Save the Last Chance for Me

Chapter 1: Chance Would Be A Fine Thing

Under a steady drizzle of rain, by the light of outdoor LEDs, workers in hats and raincoats offloaded crates and boxes from trucks into the back of a warehouse, as around front, stretch limousines and black SUV's offloaded people in ball gowns and tuxedos.

Inside the warehouse, a section had been glitzed with lights, rugs and rows of chairs facing a podium. The set-up included a bar and waiters, and a quartet playing light jazz. It might have been a trendy pop-up club, were it not for the armed guards stationed in a circle around the honored guests, around front and at the back of the warehouse.

As he lifted a box, one of the workers raised the dripping bill of his hat. Dark eyes, punctuated by a black mole on the left side, flicked around at each guard in a rainslicker with a prominent rifle in their hands. He counted a dozen in all. Putting his head back down, the worker carried the box inside.

Once all the guests were gathered, the doors were closed and the light chime from a bell signaled it was time. The rows of chairs quickly filled, and the air grew thick with excited murmurs. Numbered paddles rested on laps and knees, as cutting side glances cast from person to person. Up front, a man took the podium, gavel in hand.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the auction. Let us begin," the auctioneer said. He gestured to his right, and two handlers brought in an oil painting with a heavy gilt frame. "Here we have an Old Master in oil. Let us start the bidding at..."

Paddles flashed up like the flickering sides of a school of sardines, as items sold so quickly the poor handlers barely had time to put one down before having to remove it for another. About a half dozen items were sold with dizzying speed, but just as a large Greek vase took the stand, gunshots echoed from outside.

In a flash the audience was on its feet, ready to bolt. The ring of guards lifted their guns—and pointed it inwards at the guests.

"Sorry, folks, the auction's been canceled," one of the guards called. "But you're welcome to stay. In fact..." he added, as behind him the doors banged open and a swarm of figures in body armor and helmets rushed in, "...I insist you do."

Around back was a similar scene. As the workers were urged at gun point to step away from the crates, one figure continued backing up.

"You there!" one of the guards shouted, pointing a rifle at him. "Stop where you are!"

Hands in the air, he subtly jerked two fingers to the right.

The guard's gaze flicked to it, then back down. The guard adjusted their hold on their rifle—and shifted it to point it at a worker standing nearby. "I said stop where you are," the guard told the other worker.

Freed from attention, he quickly skipped back out of the light, ducked behind a truck, skirted the armed men, and darted off down an alley away from the mayhem. Reemerging outside the front of the warehouse a good distance away, he watched as the guests, now in handcuffs, were led through the rain, soaking their finery, and into parked vans.

After a few moments, he turned away. About a half mile down the road, he had just gotten behind the wheel of his car when the passenger door opened and another figure got in.

"Took you long enough," he said, pushing off the hood of his raincoat and taking off his hat to reveal dark eyes punctuated by a mole on the left. "I tipped you off an hour ago."

"We needed proof of sale, Beau," said the woman beside him, a pretty brunette with black framed glasses and hair in a thick braid over one shoulder. "You can't break up an underground auction without catching some bad guys in the process."

"You almost caught me in the process," Beau said, vigorously ruffling dark hair with one hand and leaving it messy. "Shut it," he added, sensing her response.