by TR Kohler
No matter how much military experience he might have.
“I’m glad you approve,” Firash says, sliding his gaze from the blueprints tacked onto the wall around them to Arief standing by his side. “You going to tell me what type of device to build next?”
The words land exactly as intended. Pulling Arief’s focus from the walls around them, his eyes go to the floor. His chin dips down in a bow as color drains from his face.
“My apologies, Firash. I meant no disrespect.”
Still feeling the curdling animosity of a moment before, more comments rise to mind. Caustic barbs that Firash wants to throw out, hammering home the fact that this entire arrangement is not his idea. Arief, and the pair of hippies accompanying him, and even Rawit himself, were all foisted upon him.
Fools believing they were bringing in Firash as the final piece in their scheme.
Errant thinking obfuscating the fact that without him, there is no scheme. No expertise. Nobody with the capabilities to do what he can, leaving the entire of Jakarta currently peeking over its shoulder.
If given his preference, Firash would collect his monies and be left to work in peace.
Any potential hardships, he would work around.
Eyes flashing in anger, he pulls up just short of letting the thoughts fly. Not expecting the young man to have accepted responsibility so quickly, he stares at the top of Arief’s head for a moment, gauging the veracity of the apology, before grunting softly.
Moving his attention back to the schematic on the wall before them, he says, “I spoke to Rawit. There’s been a slight change of plans.”
Beside him, Arief lifts his gaze from the floor. His fealty paid, he returns his focus to the board before them, remaining completely silent.
“The first two attacks were sufficient for shutting down operations, but we need more. We need to make a statement that doesn’t just knock them out of business for a few weeks, but makes them reconsider ever opening again.”
With each word spoken, Firash recalls the discussion with Rawit. The differing opinions the two men held. The foolhardiness of the businessman thinking he knows the first thing about this line of work.
A debate that never should have been one. Extended parlay that still pushes ire through Firash.
The lingering bits of it no doubt being what just caused him to lash out at Arief.
Too many people mistaking his recent absence or his current physical state for some form of weakness.
“Chase their ass out of Jakarta and back across the globe where they belong.”
Clamping down on either arm of his wheelchair, Firash squeezes tight. He holds it long enough for veins to bulge the length of his forearms. For lactic acid to build in his muscles.
Only then does he release, shoving out a long sigh in tandem. A moment of conscious release, pushing the vitriol he feels from his system.
Anger that can serve as both an attribute and an impediment, right now running the risk of trending closer toward the latter.
“We’re moving up the timetable,” Firash continues. “We’ve got everybody confused and scared. It’s time to capitalize on that.”
Flicking a gaze to the side, he spies Arief still staring intently ahead. His eyes glassy, it is apparent he is looking at the wall without actually seeing, his focus on every word being shared.
A quality that he alone of the four people Firash has been forced to interact with possesses. A trait that makes him at least somewhat useful, despite his own shortcomings.
“You’re to go first thing in the morning,” Firash says. “Be there when the place opens and walk in with the start of the day shift.”
The young man’s brows come together slightly in response. Unspoken questions as he blinks twice, putting things in order in his mind.
A sequence Firash has no interest in watching play out, continuing with, “Everything else remains exactly the same. Same devices, same placements.”
The look of uncertainty remains on Arief’s features, though to his credit, he keeps any objections bottled up. Same for any questions that might arise.
An internal debate that ends with him merely nodding slightly.
“How much time on the clock?” he asks.
“One hour,” Firash replies.
This is the part that took so much convincing of Rawit. The aspect that Firash is absolutely certain will really drive home their message.
The thing that the last week has been building toward. Little bits of himself slowly coming back to life. A gradual escalation from going through the motions the last few years back to what he was before.
What he will be again.
The way they’ve been going about things thus far is fine if their only goal is to make the newspapers or be the occasional lead on the evening news, but it isn’t going to really impart fear into anybody. Not enough to serve Firash’s purposes, or even Rawit’s.
To do that, they need to make a definitive statement.
Something that can only be done through blood. An occasion to make people throughout all of Indonesia sit up and take notice.
“Make the drops, start the clock, then get outside,” Firash continues. “But stay close.”
Taking a moment to process what was just shared, the results it will achieve and the repercussions it will have, Arief nods.
“What am I watching for?” he asks.
“Everything,” Firash says. “Take those other two idiots with you and learn all that you can.”
Pausing, he allows himself to consider the scene. One not unlike many he has created over the years.
Beautiful panoramas of absolute chaos.
Enough to bring a thin smile to face.
“And be sure to enjoy the show. Trust me, it’s going to be quite a thing to behold.”
Chapter Thirty
Thoughts still firmly entrenched in the charred hull of the Pepsi manufacturing facility, Mike doesn’t so much as notice the black sedan as it rounds the corner behind him. Some new hybrid model, it doesn’t reach a rate of speed to engage the internal combustion engine, instead relying on electricity to approach in virtual silence.
So quiet that Mike doesn’t even realize it is there until it jerks to a stop on the curb beside him. All the makings of an attempted kidnapping, causing his heart rate to spike as he jumps backward.
An awkward, spastic movement that sees him almost take out an older woman on a bicycle. Front basket loaded with groceries of various kinds, she is forced to swerve to miss him, muttering obscenities in her native tongue.
Pulse thrumming through his temples, Mike extends one hand out to the side. A silent measure meant to almost push the old woman down the street. Get her far removed from whatever is about to occur.
The other he juts out before him. A silent warning to whoever is hidden behind the tinted windows that whatever they are thinking, they should reconsider.
For a variety of reasons.
Locked in such a stance, Mike waits. Completely exposed in the open, he watches as the passenger window closest to him slowly descends. An overly dramatic movement revealing a tan leather interior with only a single person seated inside.
Tania Lynch behind the wheel, her mouth twisted to the side as she shakes her head slowly at him.
A look and gesture conveying something approximating disgust for what she is seeing.
“Get in,” she says, pulling her gaze away from him with an eye roll. An exaggerated motion that puts her focus on the rearview mirror. Attention already on pulling out and being on her way again.
Heart rate still elevated, Mike slowly unfurls himself. Releasing the bend in his knees, he rises to full height. Gives one more look to the old woman on the bike, now more than a full block away.
Glancing back in the opposite direction, he sees a woman and two small children drawing closer, none of the three so much as looking his way.
A thin crowd that would be much thicker in most any other part of the city. The first signs
of life he’s spotted since leaving the Pepsi plant a half mile before, needing a few minutes to walk and think.
“Now,” Tania says, her voice elevated. Enough to pull Mike across the sidewalk, looping the knapsack from his shoulder as he drops down into the passenger seat.
Barely does he touch down before being jerked forward. Momentum forcing him almost flush against the dashboard as Tania wheels away from the curb.
Backward progress that lasts just an instant before she jams the gear shift into drive and propels them onward.
“Uh, breaking in a new ride?” Mike asks. Already thrown forward and back, he reaches for the seatbelt, stretching it across his torso.
Much smaller than the vehicle they were in earlier in the day, this one has all the hallmarks of a personal vehicle. Coffee cup wedged into one of the holders in the middle console. Napkins and receipts littering the floorboard.
A gold chain with a cross on it swinging from the rearview mirror.
“I’m sure things are a lot different in Tennessee,” Tania replies, ignoring his comment entirely, “but this is Jakarta. A tall white guy like you kind of sticks out. You need to be a little more careful these next sixty-some hours.”
The thought of pointing out that a black woman with light skin and a plume of hair isn’t exactly incognito occurs to Mike. A retort he pushes away, knowing it will likely only escalate whatever already has her on edge.
Same for her dig about watching the clock, waiting for the moment she can boot him from the safe house and her life.
“I know we haven’t exactly swapped stories here,” Mike replies, “but you should know, I live in Indonesia too. Have for a few years now.”
The right side of Tania’s face scrunches as she makes a face. A look letting him know she finds the comment absurd, held as she whips them through a hard left.
A turn that feels as if it is lifting the vehicle up on edge before gravity eventually overtakes centrifugal force and levels them out.
“Oh, please. You live on Nusa Ceningan. That’s like saying someone in Malibu knows what it’s like in Compton.”
How Tania knows where he lives, Mike doesn’t bother asking. Given her employer and the fact that his address is on file with the Army somewhere, it probably wasn’t too difficult to ferret out.
Equally unimportant is the comparison she just made between his home and the big city. If her choice in references was made at random or because of some personal connection of her own.
Topics that will no doubt take them a lot further down a tangential path than he cares to go right now.
Instead, his focus moves to their current arrangement. The fact that she was able to track him down while ambling along the side of the road somewhere.
That she was even out looking for him to begin with.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
Both arms extended to clutch the steering wheel, Tania chances a quick glance his way. “How’d it go at the second site?”
Not expecting his question to be met with one in return, it takes Mike a moment. A brief pause before replying, “You were right about it being ugly. Way worse than this morning. Why?”
Not quite the answer she was looking for, Tania shoves out a sigh. An effort that drops her shoulders almost a full inch before she replies, “I spent most of the afternoon tracking down the files you requested.”
Able to be taken any of a number of ways, Mike prompts her to continue by simply saying, “And? More bad news?”
“Worse,” she replies. “Namely, somebody went to a lot of trouble making sure we didn’t see them.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The smell of lo mein filling the safe house is slightly different than Mike has grown accustomed to. Not quite in line with the authentic fare that many of the people on Nusa Ceningan favor, the scent is much closer to what he would call Americanized Chinese food.
The kind intentionally engineered to be mass produced quick and cheap.
Not that he much cares, his interest just in that it is fuel. Necessary grease and protein and calories to keep him going. A continuation of a day that was far beyond anything he imagined, already starting to wear on his faculties.
And given the unlikelihood of him getting much sleep tonight, food will have to do.
Shoveling the noodles down with only nominal interest, Mike’s focus is more aimed at the blizzard of paperwork spread around him. Reports flooding in from a variety of places, each with their own vested interest, all taking a very specific stance on the two incidents.
How Tania was able to track them all down, he isn’t quite sure. Even for someone with the reach of the Agency, the list seems rather extensive. A fact that he guesses is owed to the hands-off status in the country, though he can’t be certain.
Same as how he doesn’t really know how she was able to cull together as much as she did so quickly.
Questions that probably attributed to the mood she was in upon first pulling up beside him, nearly taking him out as he meandered slowly down the sidewalk. A foul stance that seems to have abated somewhat after saying grace and diving into the food, though he still wouldn’t venture that things are becoming friendly.
More like professionally curious, at best.
Up first in the stack of reports brought in are the police findings. Twin files that largely read like incident reports. Completely vanilla, they start well after the times of the blasts and seem to focus on crowd control and securing the scene. Handfuls of individual statements given by various officers describing exactly what they encountered.
Thorough write-ups for purposes of establishing a timeline and how the scenes were handled, though they do little in the way of helping Mike with what he is after.
Next up are files put together by the U.S. Embassy. Analyses cranked out in a number of hours trying to assess the potential terror threats attached to each of the incidents. Operators known to work out of Indonesia. Rumors of factions or unrest on the rise throughout Jakarta.
The sort of thing that reads like an intelligence briefing. The type that he was handed more times than he cares to remember while in the military.
Information so dry he had to choke it down, offering very little in the way of actual substance.
Files that were glanced through once. Long enough to determine that there is nothing resembling a concrete lead in that direction before being cast aside.
Hopefully, not to be considered again.
After that, things become a bit more disparate. Various entities working at each of the sites, the completeness of their findings vacillating greatly.
An arson inspector from the Gatorade plant that was able to identify a point of origin and the type of accelerant used, but will need further testing before determining the exact chemicals employed.
An insurance adjuster there on behalf of Pepsi claiming that the attack was an inside job. A disgruntled subset of employees unhappy with worker conditions or hoping to spur talks of unionization.
“I’m not seeing why someone would go to so much trouble to keep this stuff hidden,” Mike says. The first either has spoken since they started eating, the sound of his voice jerks her attention over.
A paper carton of fried rice held before her, gaze shifted to stare his way.
“A lot of different ideas and interests at play,” Mike says. “None giving us a clear picture.”
Sticking her chopsticks into the carton, Tania lowers it before her. Taking up a napkin, she mops it across her face and tosses it down as well.
One arm folded across her torso, she reaches with the opposite to the cross hanging from her neck. A simple gold design that she grasps between her thumb and index finger, wobbling it to either side.
“They are both beverage companies,” she offers. “You think that’s what this is about?”
“Maybe,” Mike concedes, “but they’re also American beverage companies.”
Pausing there, he lets the implication resonate a moment. Allows Tania to c
ontemplate this could be mere competition as motivation, or it could be some sort of anti-America play.
Both knowing it wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has occurred in this part of the world.
“So far, injuries have been minimal,” he adds, “but beyond that, it’s like the only pattern is a concerted effort not to have one.”
Flicking her gaze to the papers spread nearby, Tania nods. “Deliberately different.”
“Exactly,” Mike says. Leaning back in his seat, he runs his hands back over the short bristles lining his scalp. “Types of devices, placement, even the time chosen. All different.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The flow of foot traffic into the facility is steady. The start of a new workday at hand, people trudge in from the parking lot or the bus stop on the corner. Shoulder bags or lunch sacks in hand, they walk begrudgingly toward the front gates, many wearing their disdain for their surroundings plainly on their features.
A state of being Arief Wardoyo knows all too well.
An expression he himself was donning not all that long ago. A multi-month stretch between washing out of the service and getting the call from Henry Rawit. A stretch that saw him piecing together the odd contract job, supplementing it with manual labor like the people nearby.
Another zombie trudging through the motions each day in service of a paycheck that barely kept the handful of people he is responsible for fed.
An existence he almost threw himself back into with the error at Firash’s place the day before. A faux pas he thought for sure was going to get him bounced. An unintentional insult that nearly brought an end to everything he has been envisioning.
The vote of confidence from one of the best in the world. The place at the top of the list for the next Rawit that might call.
A life for his family that they deserve.
Intent to not go anywhere near such a mess up again, when Firash had said this time they would be doing things a bit differently, Arief had known better than to object. Accepting each of the new wrinkles in silence, he’d committed them to memory and regurgitated them back as instructed.