by TR Kohler
As he imagines most such places to be, the bulk of the production floor is set out as one open area. A vast space that is slightly rectangular in shape, the south end comprising locker rooms, a cafeteria, and any offices that are needed. A total allotment of maybe fifteen percent of the available square footage.
On the far opposite end, an equal chunk is used for storage and shipping. Finished product that sits a minimum amount of time before being whisked away on pallets. Loaded into trucks or trains, to be taken on to ships or planes or whatever other mode of transportation will get it to its final destination.
Carveouts that leave seventy percent of the overall structure for the facility floor. The vast area stretched before him that bears out what he witnessed from the outside.
A scene in which it appears a singular device was planted, destroying everything in its immediate vicinity and blowing through the outer wall behind it. A powerful charge used to knock out the central line of production, reducing the machine to shrapnel.
Scraps of metal and chunks of plastic hurled across the remainder of the warehouse floor.
A thick layer of debris that coats everything on the western third of the interior, slowly thinning from there.
A blast radius that barely makes it all the way across, nothing more than a few stray bits of plastic dotting the floor where he stands.
Sliding the strap of the bag from his shoulder, Mike drops it to the concrete. With it goes the mask and gloves, everything piled just inside the yellow line painted along the floor.
The demarcation point warning employees to go no farther without proper protective equipment.
Sensations dancing the length of his body, Mike stands completely still. One sense at a time, he works through everything he can. Each detail, from the temperature in the air to the smells of gunpowder and vaporized Gatorade.
A miasma of scents that verge on overpowering.
Minutiae he files away as he takes his first step forward. One mechanical stride, bringing with it a host of vivid recollections and images. Memories from a different time and place. Moments when he was standing on the edge of scenes just like this one, body forced into a blast-proof suit or having just stripped one off.
Instances where he was constantly scouring the grounds, watching for secondary devices. Enemies that might still be lurking.
Things that he doesn’t necessarily have to watch for today, but cannot push aside.
Ingrained responses that will always be there.
Continuing to inch his way forward, Mike goes no more than a couple of steps at a time. Measured increments before stopping and scanning everything around him.
Silent assessments of the debris field he stands on. Distances and destruction levels.
Information he files away, walking the entire length of the floor, getting a good feel for what played out, before returning to his bag to gather up his supplies and do it all over again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You know, when I gave you this number-”
Mike doesn’t know exactly where the comment is headed, though he is reasonably certain he has no interest in being there when it lands. Cutting Tania Lynch off before she can get the whole thing out, he asks, “Who did the investigation into the bombing at the Gatorade plant?”
The immediate response to his question is silence. Pointed quiet that could be out of annoyance to his interrupting her or simply time needed to ponder an answer.
Several moments that eventually end with him asking the follow up of, “Was there an investigation?”
Once more, the initial reaction is none at all. Nothing but dead air over the line that eventually ends with a heavy sigh. Mutterings that sound like this time quoting an entire Bible verse, words such as strength and patience just barely decipherable.
Two things he can’t help but find himself severely lacking at the moment.
“Again, when I-”
“I know what you said,” Mike snaps, cutting her off. Still with the smells of gunpowder and chemicals in his nostrils, adrenaline from walking the floor of the Gatorade plant flooding his bloodstream, he is in no mood for her attitude.
Petty games in the face of what he suspects is something much larger than an isolated incident or two.
A feeling magnified by the smallest inkling in the back of his mind. Something that he knows can’t be real, but he can’t entirely shake either.
“I also know that when I landed here, I was told you are my contact,” he continues. “Now, either that’s true – in which case what I just asked is pretty simple – or it isn’t, and I need you to point me toward who that person might be.”
The thought of adding that either way, he doesn’t have time for her tempestuousness comes to mind. Pushed aside by the knowledge that already he has been harsher than intended.
The anticipation and lingering adrenaline permeating his system causing him to be sharper than planned.
Not that a word of what he said is wrong.
“I don’t know,” Tania eventually replies. She pauses there, making sure he picks up on her icy tone, before adding, “I’m guessing local police. You find something?”
Turning to peer over a shoulder, Mike doesn’t respond immediately. Taking a moment to ensure there is nobody else nearby, he steps off the sidewalk he is walking on. Heading into a small park carved off from the main thoroughfare just two blocks down from the Gatorade plant, he lowers his voice and says, “This was definitely not an accident.”
Walking toward the base of a towering eucalyptus tree, Mike turns and faces out toward the street. A vantage with the dual benefits of letting him see anybody who might wander by and feel the touch of cooler air after being tucked away inside the plant for the last couple of hours.
A length of time that has his entire shirt soaked through with sweat, Rex Hardison having insisted on giving him a couple of bottles of Gatorade for the road.
Offerings Mike happily accepted, even if his flavor preferences run more to fruit punch than orange.
“How do you know?” Tania asks.
Having already snapped at her once, Mike refuses to let himself do it a second time. To point out that he spent a solid decade as an EOD Specialist, meaning his life’s work was in studying and assessing such things.
Biting back the remark, he instead replies, “Central blast point, distinct chemical signatures. The kind of things you don’t get from a basic machine malfunction.”
Not that he ever thought such a thing was possible. One incident, perhaps, but never two.
The very reason his investigation was to start in such a way. Scouring the bomb sites in hopes that they would lead him to a perpetrator.
A tact that, apparently, is much different than that being taken by local authorities.
“Based on the number of footprints and tire tracks I saw around the place,” he continues, “I’m guessing that almost every agency in the country has had a look at the scene. Government agencies, local arson investigators, even real insurance assessors. Somebody has to have filed a report by now.”
Choosing to fall silent there, Mike raises his free hand. Running the back of his thumb across his brows, he peels away droplets of sweat, flinging them off to the side.
On the sidewalk nearby, a young woman pushing a stroller walks past. Someone with her head down and her gaze fixed, looking to be trying to get wherever she is going as fast as possible.
A destination Mike can only guess at, his current location deep in the suburbs being well beyond the urban tangle that they drove through earlier in the day.
A spot with space and land sufficient for such a facility, complete with parking and easy road access.
All of it sitting silent for the last three days and counting.
A stretch that, if the scene Mike just left is any indicator, will continue for quite a spell into the future.
“Yeah,” Tania eventually replies. A word laced with wariness before adding, “We haven’t had anything like thi
s since I’ve been here, but I’m sure plenty of people have been looking into it. Let me make a few calls.”
The first thing even approaching collegiality since his arrival, Mike’s eyebrows rise. A hint of surprise he makes no attempt to hide as he says, “Thank you.”
Grunting softly, Tania asks, “Where are you now?”
Glancing back in the direction he just came from, Mike says, “Down the street from the first blast site. I called a cab, waiting on it to get here and shuttle me over to the next one.”
“Good luck with that,” Tania replies. “Word is, things there were even uglier.”
“Great.”
“You want me to go ahead and track those files down too?” Tania asks.
“If there are any,” Mike answers. “That one just happened yesterday morning, might not be ready yet.”
“Right,” Tania whispers. Seemingly more of a spoken thought than a response, before adding, “Keep your phone on. I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Never one for sleeping on planes, Kari Ma’s disdain for even attempting such a thing has only grown in the years since her injury. Unable to ever get her leg in a position that isn’t constantly subjected to the jostling of air travel, she’s long since learned to give up even trying.
An approach that allows her to get a great deal of work done while trekking across the globe on various assignments, but makes trying to get her body clock back on track thereafter almost impossible.
Less than three hours after laying down to sleep, she finds herself back up. An early rise that was entirely due to the preset on her alarm letting her know it was the correct hour.
Certainly, not from her body feeling like it was replenished and ready for another day.
A state that not even fifteen minutes under the hottest shower she could manage had alleviated.
Another twenty minutes after that, she emerges from her living quarters on the main floor of the farmhouse that serves as the central facility of The Ranch. A recent construction that from the air is made to look like nothing more than its namesake. A large, sprawling building matching the style of those around it, right down to the paint chosen to match the faded barns and outbuildings nearby.
A structure that from a distance resembles one of the classics that first dotted the Arizona countryside. A square design with a wraparound veranda and a steepled roof.
A look that is completely abandoned the moment one enters, stepping into a state-of-the-art compound. A building with living quarters for Kari and Doc, along with office space and a sweeping industrial kitchen and cafeteria.
To say nothing of the vast array of spaces buried under it, everything from dorm rooms to lecture halls to weapons bunkers hidden beneath the Arizona sand.
Already dressed for the day, Kari circles through the hallways of the main floor. A silent passing through the darkened corridors, damp hair lightly grazing her neck.
A short journey that ends with Doc standing in the kitchen waiting for her. Appearing to have been there for quite some time, several inches are already missing from the pot of coffee by his side.
The sole vice the man possesses, an affliction having grown even stronger over the years.
“Morning,” Doc says, giving her only a glance before returning his gaze to the window looking out toward the west. The chunk of the property with the main barn and the airstrip, details just barely visible in the wan half-light of morning.
Faint rays of sun just strong enough to illuminate the clumps of cattle gathered nearby. Animals having drifted in throughout the night, all congregated and waiting for breakfast to arrive sometime in the near future.
Daily schedules attuned to feeding times, calibrated down to the minute.
“Good morning,” Kari replies. Giving Doc and the potent brew on the counter beside him a wide berth, she goes to the far end and pulls out a drawer.
From the rows of individual tea bags lined up evenly therein, she selects an Earl Grey for this morning. Grabs up a green tea and a lavender mint for later in the day.
Something telling her that after the short night she just had, it will be needed.
“When did you get in?” Doc asks, pulling his gaze away from the world outside. Turning to face her, he rests his hip against the counter, coffee cup raised just shy of his mouth.
Quite possibly Kari’s oldest friend on earth – both literally and figuratively – the only things to have demarcated the passage of decades are a few extra lines around his mouth and eyes and an expanding waistline. Otherwise, he still resembles the man she met more than thirty years prior, back when they were both recruited to take part in the first iteration of The Ranch.
Bestowed by the powers that be with super strength, the man’s dimensions bear out as much. While only nominally taller than six feet in height, he is at least half as much in width. Arms and shoulders that resemble bowling balls on their own, to say nothing of the chest that precedes him by several inches wherever he goes.
Stature made to look even larger by the oversized grey sweatshirt he is always wearing.
A choice that has nothing to do with fashion.
“Couple of hours ago,” Kari replies. “Didn’t remember Jakarta being quite so far.”
Snorting softly, Doc quips, “Careful. Our age is showing again.”
Letting the comment go with only a matching smirk, Kari fills a coffee mug with hot water from the tap. Sliding it into the microwave, she sets it for a minute before coming to rest matching Doc’s pose, her opposite hip flush against the counter.
“I take it if you were in Jakarta, he agreed to help?” Doc asks.
Her attention caught by a flash of light in her periphery, Kari flicks her gaze through the same window Doc was just staring out. Peering into the distance, she sees as a second light comes to life in the barn.
Through them, a pair of silhouettes begin to move.
Signs of life no doubt picked up on by the cows gathered nearby.
“Agreed might be a strong word for it,” Kari replies.
“Mention of his abilities or his daughter?” Doc asks, the two having discussed how to best approach Mike prior to her departure. A debate that had yielded no solid results, both agreeing it would be better if the former, but unlikely without the latter.
“Daughter,” Kari answers. Shifting her gaze back to him, she adds, “Though it’s pretty clear he doesn’t entirely believe it.”
Dipping his chin in understanding, Doc says, “So if we’re going to convince him to stay on after this...”
“I need to find that girl,” Kari agrees.
Both leaving it there for a moment, they each turn back to face forward. Doc to refill his mug. Kari to retrieve hers from the microwave.
Placing it down on the wooden slab countertop before her, she rips into the packet of Earl Grey and slips the bag into the water. A process that immediately begins to produce tan swirls as she holds the tag and bobs it up and down.
“Speaking of girls,” Kari says, “how’s she doing?”
Adding no more, she trusts that Doc will recognize the reference to Anika Purna. Their newest recruit, brought in only a little over a month prior.
Someone endowed with the gift of healing, requested by the now-President as a favor in exchange for full and unconditional support for The Ranch.
The first real mission for the fledgling program. One that, by any conceivable metric, was an unmitigated success.
So much so, it even convinced Purna to stay on moving forward.
“Good,” Doc replies, placing the pot back into the ancient drip machine that he prefers. A steadfast refusal to go near the single-cup models preferred today. “Learning curve is steep, but she’s taking to it.”
“Interacting well?” Kari asks.
Shrugging slightly, Doc replies, “Seems to be. The older ones don’t have a lot to do with her, but the younger kids seem to be gravitating her way.”
Accepting the information with a n
od, Kari returns her attention to the tea. A move she hopes will stymie the inevitable follow-up question, though she isn’t the least surprised when Doc asks, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered having her take a look at your leg?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The better part of a day has passed since Henry Rawit’s conversation with Firash, though still he can’t burnish the interaction from his mind. Not just the words and thoughts that were shared between them, but the underlying intentions and emotions that spurred them.
Mindsets that Rawit felt in recent days were starting to diverge, but now seem to have outright taken hard turns away from one another. Distinct differences both in goals and the means necessary in obtaining them.
For Rawit, it has always been business. A way of stepping past the more antiquated methods employed by the company he oversees and into a business model more in line with the times. A conscious acknowledgement both of the new automated systems that have made the world smaller than ever and of the increased role that a place like Indonesia can play in it.
For decades, the country has been seen as an also-ran. A place with plenty of space and manpower where outside interests could come in and establish a manufacturing presence.
Sites allowing them to milk the region for their most precious resources while paying bottom dollar wages and doing virtually nothing in the form of community reinvestment. A one-way relationship that most people in the country were happy to accept, glad simply to have a means of employment.
A design that clearly defined the rules through which Rawit’s father built their business. Strictures that he was careful to avoid as much as possible, not wanting to upset the careful balance in the area.
A mindset that the younger Rawit does not share.
An equilibrium he not only has no interest in maintaining, but is going out of his way to topple. Overturn in a most dramatic fashion, creating a void that he hopes to exploit for his own purposes.