Mike's Place: An Action Thriller (A Bulletproof Novel Book 1)

by TR Kohler

  Forward progress that ends abruptly as he repeats, “Where?”

  Retreating to match him, Kari stops in the center of the room. Hand tightening slightly on the cane in her hand, she replies, “I don’t know.”

  An answer that is clearly not what Mike wants to hear, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  “I really don’t,” Kari adds. “I had only just discovered her existence when the President called and said there was an urgent situation brewing nearby.”

  Body standing completely rigid, Mike listens in silence. Visibly processing the information, he remains that way for nearly a full minute before asking, “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, in the course of researching you for potential recruitment, I found out about her.”

  “And then you just stopped?”

  “More like, got interrupted.”

  The quick back-and-forth coming to a halt, Mike goes quiet again. A few more moments to add what was just shared to the framework of information already in his head.

  For the first time since his arrival, his gaze moves away from Kari. A quick glance at their surroundings, taking in the standard cabana fare the place is outfitted in.

  Bed with floral covering. Print rug atop a hardwood floor. A fan with oversized paddles spinning lazily above.

  Turning to the side, he crosses over to the only chair in the room. A rattan frame with a seat cushion to match the bedding, he drops down into it.

  Balancing the file in his lap, he asks, “Is that the tradeoff here? I do what you ask, and you offer to find her?”

  Remaining standing, Kari rotates to face him square. Gripping the top of the cane in both hands before her, she replies, “No.”

  “Because I can do that myself.”

  “I know.”

  “If she even exists,” Mike adds. “Which, by the way, I’m not a hundred percent sure of.”

  Kari nods. “I know that, too.”

  Again, he falls mute. A moment as he looks away, clearly wrestling with a host of different thoughts. Things that play across his features, pulling back the notion Kari had earlier about the man being terrible at poker.

  An internal debate that eventually ends with him pushing a loud sigh out through his nostrils.

  “If I do this – if – what would it even look like?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The difficulty the man is having in keeping the excitement from his features is quite palpable. A conscious fight to prevent himself from seeming too eager. Effort that is coming up woefully short, the visuals every bit as obvious as the last three people to have sat in the chair directly across from Henry Rawit.

  A response that he has no doubt will be shared by whoever should come after. A surge that he suspects is just beginning given recent events in the area.

  People flocking in to try and take advantage of what they view as a lifeline. A transition from the manufacturing and distributing mechanisms of the past to the new production models of the future.

  A marked shift from the international players that have dominated the market to something new where local resources can be directed.

  All put in motion by the deft movements of Rawit in anticipation of moments just like this. Instances when he can sit behind his desk and watch the giddiness permeate his visitors.

  A look so delicious, it is all he can do not to respond in kind. Both at knowing they are in, fully hooked, and at the benefits he knows rests just beyond the horizon for him.

  The kind of thing he spent years imploring his father to pursue, only the old man’s death finally allowing Rawit to usher in this long-overdue new era.

  “These numbers,” Dennis Tseng says as he peruses the binder before him. Balancing it across both hands, he brings it up to just a few inches short of his nose.

  A person with poor eyesight studying the menu in a restaurant they’ve never been to before.

  “Is this really possible?” he asks, swinging his focus in either direction before raising his focus across the desk.

  A look on his features mixed of joy and astonishment. Perhaps, even a bit of disbelief.

  Feelings that Rawit can freely admit he too might be feeling if seated across the table. If not for him being the one to have the foresight to see such a move being possible.

  A simple realignment of the Jakarta economy, needing only a few key individuals and a couple of stiff nudges to put things into motion.

  Foresight that is the reason he is dressed in hand-cut Armani while Tseng across from him is donning something off-the-rack from Men’s Wearhouse. Why he carries a Patek watch while Tseng probably checks the home screen on his flip phone.

  Why Rawit owns one of the largest offices in Jakarta and the entire building it sits in while Tseng operates out of some small structure on the outskirts of the city.

  “Not only is it possible,” Rawit replies, “but if anything, those numbers are probably a little bit low. A starting point, until we can really get production ramped up.”

  Raising his gaze from the binder to Rawit, Tseng’s eyes grow wide. A look made more pronounced by the round shape of his face and the receding hair atop his head.

  A pose that is almost cartoonish, Rawit practically able to reach into the man’s head and scoop out his thoughts.

  Most of them beginning and ending with dollar signs.

  As if most of the money to be made will go anywhere but directly back to Rawit.

  “Space?” Tseng asks.

  Offering a small smirk, Rawit replies, “Have you driven through the suburbs lately? They’re practically giving away real estate right now.

  “We can pick up something and renovate or just build from scratch.”

  Eyes somehow growing a touch wider, Tseng rolls his focus back down. His mouth opens, about to launch another question that is interrupted by a small knock at the door. A light tap that interrupts the flow of conversation, both men glancing over to see the massive oak plank crack open a few inches.

  A gap wide enough to allow Mia to peer in, only her face visible, the rest of her body pulled back as far as possible.

  A sight that causes a bolt of acrimony to pass through Rawit, his features clouding as he stares her way.

  A faux pas that could not come at a more inopportune time.

  “What is it, Mia?” Rawit snaps, each word pushed through gritted teeth.

  A tone the girl picks up on instantly, seeming to shrink back a few more inches. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but you have a phone call. A Mr. Ash, wanting to speak with you.”

  Taking no more than a moment to process what was just shared, any hostility dissipates from Rawit. As does any thought of continuing the discussion with Tseng, his focus instead moving to the man on the phone.

  Someone that is the linchpin of everything he is doing.

  A person not to be kept waiting.

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Without the hum of machines at work and the buzz of employee activity, the interior of the factory resembles some sort of futuristic playground. Towering metal structures all arranged in a loose grid, silent and waiting for their next bout of usefulness to begin.

  A stark contrast to the most recent target when there were but a few moments when things went completely quiet. Three shifts splitting the day into equal parts, each handing things off to the next with only small breaks in between.

  A schedule that meant getting the timing right was absolutely imperative. A scene that made slipping into a janitor’s uniform and assimilating into the flow of foot traffic heading inside almost too easy for Arief.

  Not that it didn’t come with its own set of quandaries, chief among them being how to best navigate without being seen. Gliding past scads of workers on the factory floor and janitorial staff scattered throughout the attached office complex without being noticed.

  A situation that nearly required him sliding down a damn garbage shoot and climbing his way out of the filth and muck conglomerat
ed at the bottom as means of an escape.

  An exit strategy that was seriously considered before being forced to involve Eka and Intan in his plans.

  Tonight, the situation is decidedly different in every way. Difficulties that were frontloaded, requiring him to be more creative in gaining access to the facility. Hours spent crouching inside a fort of boxes along the loading dock in the rear of the warehouse. A small square barely large enough for his frame, his backside pressed tight into the corner formed by the brushed concrete floor and matching block wall rising from it.

  A place he’d been forced to sit in through most of the second shift. Time spent even long after his ass went numb and his neck throbbed. Hours on the edge of dizziness, not trusting himself to drink too much water beforehand, knowing of the situation he was about to find himself in.

  A necessary evil now materializing in a lack of hydration, compounded by the infernal heat trapped under the metal roof above.

  A hallmark of life in Jakarta, especially as the day wore on and the air conditioning was kicked off. A cost-cutting measure employed by the company whose emblem is stamped on the side of the boxes Arief spent most of the evening staring at. A corporation with pockets plenty deep enough to keep employees safe but choosing not to for all of the usual reasons.

  Main among them being they just don’t give a damn.

  A chief reason why this entire undertaking was even put together.

  Remaining tucked out of sight, Arief had sat in the semi-darkness counting minutes. A stretch of time listening for any sounds. Any telltale noises of people moving about or machines springing to life.

  Custodians or maintenance men or anybody else making their way through the deserted factory floor.

  A wait that he let reach one hour before finally emerging. Kicking his way out of the makeshift hiding place and enjoying the small dip in temperature afforded by being out from beneath the pile of boxes.

  A moment he still relishes as he stands in the southeast corner of the facility surveying the breadth of the warehouse before him. A space much larger than the previous two, meant to serve a vastly different purpose.

  Feeling the tingling sensation of air touching the perspiration lining his features, Arief sweeps his gaze across the floor. A preliminary pass making sure that the arrangement before him matches the one in his mind. Blueprints and gridded images printed out and tacked onto the walls of the shack.

  A layout that was presented to him the instant the debriefing from the previous target was completed.

  A painstaking attention to detail that, just a week into working with Firash, already has him seeing things a bit differently. Scanning and assessing, every single item a potential target or impediment.

  Reaching to his rear pocket, Arief takes out the same spiralbound notebook he’s been carrying for days. Every previous notation already stripped out and destroyed, he draws an ink pen from the top and flips to the first page.

  The beginning of a process that will take him the better part of the night. A silent scouring of the grounds, being careful to avoid the handful of cameras covering the area.

  A reconnaissance mission like the ones he used to undertake in the military. A task that will end with him making a quick pass through the locker room.

  Acquiring camouflage for his impending return, the sole sign of his passage.

  After which, he will revisit his hiding place in the rear of the facility by the time the day shift starts anew in the morning.

  A spot he will remain hidden in until given the opportunity to exit and make his way back to the shack in the jungle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Normally, there is no easy way for Mike to get from Nusa Ceningan to Jakarta. Starting out early in the day, he would be forced to begin by boarding a ferry over to the main island of Bali. From there, he would have to catch a bus or cab on into the capital of Denpasar before taking a two-hour flight to Jakarta.

  A start-to-finish process that would take well over half a day. And cost significantly more than most things in that part of the world.

  Two investments that he’s never deemed worth the hassle, everything he could possibly need contained on his home island.

  A spot that was picked not just for the opportunity he had to purchase and revamp what is now Mike’s Place, but because it is far removed. No noise and bustle. No excessive tourist crowds.

  Damned sure not any of the trappings of urban life. Things that he grew up well beyond and could not wait to leave behind after mustering out of the military.

  Considerations – both in terms of travel time and city blight – that are solved by the private plane he now finds himself in. A Gulfstream something-or-other with seating for more than a dozen people, though Kari Ma is the only other person seated in the cabin.

  “You realize this plane doesn’t exactly give a lot of credence to your whole claim about not being with the Agency, right?” Mike asks as the city of Jakarta appears in the distance. The first sign of urban life since they departed a short time earlier.

  A rare outlier easily identifiable from the air. A lone spot of black and gray, breaking up the canopy of mottled greens sprawling beneath them.

  To say nothing of the various shades of turquoise abutting the island on all sides.

  A scene that a day earlier, Mike would not have thought possible. Another in an unending line of things to have entered his life the moment the small woman sitting to his right passed through the swinging doors of his bar.

  Things that had him awake most of the night, alternating between staring at the ceiling and pacing the floor. His mind cranked up far too high to even think of finding sleep, he’d tried to put everything into order, time and again coming up woefully short.

  Questions ranging from The Ranch the woman claimed to work for to the story shared by Meilin on the videocall. Wonderings about if he might in fact have a child out there. A connection to the woman he lost years before.

  Even more considerations about the best way for him to go about finding the answers he needs.

  The first words shared in the better part of twenty minutes, the sound of his voice pulls Ma’s attention away from the opposite window.

  “You ever work for the Agency?” she asks. “Or just heard the old ghost stories?”

  “Mostly the latter,” Mike replies. Seeing the arched eyebrow the answer evokes, he adds, “Did a small one-off project for them, but didn’t realize it until after the fact.”

  “Ah,” she replies. “Well, as someone that spent years under their direct employ, I can promise you this – if I was active Agency, we damned sure wouldn’t be sitting on a private plane right now.”

  Returning her gaze to the window beside her and the city below growing ever closer, she adds, “Hell, we’d be lucky to even be flying commercial.”

  Smirking slightly, Mike rolls his gaze back to the window. A quick glance to gauge the length of the remainder of their journey.

  A moment as good as any to ask something he’s been wondering about since their first discussion at the table in his bar the previous afternoon. An item that was pushed aside in the name of much larger matters in the time thereafter.

  “Can I ask,” he begins, making it no further than rolling his attention back in the opposite direction before she cuts him off.

  “Yes,” she says. Lifting the cane, she taps the bottom of it twice against the floor before adding, “That’s how this happened.”

  “Oh,” Mike says, tracing his gaze the length of the black walking stick. The one with a sharpened steel blade buried inside, released and wielded in one swift movement.

  The type of thing he hasn’t seen done in years.

  And never by someone resembling the woman beside him.

  “I was actually wondering what you meant when you said people like us yesterday. Does that mean—”

  For the second time in as many minutes, his question is cut short. This time by her completely disappearing from sight, the woman and h
er cane both evaporating before him.

  A move that leaves him staring at an empty chair, his eyes wide.

  A position he holds until the plane touches down, the slight jolt of the aircraft enough to snap him back into the moment.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Seeing the woman from afar as he steps down out of the plane and onto the tarmac, Mike’s initial thought is that there is no way she is even as old as himself. Standing beside the nondescript black sedan, she is dressed in khaki shorts and hiking boots. Arms folded across her chest, a plume of dark hair dances in the breeze.

  A look and pose that seems to hint more at a college co-ed about to go for a walk in the desert than at the contact he is there to meet.

  An impression that only grows stronger as he approaches, crossing the empty airstrip with his canvas duffel looped over a shoulder.

  Leaning against the front hood of the sedan, the girl makes no effort to move as he closes the gap between them. A spot she seems quite content with, as evidenced by the frown tugging downward on either end of her mouth.

  Something she leaves in place long enough to make her point before begrudgingly pushing herself away from the side of the sedan and taking a step forward. Hand extended before her, she waits for Mike to cover the last couple of yards, accepting the shake.

  “Tania Lynch,” she says while grasping his hand in hers, the thrust of her shake offset by the cool tone of her voice. A detached stance that extends clear up to her eyes as she gives him an apprising sweep.

  One that ends with an expression letting him know she isn’t terribly impressed with what she sees.

  “Mike,” he replies.

  “Mike what?” she asks.

  In no way wanting to go back through the exchange that played out with Kari Ma the day before, he replies, “Just Mike.”

  “Okay, Just Mike,” Tania says, releasing his hand. Turning to the side, she uses a key fob to pop the trunk. “Drop your gear in there, soldier.”