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

by TR Kohler

  Some crewmembers trying to administer aid. Others, attempting to force back the crowds. Gain some sort of calm to keep people at bay long enough for injured parties to be helped. Alleviate the constant jostling of the vehicles they are working from.

  Sprinting through the narrow bits of space afforded between them are teams of firefighters. People in fire retardant pants and fluorescent jackets, hard hats balanced atop their heads.

  Men rushing forward to the fencing, limp hoses draped over their shoulders. Aid to be handed off to the teams already inside the gate.

  Hundreds of people all intently focused on an equal number of different activities.

  A veritable Hellscape resembling things Mike hasn’t seen in years. A scene from a disaster flick with everything seeming to move in slow motion.

  Mike standing in the center of it, slowly rotating in place, taking it all in.

  The kind of thing he could have gone a lifetime without ever encountering again. One of many reasons why he chose to walk away when he did.

  Fixed in such a position, Mike doesn’t see the young man come in. Staggering forward from the opposite direction, he tosses himself sideways into Mike, his weight pitching them both forward.

  A few steps in which Mike is barely able to get his feet up under him, catching them both just short of toppling to the pavement.

  An effort that pushes a bit of hostility through him, the adrenaline already redlining his system spiking again. A surge of incredulity that abates as fast as it arises as Mike turns to see the blood casing the left side of the man’s features.

  A crimson curtain stemming from the piece of shrapnel embedded in his forehead, completely obscuring his left eye from view.

  “Help me,” the young man gasps, his slight form again listing to the side.

  A topple Mike is able to stop a second time by shooting both hands out. Grasping the young man beneath the sleeves of his blue work shirt, he braces him under either armpit.

  An impromptu pose as he jerks his focus past the blood-stained face before him.

  “Help!” he calls, the addition of his voice to the cacophony of sounds drawing over a few stares. “Medic!”

  Both arms extended straight out before him, Mike stands with the young man draped over his hands. The boy’s strength waning with each passing moment, his weight sags. His one visible eyelid flutters.

  The effects of a concussion and blood loss both readily apparent.

  “Medic!” Mike cries out a second time, jerking his focus in either direction. A quick sweep in search of the uniformed responders he’d spotted just moments before.

  A hunt that provides him with little more than an ambulance parked nearby. A team of people surrounding it, all preoccupied with the crowd bunched tight around them.

  A situation leaving Mike with but one option as he turns back to the young man before him.

  Shifting the boy’s slight form to the side, he slides in next to his newest charge. A single quick movement coupled with looping one of the young man’s arms up over his head.

  An impromptu variation of a three-legged race, the finish line being the closest aid station nearby.

  “Alright,” Mike says, unaware if the young man is even awake to hear a word being said, “I’ve got you. I’m going to get you over to help.”

  Chapter Forty

  Just as was proven by the scene outside the front gate to the facility, and by the young man that plowed into Mike, thinking he might be able to help, there is no way to definitively predict human behavior. Especially in the face of unthinkable tragedy. Having been through enough similar situations over the years, Mike knows that much.

  When dealing with something as vicious, as heinous, as cataclysmic, as a bombing, people can react a number of different ways. They can flee for their own safety. They can rush forward to help others or to seek out loved ones.

  They can even succumb to emotions, reduced to hysterics or dropped into catatonia.

  Never, however, do they merely stand and observe.

  Not unless they aren’t the least bit surprised by the chaos playing out around them. They are there by design, hoping to extract whatever information they can from the maddened rabble, or they are there to revel. Bask in the glory of what they have just done.

  Both of which are bad.

  Reasons enough to force Mike away from the ambulance parked just beyond the fence lining the General Motors property. Stepping down off the curb, he puts the raging mess of the factory itself to his back.

  His focus entirely fixed on the odd pair of gawkers standing nearby.

  Knowing better than to call out, draw attention to himself or warn them of his intentions, he slips past a couple of women walking away from the building. Ladies clutching one another, both with faces contorted into sobs.

  A lateral move that gains him only a couple of feet before coming upon a cluster of young men. Guys already starting to strip out of their work attire, their top halves bare, shirts bunched up in hand.

  Men that spit obscenities his way as he slides past, Mike barely slowing before gaining just enough space to increase his pace to a jog. Forward momentum that enables him to shove his way through a tangle of limbs as the crowd thickens again.

  One last clump before things spread out.

  An opening that allows him to finally break free. A horse charging from the gate.

  A flurry of movement that finally draws the attention of the people he is pursuing. A recognition of the energy aimed their direction, an electric current visibly passing through them.

  Reactions that cause the looks mixed of awe and amusement to drop from their features, replaced by shock. Perhaps even a bit of terror as they wheel in the opposite direction. A blur of dark hair and light dreadlocks as they spin in unison, dashing directly away from the factory.

  “Hey!” Mike calls, the sound of his voice drawing over handfuls of stares. People previously fixated on the crowds continuing to pour forth or consoling friends and colleagues.

  Individuals now watching the trio of people tear through the middle of the street. Two of them no older than their early twenties, winding their way through the crowd. Local kids with dark tan skin, wearing tie-dye and denim.

  Behind them, a man clearly not from anywhere close to Indonesia. Someone older than his targets by at least a decade. Receding hair and pale skin charging hard, his entire shirt already soaked with sweat.

  Perspiration that only grows heavier as Mike pounds along. Long strides made harder by the smoke filling the air. The water vapor making it even thicker.

  A consistency that is almost paste as Mike tries to pull in deep breaths, each one feeling like sandpaper against his windpipe. Same for the backs of his eyelids, every blink causing his eyes to sting. Momentary blurs of moisture obscuring the pair before him.

  “Stop!” he cries out, the call meant to alert people on the street of his coming. A ruse that manages to get the thinning crowd to part, a clear lane opening up before him.

  A stretch of ground no wider than twenty yards, each stride seeming to bring him a bit closer.

  Elbows hooked at ninety degrees, Mike charges onward. Ignoring the burn of lactic acid in his quads, he pounds ahead. Gaze fixed on the long hair of the girl directly before him, he doesn’t so much as even look away as her partner peels off to the side.

  A diagonal exit to the left, fleeing from the periphery of Mike’s vision.

  A sacrifice he is willing to make, knowing there is no way he alone can bring them both down and keep them secured anyway.

  A calculated risk as he fights to cover the dwindling gap between them. A few precious strides all that separates him from the first real lead he’s had since arrival.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Arm outstretched before him, Mike can feel the tips of the long dark hair of the girl grazing against his fingers. He is close enough to see the striations of muscle in her neck and shoulders as she tries in vain to widen the gap between them.


  Frantic sprinting with the sounds of her shoes slapping against the pavement. Sounds that spur Mike onward, just a few more inches all he needs to grasp the back of the tank top she wears. Enough to draw her to a stop and demand to know who she is.

  A preciously short gap that he never quite closes.

  Coming in from the side, the blow is one Mike never sees coming. A collision hitting him hard at an angle, the shoulder of the young man that had peeled off a couple of blocks earlier slamming into him. A direct shot to the midsection left open by Mike sprinting with his hand extended before him.

  Far from the hardest hit Mike has ever received, it lands at just the right angle. An impact that takes advantage of his being off balance, pitching him sideways.

  A brief moment in which he is left weightless. Body twisting to the side as he rotates through the air.

  A short journey that ends with him landing hard on the asphalt. A direct shot to his lower back and tailbone, compounded by the momentum of the young man bringing him down atop Mike.

  An extra two hundred pounds sandwiching his body against the ground before centrifugal force kicks in, sending them both rolling across the street. A tangle of grunting and limbs that makes it through two full revolutions before Mike is able to extend his left leg.

  An anchor, stopping their forward progress, leaving him on top of the impromptu pile.

  Left arm at full length before him, he grabs at the t-shirt his opponent wears. Enough to pin him flat to the asphalt as he draws back his right hand, squaring up for a punch.

  A snarl on his face, Mike draws his hand to his shoulder, ready to drive his fist forward.

  A movement that makes it no farther as the young man uses his right hand to brace for impact. Maintain some amount of separation as his left hand slides a pistol from his waistband. A small revolver chambered for six shots that he brings no higher than his hip. A snap movement like an old-time cowboy using a quickdraw before squeezing off a shot.

  A round that has zero chance of missing at such a range, slamming directly into Mike’s abdomen.

  As does the second one that hits a moment later.

  Twins shot directly to his midsection, the blunt force of them mashing against his skin. Muted blows akin to bullets thumping into Kevlar, Mike able to feel their impact without the worry of penetration.

  A trait he hasn’t relied on since the incident that directly led to his leaving the military three years before. The exact thing Kari Ma alluded to two days prior, even if Mike will never admit as much.

  An ability that imbues him with the complete opposite reaction of what the young man was going for.

  Left arm still pinning the young man against the ground, Mike closes his right hand into a fist. Scything it backward, he mashes the side of it into the tiny gun, knocking it from the young man’s grip.

  A move that causes the kid’s eyes to widen, realization setting in. A flood of understanding granting him time enough to lift his gaze upward to the girl lingering nearby and yell, “Run!” before Mike cocks his fist a second time.

  A shot that goes just as true as the bullets the young man snapped off, driving straight into its target.

  As does the second.

  And the third.

  A handful of direct right hands, Mike shooting them off one after another. Hard overhand blows fueled by the thumping jabs along his stomach from the rounds his opponent fired.

  Bullets that would have taken his life right there in the streets of Jakarta had he not been born with an iron hide. Ended any chance of ever meeting his daughter only days after first discovering the possibility she exists.

  A swirl of hostility that comes out as the skin of the young man’s cheek splits. Bright red blood begins to streak down over his tan skin.

  As his eyes roll back, his body falling slack.

  Only then does the onslaught end. Does Mike bite back the desire to continue unleashing the acrimony pent up within him.

  Leaving the young man lying prone on the ground, Mike pulls himself to full height. Panting heavily, he makes a point not to turn around, to even consider the crowd that might be watching behind him.

  Instead, he slides his phone from his pocket and hits the first number listed in the call log.

  Still panting heavily, he waits until it is answered a moment later before saying, “Hey, where are you?”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The difference in approach is palpable. A marked contrast to the previous arrivals when the pair of minions riding shotgun to Arief would be a barely contained bundle of energy. A cacophony of excitement and adrenaline, talking about the great thing they’d just pulled off.

  As if they’d been anything more than delivery boys. Messengers sent in his stead only because the powers that be had decided to confine him to his damn wheelchair for the rest of his days.

  Noticing it in an instant, Firash doesn’t bother sitting and waiting for them to enter.

  Considering what they had been sent to do, he was expecting them to arrive in a flurry. Everything that occurred on their last couple of visits, turned up to eleven.

  Yelling and screaming. Horns honking. Guns being fired into the air.

  Perhaps even some fireworks, this being the first time their targets were present. People and crowds to make the effects of their work that much more pronounced.

  Zealots finally having accomplished something of note. A moment they’ve likely been waiting on for ages.

  Something that now makes their subdued nature mean that either things had become too real for them, muting any zeal they might have previously felt, or something had gone quite wrong.

  As to the first, Firash could not care less. There only at the behest of his employer, their presence is of no consequence.

  As long as he is still granted Arief, the only one of the bunch approaching capability, the one so hungry for approval he will go through most anything, then all needs are met. Firash has a way of getting his creations where they need to be.

  Suspecting rather that it is the second, that something has gone awry, Firash shoves open the front door of his shack. Rolling himself out onto the porch lining the place, he allows momentum to carry him forward, going until the wheels abut the slats of the railing before him.

  Able to see just over the top of it, he stares at the van that has pulled up and the pair of people climbing from it.

  Arief, stepping away from the driver’s side, a dour expression in place.

  And the girl standing opposite him. Arms folded over her torso. Eyes and cheeks puffy, as if she has been crying.

  A visual that isn’t hard to decipher.

  “Where’s the boy?” Firash asks, flicking his gaze from the pair to the van behind them. One last check to make sure the back door isn’t going to open. The kid with ridiculous hair isn’t going to come spilling out.

  “Got nabbed,” Arief replies. Slowly coming forward, he makes it within five feet of the porch before stopping. The expression remains on his features as he glances to the girl before looking back at Firash.

  Dressed in shorts and a tank top, he is smudged in grease. Stained with sweat.

  No signs of any blood though, his own or anybody else’s.

  “Nabbed?” Firash asks.

  Much like being able to piece together what happened just by looking at the two of them climbing from the van, he already has a pretty good idea what took place. An image that pushes agitation through him, proving what he tried to tell Henry Rawit when inclusion of the young kids was first mentioned.

  People like them don’t understand. They might have some sort of moral stance, may even think they’re ready to go to war on its behalf, but they don’t truly get it.

  They don’t understand the reality of what that entails. The risks they are taking. The targets they will become.

  “After the devices were detonated,” Arief says, “we moved out into the crowd to observe. Apparently, the two of them were spotted.”

  Acting as the spo
kesman for the group, he glances over to the girl.

  Refusing to meet his gaze, she keeps her focus aimed at the ground between her feet.

  “There was a chase,” he adds. “Intan gave himself up so she could escape.”

  Not exactly what Firash originally pictured, it is close enough. The kind of ill-conceived thing not only interrupting what should be a moment of triumph, but now potentially putting them all in danger.

  Their operation, their employer, even the ground they now stand on, all only as safe as whatever resolve the kid possesses.

  Determination about to be tested in a number of ways, the authorities left scratching their heads for days now, needing someone to pin the three bombings on. A scapegoat to parade in front of the media so they can go back to lying to the public.

  Telling them they are safe. That there is nothing for them to fear out there.

  “Police?” Firash asks.

  Meeting his gaze, Arief gives a quick shake of the head. Enough to answer the question before sliding his gaze to the side.

  A look that again goes unmet, forcing him to say, “Tell him.”

  Words that cause the girl to visibly flinch before lifting her gaze. A quick glance that barely reaches Firash before falling to the ground between them. An indeterminate point she fixates on while saying, “It was one guy. Definitely not police, not local. Pretty big. White.”

  Pausing there, she presses her lips together. A lump travels the length of her throat.

  Movements that serve to increase the growing anger within Firash. Methods of stalling, wasting precious time wallowing in her own self-pity.

  “And?” he snaps, his voice causing her to flinch again.

  “There was a tussle,” she whispers. “Intan tackled him to save me and they rolled around a little. The other guy was bigger and quicker, came out on top, so Intan pulled his gun and shot him twice.”

  Waiting for her to continue, when she again falls silent, Firash glances between the two of them before asking, “Okay? If he wasn’t police and Intan shot him...”