by TR Kohler
Resisting the urge to smirk, Mike does as instructed. Circling away from her, he tosses the half-empty bag into the barren trunk and lowers the lid to reveal the private craft that brought him here already lifting off. A touchdown that was barely long enough to get turned around before being on their way again.
No bothering with fuel or supplies. No pauses to let anybody else on or off.
An exact itinerary that has now been completed, releasing them to be on their way again. Back to Arizona, or the next recruiting trip, or wherever else.
Details that Mike can’t begin to burden himself with right now, still trying to make sense of his newest situation.
One that he is completely certain he wants to be a part of even less than Tania seems to.
Latching the trunk closed, Mike swings up the far side of the vehicle. Sliding down into the passenger seat, he feels the blessed kiss of air conditioning as Tania puts the car in gear, taking off before he even has a chance to fasten his seatbelt.
Another pointed move, as if the display she put on outside wasn’t quite enough.
Resisting the urge to scoff at the unnecessary show of annoyance, Mike instead fixes his gaze on the world around them. Scenes of urban decay as they exit the small airfield and move along the outer edges of the city.
Structures wedged up tight to one another, most looking to have been thrown up decades before without thought to space or time considerations. Buildings that have been left untouched in the years since, chunks of paint and plaster having been stripped away by the elements.
A dilapidated cityscape loaded far beyond capacity, scads of people lining stairways and balconies. Many more along the sides of the street, peddling bicycles or padding along with baskets loaded with goods or grocery items.
People in clothing as old and torn as the buildings around them. Muddy faces and dirty knees hinting at the sort of thing Mike hasn’t witnessed in the years since leaving active duty.
Stuff he had tried to leave behind, never to see again.
“Ma told me she wasn’t with the Agency,” he says as he stares out. A comment that goes unanswered for several seconds, causing him to eventually roll his gaze away from the window toward the woman sitting behind the wheel.
A task she seems to be taking most seriously, gripping it tight in both hands, knuckles flashing beneath the skin.
A response either to the choked roadway they are currently traversing or his very presence, he can’t be sure.
“She’s not,” Tania eventually replies.
“Oh really?” Mike asks. “Nondescript sedan, an American agent named Lynch, presumably a safe house we’re now en route to?”
“She’s not,” Tania repeats, her voice elevated, cutting off the remainder of the examples he was prepared to offer. “This is a begrudging favor. Nothing more.”
Chapter Nineteen
If Tania Lynch ever considered a life in real estate, Mike can tell how her path ended up trending toward government work instead. Woefully lacking in details or even general interest, she leads him on a quick pass through the place, pointing out the various features with as much enthusiasm as one generally uses when reading the daily weather.
Not that there is a tremendous amount to see, the place serving as the very characterization of utilitarian. A crash pad in the truest definition of the term, it is a second-floor apartment encompassing a total of three spaces.
A bedroom, a bathroom, and a combination living room and kitchenette.
More than enough square footage for a single man like Mike hoping to be in town for no longer than a couple of days.
Or, as he suspects is happening all over the city of Jakarta, a family of four or more. Prime space sitting well above street level, helping to protect it both from floods and thieves.
The kind of living quarters many people like the droves they passed on the ride over would love to have access to, left sitting vacant the vast majority of the time. An apartment bought and paid for by the American people in the slim chance that someday it might be needed.
Another thought that can’t help but make Mike wonder exactly what he is doing as he walks through. A quick march that takes less than two minutes before finding himself back in the center of the common area where they started.
Bag still looped over a shoulder, he stands opposite Tania. Already looking to be edging toward the door, the disdain she displayed upon his initial arrival has thawed only slightly.
A stance he imagines has more to do with her being relieved to be getting rid of him than with any sudden change of heart she might have undertaken in the last twenty minutes.
“There’s a safe in the back of the closet,” she says. Voice lowered slightly, she adds, “Combination is month and day of your birth.”
How she knows when that is or when she had the chance to set it, Mike doesn’t bother asking.
Is reasonably certain he doesn’t want to know.
“What’s in it?” Mike asks.
“Anything you might need during your brief stay,” she replies. Pausing to emphasize the last couple of words, she adds, “Local currency. Credentials and contacts to get you into the two bombing sites. A weapon that I strongly urge you not to use, for both our sakes.”
Grunting softly, Mike matches the items against the working list he already had in his mind. Things put together after getting a rundown from Kari Ma in her bungalow last night.
A total inventory not quite matching what he would prefer, but certainly enough to get him started.
“Pantry is stocked,” Tania adds. “Should be plenty to cover you for the next seventy-two hours.”
Gaze sweeping over the Spartan interior of the apartment, Mike pauses. Seizing on the last sentence, he asks, “Three days?”
“Yes,” Tania replies. “That’s what was requested, that’s what has been extended.”
Nothing more is said, though the implication is clear. Anything further will mean he’s either on his own or require additional permissions.
Neither option seeming especially appealing.
“And if I need to get in touch with you or someone else from the Agency while I’m here?” he asks.
A question not intended to rankle, though it seems to do just that. The woman’s teeth coming together, she glares at him a moment before muttering, “Joshua 1:9.”
Crossing over to the counter, she grabs up a pen and a napkin, scribbling down a string of digits.
“For emergency use only.”
Chapter Twenty
Not a trace of Firash’s previous work remains visible. No bits of wire or fuses or blasting caps. No plastic explosives or gunpowder or even metal piping.
In their stead are blueprints. Pulled from the internet and blown up more than three feet square, they are tacked to the wall before him. A full schematic of his next target stretched the entire width of the room.
One of many things demanded when first contacted by Henry Rawit. Items just as vital as the components of the creations he makes.
On his lap are the notes gathered by Arief the night before. Handwritten thoughts and observations jotted down in black ink, their full extent fanned out like a deck of playing cards.
More than a dozen pages scripted in bullet point format. Attention to detail already far surpassing their first foray a week earlier, the younger man doing exactly as instructed on each subsequent run.
Notations read through so many times, Firash already has them committed to memory. More than that, he has assimilated them into his mind. Made it so that as he sits and stares at the schematics before him, he can envision himself there.
Not the old man he sees whenever he looks into the mirror in the bathroom each morning. A sight he despises so much, it is the only reflective surface in the entire shack. One that has only survived out of necessity, there to help him see and clean areas that he can’t otherwise because of his condition.
A task that always heightens the animosity he feels.
Imagining hims
elf inside the warehouse, Firash instead pictures the man he was. The young charge having just finished his tutelage. The passing of the torch from the previous generation to himself.
Somebody hungry and eager, anxious to prove himself.
Just as he feels now, this his first venture back into the fold in over three years. A renewed purpose. An opportunity and setup designed to circumvent whatever shortcomings may still exist.
Things he had not thought possible. Had even given up on, retiring to his small hole in the jungle. A place to live out the remainder of his days before drifting into the next life.
An assumption now cast aside by the breath of renewed purpose.
Narrowing his gaze to nothing more than slits, Firash walks himself through the entire facility. Entering just as he would if nothing more than a common day laborer, he imagines stepping inside. Seeing the sprawling structure stretched out a hundred yards in every direction.
The machines it holds. The lanes and corridors that are carved between them.
The support poles that hold it in place. The architecture design in plain sight overhead.
Even the cameras affixed at various intervals.
An exercise in mental immersion that resembles some sort of virtual reality. A scene completely wrapping around him, the first faint tingles of anticipation beginning to set in.
Equal parts expectation and eagerness, each successful mission only heightening the desire within him. The drive to not only get back what was taken from him, but inflict damage on those responsible for it.
Not just people like the ones overseeing the targets he is going after, but the country they represent and the people they serve. A bastion of decadence and self-importance, operating far from home in matters well beyond their purview.
Reasons far removed from those of Henry Rawit, but getting them both to the same place in the end.
His narrow gaze fixed on the blueprints before him, Firash marches himself ahead on his envisioned tour. One step at a time into the center of the facility where he stops, considering everything that is laid out around him.
A central position that will be a solid start, but he would be foolhardy to rely on entirely.
A thought that causes his mind to disengage from the imagined world. Returning to the shack, his gaze shifts, landing on the wooden crate resting beneath the windows beside him. The even rows of iron pipes standing upright he knows to be hidden within it, completed just a couple of days prior, aching to be unleashed.
A very specific style and sequence in need of a definitive structural plan to be most effective.
Allowing one corner of his mouth to flicker slightly in a smile, Firash reaches into the pouch hanging from the left handle of his wheelchair. Running what remains of his fingers along the bottom of it, he finds what he is looking for, extracting the burner cellphone from within.
Powering it to life, he navigates through the recent call log, highlighting one of the two numbers stored inside.
Pressing send, he waits through just a single ring before hearing the voice he is expecting on the other end.
“When can you get here?” he mutters. “It’s time to talk logistics.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Gatorade logo stamped on the side of the building is different than the one Mike remembers seeing throughout his days in the military. And even his time playing football at MTSU before that.
A throwback more than two decades old, it reminds him of the emblem that was popular back when he was still in junior high in the late nineties. A timestamp from when the building first went up that nobody has bothered to update in the time since.
A minor detail that is probably now even farther down the list of repairs to be made when compared to the gaping maw just a short distance down from it. An uneven tear in the outside of the structure that is roughly circular in shape. Slightly uneven, the edges of it are charred, a thick layer of soot staining the exterior of the building.
The kind of scene only created by explosives. A visual that matches with the smell in the air, even now several days after the fact.
An acrid scent Mike has seen last for weeks or more on facilities such as this before. Places where an inordinate amount of chemicals are stored and utilized.
One of an assortment of details that come rushing back to Mike in a wave. Things he hasn’t thought about in years, instantly recalled. Reflexive reactions that begin even long before he sets foot on the property.
Something he isn’t quite sure is a good thing as he steps up onto the sidewalk lining the front of the building. Uneven chunks of concrete made worse by the recent presence of fire trucks and various first responders. Large, heavy vehicles that crumbled the walk even more, leaving evidence of their passing cleaved into the narrow band of grass separating the walk from the side of the building.
There under the guise of being an inspector from one of the various insurance companies used by Gatorade, a bag containing a legal pad in a leather binder and a few other supplies is tucked under one arm. In his back pocket is a matching miniature bifold holding his credentials.
Things held in the safe stowed away in the rear closet of the apartment he was delivered to by Tania Lynch. Items already made out in his name, the sheer volume of preparations undertaken hinting either that the woman had been up all night working or that Kari Ma had informed them of his arrival before even coming to see him.
Two options that neither sound all that appealing and only heighten the uncertainty about his being here right now. The host of assorted questions that are latched to it, beginning and ending with the possibility of a daughter out there somewhere.
A remnant of a relationship long believed gone.
Pushing such thoughts away for the time being, Mike plants his feet just inside the fractured concrete of the front walk. Coming to rest on the brittle grass lining the front of the structure, he grasps the strap of the bag in both hands.
A static pose as his focus drifts to the blast site torn through the side of the building. A single exit point more than eight feet across ripped through the concrete block. An explosion strong enough to have reduced most of the original wall to gravel, pea-sized bits of stone covering the lawn nearby.
As for the building itself, pieces of block lining the edges of the hole protrude at random. Jagged chunks that were wrenched out of position, left hanging at odd angles.
A snaggletooth pattern made less obvious by the black char painting everything. A midnight hue coating all in the immediate vicinity and growing fainter as it works outward.
A stain making the gash cleaved into the wall appear nearly twice as large in size.
Sliding the leather folder from the bag, Mike flips back the top cover. Easing a pen from the elastic sleeve in the center of it, he starts with a few quick notes. Things jotted down one at a time. Relevant details that he may want to consult later on.
More than a dozen in total, when he is done, he moves on to a quick sketch. A rough outline with visual measurements included.
A task that takes him a couple of minutes, only just finished as he raises his focus to see a man coming his way. An older man standing six inches shorter than Mike, whatever he lacks in height more than made up for in girth.
A look made worse by the pleated slacks and short-sleeve dress shirt he wears, both items appearing at least a size too large.
Somewhere around the age of sixty, only a ring of white tufts of hair remains, the rest of his pasty scalp and face glowing pink in the bright sunshine.
“Oh!” the man opens as he shuffles around the busted sidewalk and makes his way toward Mike. “You must be the damage assessor the embassy said was coming by today.”
Snapping the leather folder shut, Mike forces a smile. A grin that feels decidedly out of place given the sights and smells that have greeted him thus far.
“That’s right,” he says, extending a hand before him. “Call me Mike.”
“Okay, Mike,” the man replies, thrusting
a damp hand into Mike’s. “Rex Hardison, pleasure to meet you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The initial back and forth took longer than Mike would have preferred. After initial introductions were done, his hope was that Rex Hardison would simply point him toward the production floor and leave him to it. Give him an hour or two of blessed silence to poke around, allowing muscle memory to continue to flood back in.
Much to his chagrin though, the man hadn’t seemed to be interested in such a thing. An expatriate transplant from Wichita, the man came off as aching to be speaking with another American. Acting as if he didn’t have access to a phone or the internet, he practically begged for news from the States, most of which Mike wasn’t much more up to date on than the man himself.
An awkward conversation that Hardison didn’t seem to notice growing more one-sided with each passing moment. A series of nods and half-answers by Mike that slipped by, Hardison happily filling in any remaining gaps.
A process that lasted up until they reached the main of the factory interior before, finally, he was able to rid himself of the man.
A ruse that required him pulling an air filter mask and a pair of rubber gloves from his bag. Donning both, he’d given some rigmarole about there being a risk of chemical exposure and not wanting to bring a civilian like Hardison any closer.
Schadenfreude the man had been all too eager to gobble up, no doubt the makings of a great story to share with the next poor bastard who got caught in conversation with him.
In the wake of the man’s incessant babble, the silence enveloping Mike feels especially pronounced. A feeling made extra poignant considering the vast dimensions of the space he is standing in. A work floor designed to employ hundreds of people in various shifts.
One that today stands entirely empty. A desolate scene that looks to be equal parts end-of-workday and post-apocalyptic disaster.