Elena hesitated, which meant she was holding back. “There is still an opportunity to enter the bidding, but one must be invited.”

  “What if there was a way to get the hundred million in the Caymans?”

  Elena eyed me curiously. “Our partnership will remain.”

  I grabbed a pressed shirt from a closet where I’d left most of my clothes. In a strange way, there was a piece of me that knew one day I’d return. Last summer we were lost beneath the sheets many nights. An escape from the scorching Middle East. Returning stateside was complicated. When the nightmares struck, she never left my side.

  Elena grabbed a tie and wrapped it around my neck while I tucked in my shirt. She gazed into my eyes knowing the demons never left — they simply lingered beneath the surface in the waking hours. I was forever cursed for what I’d done when unleashed rage shivered the graves of those who threatened freedom. But there was no denying I’d done what Dad asked of me, and that left me stumbling in a fog amidst the pitiful remains of a family legacy.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I asked.

  She turned back to the full-length mirror, like a doll on display, then stopped when she faced me again. “Your father knew she was FBI.” I slumped down on the edge of the bed. “He would not say how, but he told us before he left.”

  Palms press
ed firmly against my face, her words sucked the oxygen from the room. Vaughn never said a word at Tallyrand. And from the beginning, Laney never left a clue. How could I be so blind? I was such a fool to believe fate had found love.

  “Chase, why where those men trying to kill you?”

  “One of the shooters at the club was our contact in Baghdad,” I said in a lowered voice, still reeling from Elena’s words. “He led us to the Artifacts of Exile.” My eyes burned a hole in the floor. “Akram Kasim was also the right hand to a terrorist known to the US government as the Prodigal.”

  Elena’s dark eyes fixed on me. “You have whispered that name in your sleep.”

  “I’ve never told anyone, other than Dax, the truth.” My elbows dug into my knees. “We were in Mosul to secure the Artifacts of Exile and identify the Prodigal — Abu Haji Fatima. After months of working our sources, we were introduced to Akram Kasim as black-market smugglers. We met every week at a local hole in the wall in the center of Baghdad.” I clasped my hands together, and let the memories flow. “We caught a break when Akram agreed to take us to the Prodigal, who was rumored to be the mastermind behind bombings in New York, Mumbai, London, St. Petersburg, Barcelona, Tel Aviv, and Frankfurt.”

  Slowly, I stood and paced the room. “The SEAL team waited outside the compound for confirmation. But one look into Fatima’s eyes, I knew our cover was blown. Then the gunfire started and all hell broke loose.”

  The bedroom was a confessional and Elena my priest.

  “Dax moved first and shot two of Fatima’s men, who were already on the run. I chased after Fatima to the second floor. We didn’t know how many were in the house, but I wasn’t going to let him get away.” Closing my eyes, flashbacks struck with vivid clarity. “Shadows appeared on the stairs. I fired and they dropped. Stepping over them I looked down — two teenage boys, both armed.” Tears welled up and crept down my cheeks. “I pulled the trigger first.”

  Elena reached out and placed her hand on my shoulder. “Chase…”

  “I cornered Fatima on the roof where it was pitch black. He didn’t have a weapon, so he kneeled and surrendered.” I wiped my cheeks with my sleeve and tried to compose myself. “Then I emptied my clip before the SEAL team secured the compound.”