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

by TR Kohler

  Even pretended to let Henry Rawit, the self-absorbed prick who thought money insulated him from all other concerns, think it was all his own idea. The criminal mastermind overseeing everything. The arch villain about to tilt things in his favor without anybody being the wiser.

  Against his wishes and better judgment, Firash even agreed to put up with the two young people that Rawit insisted on including. The next generation, he kept calling them, claiming that it was essential training. The kind of thing that couldn’t be found elsewhere.

  Would keep the fight in the region alive and well moving forward.

  As if somebody like Rawit knew the first damn thing about fighting. Or had any interest beyond his own personal wealth and greed, the kids nothing more than scapegoats.

  All things Firash allowed to pass without comment. A concerted step back to ease himself into the life again. Try out a new system. Learn to work within his new parameters.

  Reasoning that had already started to shift in the last week. The combination of revitalizing parts of himself long held dormant and coming to discover that there were still ways for him to be involved.

  To harness his prior reputation to enlist the help of men like Arief. Young charges so eager to please, to associate, they would gladly do his bidding.

  A slow evolution that took an enormous step forward with the newest bit of information shared this morning. A shift not only to the scheme they are working on, but Firash’s very role and interest in it.

  A new objective of infinitely more importance than any factory could ever be. A chance for him to seek atonement. Make right the wrong that was done to him.

  Wheelchair parked in the main room of his shack, Firash sits in the waning light staring out through the fraying screen of the front door. Sweat dappling his dark tan skin, he is oblivious to the perspiration dripping from his nose and chin. He does not bother to swat away the few mosquitoes buzzing around his head.

  Focus aimed downward, he stares at the printout in hand. The same one he dug from his journal hours before and handed over to Arief and the girl for confirmation.

  Verification that the story the girl shared and the image that has spent three years bouncing around in Firash’s head are one and the same. A picture that has been lodged in his memory for thirty-six solid months. Through the first agonizing days after dragging himself out from the rubble of the blast site. The weeks that followed, when the shattered remains of his legs were removed.

  The years spent since, slinking away to his jungle refuge and learning to live under his new reality.

  All of it finally coming full circle. The universe offering him a welcome-back gift to commemorate his return to battle.

  Keeping the sweat-stained piece of paper in one hand, Firash flips open his burner phone with the other. Scrolling through the call log, he goes straight to one of only two numbers entered and hits send.

  A moment later, Rawit is on the phone.

  Same air of conceit in his tone. Same bits of annoyance and hesitance as well.

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s been another change in plan,” Firash says.

  “What?” Rawit begins. “Did something-”

  In no mood to make this a discussion, to even give the impression anything being shared is up for debate, Firash cuts him off, stating, “We’re moving up the fourth hit.”

  Pausing just long enough for Firash to hear a door close on the other end of the line, Rawit immediately launches into an extended diatribe. Some convoluted argument that Firash doesn’t bother listening to, catching only the occasional snippet.

  Brief snatches of words such as attention and die down.

  Things that he has absolutely zero interest. Not knowing that the American is in play. Someone that has already seen enough to have grabbed up the young man Rawit brought in.

  Will surely see the pattern laid out and make moves to intercede.

  A fact that makes whatever Rawit is still babbling on about completely inconsequential as Firash says, “Soon,” before flipping the phone shut and dropping it into his lap.

  His focus once again returning to the printout in his hand.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  It is still much too soon for there to be any usable reports from the General Motors blast site. At the time Mike left earlier in the day, the place was still awash in water and flame-retardants, the most pressing matter being to get the raging inferno that had torn through the place completely neutralized.

  An approach he cannot fault in the slightest, even if it does precious little to help him now.

  Forced to rely on only what he was able to see for himself, the remaining evidence from the last week is spread around him. Fanned out wide in every direction, he stands at the focal point. Taking it all in, he rotates like the eye of a storm, processing every piece of data. Every photograph. Every witness account.

  All things that do nothing to stem the growing catalog in his mind. Items that he wishes he is privy to. Items he would rather be focusing on.

  A list that is pointed entirely at finding Firash. The man that was the bane of Mike’s existence for much of his last posting in the military. Someone that was so active, so extensive, so ruthless, that catching him was a catalyst for Mike stepping away when he did.

  A driving force that was stronger than the usual military math that gets so many people that have been in for ten years. Sound reasoning stating that if they have made it halfway to a pension, it makes little sense to stop.

  An argument that Mike heard many times, right up to his final day in uniform.

  A need to depart spurred by his desire to never go near another Firash again. To even know another one exists.

  A stance that now makes knowing that the man he thought he had rid the world of years before might not only be alive, but active, that much worse.

  Especially when viewed through the lens of maybe being a father.

  Recognizing that if the man is still breathing he has been far removed for several years now, Mike’s second goal is finding the girl. The one he was precious inches from, using her as leverage on the young man currently being held. Or even as someone to be leaned on directly.

  Either way, a means to ascending back to his key concern.

  A way of finding Firash or his stand-in.

  All of which has to begin with the files.

  “Okay,” Mike says. A word of demarcation pushed out with a sigh. A conscious forcing aside of Firash or his time in service or even the possible child that he might have out there somewhere.

  “Three different sites,” he mutters. “Three different locations, two beyond the edge of town, the third a little more urban.

  “First spot, Gatorade, single blast. Second one, Pepsi, a device meant to use the products on hand to start a cascade effect.

  “Third one, General Motors, major central bomb with lots of auxiliary devices to ensure total destruction.”

  As he speaks, he continues to rotate. Pointing with either index finger, he motions to the corresponding notes and images confirming each point.

  A macabre auctioneer, calling things out as he goes.

  “Three different targets in three different places making three different products using three different devices.”

  Stopping his ongoing movement, he glances down to the leather binder that he’s been carrying since arriving. The one flipped open to reveal the legal pad within, black ink scrawled across it in his own hand.

  Thoughts jotted down over the last couple of hours, one singular thing coming up time and again. A notation that has now been underlined no less than a dozen times jumping out at him.

  “The only damn thing any of them have in common being that they are American.”

  Reaching to his back pocket, Mike grabs for his cellphone. Pulling it out, he calls up the most recent number dialed and hits send. Flipping it to speaker, he holds it before him, the bottom tilted up, resting just a few inches from his mouth.

  A pose he mai
ntains as his gaze again drifts to the spread of paper scattered around him. A blizzard having overtaken the kitchen of the safe house.

  “Nothing doing on the traffic cameras,” Tania Lynch answers. “And he has still not said a thing.”

  Voice rife with annoyance, Mike isn’t sure if the acrimony she feels is aimed at his calling or in being repeatedly stonewalled in her investigation.

  A feeling he can identify with, even if he isn’t quite up to parsing out its exact origin right now.

  “Quick question for you,” Mike says in return. “What are the largest American manufacturing facilities in the area?”

  Snorting softly, Tania fires back, “You mean besides Gatorade, Pepsi, and GM?”

  Knowing the comment is sarcasm, Mike replies, “Are those the three biggest?”

  Already with another comment ready to go, Tania pulls up. An audible pause as she registers what was asked, contemplating it a moment before replying, “Three of them, anyway. Why? You think that’s the connection?”

  Retreating from his spot in the center of the paperwork, Mike finds the countertop along the wall behind him. Settling his weight against it, he replies, “I’ve been digging through the files all afternoon and that is literally the only commonality. Everything else – and I mean everything – is different.”

  Allowing that to resonate a moment, Tania replies, “Are you saying this is some sort of anti-American thing? International terrorism with a capitalistic bent?”

  “Possibly,” Mike says, that sort of thing always in play, going back well before even the September 11th attacks. “Could also be capitalism masked to look like terrorism.”

  Hearing no immediate response, he continues with the thought he was having just a moment before. The idea that caused him to reach for his phone and dial Tania to begin with.

  “Maybe someone wanting what they have. Land or facilities or workforce or whatever.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The order of attacks that Firash put together was deliberate. A misdirection predicated on obviousness.

  There would be no way for anybody to see what had happened at the first two sites and not draw immediate parallels. Major American companies with international appeal. Both beverage providers.

  A host of other things including physical location and even local investors. Details that would be too much to ignore for someone trying to find a pattern.

  Which is exactly why he chose to make the General Motors factory his third target. Put everybody back on their heels, leaving them jumping at shadows, wondering what might be hit next.

  A plan that was working to perfection before the insertion of the American soldier Mychalski into the mix. The one that tracked Firash down the first time, attacking the case with a feverish zeal that defied personal safety or self-interest.

  Something that, at the time, Firash had attributed to dedication to his craft.

  Something to be admired. Emulated, even.

  An attribute he now knows to be much more than that. Something going beyond mere commitment, owing to a predilection that no amount of training or experience can ever impart.

  It had taken nothing short of a miracle for Firash himself to survive the explosion three years prior. Locked in a physical confrontation with the man in the bowels of the embassy building in Thailand, he had been unable to get away.

  Close quarters combat that, at first, he thought was a form of self-sacrifice. A conscious move by the soldier to keep Firash occupied deep in the underbelly of the building.

  A willing move to give his own life in the name of seeing Firash’s brought to an end as well.

  An action that only did he realize was more than that after firing on him just the way the girl described. A handful of rounds at close range that had zero discernible effect.

  A sight Firash had never seen. A realization that the soldier wasn’t offering them both up as sacrifices, he was meting out his own form of justice. Ensuring they both ended up at the bottom of a pile of a rubble, knowing full well he would be the only one to walk away.

  An outcome that would have very well played out had the crumbling foundation of the building not reacted in a way Firash hadn’t expected. A spiral blast pattern that sent them both in opposite directions.

  Put enough space and rubble between them so that when finally he came to, he was able to drag his broken self away before the soldier could find him.

  Knowing the man is back in play, Firash has no choice but to move quickly. Get out ahead and complete the fourth objective that he and Henry Rawit originally discussed.

  Override any of the man’s current hesitance in the name of seeing things to completion. Doing what they must before they are discovered.

  Seated in the front room of his shack, Firash repeatedly flicks his gaze to the clock on the wall. A constant tracking of the current time against the schedule that was laid out with Arief earlier.

  Mental computations, attempting to discern where things stand. How much time remains before plans at the fourth target begin.

  Before the soldier arrives.

  Finds the breadcrumbs that were deliberately left for him.

  Uses them to make his way out to the jungle, where Firash will be waiting.

  Chapter Sixty

  “We’re moving up the fourth hit.”

  Time and again, Henry Rawit hears the single line muttered by Firash. One after another, it plays on loop in his mind. Background music that grows progressively louder, now threatening to force out any other thought from his mind.

  A steady din that grates on his nerves, the animosity he feels for the legless bastard across the island rising with each passing moment.

  Rising from the leather sofa in the penthouse apartment suite that is his home during the week, Rawit grabs up the tumbler of whiskey from the table before him. Swirling the three remaining fingers in the glass twice, he holds it out before him. Lets it serve as a guide, pulling him across the polished marble floor to the windows overlooking the city.

  A view that is a bit higher and has a slightly different angle than what he spends most of his days looking out at, but is largely the same as that of his office.

  A fact that doesn’t come as much of a surprise, urban cityscapes having a tendency to all look alike.

  Especially after nightfall, the cover of darkness managing to mask any existing differences.

  With each step across the room, Rawit can see his own reflection growing clearer in the window before him. A full-body visual showing that his suit coat has long since been cast aside. Same for his vest and even the striped tie that he wore today.

  In their stead, he is down to just his slacks and dress shirt left open at the collar. A base layer better suited for moments like this. Rare snippets when he can escape the bustle of the office. Enjoy some small measure of solace.

  If not for the incessant playing of Firash’s words running through his head.

  The agreement that Rawit had first come to with the man was that there would be four explosions. A sequence that would see three attacks occur in short order.

  Three very specific sites hit during a tight timeframe. An order carefully put together, the first two meant to provide false headings and keep people guessing before the third started to put things into focus.

  A target type that would be too much to ignore, making a statement both to the corporations overseeing the facilities and the world at large. Entities that would make it clear that the presence of American megaliths in Jakarta was no longer palatable, even if the people behind the attacks remained elusive.

  Same for their motivations, the various parties in the region providing for a host of possible perpetrators. The perfect cover for Rawit and his interests, people always so quick to point to terrorists or dissidents or whatever makes for the best headlines.

  A situation Rawit was already positioned to take advantage of, culminating with a fourth attack. An exclamation point on things to occur a week or more later.


  One final shakeup in the region, convincing foreign business interests that it was no longer safe.

  A mass exodus freeing up land and facilities and a vast workforce. Resources simply aching for purpose, calling for the presence of someone like Rawit.

  A detailed plan that now stands to be cast aside in the name of whatever new master Firash is serving. Greed or hubris or bloodlust. Some combination of the three causing the man to continue to diverge from the original plan.

  A sudden desire to do things in his own manner, made possible by the funding and staffing that Rawit has made available. The component parts and factory blueprints and everything else that has been provided to him in the last couple of weeks.

  A wanton disregard for the person truly in charge. The one that found Firash hiding out in the jungle and returned some tiny modicum of relevance to him.

  Feeling his grip tighten on the glass in his hand, Rawit raises to it his lips. Draining half of what remains, he feels the slight burn it produces sliding down the length of his throat. A mild flame traveling through his core before landing hard in his stomach.

  A feeling perfectly matching his mood as he swings his gaze to the north. Away from the suburbs and the previous targets toward the one remaining site on their list. The last spot that they had agreed to.

  The one that wasn’t supposed to be hit for a week or more, but now stands to be reduced to rubble at any moment.

  As does everything Rawit has been hoping to accomplish with this plan that has encompassed the last eighteen months.

  A new reality forcing him to consider some alternative plans of his own.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  If there is one lesson that has been ritualistically beaten into Arief over the years, it is that success of any kind takes sacrifice. Whether it be the military training he went through years before or even the relocation from his home in Java to the factories of Jakarta to help feed his family, his entire life has been predicated on it.