by TR Kohler
“She swears the guy just shook it off,” Arief replies, his tone relaying his growing annoyance with the girl as well. “No blood, no injury, no nothing. Just took the hits, then beat the hell out of Intan and held him down until some little black sedan pulled up to get them both.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Based on the mashed slugs that fall to the metal table as Mike shakes out the tail of his shirt, he would guess that the gun the man shot him with was a .38. A peashooter that could be picked up in a hundred different places, cast aside just as easily.
Dropping his shirt back into position, he scoops the rounds up from the table. Cupping them both in his palm, he studies the misshapen objects a moment. The amoeba-esque shapes that they have taken on. The sharp edges and rumpled formats.
One having mashed into his abdomen just an inch high and right of his navel, had he not been born with an impermeable epidermis, he would be in a world of hurt right now. Even a round as small as this ripping into the soft tissue would have caused immeasurable damage.
Tearing through the anatomical soup of his intestines and various other essential functions, the window for getting him to the hospital would have been quite narrow. A mad dash for aid at a time when most all medical personnel in the city were dealing with the aftermath of the newest explosion.
Not that Jakarta would exactly be on the high end of the list of places Mike would want to be receiving lifesaving medical care.
Having jerked slightly at the impact of the first shot, the second one had struck high into his ribcage on the left side. A round that likely wouldn’t have ended him, though it definitely would have cracked – or even shattered – a rib or two.
Enough to bring about excruciating pain, likely sidelining him for at least the next couple of days.
Eventualities that Mike allows to scroll through his head as he stares down. Information fed to him by various physicians over the years. Personnel like those he’d encountered in the military that routinely marveled at the punishment he endured seemingly without effect.
Every last one of them insisting on imparting what should have happened, given what they were seeing.
Leaving the thoughts behind at the sound of the doorknob into the interrogation room where he is standing engaging, Mike shoves the pair of rounds into his front pocket. A quick move to get them out of sight, turning just in time to see Tania Lynch enter.
An unreadable expression on her face, she closes the door behind her before taking a few steps forward. Enough to cut the distance between them by half before pulling up and crossing her arms over her chest.
“He say anything?” Mike asks, flicking his gaze to the young man that shot him sitting on the opposite side of the one-way glass beside them. The one with dreadlocks hanging down past his shoulders, a look masking from afar the fact that up close, he is barely an adult.
Someone in their twenties trying hard to appear much older.
“Not a word,” Tania replies, turning to gaze at the young man as well. “Just kept staring off into space as I cuffed him to the chair.”
Shifting back to look at Mike, she adds, “Which could mean he either refuses to speak, or that he is unable to at the moment.”
Arching an eyebrow, she says nothing more, the implication quite apparent. An unspoken reference to the dried blood painting the entire left side of the young man’s face.
The bruising that will no doubt be arriving soon.
After she’d arrived at the scene earlier, Mike had lifted the kid from the street and shoved him into the backseat of her sedan. Piling in beside him, they’d ridden the twelve minutes back to where they now find themselves in complete silence.
A period void of sound that extended to Tania as she led them through a side entrance to the plain brick building on the outer edge of downtown. A completely bland structure with a faded sign for something written in Indonesian above the front windows.
Even a functional first floor setup sitting empty that they marched right past before descending into the basement.
A place they now find themselves, barely an hour having passed since Mike first left the safe house.
“When I got there,” Mike begins, “the place was a zoo. Everything you’d expect. Employees still trying to get out, firefighters and police attempting to get in.
“People screaming, others cussing. Medics trying to treat injuries. All of it.”
As he speaks, he can feel her gaze resting on his profile. A look he doesn’t bother matching, keeping his own focus on the young man opposite them.
The one listing slightly to the side in his seat, glazed eyes aimed down at the table before him.
“Everybody doing something,” Mike continues. “Except for this guy and his girlfriend.”
Turning to face Tania square, he runs her through what happened. His attempt to approach and them instantly turning to run. The way the guy peeled off before swinging back around and slamming into him.
Even the gun he carried, the only omission being the twin rounds that were fired. The bullets responsible for the holes in the front of his shirt, still stowed in the pocket of his pants.
A narrative that takes nearly two full minutes to relay, when he is done, he falls silent. Allows Tania to process in her own time, making her own connections. Conclusions as to what played out and if Mike was correct in his handling.
A silent debate that takes her nearly as long as his sharing the incident before she dips her chin slightly.
“Where’s the gun now?” she eventually asks.
“Last I saw, it was still on the street,” Mike replies. “Though where it might be now...”
Nodding again, she runs her gaze the length of him. A quick pass taking in the dirt smudges on his cheek and the stretched cotton of his t-shirt after rolling around in the street.
Small indicators giving further credence to his story.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah.” Dipping his head toward the glass, he asks, “Anything on him?”
“Haven’t ran him yet,” she answers. “Like I said yesterday, kind of took moving a mountain just to get those files.”
Leaving it there, Mike picks up on the unspoken portion.
If just asking to see some write-ups was enough to raise attention, running a face or fingerprints through the system would really draw some interest. Given the Agency’s strictly passive stance in the country, it likely wouldn’t be the kind that would behoove them or their investigation.
To say nothing of their response to them grabbing a local and dragging him away.
Face beat to hell, no less.
“So we’re left doing this the old fashioned way,” Mike replies.
“For now, at least.”
“Hm,” Mike says, adding a nod of understanding. Turning back to stare at their newest charge, he asks, “And how far can we take that?”
Locked in a mirrored pose, Tania leaves one hand folded across her torso. The other she lifts to her throat, grasping the base of the gold cross hanging there.
Rotating it slowly to either side, she ponders the question a moment before replying, “Considering what he already looks like? Probably should start with just talking.”
Chapter Forty-Four
The look the young man gives Tania Lynch as she steps into the interrogation room tells Mike everything he needs to know. One eyebrow arching slightly, he offers a faint smirk, his head rocking back an inch.
Whether it is her gender or skin tone or just the fact that she is clearly American that causes such a response, Mike doesn’t know. Doesn’t much care, either.
All he can be sure of is that whatever trance the kid was in earlier has passed. The shock of getting pummeled in the street and dragged to an undisclosed location has faded.
In its place is the kind of cocksure arrogance that Mike would expect from someone that was openly gawking at a catastrophe like the General Motors bombing.
Meaning that he isn’t going to say a w
ord. And if he does, it will be a complete fabrication.
Any time spent here is just time wasted.
A notion that Tania seems to share as she lets the door swing shut in her wake. Stepping around the far side of the interrogation table, she casts a quick glance to the pane of one-way glass Mike is parked behind. A fleeting look that to the man inside probably looks like she is doing nothing more than checking her reflection.
Steeling herself for what is about to transpire.
A quick peek that Mike recognizes for what it actually is. A signal that she too saw and heard the man’s initial reaction and is in no mood for it.
One more part of what has been a rough couple of days, made even worse by their nasty start to the morning.
“Good morning,” Tania says, sliding out a wooden chair matching the one the young man across from her is seated on. Words and movement that makes his eyebrow arch upward again.
His go-to response, even with one side of his face being slightly marred. An inaudible answer in line with the overall look he seems to be trying so hard to cultivate. A motif that falls somewhere between skater punk and enviro hippie, Mike having seen something similar on the streets of Venice Beach years ago.
Some anti-war thing displaying the young protesters complete lack of common sense, trying to push their alternative views on a group of guys that were clearly military.
A scene that had gone about as well for them as he imagines this little discussion is about to go for the man inside the room.
Holding the file she carried in before her, Tania makes a show of glancing to either side. Perusing the pages that Mike can see are clearly blank. Thin stacks of typing paper shoved inside to make it look more official.
Mask the fact that they have absolutely no idea who the kid is beyond his being far too interested in the events at the plant and later assaulting Mike. No way of finding out much more right now without alerting a lot of people what they’re up to.
People already not especially keen on their presence.
“I think we both know why you’re here,” Tania says. Flipping the file shut and dropping it flat on the table. “So let’s skip the parts where you act flippant or avoid questions or any of that kind of stuff, okay?”
Across from her, the look remains. The one that again drives home the impression that this is nothing more than a lost cause.
Causes the disdain Mike feels for the young man to continue climbing.
To almost wish he had taken things in the street just a little further.
“Who are you?” Tania opens.
A fair start that receives nothing in return.
“Who do you work for?”
More of the same, this time punctuated with a smirk. A response that causes Mike’s fingers to curl up into fists.
Leaning forward, he rests his knuckles against the ledge of the viewing window. A pose akin to a sprinter’s stance, making him want nothing more than to burst through the glass and have his own discussion.
One with decidedly fewer words.
“Why were you and your little girlfriend so interested in what happened at the factory this morning?”
When that too produces absolutely nothing, Tania reclines in her chair. The plume of dark hair encasing her head wobbles to either side as she shakes her head.
An elongated sigh can be heard through the speakers lining the room.
“You were at least somewhat cognizant when you walked in here,” she says, “so you know this isn’t a police station. Which means you should also know that we’re not exactly subject to the same sorts of rules.
“We can sit here as long as it takes. We don’t have to bring you food or water. Don’t have to let you use the bathroom or make a phone call.
“None of those niceties that other places are required to do.”
A tact Mike would not have considered, certainly not thought Tania capable of, he feels his eyebrows rise.
Seeing where she is going, he pushes himself back to full height. A better vantage to see the young man’s response. To watch as the words land, somehow managing to make the self-assuredness he carries grow more pronounced.
Conceit so ingrained, it can only stem from believing he has already won. That his very presence both at the bombing site earlier and here now have imbued him with a status that can’t be touched.
Another affirmation of Mike’s original supposition.
“Nobody knows where we are,” Tania continues. “Definitely don’t know you’re here. Meaning you can either sit here staring back at me, or you can answer my questions.”
Falling silent, she meets the young man’s stare. A pose she holds as he seems to consider what was just shared. A full minute of nothing but dead air that ends with the young man leaning a few inches to the side.
A pointed gesture meant to let whoever is behind the glass know he is aware of their presence. Is not impressed by it. Has no intention of changing anything because of it.
A sentiment expounded upon as he shifts his focus back to Tania. A smile forms as he says, “My name is Luke Skywalker. I am a member of the Rebel Alliance, here to end the oppressive rule of the Empire.”
Fists tightening to the point he can feel fingernails digging into his palms, Mike watches as Tania rises from her seat. Somehow possessing the control not to fly across the table and throttle the young man, she snatches up the file and heads for the door.
A move Mike matches inside the observation room, meeting her in the hallway outside.
An impromptu conference held with the sound of the young man’s laughter still seeming to echo from the concrete block around them.
“Bastard,” Tania spits. Arms folded, she paces the length of the floor.
A marked contrast to Mike who merely stands glowering at the door to the interrogation room. Every part of him wanting to push inside and resume things from earlier, he has to force himself not to move.
“Let him sit in there all day,” Tania continues to mutter. “See how funny he finds this then.”
Body coiled, Mike allows himself one more moment. A brief instant to consider stepping inside. What he could accomplish. The data that could be extracted.
Urges he puts at bay for the time being, knowing that right now they have another source nearby that could be even more valuable.
“I’m going back over to the factory. Keep me posted if anything changes here.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Henry Rawit has no problem admitting that, initially, the shock got to him. The surprise of seeing Mia standing before him in tears. Turning to look out through the bank of windows lining his office to see the mass of smoke rising into the morning sky.
The thoughts and recollections that arrived rapid-fire thereafter, everything from the time of day to his prior conversation with Firash converging at once.
A mass of disparate ideas and actions that left him momentarily paralyzed.
As it would most anybody in his position.
The difference between all of them and himself being that now, those first moments have passed. Whatever brief window there might have initially been is now well behind him. A conscious transition away from trying to compute what he was seeing to now fighting to get out ahead of it.
A task that would be a hell of a lot easier if he could get anybody to answer their damn phones.
Still positioned in the open swath of ground between his desk and the windows lining the outside of his office, Rawit paces back and forth. Long, determined strides punctuated by loud exhalations. Even the occasional clack of the heels of his dress shoes striking hardwood as he strays beyond the edge of the rug covering the majority of the room.
Errant steps that he gives no mind to, his focus alternating between the phone in his hand and the scene playing out across the city.
Clutching the burner device in the palm of his hand, Rawit scrolls through the recent call log. A list of entries more than two dozen in total split between three different numbers.
> Listings that all appear in order one time after another. Strings of digits without names attached, Rawit knowing each of them by sight.
Up first is Intan. The young man that he approached initially nearly a year before. Step one of his plan, hoping that some well-aimed mischief by the kid and his band of environmental rebels would be enough to serve Rawit’s purposes.
A goal that had been admirable, had even achieved some modest results, but fell short of what Rawit desired.
The most likely of the various players involved today to be cast to the sidelines, Rawit had started with him, hoping to make initial contact. Get some bits of information about what was taking place and why the plan had shifted so radically.
Data as to what Firash’s goals were and how he planned to proceed moving forward.
When Intan had failed to answer, Rawit had bypassed his sidekick Eka entirely. A move not owing to any sort of misogyny, but rather in knowing that if one wasn’t answering, the other wasn’t likely to either.
A pairing that goes beyond a relationship, drifting toward a codependence Rawit cannot pretend to understand.
Instead, his second call had been to Arief. A stab in the dark, knowing that out of everybody, he would be the least likely to answer. The man actually on the ground, having delivered the device.
Likely, the one still onsite, in charge of collecting information in the aftermath. Damage assessment or response tracking or whatever else he had been tasked with.
A list Rawit doesn’t pretend to know completely, positing only that it would be extensive enough to keep the young man tied up for the time being.
Certainly, more than enough to render him too occupied to be answering the phone right now.
The last call Rawit had made was to Firash himself. A reaching out that he didn’t expect to be answered. Wasn’t the least bit surprised when it was kicked to voicemail after only a single ring.
Something that could only be caused from the man consciously ignoring the calls.