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

by TR Kohler

And for those of his home country.

  Upon ascending to the top spot in the company in the wake of his father’s passing, Rawit’s most pressing matter was to redefine the existing hierarchy in the region. A goal that saw him go out and hire Mia. Bring in new investors. All but force out many of the existing board members.

  Precursors to him doing what he viewed as the most important part of his entire plan. Something that he wasn’t even sure would be possible. A search that took many months. Time fueled by no small amount of effort and money.

  An exhaustive hunt that finally took him to the doorstep of the man known as Firash.

  Someone with a record so exemplary, he was discussed only in whispers. The kind of person that many claimed to have met, but nobody could describe.

  A mythic figure possessing the rare combination Rawit was looking for. A mix of aura and skill and, most likely, a desire to get back into the action.

  A working relationship that Rawit had entered into with no false assumptions, realizing the potential pitfalls that might exist. Concerns that now seem to be coming to light at the most inopportune of moments.

  Standing before the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows comprising two of the outer walls of his corner office, Rawit’s hands are clasped behind him. His back to his desk, he stares out through the tinted glass, taking in the city of Jakarta below.

  An urban landscape attributed in no small part to the company he now oversees. Structures and landmarks ranging from parks to skyscrapers, all directly attributable to the empire he stands at the head of.

  Sites that, for the moment, he barely notices. Instead, his gaze swings out toward the periphery of his afforded view, settling on the suburbs to the west.

  The places where the two recent attacks have taken place. Efforts that both went off even better than he could have imagined.

  Maximum structural damage with virtually no human cost.

  Events to be celebrated, though instead Rawit finds his thoughts being dominated by the recent discussion with Firash. A talk that seemed a harsh departure from their original agreement.

  The latest in what Rawit cannot help but think of as fissures growing ever wider between them. A shift both in approach and outcome that he can’t pretend to be comfortable with.

  “Mr. Rawit?” a familiar voice says. A sound that is just barely enough to penetrate his thoughts, causing him to flick his gaze from the view outside to the reflection on the glass before him.

  “What is it, Mia?” he asks.

  “You have a phone call,” she says. Not bothering to cross the threshold into the room, she pauses just outside, leaning her upper body against the door frame. “From the police station.”

  Hands still clutched together behind him, Rawit turns slightly. Three stilted movements putting him perpendicular to the door, allowing him to see Mia in his periphery. “What about?”

  “Something about somebody trying to get ahold of some files?”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The only thing that is ever put down in writing is the initial site assessment notes that Arief Wardoyo makes. Those first findings meant to relay the exact parameters of a target to Firash.

  One of the physical aspects of the operation the man cannot do for himself, his own limitations and unique appearance both making such a thing impossible.

  Those two facts being the key grounds for Arief’s involvement. Reasons that he is simultaneously acutely aware of and profoundly thankful for.

  Both for what they mean now and the proximity he has been able to attain to Firash, and for what it will mean moving forward.

  A gold star by his name, immediately moving him to the front of any wish list that may arise in the future. Anybody needing someone with military training and specialized skills.

  Job listings that seem to occur with surprising frequency in this part of the world.

  In lieu of Firash returning anything to him in writing, once he is ready, he calls Arief in. He sits him down in the old wooden chair and walks him through the plans as many times as necessary.

  Drills it to the point that it is all completely committed to memory. No existing gaps in understanding. No question too small or unimportant.

  An exact inversion of the debriefing process.

  Exuding a patience Arief would have not thought the man capable of, he painstakingly goes through everything. Imparts the plan through something verging on osmosis, making sure that Arief knows every tiny scrap of what he is thinking and planning.

  After which, he sends the young man away to make a dry run. A second pass through the same space to make sure what he encountered the first time was not a hoax. No changes or additions have been made. No extra precautions or safety measures have been added.

  One last look at the place through the lens of what is planned before making final preparations.

  A task made infinitely easier by a stop Arief made on his last visit inside the factory. A quick trip to the locker room area where he was able to procure a maintenance uniform. A plain pair of blue canvas pants and a matching short-sleeve shirt.

  A basic design with oversized white buttons and a patch on the chest bearing the logo of the company that owns the place.

  An insignia that almost burns as it rests atop Arief’s heart, the mere sight of it flashing across the rearview on his drive in enough to turn his stomach.

  Harden the resolve he feels for the mission currently at hand.

  A little larger than he would prefer, the outfit managed to do exactly as it was intended. Gain him access to the plant without having to sneak in on the front end of a shift and hide in a makeshift fort of boxes in the storage room in the back.

  A welcomed change that will serve him well when the time for the real thing is upon them. A moment he trusts will be arriving quite soon.

  Less than a day away, even.

  Tugging at the oversized waistline of the pants he wears, Arief walks the production floor. Head tilted down, he marches past each of the checkpoints delineated by Firash.

  A methodical process matching up what is planned versus what is possible. Expectations versus reality.

  All the while, fighting to tamp down the growing anticipation within.

  The excitement he cannot help but feel, knowing what lays just over the horizon and the role he will play in it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Just as the first thing to draw Mike’s attention at the opening blast site was the out-of-date Gatorade logo emblazoned on the side of the building, the initial landing spot for his gaze at the second one is the Pepsi emblem stamped on the outer brick shell. More than five feet in height and routinely touched up in the signature blue and red, it is visible the moment he rounds a corner and the building comes into view.

  Universally recognizable, regardless of country or spoken language.

  As prominent as the acrid scent of chemical smoke in the air.

  Two things that Mike can’t imagine being by mistake, Kari Ma’s claims of interest rising all the way to the President starting to make a bit more sense.

  Considering the state of his attire after leaving the first site, he’d asked the cabbie to run him by the safe house. Meter running on the curb, Mike had gone upstairs and grabbed a quick shower and change. A couple of granola bars and bottles of water from the kitchen.

  Before leaving, a few extra items went into the shoulder bag as well. Plastic baggies and tweezers and such, now that he has a better idea of what he might soon be looking at.

  Informed choices based on his experiences earlier in the day.

  Things snatched up before running downstairs and sliding back into the rear seat of the cab. A spot he sat in for fifteen minutes, throwing down his makeshift meal before being dropped off, ready to repeat the entire process again.

  Coming in from the south, to look at the facility head-on, there is no indication that anything is amiss. Sitting on a plot of ground just a couple of miles southeast of the Gatorade plant, it too rests beyond th
e edge of the dense city.

  A piece of ground that, to look at, is almost picturesque. A site akin to an elementary school back home in Tennessee.

  Nowhere is there any police tape blocking things off. No orange cones limiting people from coming or going.

  The entire breadth of the roadside façade looks completely unscathed. A one-story section affixed to the front made of brick and lined with windows. Construction that furthers the impression of a small-town schoolhouse.

  Space no doubt meant to house the business functions of the facility. A professional area enhanced by the landscaping of flowers and palm trees dotting the small front lawn.

  Behind it, the main hub of the facility rises tall. A height Mike would estimate to be roughly twenty-five feet, standing exactly between two and three stories. A stature higher than Gatorade this morning.

  Same for the width, the lot it is sitting on freeing it from the restrictions of the street grid. No standard blocks to limit its expansion, allowing it to stretch more than a football field in length.

  A total area primed for devastation.

  A place with plenty of equipment and supplies to act as tinder, fueling whatever depravity the bombmaker could scheme up.

  His stomach contracting at the thoughts and images pulled to mind, Mike walks the length of the front of the facility. An easy march that lasts several minutes in length, not one thing seemingly out of place.

  No cracks in the front sidewalk, like at the last place. No ruts in the lawn or rubber smears against the curb.

  Absolutely nothing with the exception of the scent in the air. A smell that someone less attuned might not notice, but he cannot ignore. The only thing that keeps him from thinking he might be in the wrong location as he reaches the far corner of the building and makes the turn.

  A new vantage that changes things in an instant, confirming every thought he’d been having since stepping out of the cab minutes before.

  Tucked against the side of the warehouse are no less than a handful of police cruisers. Standard black-and-whites, recognizable the world over. Vehicles all parked at an angle in an even line, their noses nudged up close to the side of the building.

  Around them, an equal number of orange cones. Miniature blockades limiting traffic to a single lane, watched over by a pair of officers in uniform.

  Further back, a pair of fire engines. Massive trucks that currently sit idle, though based on the hoses unfurled from the coils resting atop them, are ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

  A spot they’ve likely maintained since just after the bomb went off a day before.

  Cataloging each of those things in short order, Mike’s gaze drifts to the building itself. The solid outer shell that is lacking one enormous divot to match the Gatorade plant, the damage instead confined to smoke damage around each of the windows.

  A handful of eyes with smeared mascara set high on the wall. Large black stains on an exterior that is otherwise cream in color.

  A detail that says quite a bit in and of itself, while still creating many more questions.

  Inquiries that don’t have a chance to form, instead interrupted by a voice yelling, “Hey! You!”

  Shrill to the point of bordering on hysterics, the sound snaps Mike from his assessment. Jerking his focus away from the side of the warehouse extended before him, he turns back toward the front to see a plump middle-aged woman with dark hair making her way toward him.

  Having abandoned the front walks, she cuts a path diagonally across the lawn, one hand raised over her head. A pose she maintains as she covers the last bit of ground between them before slowing to a walk. A decision that seems to be marked by the physical toll of the unexpected jaunt across the lawn, her face painted with sweat as she sucks in deep pulls of air.

  An effort that continues for several seconds before she is able to ask, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Reaching to his back pocket, Mike extracts the bifold. Flipping it open, he extends it before him and replies, “Hi, I’m here on behalf of the U.S. Embassy. They asked me to come by and make a site assessment.”

  An answer that seems to register immediately, the woman’s eyes widen. An effect made even more pronounced behind the wire-rimmed glasses she wears.

  Bending forward at the waist, the lapels of her white lab coat sag open as she quickly scans the credentials before pulling back.

  “Oh, my God,” she sputters. “I am so sorry. You wouldn’t believe the number of nosy people we’ve had out here since it happened.”

  Waving a hand to the building beside them, she continues, “That’s why we had the cops and fire trucks move back as far as they could. Still had people coming by all morning, which is why when I was standing in the breakroom and saw you come walking by...”

  Letting her voice trail away, she offers a look of apology before thrusting a hand out before her.

  “Lucille Kim, Plant Manager.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I am so, so sorry,” Lucille Kim says for no less than the fifth time. Still packed with the same amount of pleading sincerity, the woman nearly bends herself in half at the waist while delivering the apology.

  A gesture that was unnecessary the first time. Is now starting to grate a bit on Mike’s nerves.

  “Not at all,” he replies, waving off her comment. “I’d probably be a little jumpy too if I were you.”

  “Yes,” she answers. “I mean, after what happened...”

  Allowing her voice to trail off, Mike considers responding. Another assurance that her wariness was well earned, especially for someone appearing as out of place as himself.

  Thoughts that dissipate as they enter through a side entrance into the main of the manufacturing floor. An oversized rolltop door standing all the way open, matching the half-dozen to match it along the rear of the facility.

  A choice that Mike guesses was originally done with the intention of limiting onlookers. Now, it also allows any lingering smoke and smells trapped inside to escape while letting plenty of sunshine in. Bright illumination that spotlights the magnitude of the devastation.

  A clear escalation from what occurred at the Gatorade plant.

  Feeling his jaw sag slightly, Mike pauses alongside the diminutive woman. Beginning on his far right, he sweeps his gaze in a slow arc. A full pass of the warehouse before him, taking in the destruction that occurred.

  Impact that doesn’t have one gaping central hub the way the previous site did, but has done a far better job of spreading things around. Smaller blasts that aren’t as destructive on their own, though cumulatively are much more expansive.

  An effect that he imagines has rendered the place useless, not a single piece of machinery appearing to have escaped damage.

  “Oh, wow,” Mike mutters.

  Two words that evoke a small smirk from Kim, her head bobbing in agreement.

  “Yeah,” she whispers.

  At a glance, the blast residue before Mike resembles something known as a fan pattern. One of a handful of classic designs that – like the site earlier in the day – begins at a single point of origin.

  Unlike that one though, where a central device is used to create maximum destruction, the one before him acts more like the lead domino in a sequence. A much smaller blast used to engulf several satellites. Stored chemicals or machinery or even secondary devices placed equidistant apart.

  A cascading effect with the first igniting the next two. Those become the next four. And so on until it reaches the back wall, everything in its path incinerated.

  “What time did the blast occur?” Mike asks.

  “Just after eleven,” Kim replies.

  Nodding softly, Mike lifts his nose slightly. Drawing in a deep inhalation, he tests the air inside the place. A breath that brings back the same chemical traces he’d recognize anywhere, though is void of the secondary smell he would expect for a site such as this.

  “Injuries?” Mike asks.

  Hooking a thumb ba
ck toward the office complex behind them, Kim replies, “We lost one of our custodial staff.”

  Voice cracking on the last word, she pauses for a moment. Blinking several times in short order, she draws in a deep breath, her shoulders rising, chest expanding, before slowly pushing it out.

  “Sorry,” she mutters. “He was a good man. Less than six months from retirement.”

  Again, she pulls up, her eyes taking on a glassy veneer, before finishing, “Based on what we can see on the security cameras, he spotted a cart sitting off by itself in a place it shouldn’t have been. When he walked forward to check on it...”

  Her voice trailing off once more, Mike lets it go. Able to fill in the rest of the sequence, he imagines what she described in his head.

  A scene he’s witnessed before.

  “Were you able to see from the cameras who put it there?” he asks.

  “Not really,” Kim replies. “We could tell it was a male with dark hair, but it was pretty far away. Always from the back.”

  Nodding slightly, Mike motions to the vast space spread before them. “And out here? No casualties?”

  “No,” Kim replies, her voice regaining strength the further removed they get from mention of the departed janitor. “We got extremely lucky. Blast occurred just minutes after shift change. One of only a couple times a day when the floor is empty.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “The plan will work.”

  Firash knows that Arief Wardoyo’s comment carries no ill will. He isn’t trying to question the schematic that was put together. He didn’t mean to insinuate that he doubted what had been presented to him.

  Still, Firash cannot help but feel a spike of animosity rise within him. Revulsion that such a thing would even be uttered, hinting that the plan he had handed over to Arief was anything less than airtight.

  He’s been doing this sort of thing since Arief was still suckling at the teat. If he had the full use of his legs, or any use, or even anything more than the stubs where they once were, he wouldn’t need the young smartass at all.