by TR Kohler
A visit to Nic Kidman, someone she has known for more than thirty years. A person that has never told her no about anything, even in instances when it might have been in his best interest to do so.
A fact she may or may not have leaned into a bit on her maiden foray out to recruit an active asset.
Something that left her ill prepared for this, her first real attempt.
Leaving Mike’s question unanswered, Kari instead reaches to the shoulder bag sitting on the ground by her feet. An oversized leather satchel with a clasp top, large enough to handle whatever she thought she might need upon approaching.
Items such as the legal file tucked along the side.
Unlatching the hasp on the bag, she reaches in and extracts the plain brown object. Placing it down atop the newspaper folded before him, she leaves her hand in place. Fingers splayed wide, she keeps it pressed into the table and says, “You’re right. You don’t know me or the organization I claim to work for. This probably all does sound like some kind of scam.”
Pulling her hand back, she continues, “So consider this a good faith offer.”
Rising from her seat, she fits the bag into place on her shoulder before picking up the bottle of water.
“Read it,” she says. “Or don’t. Either way, I’m staying at the Balinese Dream just down the way. One of the bungalows on the sand.”
Taking a step toward the door, she adds, “I fly out at 0800 tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven
The questions are the same ones Firash asked the night before. A painstaking litany of inquiries covering every last aspect of the mission. Tiny details that most people would completely overlook demanding his full attention.
One of many reasons why he is the best in the world at what he does.
Three years removed or not.
Why Arief Wardoyo jumped at this opportunity when it first presented itself. A mission that he was only nominally interested in before hearing Firash’s name, regardless of the amount of money that was being offered to him and what it might mean to his family.
An opportunity to learn from someone bordering on myth, putting his services in demand long term. A reputation forged through association, far outpacing anything that might be gained from a single lucrative undertaking.
“Tell me about the response,” Firash says. Another question posed as a demand. Someone that cannot be tasked to bother with the vagaries of social niceties.
A man in need of information, everything else be damned.
“Cops or media?” Arief asks.
Seated back in the same chair he occupied just eighteen hours earlier, today he is alone. No Eka or Intan to distract, even while forced to wait outside. Two kids that are there despite growing misgivings from Arief and Firash both.
A fact that is visibly spiking Firash’s ire, the old man’s fuse growing increasingly short for their ongoing presence.
People that Arief did not know, had never met or even heard of, prior to ten days ago. Individuals insisted upon by Henry Rawit, the man with the money putting all of this into motion. The self-righteous prick that Arief cannot completely hate, no matter how much he might want to.
Not when he is the reason Arief is sitting here now.
“Both,” Firash snaps. “Start with the cops.”
“Five minutes,” Arief replies. “From the time the bomb went off to the first sign of their flashing lights in the distance. Another two before arrival.”
Grunting softly, the old man twists his head to either side. A contemptuous response that flings sweat droplets from his nearly bare scalp to the dusty floorboards.
“How many?”
“Seven went directly past where we were parked,” Arief replies. Information he has readily available, having just been through each of the questions hours earlier.
The underlying events spawning them mere minutes before that.
“More coming in from the west,” he adds. “Couldn’t get a clear visual for an exact number.”
Mouth twisting to the side as if tasting something bitter, Firash considers the news for a moment. “Fire?”
“Two engines,” Arief says.
Grunting softly, Firash asks, “Medical?”
“Same,” Arief replies, this time not bothering to add the clarifier that this was all information gleaned from where he was sitting. A post that gave him a good vantage along the main thoroughfare into the facility, but couldn’t cover everything.
Not with the geographic setup of the place, tucked away on the outskirts of the suburbs.
A massive spread, taking advantage of open space not found in other parts of the city.
Accepting the information with a grunt, Firash recedes into silence. The full list of questions cut short, headed off in the name of only going back over the most important.
The parts that will be pertinent moving forward.
An internal calibration Arief is certain has been done countless times already, run through one last time before setting things into motion anew. A pattern that is now on its third pass, each bearing only enough differences as deemed essential. Small shifts depending on the particular target and approach.
A consistency Arief cannot help but admire. Yet another reason for the man’s reputation and the expertise that spawned it.
Body held rigid in the wooden chair along the outside of the room, Arief sits in complete silence. Giving Firash all the time he needs, he waits as the man takes more than ten full minutes.
An expanse of time that ends with him flicking his gaze upward and saying, “General Motors.”
Not sure if he should respond or not, Arief dips his chin slightly. Nothing more.
“You know it?” Firash asks.
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead and get started. Full recon. Everything you can find.”
Again, Arief dips his chin. “When?”
“As soon as you leave here.”
Chapter Twelve
In the wake of the woman walking out of his bar earlier this afternoon, Mike simply sat and stared. Ignoring both the file in front of him and the cup of coffee later brought by Diah, he set his gaze on the swinging doors lining the entrance. More than an hour he remained that way, half expecting the older Asian woman with the severe hairstyle to walk back in.
Snatch up the file and give him some look approximating a smile.
The closest he could imagine her being able to produce, anyway.
Remaining fixed in position, he waited for something else. Something more. Something to explain the oddity that was the woman’s arrival and the story she was there to share. Everything from the person she claimed to be representing to the covert-but-not-really Ranch she was purported to run.
A hodgepodge of disparate facts that he tried to fit into a working framework in his mind.
One that was only just beginning to come together by the time he rose from his spot. Leaving his newspaper in place for whoever might wander upon the table later in the evening, he’d bid Diah farewell and made his way home.
A six-block trek with the file Kari Ma left for him tucked under an arm. A slow and even stroll that ended with him entering the small house resting high on a hill he calls home. A simple structure looking out toward the ocean, positioned just above the flood plain. A conscious choice in the face of the inevitability of hurricanes and tropical storms in the region.
Keeping the file in hand, he’d stopped in the kitchen for a beer before heading out to his small porch. Posting up in a rocking chair, he’d set his focus on the sun slipping steadily toward the western horizon.
A scene that to look at from the outside could not have been more idyllic. A man on his porch, ale in hand, feet propped on a rail, golden sunshine splashed across his features.
A pose that was actually masking the tempest of thoughts occurring just beneath the surface.
Ideas and concerns that still exist now over an hour later. Well after the sun has disappeared, taking a fair bit of the day’s warmt
h with it.
Disparate notions that he wants nothing more than to shove aside and forget ever happened. Strike most of the day from his memory, keeping only the part about the diminutive woman balanced on one leg that almost cut Carl’s throat.
A scene that was plenty severe in the moment but is destined to eventually become a tale added to the lore of Mike’s Place. The sort of thing time will manage to sand down until it is nothing more than something laughed about among friends.
A remember the time story shared whenever everybody really gets deep into their booze.
At the same time, for as bad as he might want that, he knows there is simply no way in doing so. Not that part about knowing of his capabilities, and damned sure not about her mention of his having a daughter. A notion she seemed absolutely certain of, even after he tried laughing her off.
Same for after he told her he was without children, and intended to keep it that way.
The kind of thing somebody doesn’t just bring up without merit.
Damned sure not someone there trying to solicit his assistance.
Upending the bottle of beer in hand, Mike takes down the last half inch. Still just on the cusp of being cold, it slides down easy, reduced to nothing more than a bit of foam, before he places it on the roughhewn end table beside him.
In its stead, he snatches up the file and flips open the top cover.
An act mixed of equal parts dread and curiosity.
Two feelings that only grow stronger with every word he reads.
Chapter Thirteen
Three weeks have passed since Mike fired up the aging computer perched atop his desk in the back room that serves as an office. A timeframe he knows with complete certainty, the only time the device ever gets put to use being the end of every month when it is time to update his financial spreadsheets.
Tedious, mind-numbing work that he despises with a passion.
Far and away the worst part of his chosen field as a small business owner, even in a place with reporting laws as lax as Bali.
Bringing the machine to life before him now, he can’t help but question if what he is doing is right. If all he is doing is playing into a cockamamie story that was concocted and foisted upon him by the woman with a cane and whatever shadow agency she really works for.
A way to get into his head. Put thoughts and images there that don’t really exist.
Use them to get him to do their bidding.
Three years now, he has been away from the life. Out of the military and far removed from anything resembling what the woman was describing earlier in the day. Long enough that he no longer regularly wakes up panting, sweat rolling down his face after standing over some improvised device along a road somewhere in his sleep.
Only on rare occasion does he ever hear the screams anymore. Recall the scenes of carnage that he was routinely sent into.
Hell, the last time an earthquake passed through the region, he didn’t even automatically assume it was a bomb going off nearby. Another device that he was too late to diffuse or was unable to get figured out.
A host of thoughts and experiences and memories he’d just as soon leave buried in the past. All parts of a whole that is better served locked away.
Reminders of a past life. One that was infinitely rougher than anything a human being should be asked to endure.
Certainly, a far cry from the way he now spends his days, a change that was very much by design.
For as much as Mike knows all of that, though, just as surely he knows that if there is even a scintilla of truth to the story Kari Ma shared or the file she handed him, he can’t just ignore it. Not and hope to ever again sleep through the night, one set of nightmares and disappointments replaced with another.
These newest ones aimed not at a prior life lived, but at one going on currently without him.
The moment the computer is loaded, Mike uses the mouse to bring up the main menu. The program he is looking for going unused for so long it is no longer on the desktop, he scrolls through the list of various offerings. Options much like the one he is seeking, most having not been touched in ages.
The device before him existing only for bookkeeping purposes, what little else he does online these days is conducted from his cellphone.
Yet another upside of his post-military life.
Finding the icon he is looking for most of the way down the list, Mike selects Skype. A command that takes another couple of moments to load, the device struggling to process his every command.
Something that only magnifies the growing uncertainty within him. The host of questions that exist, beginning with every word printed in the file Kari Ma handed him and extending to the person he is now trying to contact.
The only person he can think of that will know if the story shared is true.
Someone that doesn’t have to verify every word, but will be able to vouch for the big-ticket item.
Seeing the name he is looking to call, he places the arrow of the computer pointer over it. Feeling his pulse begin to rise, he draws in a deep breath, once more considering if what he is about to do is right or merely a means of reopening a closed scab.
An internal debate that ends with him clicking once to place the call.
An act not so much steeped in certainty, but in having to know.
Setting the program to dialing, Mike raises both hands to his face. Rubbing them over both cheeks, he runs them back over his scalp, peeling away the thin veneer of sweat that has developed.
Heat stemming from the uncertainty of what he is doing.
In potentially seeing the woman on the other end for the first time in nearly a year. A previous call schedule that was weekly, which eventually slowed to monthly before falling away altogether.
One more aspect from his past life handed over to the passage of time.
A gap made to feel even larger with each ringtone that passes. Every mechanized sound piped through the speakers of the computer. Enough that Mike is certain his call will go unanswered, prompting him to move to disconnect.
A choice cut off just seconds before completion by the screen before him dissolving.
In its place appearing the wrinkled visage of Meilin.
“Mike?” she asks, her voice just short of a yell. Eyes screwed up to the point of being just barely visible, she adds, “Is it really you?”
Chapter Fourteen
It takes longer than Kari Ma expected. Long enough that she had even started to consider the fact that maybe Joseph Robert Mychalski wasn’t going to be paying her a visit. The anger he displayed earlier was enough that he won’t even open the file she left for him. Merely brushing it into the trash, their entire interaction will be nothing more than a bizarre blip.
A story about the crazy Asian woman with a sword in her cane that almost took out one of the regulars, used to evoke a laugh.
An endpoint that, while surprising, won’t be the worst thing. While he may be the first potential recruit to turn her down, he will assuredly not be the last.
A point that she has been forced to make peace with since transitioning out of government life into her new role as head of The Ranch.
Just as she explained to the man known as Mike earlier, the place is not an official agency. It is not a place that drafts people into employment. Does not scour the ranks of the military or the other official organizations for the best and brightest before conscripting them into service.
They are a freestanding entity. A place created by people with special abilities for people with special abilities. Individuals with enhancements of various kinds that are tired of having to hide them from the world.
Would instead rather use them to do some good. Help others, much the same as Kari and Doc both did in their younger days.
Like she told Mike earlier, The Ranch is an outcropping of that initial program. A tongue-in-cheek take on the CIA facility known as The Farm where they were originally housed, as well as a nod to the primary function of the property in
Arizona where they now operate.
An organization that would definitely benefit from someone with the abilities of Mike, though they can’t make him. Wouldn’t want to even try, that being the antithesis of what it is they are designed to accomplish.
So much so that Kari had felt a little bad about mentioning the man’s daughter. Stumbled upon almost by mistake in the course of her background research, she had wondered repeatedly how to best approach it. Even promised herself that she would aid in his search as much as she could, regardless of his decision.
Thoughts she is very much in the middle of, repeating them back to herself, when the knock on her door finally arrives. A sound that is rough and aggressive, definitely not arising from the tiny elderly woman that checked Kari in hours before.
Three thunderous poundings in short order, the sound is enough to send a jolt of adrenaline through Kari. An instinctual reach for her cane.
Even a quick dip into invisibility – her particular ability - as she stares at the door before realization floods in.
A feeling that comes paired with a bit of self-flagellation as she reappears in the center of the bungalow. Flicking her gaze to the clock positioned on the wall above the television, she registers the time before heading for the door.
A moment later, she pulls it open to reveal the man she first met earlier in the day before her. Still dressed in the same jeans and t-shirt, the only discernible differences from their last meeting are the faint smell of beer and the set of his jaw.
Things that, when coupled with the file gripped tight in his hand, make his intent quite clear.
“Where is she now?” he asks by way of greeting, lifting the file between them and shaking it twice.
Tracing her gaze from Mike down to the file and back again, Kari asks, “Would you like to come in?”
As if realizing for the first time that he is standing on the doorstep beneath a glowing bulb, he flicks a glance in either direction. A quick look that almost hints of embarrassment as he takes two steps forward, pushing the door shut in his wake.