The chaos in the auction hall formed a violent tapestry, its threads unraveling as Max, Elena, and their reluctant captive plunged back into the fray. The air was electric, charged with panic and greed, as bidders scrambled, their earlier alliances forgotten in the scramble for survival and profit.
Max's eyes scanned the tumult, capturing snapshots: a fallen gavel, a shattered vase of ancient origin, and Kral, unmistakably the eye of this storm, directing his men with vicious precision. His voice, though not loud, carried an undeniable command that even the cacophony of chaos couldn't drown out.
"Stay close," Max murmured to Elena, his words barely audible over the clamor. His hand found the small of her back, guiding, protecting. Their captive stumbled between them, his face pale under the flickering lights that danced across the hall's high, arching ceiling.
Through the melee, The Hunter emerged, his face set in a grim line. "This place is about to become a graveyard," he shouted over the noise, his gaze locking on their prisoner. "We need to talk to him now before this whole place goes up."
Max nodded, pushing through a cluster of frantic buyers and sellers toward a quieter corner shadowed by crates of smuggled goods. They thrust their captive into a chair. "Start talking," Max demanded, his voice a steel blade poised on the edge of patience.
The federal agent looked between them, his earlier confidence now cracked. "Kral's not just selling relics. He's dealing in information. Top-level secrets, government intel. He's got a mole in every agency you can think of."
Elena's eyes narrowed. "Names. We want names."
The man swallowed, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. "I can give you one. Just one. But if I do, you have to get me out of here alive."
"Talk first," The Hunter interjected, his tone brooking no argument.
The agent's eyes flicked towards the tumult at the front of the hall. "Simmons. Agent Simmons. She's deep in his pocket. Has been feeding him everything for months."
The name hit them like a physical blow. Simmons, an agent of impeccable record, the last person they'd suspect. Yet the puzzle pieces clicked together, a sinister picture forming.
"Where is she now?" Max asked, his mind racing through the implications.
"Here," the agent whispered, his voice trembling. "She's here, overseeing the sale."
Elena stepped closer, her presence menacing despite her slight frame. "Take us to her. Now."
They moved as a unit, weaving through the crowd that was now a blend of fear and anger. Each step took them deeper into the heart of deception and betrayal. Max felt the weight of the gun against his side, a cold comfort.
As they approached the VIP section, a figure detached itself from the shadows—Simmons. Her expression, once open and friendly, was now a mask of cold calculation.
"Simmons!" Elena called out, her voice cutting through the noise.
Simmons turned, her eyes widening in shock, then narrowing. "You shouldn't have come here," she said, her voice chillingly calm.
"We know about Kral. We know about you," Max stated, stepping forward. "It's over."
Her laugh was bitter, echoing strangely in the chaotic hall. "It's never over. Not in this business."
Before more words could be exchanged, a sudden outburst of gunfire erupted. Instinctively, Max pulled Elena back, the world narrowing down to the immediate need to protect, to survive.
As the shots rang out, Simmons disappeared into the chaos, leaving them with more questions than answers, and a clear message: trust was a commodity no one could afford in this shadowy world of neon and deceit.