The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  “Elena, if you are watching this then I am no longer alive.” He glanced away for a second, and when he turned back his eyes were glossy. “I have done all that I can to protect my son. However, it has proven not to be enough. Betrayal stands in my path and will haunt me in the world beyond.”

  “Who betrayed you, Michael?” Elena whispered.

  “The money in front of you is one of four boxes totaling one hundred million. All of it is yours — with one request — keep Chase alive.”

  Elena covered her mouth. “Tell me who is after him.”

  “By now, Chase has probably told you about Mosul, but what he believes is not the whole truth. I must confess, my greed is what led him and Dax to Fatima’s compound. A selfish choice, I fear will cost my son everything in the end.” His eyes darted off screen, then back again. “A clandestine operation that hunted terrorists like Abu Haji Fatima was classified under an offshore company — The Red Venture Group. I believed what we were doing was in the best interest of our country. However, I never imagined I would unknowingly be responsible for selling American weapons to terrorists and that one day those weapons might be used against us.”

  Elena tilted her head back, taking it all in.

  “The government used Fatima’s death for political gain. I understood it. The Prodigal was dead, and there were many who benefited from it, including myself. But in recent days, I’ve discovered the Prodigal’s true identity, and it has left me broken, unsure of who to trust.” He leaned in closer. “You must never tell Chase, so if what I am asking is too much then simply walk away.”

  Elena’s body tensed, her muscles fired on all cylinders.

  He paused, as if giving her time to leave the room, then said, “I knew I could count on you. The Prodigal is… ”

  SIXTY

  Sweat seeped through my shirt as I continued a punishing pace through Mid-Wilshire, near the Miracle Mile shopping district. The overcast, brisk, windy afternoon gripped me in a unique way. What began in the scorching desert of the Middle East brought me here — hours away from flying with Prince Azim to the Emirates. Being alone, running through the streets, brought a sense of calmness before what I feared was a brewing storm.

  Music pumped through my ears as I dodged pedestrians and traffic. Afternoon turned to early evening as city lights glowed amidst the red and white lights of LA traffic. Death — Dad, Sleepy, Wilkins — haunted every stride. For the thousandth time, my mind raced through that night in Mosul when I climbed the steps, killed Fatima’s boys, and unloaded my weapon on the Prodigal. The aftermath was tattooed on my forearm, signifying a fueling flame of revenge. It was heart wrenching to watch Dad’s final moments, something I swore I’d never see again. Until vengeance was done, those numbers served as a grave reminder.

  Slowing the pace, I finished a five-mile loop of the high-rise, high-rent neighborhood. Catching my breath, exhaustion mixed with uncertainty and anxiety. I failed to protect Dad. I left Sleepy’s wife and kids without a husband and father. I didn’t act quick enough to find Wilkins. And watching Dax limp with his cane was a reminder of how much Fatima had already taken from me.

  Following in Dad’s footsteps was once the most important thing, but now who I was to become hinged on finding and stopping Fatima and Tama from taking another life. Without a clue of when they might strike, my instincts convinced me that Dax, Elena, Laney, and countless others were in their crosshairs.

  How am I supposed to stop them?

  I rode the elevator to the penthouse. The doors opened to a double-height living space. Multiple sitting areas. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Two outdoor spaces. Dramatic spiral staircase. And, a view worth the steep price tag.

  Dax stood with his back to me, looking out the windows.

  Before my run, I called while driving from Beverly Hills to Mid-Wilshire and we argued about going to the Emirates. He hung up. When I arrived at the apartment, he ignored me. It was rare for us to be at odds, but this was one of those times. He nearly died because of me — and risked his life in London to save me. I wasn’t going to allow him to take a bullet for me again.

  “You’re not going without me,” he stipulated.

  “I need you here in case the malware is activated.”

  Dax held up his cell. “You and I both know that’s bull—”

  “Movers are coming tomorrow, remember?”

  “Right, you go off to save the world and I’ll move your sofa.”

  Leaving the living room, I ducked into Elena’s bedroom to escape the escalating argument. As with the Vihkrovs’ estate, some of my clothes hung in her closet here too. After a quick shower, I packed a few days’ worth of shirts and jeans into a camouflage backpack. It felt like the most normal thing I’d done in days.

  Before leaving the room, I called Elena. No answer, so I left a text.

  LEAVING TONIGHT. DAX IS HERE. CALL ASAP.

  Dropping the backpack near the door, I went into the kitchen where Dax steamed. He pulled two beers from the fridge, popped the tops, and slid one across the counter. A truce. We dug into a large pepperoni-and-olive pizza delivered from a local pizzeria down the street.

  He was first to ease the tension. “Was it weird being back with Laney?”

  “I saw a whole different side,” I said between bites. “She’s not a spoiled rich kid, that’s for sure.”

  “Since we’re staying here, I’m guessing you’ve moved on already.”

  I pushed the pizza box in his direction. “At least until this is over.”

  “Your love life is more complicated than Rubic’s Cube.” Dax grabbed another slice. “You get one side the same color, only to twist the cube to find a different color.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Dax.” The mood lightened. “At least we got a few mil to start over.”

  “I’ll get an account opened and deposit the cash tomorrow.”

  “Since the Prince didn’t come through with brokering a deal for the electro-disruptor, I’m hoping an introduction to the King will make up for it.”

  “You really think the King’s got a Merlin?”

  “Sarina said McIntyre took her across the border to Kuwait. We know that Fatima was alive aboard the SEAL team chopper, posed for photos of him dead after the crash, then mysteriously disappeared. Maybe the King will be willing to use his influence to help us find out how Fatima got out of Iraq and here to the States. My money is on McIntyre.”

  “You know he’ll want something in return — they all do.”

  “I’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

  “Ever since we were kids, I’ve gone along with your crazy-ass ideas.” Dax grabbed the last slice and closed the box. His voice quivered, “I’ve watched your six like a brother. And I’ll be the first to swing when trouble knocks. When we left for the Middle East, I promised your dad I’d keep you alive. How am I supposed to do that if I’m left behind?”

  In that moment, it hit me.

  Dax wasn’t afraid to die — he was afraid I might.

  SIXTY-ONE

  BLACK SITE — 5:34 AM

  A shift change scaled the hub down to a skeleton crew for a thirty-minute window. While most agents worked the streets and sources, analysts escaped for a quick bite and coffee from an all-night hole-in-the-wall. A few lucky ones returned to worlds beyond counter intelligence — husbands, wives, kids, friends — and the evil that existed in the shadows. It had been a week underground hunting a ghost, so it was a much-deserved break. A chance to dig deep for a second, third, or fourth wind.

  Vaughn stared at the video wall — the four horsemen, Kasim, Fatima, and the unverified hijab photo of the mysterious sister, Tama. After three days without much sleep, his eyes burned and head pounded. Cable news cycled off the attack at Tanets but was now riding the wave of the Scottsdale sniper. For Vaughn, the sniper was the least of his worries.

  “We’re not making any progress,” he said, frustrated.

  Yasmin stepped beside him. “It took years to find Bin Laden.”


  “If he’s in the city, there’s not that much time.”

  “Russell, are we sure he’s alive?” She handed him coffee and migraine pills. “I’ve searched all the intel reports from Mosul, including the hard drive from Chase Hardeman. I haven’t found one contradiction in the details about Fatima’s death.”

  Vaughn rubbed his eyes, then downed the pills and sludge. “A mission like that would’ve been heavily redacted.”

  “On the official report sent over from the Agency, there is not one single redaction,” she pointed out. “Too clean?”

  “Yasmin, look what happened with Bin Laden. Word gets out, and then the whole world knows our playbook. Who knows what was kept out of the report to protect our interests or future missions. To be honest, it wouldn’t surprise me if there’s more than one version of that report locked away.”

  “We’ve spent days watching street cameras, searching chat rooms and message boards, scouring the dark web, and cross-referencing other agencies’ intel, but we don’t have one shred of proof that Fatima is alive — except for Dexter Thompson’s statement and Chase Hardeman’s eyewitness account. Laney couldn’t ID the intruder at Nicholson’s because he was wearing a helmet with a blacked-out visor.”

  Vaughn asked, “Why would they lie?”

  “No traces of Fatima’s DNA at any of the crime scenes,” she continued building a case. “The only match is Wilkins’ coat and fibers found at the garage. What if the attacks at Tanets and the hit at the garage are two separate incidences?”

  “Doesn’t explain Wilkins’ truck exploding.”

  “He lost everything — SEAL team, wife, kid, and possibly his will to live. He could’ve easily blamed that on Chase. We know the C4 was military grade, so it’s possible that Wilkins stole it months beforehand. Maybe when you and Laney confronted him, he figured it was only a matter of time before you connected him to the garage where Mario Robles was killed.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Vaughn observed. “So, your theory is Kasim and Wilkins were after Chase on the same night, but for different reasons?”

  “Same reason — revenge. It follows him wherever he goes.” Yasmin checked the clock. “With all of this, I think your instincts were right from the start. The name Michael Hardeman was going to give us was Dmitry Vihkrov — who operates in Kasim’s world, has the resources to reach out to someone like Wilkins, and hires Russian mercenaries to clean up after him. We should be looking at the Vihkrovs instead of chasing after a ghost.”

  Vaughn relented. “I’ll run your theory by Laney and see what she says.”

  “Russell, you’re in charge now. You said it yourself, she has a blind spot.”

  “And you heard what she said, put them back in the crosshairs,” he responded. “Yasmin, we’re chasing every theory, so I’ll look into it.”

  “If we’re going on another three-day bender,” she said, stretching her aching muscles, “I better get some fresh air.”

  Several analysts returned to the hub as Yasmin slipped away and caught the freight elevator. She pleaded her case to Vaughn but knew he would take Laney’s word over hers — which was what she expected. Pulling the wooden slats up at street level, she stepped out and waved at a few others who were inside the warehouse, then ducked out a side door.

  Daylight lifted the darkness away.

  Her pace quickened as she glanced over her shoulder before jogging across the street, down an alley, into a private parking lot. On the second floor, she found the white van parked in a far corner. Scanning in every direction, she checked her watch and approached with caution. The van door slid open. She stopped cold, exposed with no weapon, and nowhere to hide. Swallowing hard, she pushed her tears into the pit of her stomach knowing she had waited years for this moment.

  Abu Haji Fatima stepped forward and embraced her. “As-salaam ‘alaykum.”

  “It is the morning of light,” she replied in reverence. Stepping back, she eyed him from head to toe. Clean shaven. Slender. His movements more rigid than she remembered. Reaching out, she touched his cheek. “You are alive.”

  “I have dreamt of this day far too long.” Fatima grabbed her hand. “We are united again, sister.”

  “When I received the message, I did not believe it to be true.” Her hands shook as she let go. “Far too many nights I believed you were dead. But now you are here to make the Americans suffer.”

  “You will lead the fight alone.” Fatima pulled his sleeve up to reveal a titanium bracelet with a solid green light. He handed her a mini disc and a burner cell. “Once it is done, I will be set free.”

  “Sarina is the one who betrayed you.” She stepped back, noticing her brother’s clenched jaw and piercing eyes, as anger boiled beneath the surface. “Tell me, who has betrayed me?”

  “We must do as the Prodigal demands for us to be together again.”

  “For two years I have been someone else to wage our war in the shadows. Now you tell me we are enslaved to him?”

  “Tama, do not allow your anger to blind you.” Fatima turned and climbed into the van with her right behind. Bolted to the metal interior was the electro-disruptor. “It is time for our revenge — the war is here.”

  “Do not worry, brother.” Yasmin harnessed her rage. “Akram is by my side.”

  “My most loyal warriors,” he said resolute. “When it is over…”

  “I will see the Prodigal’s face, and he will see mine.”

  Fatima squeezed her hand, then kissed her on both cheeks. He climbed out and slid the van door closed. Before Yasmin looked out the windshield he was gone. Her eyes locked on the electro-disruptor, knowing the workings of the weapon, having used it while it was in her possession in Mosul.

  She realized the Prodigal was the one who had been communicating with her all this time, and the one who instructed her to sell the electro-disruptor, only to change his mind after Kasim was captured. He was playing a game, one where he controlled the pieces.

  To keep her brother alive, she was prepared to do what was required. But when it was over, she would set her sights on the faceless coward.

  Without further hesitation, her fingers punched on the digital keypad as she synced the weapon with the burner cell. She left the van parked where it was, knowing it was hidden well in plain sight.

  Back on the street, she ducked into a liquor store and bought a Coke and a Milky Way. She eyed the entrance, unsure of whether she was being watched. With the electro-disruptor synced remotely and the Level 10 malware thumb drive in her pocket, the next move was to see what was on the mini-disc. That would require access to her computer at the black site.

  Walking into the empty warehouse, she was ready to shed her legend — Yasmin Avakian — and return to the warrior she’d kept hidden inside.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Elevator stopped on Level Two.

  Tama walked briskly through the hub, counting the number of analysts and agents. Fifteen total. Her eyes darted toward Vaughn’s office before she grabbed headphones and slipped behind her computer. Peering over the top of a monitor, she made sure no one was nearby, then inserted the mini-disc. A video file appeared in a small window on the desktop. Heart pounding through her chest, not out of fear but exhilaration, she watched her brother deliver a message.

  “Mr. President, you have lied to your people. You said to the world Abu Haji Fatima was dead at the hands of your executioners, yet I am very much alive.” Fatima held the newspaper up to the camera showing the day’s date. “My demands are simple. Confess the sins of America. Tell your people how you kill Arabs who fight for freedom. Return two billion dollars stolen during America’s invasion of Baghdad. Admit to your war crimes against Muslims. If you refuse my demands I will inhale the stench of your sins and exhale a great war upon your soil.”

  Five years earlier, a deal was struck on the dark web. Weapons in exchange for an opportunity — to bring the fight to America. She cautioned Abu, but he was convinced it was destin
y. After the attack at the compound, she believed he was dead and the only way to avenge his death was to lie with the devil. The American’s were convinced her brother, Abu, was the Prodigal — but no one ever conceived it might be one of their own.

  Two years at the black site, with an ironclad backstory and forged documents that passed intelligence scrutiny, she was embedded with her enemy. While she did not know the identity of the real Prodigal, she knew he lurked within the highest levels of government and had used her brother as a pawn.

  Twenty-four hours after the nightclub attack, she received an encrypted message from the grave — Abu was alive. And she fought to harness her rage as she witnessed the arrest and torture of Akram. Two men she loved had returned. She knew now that Akram was not captured — he surrendered to be by her side.

  Under her skin she seethed at unknowingly being controlled by the Prodigal. But she had played her part perfectly, and it was time for the final act. With a few clicks, she opened the second file and read the message several times before ejecting the mini-disc. The shift change was nearly over; there was not much time.

  Tama left her station, hurried down a hall, and slipped into a room lined with computer servers. With a few keystrokes, she entered an algorithm of codes to bypass the security system and unlock the armory, as well as the room where Akram was detained. No alarms sounded. Next, she inserted the Level 10 malware into the back of a supercharged router, linking the drive to her workstation, tying both to an alternate power source separate from the city grid and uniquely designed to operate at the same frequency as the electro-disruptor.

  She left the server room, moving more quickly than before, and ducked into the armory where her keycard accessed a mainframe controlling the ventilation system. As with the electro-disruptor, she synced the system controls with the burner cell before gaining access to an ERD, Emergency Response Device, a defense used only in the event of an attack on the underground complex. Before leaving the room, she filled a duffle bag with weapons, flash bangs, ammo and two gas masks.