Show No Mercy

by Brian Drake

  “This painting survived. The frame covers scarring along the edges.”

  “What would you take for it?”

  “You can’t sell what officially doesn’t exist,” Black said.

  “Care to bet?” Teke said. He grinned. He finally offered Black a hand and they shook.

  “Welcome, Derya. Please, sit.”

  They took seats at the table, Black hooking his cane on the edge of the table, where the tip dangled a little off the floor. He lifted a bell, shook it once and one of his servants appeared through a doorway. The servant held the door while another pushed a loaded cart into the room. Both servants began distributing hot plates, mugs and glasses in front of Black and his guest.

  “I had the kitchen prepare an omelet based on my own recipe,” Black said. “Meat, vegetables, extra peppers. At my age I’ve found my tongue doesn’t taste as well as it used to.” His voice took a grim tone as he added: “Among other things. Anyway the extra spice provides a nice flavor.”

  Teke offered a half-smile in reply as he stirred creamer into his coffee.

  The table set, the servants departed.

  The omelet filled most of the plate, what little extra space there was occupied by diced and fried potatoes.

  Black and Teke started eating.

  “The bomb is in the trunk of my car,” Teke said.

  “How is it packed?”

  “In a suitcase. It’s heavy but one man can lift it. My driver is standing guard.”

  “We’ll move it into the warehouse shortly.”

  “I can’t wait for the auction.”

  “Pick whatever you want. Your payment will be included in the crate when we ship the painting to your home.”

  “You’ve scouted the route?”

  Black nodded and swallowed. “I have a team spread out along the way. They’ll intercept you at designated points and see you through to the next. Everything is secure. They report clear sailing all the way to Seattle.”

  “This is a delicious omelet,” Teke said. “And you’ve thought of everything.”

  “Almost everything.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Operations like this always have problems, as you well know. Right now, I’m trying to sort out two in particular I hope to have resolved before you leave.”

  30

  The auction room filled promptly at three in the afternoon, after Black’s guests had gone through a delicious breakfast, free time and lunch. The chairs were laid out in three sections, each seat facing a stage and podium. A velvet curtain edged the stage but did not cover up the totem-pole style wood carvings that stood on either side. The carvings appeared to be a trio of griffons sitting atop one another. The griffon on the bottom wore a grimace. He was less happy than his companions.

  The room had bare walls and wood trim, white-coated servants lining the back wall. One had to only raise a hand to summon a servant who would procure any kind of requested beverage.

  Dane and Nina sat in the middle row of the center section, directly in front of the stage. Nina placed her purse on the seat to her left and said to several inquiring guests it was already taken.

  “I can’t believe you made a deal with her,” Dane said.

  “You told me to get along.”

  “Maybe I’m a little mad about Jamaica still, too.”

  “You said we deserved it.”

  “That doesn’t mean—here she is.”

  “I felt my ears burning,” said Rachel Satastini. She dropped into the open seat. She and Nina sized each other up. Both wore tight party dresses of different colors; Dane had to admit they both looked good. Rachael’s ended further above the knee than Nina’s. Nina wore her hair tied back while Rachael’s hung down her back.

  “Hello, Steve,” the Interpol woman said. “Long time.”

  “Should have been longer.”

  To Nina, she said: “Didn’t you tell him of our arrangement?”

  “I might have forgotten.”

  More guests filed in, Dane watching them find seats. Not all off the faces were familiar from last night, but still none jumped out as particular familiar.

  “Over there, front row, left section,” Rachael said.

  Dane and Nina looked. A thin man with a hooked nose, in a sharp suit, sat with his hands folded and legs crossed. He spoke to nobody and ignored the other guests. The griffons seemed to occupy his attention than any of the activity around him.

  “Derya Teke,” Rachael said. “Our man with the bomb.”

  “He makes them himself?” Dane said.

  “He only sells. Has himself a nice organization of people who make the stuff.”

  “Why is he here? Why not deliver and go?” Dane said.

  “He wants a painting. Has a huge collection of his own.”

  Dane thought of the job he and Nina worked for Black. The crates could have been legit. Seeing the Teke connection in the flesh gave Dane had a strong suspicion he had been used. What had been in those crates and who had been hurt because of them? Or had the crate hidden illicit payments to others? He took a deep breath to calm his rising anger. He would have a few words with Black about the matter soon enough.

  Somebody delivering a bomb to Black more or less confirmed he was a black hat, but was the bomb meant for Mason Graypoole? One of his field operatives?

  Too many questions. Not enough time to find the answers.

  Donovan Black stepped behind the podium, and lifted his free hand to the audience, who applauded politely. He gave a welcome speech, explained a little about his charity and how much had been given to art education after last year’s auction, which elicited more applause and some whistles. Black hoped they could do the same this year, plus one dollar, because children deserve to have exposure to the world’s great works of art. A regular Jerry Lewis, this guy, Dane thought.

  Black introduced the auctioneer, a man with white hair who wore a tux too tight to contain his girth. The man took the podium while Black made his way to his seat in the front row of the middle section. He did not sit near Teke and they did not acknowledge each other.

  The auctioneer and his two lovely assistants brought each item up for review and bidding. Every painting had a sheet draped over it, which one of the assistants removed with flourish upon announcement of the work. With each reveal some members of the audience consulted those beside them, whispers of interest filling the room. The auctioneer held up his gavel and announced each opening bid, and Dane, arms folded and legs crossed, kept an eye on Teke. The man showed no response to most of the offerings well into the first ninety minutes.

  Dane wondered what he was waiting for and borrowed the catalogue from Nina to see if he could figure out what the man wanted.

  The ladies on stage rolled out the next painting. A red sheet covered the front, and a growing anticipation filled the room as the auctioneer announced the lot number and the name of the painting.

  “Lot Number Ten, a one-of-a-kind, Sergio Monte’s Born of Fire.”

  The two women yanked the drape away from the painting and some of the guests applauded.

  It was a simple yet striking painting. Black background. Orange fire on the bottom half seemed to come alive as the light struck. Out of the flames, the upper torso of a not-quite-full-formed body, arms outstretched, head tilted back, mouth open. The color around the body matched the flames and also gave the illusion of emerging from the canvas.

  “We open the bidding at $200,000 American. Do I have $200,000?”

  Within three minutes the bidding had reached $350,000 with no end in sight. Derya Teke kept pushing it higher with a slight wave of his hand.

  $400,000. And higher.

  Presently one million and a hush fell over the audience. Monte’s painting had a very short history, but it, like his other work, had taken the art world by storm and everybody wanted a piece of his work in their collection.

  “The bidding stands at one-point-three-million American,” the auctioneer said. “Do I have
one-point-five? One-point-five million?”

  Teke raised his hand.

  “Do I have one-point-eight? One-point-eight million?”

  Whispers. No takers.

  “Going once. Twice. Sold for one-point-five million dollars.”

  Mild applause filled the hall as the woman on stage wheeled the painting out of sight.

  Derya Teke had a wide smile on his face.

  “He’s not going to spend a dime,” Dane said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The painting is a bonus on top of whatever Black is giving him.”

  Dane couldn’t see Black’s reaction. The man remained up front, seemingly uninterested in the winning bidder’s identity.

  Rachael said, “They’ll move that painting to the warehouse in the back of the estate.”

  “We’ll check it out tonight,” Dane said.

  31

  Dane slipped out of the guest house on the pretense of needing fresh air, but no guards interfered with him and he wasn’t alone. Several guests milled about the front courtyard, their voices carrying with the night, talk of the auction and other activities the main topic.

  Dane’s shoes crunched on the ground as he circled the back of the house, passing the servant’s quarters and found the warehouse where Rachael Satastini said it would be. It sat about twenty yards from the main house. The construction matched the rest of the buildings, but the wide doors on one side and the bright lights and activity inside communicated its difference. Semi-trucks were backed against loading docks. A panel van sat to one side of the warehouse, the driver behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. Judging by the pile of butts outside his door, he’d been smoking a lot of them for a long time.

  Dane, dressed in black, kept to the shadows behind the main house as he sought a darkened corner of the warehouse to use for his approach. The .45 rode behind his back, slightly longer because of the stubby silencer fitted on the end of the barrel.

  The light inside cast odd shadows along the ground punctuated by streaks of illumination. Not the best for his purposes, but certainly nothing to which Dane couldn’t adapt.

  And then he opted for the obvious. He was a guest out for a walk. Why would there be anything nefarious going on at the warehouse?

  He left the shadows and crossed the gap to the warehouse. No guards on this side. The shouts and commands from inside became clearer with each step. A crew was loading the trucks with the purchased paintings. Forklifts grumbled and the truck trailers shook as the work carried on.

  Dane reached a corner and watched the line of semis. The busy crew seemed normal enough. What other cargo were they loading on those trucks?

  Following the wall, Dane rounded a corner and stopped. He was at the opposite end where there were no lights. Cigarette butts littered the ground. Smoking area. He found a door and tested the knob. Unlocked. Dane pulled open the door and it squeaked on rusty hinges, but the noise inside more than covered up the sound.

  Ahead was an open concrete-floor, most of the space occupied by sealed crates. As the forklift crews loaded each crate in turn, a foreman with a clipboard inspected the labels on the crates, comparing the labels with notes on his clipboard.

  Across the floor, in a small kitchen area, five gunmen stood around with their weapons slung. Security, obviously, for the millions and millions of dollars of art in those crates. And a big problem for Dane.

  He slipped through the doorway. In front of him, against a wall, was a set of steps leading to the next level. Dane moved under the stairs, put his back to the wall. The foreman and a man with long hair man approached, heading for the stairs. Dane pressed back further into the staircase’s shadow. The two men passed in front of the steps and entered an office around the corner. The foreman said, “Tell that future cancer patient in the van to move around to the back and we’ll load the bomb. I’ll tell Mr. Black and his guest.”

  The long-haired man departed. Dane heard a chair creak. Papers shuffled.

  The door was steps away, but would the foreman hear? Dane had to chance it. He had the opportunity to hijack the bomb and get it away from here.

  As he started to move, the phone in the office rang, and soon the foreman’s attention was occupied with the call. Dane opened the door as far as he needed and slipped back into the night. He moved left. Around the corner, the driver of the panel van was reversing into position, the rear facing the wall. The long-haired man kept waving him closer until he shouted, “Stop!” The driver put the van in park. Exiting, he came around to open the rear doors. The long-haired man opened another door on that side of the warehouse and shouted, “Bring the box over here!”

  Dane took out the suppressed .45 and clicked off the safety. A forklift with a thin man behind the wheel steered an unmarked crate into the back of the panel van. Once he backed out, the van’s driver slammed the doors. Dane turned the corner and walked toward the van with both hands behind his back and the .45 in his right. His shoes crunched on something and the long-haired man snapped his head around.

  “Who are you?” The long-haired man stepped forward. The van driver pulled a gun.

  “Whoa!” Dane said. “I’m out for a walk. Not trying to rip off anything.”

  “This is a restricted area, go back to your room.”

  Dane brought up the .45 and fired once. The long-haired man’s head snapped back, parts of his brain splattering on the van. The driver let out half a scream before most of his head splattered on the van. Dane ran to the driver’s side and jumped behind the wheel. He almost choked. The cabin reeked of cigarette smoke. The engine rumbled to life and Dane shoved the gear into Drive. He started forward, making a sharp left, and started putting distance between the van and the building.

  Automatic weapons fire strafed the side of the van, popping through the metal behind Dane, tearing into the passenger seat. Dane gave it more gas but then a loud boom filled the cabin. The rear end sank. The engine revved but the van wouldn’t move.

  Dane hopped out, the .45 up in both hands. The gunmen he’d counted in the kitchen charged his way, two stopping to align their sights. Dane shot one, then dodged to the front of the van as the other fired. The bullets kicked up geysers of dirt where Dane had been, some of it landing on the hood as Dane braced his arm on the fender.

  More shots riddled the van as the gunmen spread out. Dane fired once around the driver’s side, then rushed over to the passenger side to catch another gunman closing in. Dane shot him in the chest. As he hustled back to the opposite side again, suddenly two of the shooters were on top of him, their gun butts hammering into his body. Dane went down and tried to get up but the struggle ended when one of those gun butts smashed the side of his head.

  32

  The hard jolt finally stirred Dane from unconsciousness. He lifted his head. He lay on the hard metal back of a canopied truck. He retched, coughing, trying to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. His hands were tied in front of him.

  “Sexy,” said Nina.

  Dane rolled onto his back. Nina sat nearby on the bench seat lining the side, her hands tied as well, resting on his lap.

  “You missed a great speech,” she said. “Black came and told me how much smarter he is than both of us.”

  “I’m inclined to believe him,” Dane said. He glanced at the bench across from Nina where two gunners sat, neither one of them from the force Dane had engaged.

  The hard metal magnifying every jolt the truck experienced as it continued along. Dane grunted.

  “They’re taking us away to be shot, darling,” she said. “Just you and me.”

  “Really?” Dane managed.

  “Yup. Kinda romantic, huh?”

  “I suppose.” Dane inched his way to the side and struggled to sit up.

  Out the rear, rolling grassy hills, trees and near total darkness. The lights of any city, of Black’s mansion, were well out of range.

  Dane sized up the two gunmen sitting opposite. One was younger and had a dumb look on his face. He was
the soldier who took orders. The slightly older one had slicked back blonde hair, and an air of confidence.

  “You must be O’Malley,” Dane said to the blonde.

  “Why would you guess that?”

  “You look a little smarter than your friend.”

  O’Malley said, “I was actually expecting the British guy.”

  “You turkeys always do.”

  O’Malley and his partner kept their AIM-74 muzzles on Dane and Nina. O’Malley had a better time staying upright than his smaller counterpart, who needed one hand to stay steady when the truck hit big bumps.

  Dane wondered about the cavalry. McConn and Stone. He supposed if Rachael Satastini knew of Nina’s capture, perhaps she could spread the word. Dane glanced over at her. She held her head up, defiant despite the muzzles of automatic weapons trained on her belly.

  The truck jolted to a stop. Dummy lurched, but O’Malley kept his weapon steady. O’Malley exited first, covered Dane and Nina; Dummy climbed out next, followed by the two captives. The cold air chilled Dane’s neck. Nina shivered. The gunmen shoved them away from the truck. Dane considered the wooded area. Looking for a weapon of any kind. He spotted a thick branch on the ground. As long as it hadn’t rotted from within. . .

  Dane slowed his steps as O’Malley and Dummy prodded them along. When O’Malley gave him a shove, Dane sprang for the branch, swung it around, hit O’Malley’s head like a baseball and wrenched the AIM-74 from his grasp. He heard Nina tangling with Dummy, both struggling over the automatic rifle. Dane whirled to the truck. The driver leveled a pistol out the window. Dane triggered a single shot that snapped back the driver’s head.

  Nina let out a yell. Dummy smacked her with the stock of the AIM. She fell headlong to the ground. He turned the gun on Dane. Dane fired two bursts and Dummy joined O’Malley on the ground.

  Dane grabbed Nina’s arm and pulled her up. The nasty welt on the side of her face was already turning red.

  “Why didn’t you shoot sooner?” She brushed off her clothes.