Inca Kings

CHAPTER ONE

Kenzie sat as demure and coyly as she was able, practically having to sit on her right hand which had begun twitching about ten minutes ago — just two minutes after she’d walked into this auction house — as it craved for the welcome weight of the hefty katana she preferred to be sheathed over her left shoulder. It wasn’t just an idle craving.

Some of these assholes, they needed to see the glint of that blade, to blink in terror as the razor edge gleamed, to experience that touch of dread as the perfect steel rose before them.

Kenzie managed to hold in an unladylike snort. Pretentious, wealthy assholes.

It could be said that Kenzie harbored more than a single grudge against those in authority and those that had the power and affluence to sway them. But the katana would cut through all that, right here, right now — and put her in prison forever.

Somehow, she calmed herself.

The auction house sat right in the middle of Paris, along the magnificent Champs Élysées, inside a nineteenth century hotel built by one of France’s richest families. Kenzie saw glitz everywhere; from the gilded chandeliers to the ornate doors and paneling, and the glowing wall sconces. A soft hue illuminated the large room and the noise of conversation drowned out all other noise.

The occupants were seated in rows, apart from those that stood at the back, their well-tended behinds parked on sumptuous leather, their jackets and ties clearly a step too far as the room began to warm up. Even the ladies looked uncomfortable in their tight sequined dresses. Kenzie saw more than one bead of sweat popping out of a distinguished brow and hoped the gathered array of Paris’s most expensive perfumes was up to the test.

As for her, this morning she had purchased a little black dress, and tonight she’d slapped on some of Dahl’s aftershave. A quick comb and she was as glammed up as she was ever going to be. But no mind. Kenzie was no stranger to lavish auctions.

The fossil beside her, squinting even through black-rimmed goggles, placed his hand dangerously close to her knee as he leaned across. “First time, lovey?”

“Ah, no.” She tried to affect an English accent. “You?”

The old man looked affronted. “Me? No, of course not.”

He pulled away. Kenzie smiled to herself and took in the room, tuning out the hubbub. Once a trained Mossad agent, then a fierce fugitive, now a… she paused in her thoughts.

What am I right now? Or rather — what am I doing with this struggling band of misfits that somehow still manage to come together to form one of the most effective Special Forces teams in the world?

You’re lost.

The answer was as clear as the decanters and glasses in use all around her. Life had taken her on a nightmare rollercoaster ride, and right now the latest pause on the latest loop was right here in Paris. If she knew what to look for she might stand a chance.

But not today.

Evening had fallen across the Champs, and the well-to-do packed inside the auction house were finally starting to settle. Kenzie half-turned in her seat and passed a glance across those who accompanied her — Torsten Dahl and Mai Kitano — and thought about those who didn’t, primarily Mano Kinimaka who roamed the outside. Misfits among misfits, she mused. Some lost almost as deeply as she.

Several weeks had passed since their last mission ended; complex developments had taken place. But Kenzie was waist deep in danger here, and being the only archaeological relic hunter in the team, the one best placed in the very eye of this frantic storm.

The clock ticked.

Kenzie watched the patrons; seated as she was toward the back she could see 75 percent of the assemblage, although none looked familiar. She took a moment to consult the small booklet she’d been given on entry. They were interested in Lot 59, so time to spare yet. She breathed a little easier. The main worry they had was that one of Kenzie’s old “acquaintances” might be here and recognize her, thus destroying their undercover operation.

Because — the trouble was — they had no idea who they were looking for.

Kenzie considered the developing mystery that still surrounded the Incas and their lost treasures. Her fellow trio of misfits watched from the back and outside. At the front of the room half-a-dozen suited men appeared and mounted a stage. One approached a microphone.

He started speaking in French, introducing the auction. Kenzie spoke the language well and listened as her eyes drifted. Directly behind him hung an electronic monitor upon which would be shown the current object up for auction and the value it attained in ongoing bids in euros, pounds, dollars and other currencies. To the man’s left a space existed for the actual object. Kenzie watched men wearing white gloves bring out Lot 1, a gaudy painting, and place it carefully upon a ledge for all to consider.

Bids began to be fired out over the hushed chatter and the auctioneer pointed, nodded and shouted out each bid. The white-headed hammer clutched in his right hand indicated the current highest bidder during lulls in the bidding and then hovered for a moment. Kenzie saw that sometimes he was having to work hard to draw out another bid from men and women leafing through their booklets, maybe checking ahead to see what else they might buy. In the end though, the hammer came down with pomp and a flourish and they moved quickly on to Lot 2.

Kenzie watched closely, noting the main players and those that left; newcomers and those that skulked in corners, cellphones to their ears. These were the most likely, and the ones the rest of her team would be focused on. But Kenzie found it hard to trust them completely, no matter their proven skills.

She flashed across several noteworthy individuals and stored their faces in her memory for later. Again her fingers gave an involuntary twitch as the woman to her left flicked away an imaginary speck of dust, fingers and wrist jangling with high-priced ice.

“Lot 22.”

And the auction went on. Earlier they had reviewed the physical security and found it strangely lacking. Didn’t anyone ever rob auction houses? You would think not. In contrast, there were surveillance cameras everywhere. Kenzie grimaced. If the cameras were monitored by Interpol she might find herself in serious trouble.

Still, the lots were tumbling nicely. Dahl stayed on the back wall and Mai, finely attired, glided to left and right, moving confidently among the stylish and the grand, whilst Kinimaka had stayed purposely outside, watching as many entries and exits as he could manage. No comms systems today. They were relying on plain, old-fashioned instinct.

“Lot 50.”

Kenzie took another look at the relevant page in the booklet. A dull golden cup stared back quite literally — the dour face that adorned one side of it glaring at her with uncaring, empty eyes. Just a golden cup then, and cleverly disguised by the seller, its true identity known only to a chosen few. Called here The Blind Man’s Cup, it could not be officially declared as hailing from Peru. The Peruvian authorities claimed everything of archaeological value from the region. The auctioneer would not know. The auction house may well have been fed expensive, forged documents as to its origin, but the sellers wanted its sale to be public — for unknown reasons — so here they were.

Waiting for the bids on one single piece of one of the greatest and most notorious unfound treasures of all time.

The eighth piece in the last decade.

Kenzie looked up as Lot 58 was announced, studied the crowd one last time and then gave the auctioneer her full attention. Two minutes passed and then the hammer came down. The woman beside her squawked with pleasure, having obtained a near-naked Roman statue. Kenzie sat hard on her hand.

The auctioneer took an inconspicuous sip from a bottle of water, then watched as the next item was brought out from the back.

“Lot 59,” he said.

Kenzie watched as the modest little item was brought into the room. The same man with the pristine white gloves handled it, placing it gently atop a gleaming pedestal, then arranged it so the light caught it just right.

“Blind Man’s Cup,” the auctioneer said in French. “From the collection of Balzac and Baudier, recently made available after a fifty-year wait. I will start the bidding at one million euros.”

Kenzie knew it was all a veil, something made up to conceal the real truth. The auction house wouldn’t dig too deeply. The well-heeled wouldn’t look too closely. Everyone’s a winner. She picked out the various players as the bid rose to two million.

Behind and around her she knew, the team would be making ready. Having attended several auctions before, Kenzie knew hot items such as this moved very quickly once purchased. The trouble was, it was the seller they were after, not the buyer.

As the price went north of two-point-five, the bids began to thin out. This was when the serious buyers usually came out of the shadows — or rather from the further corners of the room. Kenzie heard a new voice now and slowly drifted her eyes in that direction.

He stood leaning against a shiny white pillar, partially concealed by the tall man at his side, but Kenzie recognized him in a heartbeat.

Tremayne.

The only name she knew him by, but a noteworthy one nonetheless. Tremayne was a relic hunter, just as she used to be, and was known to be just as ruthless. It was a rare day when Tremayne didn’t come out on top, and wasn’t protected by at least three expert guards. She frowned, and looked away. The gentle hubbub surrounded her but she distinctly caught Tremayne’s tones now that she knew he was there and knew where to look.

“Three million.”

A hush. People were surprised and took another long look at the unassuming artifact, perhaps re-evaluating. What did this bidder know that they didn’t? Kenzie had seen it before and knew that most wouldn’t take a risk. She fixed her eyes ahead, wishing the woman’s perfume drifting in from the left was a little less toxic and that they had employed a communications device after all.

Tremayne was big trouble.

Still, she waited. Moving would only attract attention. The animations of the auctioneer became more intense as the bid approached three-point-five, and they all took another look at the cup. Lights shone, gasps rang out, and excitement filled the air. Another bid flew and then another. Finally, Tremayne held up a hand and announced:

“Four million euros.”

The hammer was raised, the cup offered once and then twice. With no challenges the hammer finally came down and the auctioneer moved smartly on to the next lot. Kenzie watched Tremayne and noticed Mai hovering around the blind side of the pillar. The Japanese woman was too close, but Kenzie respected her skills.

With difficulty, she stayed put and watched.

Tremayne closed his booklet, laid it down on a table, and nodded to the tall man at his side. No awareness was drawn as the pair made a slow, circuitous route around the back of the room and toward the holding area. Clearly, they were here for one thing and now in a hurry to claim it.

And then vanish. Kenzie knew the routine.

As Tremayne and his guard negotiated the packed wall at the room’s far side, she rose gracefully out of her chair, cinched the little black dress, and forced herself not to tread on the whiffy woman’s toes. Once in the aisle she made eye contact with her team and headed toward the back.

Dahl was already there. “You know him?” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Too well, I’m afraid. He’s the male version of me.”

Dahl blinked. “That bad?”

“That good. He’ll be on this like a cold-blooded divorce lawyer.” She paused. “Whoops. Didn’t mean that to sound so harsh.”

“Of course you didn’t. Let’s go before we lose them.”

Mai had already drifted past and now Kinimaka, having just entered, pushed through a crowd at the front of the room to catch up. Kenzie winced. Never one for subtlety, the big Hawaiian, he’d been even worse lately since Hayden took a million pins to his emotional cushion and decided to jab them all in at the same time.

A chair toppled, with its occupant holding on. Kinimaka picked them both up, apologizing quietly, and accidentally shoulder barged the man with the white gloves. Luckily, he wasn’t carrying a priceless artifact at the time. Kenzie motioned to Dahl and the two meandered their way toward the holding area, which was at the back of the room behind a set of rich, crimson-colored curtains.

Tremayne and his guard had pushed through twenty seconds ago. Mai held up a hand to her face, a subtle signal to wait. Then she proceeded to step through, sweet smile already being produced to help disarm the men and women she might meet.

Kenzie leaned in to Dahl, feeling her head touch his broad shoulders. “Risky.”

“Mai can handle it. She’s a total pro.”

“I know. But so is Tremayne.”

Dahl looked like he might agree. “Wait, here’s Mano.”

She nodded at the approaching mountain, then looked behind him. “You know, you trampled a pink poodle on your way past.”

“I did?” Mano looked stricken, then caught up. “Oh, funny. Are we waiting for Mai?”

Kenzie was mission leader and made the snap decision. “No. We follow. We can’t lose Tremayne tonight, because I guarantee you if we do, we’ll never find him afterward.”

Dahl stopped her. “But you could?”

“Maybe. But the danger would be off the scale. As fraught as any Mossad mission. This is still our best chance.”

They approached the curtain, still drifting, making a play of watching the latest lot. Kenzie knew it would be best to push straight through with confidence, but if Tremayne waited on the other side she had no doubt it would all end in blood and bullets.

“You go,” she told Dahl. “Don’t be long.”

Mai slipped through the gap in the curtain at that moment, almost colliding with Kenzie and ending up in her arms.

“We must move,” Mai said sharply. “They wasted no time back there, but did not suspect me.”

Kenzie started walking fast. “They’re already leaving? Damn.”

Mai nodded as she pushed the gathered wealth out of her path. “Totally unceremonious. A wire transfer exchange and then the cup was wrapped and placed in the smaller guy’s back pack.”

“And they’re headed out the back,” Kenzie finished.

“Isn’t that what you would do?”

“Well, yes, but…” She paused, giving herself a mental kick. The rigors of running with a new team and playing within the law were taking a toll on her focus. “I assumed wrongly that they’d leave by the front door.”

“Don’t worry,” Mai said a little infuriatingly. “It’s your first mission in charge. You’re allowed a mistake.”

“So long as you don’t get us killed.” Dahl pushed ahead, determined not to lose their one lead. Kenzie clenched her teeth together. The team left the auction room and followed an opulently furnished corridor into the main lobby. Even here, the tone was hushed, the patrons all standing and walking around with an air of sophistication. Kenzie made sure she led as they exited the hotel and walked down some steps onto the Champs Élysées.

“At least we came prepared,” Kinimaka said.

Kenzie cringed a little as she approached her battered scooter. It had been decided that the best way to carve through the nightmarish Parisian traffic and keep their quarry in sight was to hire four old scooters and cut through the flow. The locals did it all the time, barging through the traffic jams using inside and outside lanes indiscriminately at rarely less than thirty miles an hour. Amazingly, not many died.

Embracing the local rationale, the team jumped aboard and fired up their low-powered scooters. Kenzie felt the engine ping to life, and looked around. Mai sat demurely aboard her cycle, looking ridiculous but determined, her dress all gathered around her waist. Dahl grimaced, clearly unhappy but willing to accept Kenzie’s recommendations. She gave him the raised brows.

“Well one thing’s for certain. They won’t expect a special attack team looking like we do.”

Then she noticed Kinimaka. Oh, if they only had time to take a cellphone pic she could blackmail him forever. If there was a straining scooter under the Hawaiian’s bulk it was barely in evidence. In another way though, Kinimaka looked ultra-cool — appearing to sit and glide above the concrete.

They sped around the side of the building, Dahl taking the lead and heading straight for the underground parking garage. Sure enough, the high, wide metal door was just opening, raising outward. Headlights showed below — a car waiting to climb the steep ramp up to the street above. Dahl manhandled his scooter and told them all to back off.

Soon, the car — a black Jaguar F-Pace — powered up the ramp and bounced onto the street. Dahl sat astride his scooter, taking a look at the occupants. As the vehicle passed he nodded to the others.

Game on.

Kenzie had made several risky but educated assumptions for tonight’s mission. She assumed she would know the middleman. She assumed he would take the artifact. And she assumed he would stay in Paris — hence the scooters. If Tremayne now peeled off on the motorways toward Lyon or further afield they would be left floundering. Now, the mission’s entire success counted on her best guess.

Kenzie was rarely less than confident and felt the same now. Tremayne — or rather his bodyguard — took the F-Pace to the bottom of the street and pulled up to the curb. Kenzie saw three black-suited men climb in — more guards. Now they faced five, including the relic dealer and, in Kenzie’s experience, they would be no mere mercenary pushovers.

The team did have a stash of weapons close by, but no time to reach it now. In single file they followed Tremayne, staying at a good distance, especially as the car turned back toward the Champs and entered the slow flow of traffic. Establishments closed for the night lit both sides with soft, golden glows beside restaurants and clubs, their facades alight. She saw a pub — Comptoir De L’Arc — where, a long time ago, she’d passed a happy night with friends. Long gone. Long past. An entirely different world now.

Kenzie came up alongside Dahl, her ears filled with the straining wail of a youth’s scooter. “Now we wait. See where he ends up.”

“My guess, somewhere quiet,” Dahl shouted back. “He’ll be calling the buyer and seller from the car.”

They both turned as Kinimaka’s scooter let out a strange tortured shriek. The Hawaiian gave them a staunch wave, clearly ignoring his machine’s pain. Mai flicked in and out of traffic carefully as she kept the Jaguar in sight. Headlight beams shone all around, catching their clothes and fake jewels with sparkling light. Cars moved aside as they undertook. The streetlamps illuminated the way ahead as their target vehicle crawled along.

“Bollocks, it’s that bloody roundabout.”

Kenzie watched as one of France’s most notorious roundabouts came up near the Arc De Triomphe, along the Champs Élysées, the only place she knew where insurance companies refused to pay out 100 percent for an accident.

The scooters proved easier than the cars though, and they soon had to back off as they approached a little too close to Tremayne. Kenzie found herself sat at the curb for half a minute, alongside Dahl.

“How bad is this guy?” the Swede asked seriously.

Kenzie let out a pent-up breath. “As bad as they come.”

The F-Pace passed and they prepared to follow.

“My kinda mission then,” Dahl growled. “I’m going to enjoy this.”