His words rang more true than ever when Dax and I fought in the hotbed of the Middle East. We were deep inside the underworld where the war ravaged millions of innocent lives. When we returned stateside and witnessed the scope of the rubble and ruins of Mosul, it was a clear testament to how lucky we were to have survived. Standing over the bodies of those I killed, I never imagined the hunted would one day shake me to the core.
How naive was it to think chasing stolen antiquities, while dodging terrorists bullets, was my path toward being handed the auction gavel? Actions had consequences, beyond the world I dreamed of for myself. I’d fought for my country. I fought for Dad. I fought for selfish ambition. I wanted to be a deal maker like him. No, I wanted to be better. If that meant boots on the ground pursuing my legacy, then so be it. I’d paid my dues and traded bloody boots for thousand-dollar suits. Then a plane dropped from the sky— a weapon unleashed — and Dad was gone.
Grief wrapped its claws around my neck, choking those visions of happily ever after away. Stopped at the gates of Prince Azim’s estate, I wondered if the ache in my soul was permanent. Sure, it was grief from losing Dad, but I’d be lying if I admitted it wasn’t from losing the life I believed would one day be mine. All the self-help gurus on the planet couldn’t help me let go of the match that was lit in Mosul.
Dad’s booming voice from the auction stage and the warmth of his bellowing laughter after a few glasses of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti were swallowed up by a relentless demon — one who left the living drowning in remorse and regret. As an inferno raged toward those I loved, I prayed to the heavens that I wouldn’t hesitate.
A wrought-iron gate opened to a winding driveway lined with acacias. Driving slowly, I reached a roundabout with a gold Arabian statue in the center of a gushing fountain. Opulence was never understated, especially considering California’s water shortage. From shadowing Dad, I learned quickly no matter how much wealth one garnered, roots were oftentimes hidden within the design and decor of their private domains.
Case and point: Azim’s Saudi heritage displayed in a palace in Beverly Hills.
Last chance, Chase.
Climbing from the Mercedes, I wasn’t here to close a deal, deliver a car, or hand over the Level 10 malware to wreak havoc on the world. I failed to save Dad, to protect Dax, to keep Elena out of the Feds’ investigation, and to see through Laney’s lies and stop any of it from happening. But as I gripped the thumb drive in my pocket, there was a sliver of hope for redemption.
A woman with long, silky hair, olive skin, and inky eyes approached dressed in a slender white pantsuit. She led me into a space which dwarfed Uncle Randy’s garage, lined with golden statues and a baker’s dozen of rare automobiles. Even though these were a fraction of Azim’s collection, they were a pirate’s treasure chest for the wealthiest of connoisseurs. The woman excused herself and disappeared into the main house, leaving me alone to browse the automobiles.
Grief was a strange beast that lingered far too long. First, regret. Second, remorse. Third, guilt. A sobering thought amidst these prized collectibles. And a double-edged sword when grieving over those you’ve lost, a life you longed to live now vanished, mixed with the uncertainty of whether any of it will return to normal — whatever normal means. No collection of cars equaled the weight of grief that pressed on my shoulders.
Standing in the center of extravagant luxury, I missed Dad more than anything. I was lost without him, wading in an ocean of sharks without his cage of protection. Besides Elena, he and Dax were the ones who pulled me through the aftermath of Mosul. Returning stateside I was an equal opportunist to my drugs of choice — alcohol, cocaine, opioids. When I spiraled into addiction, they stood by me. But Dad was also the one who sent Dax and me into the lion’s den to retrieve the Artifacts of Exile — the other side of love.
TWENTY-SIX
“I watched you drive my beauty onto the property,” Azim announced as he strolled across the room, extending his hand with a smile. “Thank you for bringing her to me personally.”
“Drives like a dream,” I said. “A real head turner.”
“I must admit, I rarely drive any of them.” Azim waved at the other cars in the showroom. “Your father sold most of my collection to me. He was an extremely loyal man.”
“He’d give you the shirt off his back.”
“After only a short time, I grew quite fond of him. I am truly sorry for your loss.”
I swallowed hard and whispered, “Thank you.”
Azim’s eyes shifted curiously. “I was surprised to see you last night with Elena.”
“Her father asked me to accompany her, so I obliged.”
“I hope Dmitry compensated you.”
“The Vihkrovs are family, and I was happy to do it.” Digging my hands into my pockets, I felt the thumb drive. “Strange that no one bid on the electro-disruptor.”
Azim motioned for me to follow him. We walked toward the far end of the garage, then exited through a door into another wing of the palace. Marble floors, walls, and pillars wrapped around a two-story library filled with thousands of books. A wooden ladder on wheels stretched from floor to ceiling. How many of these books had Azim actually read? I guessed a high-priced interior decorator viewed them as a design element to Azim’s over-the-top home. He reached into a wooden box on a corner table and retrieved two Cuban cigars. He handed me one, then lit the other.
“I presume Mr. Collinsworth is satisfied,” Azim said.
“Your offer was one he couldn’t refuse.” Squeezing the thumb drive in my pocket, I pulled it out and handed it over. “No delivery charge.”
Azim chuckled as he stoked his stogie. To think I’d handed over such a dangerous cyber weapon turned my stomach. Instead of telling Laney, I rolled the dice hoping to hit midnight — a pair of sixes in craps with high-paying odds.
“I do have a question about the electro-disruptor,” I said. Azim exhaled, leaving a pungent thick cloud of smoke in the room. “Do you know the seller?”
Azim paced the room, weighing his answer, then he pointed his cigar in my direction. “I assure you, it does not belong to me.”
“Never crossed my mind. I’m curious is all.”
“Curiosity is a gift when used wisely.” Azim gestured around the room, then switched the conversation. “When you strip all of this away — the money and business dealings — all that is left is family.”
“Prince Azim, we sold over a hundred cars to you in the last two years, and yet I’ve never heard you speak about your family.”
“After my father died, my mother raised five children outside the capital of Saudi Arabia.” Azim drew on the cigar, then exhaled deeply, leaving a cloud of smoke wafting in the air. “At one time, we were considered royalty. However, we were far down in the genealogy with a heritage that left us living in the bottom of society.”
“Humble beginnings.” My nostrils inhaled the pungent aroma. “Now you’re a Prince.”
“Quite easy to call oneself royalty. How one achieves such noble status is often shrouded in controversy. In my country, the King hides the poor, including those with royal blood who have fallen from his good graces. We were left begging in the slums. You see, Chase, I did not inherit oil fields, real estate, or refineries from the royal family. Like you and your father, I offered my skills, relationships, and expertise to those in power. My heritage provided me access to powerful circles of influence as a broker — one who expedited items of a confidential nature to those willing to pay the price.”
“Are you brokering the electro-disruptor?”
Azim nodded slowly. “I trust you will keep it in confidence.”
“Discretion was the cornerstone of Dad’s success.” I evened my breath, struggling to harness the adrenaline rushing through my veins. “Wealth and influence won’t exist without it.”
“Ah, yes, wealth and influence are strange mistresses. Never quite enough to satisfy. Yet one is willing to venture into the dark in search of more. A gam
e with no end.” Azim perched the cigar on the edge of an onyx ashtray. “I suppose we are all seeking to find what we value most — even if it leaves us broken.”
“Prince Azim, are there buyers for the electro-disruptor?”
“Clearly none willing to cross Dmitry Vihkrov.”
Realizing he wasn’t going to go deeper, I nodded at the thumb drive. “What will you do with the malware?”
“I agreed to purchase this for a seat at the table — an invitation to bid on a myth.” Azim eyed me closely, then held up the thumb drive as if it were a trophy. “Those who wish to receive such an invitation must offer something of great value. Brokering the electro-disruptor was merely a way to bid on the Level 10 malware. I plan to trade the malware to gain access to something much more valuable to me.”
“The Rossino Otto.”
Azim stepped back, a bit surprised. “You know of this legend?”
“Ever since I was a young kid, my father searched for proof of its authenticity.” Stepping closer I was aware that others might be listening from within the palace. “Prince, you are a valued client who we have handled with the highest discretion. Allow me to prove my loyalty by authenticating the Rossino Otto when the bidding begins.”
“What are you asking in return?”
“The seller’s name for the electro-disruptor.” Moment of truth. “And I’m willing to pay the asking price of five million.”
Azim’s eyes narrowed as he extinguished the cigar. “I will take your offer into consideration.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Heading south on the 5 Freeway, a two-and-a-half-hour drive stretched an extra hour as a sea of red lights bottlenecked at sunrise. Shortly after leaving the black site in downtown LA, Vaughn dozed off, which was welcomed silence. Inching forward in traffic, Laney tried to keep herself sharp as her thoughts turned to a summer a few years back in Coronado shadowing a SEAL team training for a mission in Afghanistan. Eight weeks immersed in their regimented routine pushed her to the limit physically and mentally. It surpassed the training she endured at Quantico and left her with a greater respect for those warriors who protected America’s freedom abroad. When Chase mentioned Commander Brian Wilkins, she recognized the name as one mentioned frequently on the base at Coronado. Wilkins was the elite of the elite. A true warrior who earned the SEAL Trident forged by adversity and fought the evil who lurked in the darkness.
Laney glanced out on a stretch of freeway that paralleled the ocean as an orange-and-blue sky seemed to glisten across the Pacific. Maybe it was from a lack of sleep, but her body drifted into a daze as she caught herself glancing at the clock wondering how the minutes had passed.
With her thoughts wandering, she pushed Coronado aside and reminisced about the first night she caught Chase’s stare at Tanets. Wearing a tight, black dress revealing enough skin to make one wonder, she was nervous to begin the deep cover operation as Laney Davenport. Vaughn had stuck his neck out to put her in charge, and a glowing commentary from the SEAL team didn’t hurt either. She never anticipated being lost in a world beyond the reality of her own.
From that first moment Chase smiled, she was disarmed. In recent weeks, that smile faded with the loss of his father, leaving the undercover operation spiraling at breakneck speed. Returning to Tanets for answers from Elena Vihkrov left Laney wondering if her love for Chase was nothing more than a means to a name.
Of course, she denied her feelings whenever Vaughn questioned, but there were times she was one word away from telling Chase the truth. Maybe life would’ve been easier if she’d done it and they’d disappeared. She tried one last time at the hanger before Vaughn raided the place. Vaughn hadn’t told her the plan, which meant he’d seen through her denials. At first, she was pissed, but as the hours passed she knew he’d made the right choice. She was in so deep she wouldn’t have pulled herself out.
After the rendezvous with Chase at the Overlook, the photos found at Akram Kasim’s apartment were matched with military records. It didn’t take long before there was a positive ID of Commander Brian Wilkins. Vaughn questioned how she’d narrowed it down so quickly, so she explained how Yasmin ran the photos through facial recognition — leaving out her conversation with Chase. After all they’d been through, it should’ve been easier to tell Vaughn. Instead, she lied. Again. Guilt and love mixed like oil and vinegar. Guilt for blurring the lines with Vaughn. Her love for Chase which bent — no, which broke the rules. But knowing whether her love for him was real was like fighting a war with no end. Impossible.
As if sleeping to an internal clock, Vaughn’s eyes opened once Laney exited off the freeway. He mumbled, “Was I snoring?”
“No more than usual,” Laney answered. “We’re a few miles out.”
“I had this crazy dream about how you knew it was Wilkins.” Vaughn stretched in the passenger seat. “Make sure when you file the report you say we matched photos from Kasim’s apartment with Wilkins’ military records.”
“That’s exactly what happened.” Laney tapped the steering wheel and avoided eye contact as she turned left at the corner. “Russell, you were right…”
“Whatever you gave him in return is on you.”
Laney parked in front of a single-story craftsman and climbed out. She circled around the front and walked through the yard. Vaughn was a few paces behind, his words still ringing in her ears. Laney pressed the doorbell and the two waited. A moment later, the door cracked open and a woman in her earlier thirties poked her head out.
“Special Agent Kelley.” Laney flashed her badge, then nodded toward Vaughn. “This is Special Agent Vaughn. We’re looking for Brian Wilkins.”
“I’m his wife, Sarah.” She opened the door wide. “Please, come in.”
Inside, the living room was quaint. A single lamp illuminated a corner of the space where a young girl curled up on a sofa asleep beneath a princess blanket. Sarah motioned for them to sit around the dining room table. Laney and Vaughn found chairs as Sarah pulled her hair into a ponytail and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
“Is he alive?” Sarah asked.
“We have no knowledge otherwise,” Vaughn answered surprised. “He’s not here then?”
“Hasn’t been home in weeks.” Dark circles under her eyes shadowed her face. “Every time he leaves, it’s hard on us. We don’t know if he’s coming home. When he was on active duty, I convinced myself it was to protect us. But now…”
Laney leaned in and exchanged looks with Vaughn. “Any clue where he is?”
“A few months back, he checked himself into the VA.” Sarah’s eyes welled up with tears. “I visited him every day, but then one morning he was gone. A nurse told me he checked himself out. He just disappeared.”
“Did you file a missing persons?” Laney asked.
Sarah nodded. “Police know he’s a SEAL, so they’ve kept it out of the news.”
“Have they found any leads?”
Sarah reached for a manila folder on the table, retrieved a driver’s license, vehicle registration, and a copy of the police report. She handed them over. “He took his truck and his cell, but there’s been nothing in weeks.
As the young girl stirred on the sofa, Laney lowered her voice. “Sarah, we weren’t aware he was missing.”
“I thought that’s why you were here,” Sara replied, confused.
Vaughn snapped photos of the license, registration, and police report, then texted Yasmin. “Mrs. Wilkins, your husband returned two years ago from overseas. He was on a mission in Mosul. Do you remember anything different about him during that time?”
Sarah’s eyes widened as she wiped the tears with her sleeve. “Brian spent eighteen months in the hospital recovering from his injuries. PTSD was always part of the re-entry, but that mission left him damaged in other ways. We’ve all paid a price in this war.”
“Has there been anyone else around looking for him?” Laney asked.
“No one.” Sarah buried her face in her hands. “We just need him home.�
�
TWENTY-EIGHT
A fleet of intricately painted Impala low riders lined Calvary Cemetery in Boyle Heights. Chromed trim. White-walled tires. Wire-spoked wheels. Fitted hydraulics. An army of tatted homeboys dressed in black with dark shades formed a path from a hearse to the final graveside. A dozen or more had helped move the collector cars from our office minutes before the Feds raided us. Eight of them now carried a casket to the edge of a freshly dug hole, then slowly set it down while a photo was perched atop the casket in memory of Mario “Sleepy” Robles.
Elena slipped her fingers between mine and leaned in close as we were surrounded by Sleepy’s familia, including his wife, Anita, and twin girls, Sofia and Bella. A lump lodged in my throat at a deep loss, especially when Sofia and Bella’s innocent voices sang prayers whispered from Earth to heaven. Anita placed a single white rose on the casket, pressed her palm against the lacquered finish, and bowed to a final prayer from a priest.
No way is this finished.
Anita stepped back from the casket and pulled me aside. My heart pounded as we walked away from the crowd. I hadn’t spoken to her since the night Sleepy was killed, and I was ready for the verbal lashing I deserved.
“You were a brother to him.” Tears welled up on the verge of spilling down her cheeks. “Chase, you must promise me you will find whoever did this, to honor Mario.”
“You have my word.” I slipped her an envelope with twenty grand. “It’s not much, but hopefully this will help you get through the next few months.”
“Money comes and goes, but those we lose are gone forever.”
A knife plunged into my soul, leaving yet another wound that would never heal. I hugged Anita, then headed for the Maserati parked at the curb. Elena was already inside, keeping her eyes focused on Sleepy’s homies who did the same. I punched the ignition and slowly drove past a long line of low riders.
“Are you okay?” Elena asked.
The Auctioneer Page 11
