The Auctioneer

by D. J. Williams

  At the end of a road, the jeepney stopped. Mongoose’s newest Commander, Norm “The Bear” McDonnell’s voice cut through our coms. “For Wilkins and Swanson.” Everyone responded with a thumbs-up.

  Stepping into the mud, my nostrils filled with a nasty stench as we footslogged behind McDonnell and his team. In unison, we moved stealthily between the shanties perched on stilts to keep dry from the tropical floods. Beneath my shirt, the key pressed against the inside of the Flak Vest — a reminder of why we were here.

  McDonnell held up his fist and we froze. Anticipation fueled each breath.

  Across from us was a two-story cinderblock structure surrounded by a security wall with jagged bottles cemented into the top. Stragglers nearby stumbled down the narrow road, oblivious to our presence. Most likely, they were too drunk from San Miguel to find their shack and sleep it off.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I kept the stragglers in sight. We were in a hotbed of Muslim extremists, so each one of us was on edge. McDonnell rattled off commands, then moved towards a metal door. His team kept formation and followed. Knowing C4 was an attention getter, McDonnell unfolded a mini crowbar.

  A quick jolt, and the door opened.

  As planned, Dax and I waited in the alley. In the stillness, suppressive blasts from the MP7 submachine guns were muffled by drops of rain rattling off the tin shanty roofs.

  McDonnell relayed on coms. “All clear. Ten sleepers.”

  Dax and I entered the cinderblock building to find the SEAL team gathered in a living room scattered with beer bottles, mattresses, blankets, and semi-automatic weapons. In the dark, without the night vision McDonnell and his team wore, it was hard to pinpoint where the followers of Tama Fatima rested for eternity.

  McDonnell turned to me. “We’ll grab the intel. You boys find your prize.”

  That was our cue to search the place and not get left behind. We moved through each room, our footsteps creaking from the flimsy plywood beneath us. In a matter of minutes, we searched the entire place but found nothing except for ten dead terrorists.

  “What’re we missing?” I said under my breath.

  Dax ran his hands over the concrete wall. “No secret passages.”

  From the second-floor window, I pointed the flashlight from my Sig Sauer over the rear of the building. I’m a treasure hunter, just like Dad. Bounding down the stairs, with Dax close on my heels, I darted out the front door then rounded the building before crashing through a back gate. Dax grabbed me and pulled me back, realizing that one more step and I’d be washed away. We were standing on the edge of a muddy river — and a footbridge.

  “Wait here,” I said to Dax. “I’m serious.”

  “I don’t know about this, Chase.”

  “Keep the light on me.”

  With the pounding rain, typhoon force winds, and a raging river of mud, I staggered across a raggedy bridge like walking a tightrope across the Grand Canyon. A beam of light from Dax’s flashlight illuminated a few feet ahead. My pulse hammered all the way across to the other side. Stepping off the footbridge onto a wooden dock, I was drenched but something pushed me forward.

  Dax’s voice cut through the coms. “Chase, are you good?”

  “I’m good,” I murmured, reaching for my Sig Sauer and pointing the mounted flashlight ahead towards the thick calamansi trees. “I’m heading up. Standby.”

  Through the tree line, my boots sunk deeper into the mud. Jamming my Sig Sauer back into the holster, I grabbed rocks and branches to pull myself up the steep hillside. Breathing labored as flashes from Iceland struck — Uncle Randy, the Russians, the crimson snow. Tonight, I wasn’t running for my life, I was running towards it.

  At the top of the hill, the landscape leveled off on a widened trail. Glancing over my shoulder at the landfill below, Dax’s flashlight waved in my direction.

  “I’m almost there,” I exhaled.

  “The Bear is ready to hibernate.”

  Turning back around, I grabbed my Sig Sauer and pointed the flashlight ahead. Keep going, Chase. A solid rock wall with a cascading waterfall was across the trail. As the wind raged and rain deluged, I closed my eyes sensing Dad standing there. That was the true treasure, feeling him next to me. Breathing in deep, I opened my eyes and stepped forward through the waterfall into a pitch-black cave. The flashlight cut across a worn burlap cover — a large one. Lifting the front edge, my eyes locked on a dusty chrome grill engraved with Rossino Renaldt’s signature. Tears welled from deep inside, spilling over the sides of my eyes.

  You were always one step ahead.

  NINETY-ONE

  PEBBLE BEACH, CA

  In the heart of 17-Mile Drive was hidden one of the world’s most premiere golf courses. Rugged coastline. Sprawling fairways. Wide-open views of Carmel Bay opening up to the Pacific south of Monterey Peninsula.

  One week a year this beautiful course was transformed into the Rossino Royale Classic. Avid collectors and enthusiasts arrived from around the world to gaze and lust over the rarest of rolling sculptures.

  A vision once formed in the imagination of Rossino Renaldt molded into clay then built by hand and fire into the most stunning automobiles of its era. Only those with deep-pocketed fortunes were affluent enough to be in an exclusive club — owning one of Rossino’s masterpieces. All others only coveted these works of art when they were displayed on the iconic greens of Pebble Beach.

  Those same collectors had flown in from all over the world for a chance to bid on Rossino’s greatest masterpiece — the Rossino Otto.

  Two months after returning from the Philippines, and so far no one had laid eyes on the greatest collector car in history. Smuggling the Rossino Otto out of Davao City was a covert operation in itself. We waited until Typhoon Wilma dwindled to a tropical storm, leaving the muddy trail to the cave dry enough to load the beast into its cage. Then we drove nonstop thirty-three hours to Luzon Island, forty miles northwest of Metro Manila, to Clark Air Base where a military transport was on standby.

  With nothing left in the tank, Dax and I crashed on the flight home.

  One call to Levowitz with news that we’d found the legend, and the studio exec launched a bidding frenzy between the networks for worldwide rights to televise the greatest auction in history. And those collectors who owned one of Rossino Renaldt’s classics agreed to display their trophies on the eighteenth green leading up to the auction night. Hotels from Monterey to San Jose were booked solid.

  A few miles from the auction arena at Pebble Beach, Elena and I relaxed on a veranda of a quaint stone cottage overlooking the lively waves of the Pacific crashing against the sheer cliffs of Carmel.

  Secluded in the cottage, itching to get the bidding started, I texted Dax to check in. He was the one who supervised the restoration at our garage in downtown LA with Sleepy’s homies. For weeks, he was consumed with every detail. The more the Rossino Otto returned to life, the more he recovered, and so did I.

  “I have made arrangements to auction my father’s 1954 Oldsmobile next week in Las Vegas,” Elena said. “He has asked that you auctioneer to ensure the two buyers we have secured are the final bidders.”

  I gazed out on the ocean. “Asking price?”

  “Reserve is three million.”

  “Sounds pricey. Not sure they’ll bid that high.”

  “We have given them an incentive — a gift hidden in the car.”

  Knowing it was better not to ask, I replied, “I’ll do my best.”

  “We trust you, Chase.” She scooted closer, then rested her head on my shoulder. For a while we gazed out on the Pacific. Neither said a word. A peaceful breeze after a torrential storm. “Do you ever wonder what she would have been like?”

  “Every day,” I confessed. “She would’ve been beautiful, like you.”

  “And a dreamer like her father.” Elena wiped a tear from her cheek. “I am sorry, Chase.”

  “Me too.” I squeezed her tight. Rarely was she vulnerable, and rarely had we spoken of the
wound that bound us together. “You would’ve been a great mom.”

  “Maybe one day.” More silent tears. “Do you think we will see her again?”

  “She’s looking down on us from heaven — standing next to Dad.”

  “Then I hope she is not ashamed of who we have become.”

  A helicopter flew overhead, interrupting our conversation. Wrapping my arms around Elena, I pulled her close and tried to seal the wound one more day. I wondered if our daughter would be proud too. It was a hard question, with a complicated answer. I listened intently to footsteps from a path on a hill behind us before Laney appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Elena sat up as the brisk morning grew a few degrees colder.

  “Laney, what’re you doing here?” I asked, surprised.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” As she rubbed the scar on her face, I noticed how worn out she looked. “I was hoping you had a minute to talk.”

  Wearing her robe, Elena kissed me on the cheek. “I must get dressed.”

  I waited as Elena stepped past Laney on her way up the steps to the cottage. It was still icy between them, like an Antarctic glacier.

  “Today’s a big day.” Laney stepped down the stairs and sat on the edge of a chair across from me. “Your dad was right all along.”

  “Looks that way.” Setting my mug on an armrest, I wondered why she was there. “You could’ve called.”

  “I was in the area.” She chiseled the ice. “You’re looking much better than when I saw you last in the hospital.”

  “Dax said you were there every day.”

  Her eyes were glossy. “I wanted you to know, it was real.”

  Glancing toward the cottage window where Elena watched, her words crashed like the coastal waves. “Any news on who killed Uncle Randy?”

  “The Agency is following leads, but they think it was the Russians.” She eyed me closely, waiting for a reaction. “DOJ is investigating RC Engineering regarding the government contract. We raided their corporate offices and searched the house in Bel-Air.”

  “Any proof that ties him to the Red Venture Group?”

  “Bouchard ordered that off limits. Better for all involved.” She relaxed a bit more. “Investigation is focused on misuse of government funds and stolen weapons from their facility in Kuwait.”

  “Taking a page out of Vaughn’s playbook,” I smirked.

  “He taught me everything I know.” She removed a leather bound book from her saddlebag. “I’ve been put in charge of the black site in LA.”

  “Congratulations. You deserve it.” I glanced toward the cottage window. Elena was gone. “We’re going to be leaving in a bit.”

  “Of course, sorry.” She held the book out in front of her. “We found this while going through Collinsworth’s private garage.”

  Grabbing the book, I flipped through the pages. “What is it?”

  “Abu Haji Fatima was only the tip of one spear.” She reached into her saddlebag again and removed a folder. “Within those pages, Collinsworth kept a list of names — terrorists — who he leveraged with weapons.”

  Sensing where this was headed, I interrupted, “Laney, I’m out of the game.”

  “I thought you might want to take a look.” She handed me the folder. “In case you change your mind.”

  Curiosity is a cruel mistress. Opening the folder, I scanned the intelligence report on a German smuggler — Bernhardt Brandis. “What’s he selling?”

  “Scepter of Dagobert.”

  NINETY-TWO

  A red carpet rolled out by late afternoon. Press and media swarmed the who’s who of A-list celebrities, billionaires, millionaires, and collectors who rubbed shoulders boasting of their latest score ranging from classics to supercars. Karlmann King. Bugatti. Lamborghini. Ferrari. Zenvo. Huayra. Aston Martin. Lykan Hypersport. To name a few.

  Featured at the entrance to the ballroom were some of the most expensive cars in the world — 1957 Jaguar XKSS, Talbott Lago T26 Grand Sport, and a 2005 Maybach Exeter. Not to mention the Rossino Renaldts displayed on the eighteenth green.

  Backstage, last-minute lighting and camera crews tweaked the final staging. A Hollywood director rattled off the program for the night, pointed at an “X” for me to remember, then yelled for makeup to cover the scar on my neck.

  Dax approached wearing an Armani suit. “Did you see who’s waiting outside?”

  “Too busy trying not to puke.” My stomach was in knots. “How’s she look?”

  “Absolute stunner… wait… are you talking about Elena or the Rossino Otto?”

  We both laughed. “Can’t believe this day is finally here.”

  “We did it, Chase.” Dax bear hugged me. “Your dad would be speechless.”

  “That would never happen. He’d grab the mic and sell it himself.”

  Ron Levowitz, the man with the golden studio touch, strolled towards us with twenty-something beauties on each arm. They peeled away to find a spot in the front row — near camera one — while he eyed the set design.

  “You boys ready to break some records?” He shook hands vigorously. “We’ve sold the broadcast in every market, in every country, and we’re going live online. If you got an antenna, cable, or internet connection anywhere in the world, you’ll be tuning in. They tell me we’re already trending.”

  “Now Chase is really going to puke,” Dax laughed. “Better keep the lights low so he doesn’t see the cameras.”

  Levowitz pulled a cell from his pocket, stepped between us and snapped a photo. “We’ll send this to the media, and I’ll post to Instagram. You know, I’ve got two hundred thousand followers?”

  “How many do you have, Chase?” Dax chuckled.

  “Don’t even have an account,” I mumbled. “Never saw the point of it.”

  Levowitz raised his brows. “Are you kidding me? Don’t get left behind.”

  “Ron, thanks for all you’ve done.” I meant every word. “You delivered like you promised, and in this arena that means everything.”

  “You’re welcome.” He checked his watch, then slapped me on the back. “Showtime. Good luck.”

  Before the doors opened, I found a storage room and hid inside. My nerves jack hammered. Suddenly, the pressure to deliver choked me. Bent over, I tried to catch my breath. I’d never experienced stage fright or a panic attack, but I’d also never stood on the world’s stage alone.

  “This is what you were born to do.” A hand grabbed my shoulder, sweeping a warmth over me. “You’re the best I’ve ever seen. You’re going to make history, and I’ll be right here to see it.”

  With my eyes closed, I swallowed hard and clenched my teeth to keep the tears from flooding. It was as if Dad was speaking to me. As I glanced over my shoulder, I was alone in the room. Exhaling deeply, I steadied myself like I’d done so many times before.

  A knock at the door. Dax poked his head in.

  “Five minutes until the curtain’s up.”

  “Thanks.” I followed him into the hallway. “Dax…”

  His eyes danced with excitement. “Uh oh, you going to puke?”

  “What do you know about the legend of the Scepter of Dagobert?”

  He tilted his head, then smiled wide. “Don’t play with me, bro.”

  We fist bumped, then walked together down a hallway lined with cables, techies, and security. It dawned on me that I’d yet to see the Rossino Otto since the full restoration. I’d be as surprised as everyone else. That’s how Dax planned it.

  A pop group jammed on stage as the ballroom was electric. Jib cameras swept across the crowd, who waved and danced for the live broadcast. Watching from the side of the stage, I noticed Elena in the front row. Dax was right — she was stunning. Next to her was Prince Azim, Alan Leung, and Marcus Nicholson. The rat pack who stood in Uncle Randy’s underground garage when I closed my first deal on my own. That night I never imagined an enemy was amongst us.

  Levowitz took the stage and the crowd quieted down. I wasn’t listening, my mind
drifted to a time ended long ago lost in the desert. Breathing shallowed. Nerves tingled through my fingers. Ears perked as I heard my name. Adjusting my coat, I stepped onto the stage to the roar of the crowd. Levowitz put his arm around my shoulder as if we were longtime friends.

  “Chase, we all know how difficult the last few months have been losing your dad.” He allowed the drama of the moment to keep viewers hooked. “Tonight, as we auction the Rossino Otto, we do it in memory of him.”

  “Thank you, everyone.” Struggling to compose myself, my cheeks flushed as I choked back the wave of grief that still lingered. “You know, if Dad were here he’d say, ‘Nothing in life is for certain, so empty your pockets before you end up in a box.’”

  Nicholson’s sarcastic voice interrupted the heavy moment. “Let’s see the car, man.”

  The crowd burst out in laughter and applause — with a few whoops and hollers. A familiar rhythmic beat began — similar to the underground animal party along the River Thames. Stepping aside, the backdrop of the stage faded into a magnificent image of London’s Tower Bridge. The room gasped as a shiny silver train track began to lower from the ceiling onto the stage carrying the Rossino Otto.

  It was Dax’s homage.

  Being in the moment I called out to entice the crowd, “From the legendary car designer, a true visionary, who believed innovation and beauty were one in the same. Rossino Renaldt built the most luxurious masterpieces of his era — yet only one has remained hidden.” My words gained cadence to the movement of the music. “Ladies and gentlemen — tonight — it has returned to the world’s stage.”

  Standing only feet away, I was in awe. The crowd was in hysterics.

  Lighting cast a perfect reflection off a ruby-and-pearl-white body that morphed into a million shades as the coupe roadster slowly spun on stage. A twenty litre, straight-twelve engine, twenty-four-foot long, smooth-lined beauty without a single blemish. Whalebone knobs. Sterling silver steering wheel. Bulleted ruts shined against polished chrome that reflected a flurry of camera flashes. Hand-stitched leather seats. Wire-rimmed white-walled wheels. And an airplane engine under the massive hood.