by TR Kohler
Mike’s Place
A Bulletproof Novel, Book 1
TR Kohler
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
Author’s Note
Free Book
Bookshelf
About the Author
Holding onto anger is like grasping a
hot coal with the intention of hurling
it at someone else; you are the one
who gets burned.
—Buddha
One cannot plan for the unexpected.
—Aaron Klug
Prologue
In the semi-darkness of the space tucked up tight beneath the machinery, the glowing red digits stand out plainly. Bright block numbers counting backward, steadily working their way down from sixty.
Less than a minute before the ending Mike has been dreading all evening comes to fruition.
A scene infinitely worse than what he’s found at any of the other locations. Incalculable destruction, this time within one of the busiest sectors of Jakarta.
No way of avoiding being seen. Certainly, no chance at escaping without mass casualties.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Tania mutters beside him, again bringing her best friend into the conversation. Yet another invitation that will no doubt go unanswered.
“Get out of here,” Mike whispers. A sideways comment made while focusing entirely on the numbers continuing to dwindle down. Precious seconds before an inevitability he can do nothing to prevent.
An ending he already foresees along with the pain it will inflict upon him.
“Now,” he adds. Jutting his chin to the side, he finishes with, “And take her with you.”
Not one word of what was just uttered is up for debate. Not a conversation about the best way for her to exit. No back-and-forth about what his next steps are.
Sentiments that he expects were made clear in his tone.
If not, by his striding directly away from both her and the young woman lying unconscious on the floor between them. Trusting that his impromptu partner will do as instructed, he goes deeper into the cavernous space that comprises the main floor of the warehouse.
Each step spiking the anticipation, the agitation, within him.
For days now, he has been playing catch up. Ever since that woman first walked into his bar and threatened to decapitate someone with her cane.
Time spent chasing ghosts. Trying to put together the evidence spread before him. Match it against whatever memories or experiences he still has lingering from his previous life.
An approach that wasn’t necessarily wrong, but it damned sure wasn’t right.
Not if he is going to get out ahead of things. Finally, put an end to all of it.
A realization that fuels him as he walks directly up to the device resting at the base of the machine. A conveyor belt lined with metal rollers all waiting to become shrapnel. Flying projectiles that will disintegrate anything nearby.
Already, he has taken one quick peek inside the duffel bag. Leaving the top peeled back, he can still see the intricate web of explosives stowed inside.
A concoction meant to start a cascade effect, taking out not just the building he stands in, but a decent chunk of the crowd gathered outside. And a few of the neighboring buildings. And even pieces of the two major thoroughfares that bisect the area.
Wrenching it away from the base of the mechanical apparatus, Mike grasps a strap for the bag in either hand. Adrenaline starting to seep into his system, he carries it before him. Arms held at ninety-degrees, he duckwalks away.
A straight march as his gaze flicks between the timer shrinking down and the warehouse around him.
Quick passes as he searches for the optimal spot. The place where he can dispose of the thing in a way only he can.
The fact that it is going to hurt like hell be damned.
Chapter One
The most important part of the assemblage is the closure. A multi-faceted final step that is so much more than simply screwing down the metal cap onto the end of the pipe. A slow, methodical process that means ensuring not a single grain of gunpowder works its way into the threads. That the carefully placed fuse inside isn’t jostled in the slightest, knocking it from equilibrium.
That everything within is packed just tight enough to hold it secure for upcoming transit.
Otherwise, the whole damn thing is wasted. Nothing more than the world’s ugliest paperweight.
A trophy announcing the maker’s failure to all who may see it.
Amplified more than five times its actual size by the magnification glass extended out from the wall beside him, Firash stares down at his newest creation. Thick-framed glasses perched on the tip of his nose, his eyes are squinted to nothing more than slits.
Beads of sweat travel through his close-cropped hair. They lay in a heavy blanket across his forehead. Drip from the tip of his nose and chin.
Oversized droplets, adding to those already saturating the stained cotton tank top he wears. Perspiration from the combination of the oppressive humidity in Java and the concentration needed for his current task.
A continuation of a project now more than a week in the offing. His first in more than three years. An offer coming from a most unexpected source, lurin
g him back into a life believed to have been left behind well before.
A proper use for skills long held dormant.
His entire worldview reduced to the enlarged image before him, Firash moves with extreme care. A steady hand honed through years of dedication to the art of destruction.
Muscle memory returning to the fore as if no time has passed at all.
Taking up the metal cap from the bench before him, Firash moves it into position. Placing it directly above the pipe held tight in a vise, he lowers the endpiece down and begins to turn it. A gentle fitting, taking care to make sure the threads align.
No unnecessary movement.
No jostling of anything inside.
In this moment, nothing else matters. Not the heat in the small shack that he calls a home. Not the sway of the palm fronds rising high above or the animals no doubt lurking in the jungle outside his door.
Not the people that will show up later to pick up his newest creation or even the self-righteous bastard that is covering the tab for his work.
Nothing save the slow turning of the metal piece. The way the pre-cut threads spiral downward, tightening it into place. The compact design that is attained once it is complete, the device barely a foot in length, capable of knocking out an entire corner of the building where it will be deposited.
A matching piece to the half dozen already completed. Solid iron soldiers lined up on the bench nearby, ready to be deployed.
Implements designed to take down not just the next target in order, but the things it represents. The product it produces and the people flown in to run it.
The emblem stamped on the side of the building and the flag that flies high overhead.
Mental images that Firash keeps at bay until the final moment the task is complete. An instant that arrives once the cap will go no farther, the tension of the moment broken as he rocks back in the wheelchair where he is seated.
Snatching his glasses from the tip of his nose, he glances at the clock hanging from the wall beside him. The sole thing adorning any of the walls inside the structure, there not as decoration, but to serve a very specific purpose.
One it fulfills as he registers the time, running it against the schedule already laid out in his mind.
A window that he is still well ahead of as he nods once before replacing the glasses on the tip of his nose.
And immediately moves to begin the next in line.
Chapter Two
To look at the cart from the outside, it is nothing more than standard janitor fare. The type shoved through hallways the world over. A plastic base loaded with a trash can and a metal rack of various cleaning supplies.
Squeaky wheels that announce its presence long before it actually arrives.
Same for the nondescript man standing behind it. Measuring five-feet-ten-inches in height, his dark brown skin is marred with smudges of dirt and grease. The bangs of his short black hair are mussed.
Bleary-eyed, he stands hunched behind the back of the cart. Elbows resting across the handlebar, he shoves it slowly down the hallway toward his next destination.
A pose that looks as if he is merely tired.
In reality, it is to give himself the extra leverage needed to move the heavy payload stowed deep in the bottom of the fifty-gallon wastebin balanced in the center of the cart. A creation made by a master craftsman and entrusted to him to get into position.
A journey that began hours before at the small shack out in the jungle and now has but a few feet left to travel.
A short distance before reaching the exact intended spot where it can create the maximal amount of damage. Not only render the facility he is standing in incapacitated, but deliver a message to anybody smart enough to look for it.
A task Arief Wardoyo takes no small amount of pride in being entrusted with.
A role that his family can be proud of, knowing he is putting the military training he received to good use. Atonement for the most unusual incident that saw his time in the service so abruptly terminated.
An apprenticeship at the hand of a legend. Someone whose tutelage will elevate him to the highest levels of his newfound profession.
Place him in demand in a way that will keep his family fed and clothed forevermore.
Donning a pair of plain coveralls to match those of the other janitorial staff roaming throughout the building, Arief keeps his head down. Casting nothing more than sideways glances, he is careful to avoid any of the offices with lights on.
Places where the actual custodians are going about their business.
People that may recognize him as an imposter. An intruder that showed up for the first time less than an hour ago and has been meandering the halls since. Shuffling along with his cart, being sure to avoid any overhead cameras.
Always searching for the optimal location to deposit his load. The spot that was outlined on the blueprints tacked up to the wall of the shack tucked away deep in the jungle. The impromptu headquarters of the enterprise he finds himself in service of.
A confluence of people and interests he would have never put together on his own.
Having studied the interior maps enough times to have them imprinted in his mind, Arief works steadily forward. The needed time having elapsed, no longer is he merely wandering.
Clock continuing to tick, the moment has arrived to reach his predetermined spot. A place to park the cart and disappear, leaving it to do what it has been designed for.
The exact spot where the payload stowed inside the trash can will push through the walls lining the outside of the office complex and onto the production floor just fifteen yards away. A blast that will subsume the chemicals stored nearby. The gas tanks needed to run many of the smaller manufacturing machines dotting the factory floor.
A ripple effect that will work its way through the entire facility. A chain reaction traveling from one end to the other in a matter of moments.
Annihilation so complete Arief can already see it playing out in his mind.
A scene even better than the one several days before.
Hooking a final left, Arief is careful to keep his breathing even, his appearance from revealing anything. Using measured steps, he counts out exactly seventeen paces.
Strides that take him the needed forty feet before pulling up abruptly. Bringing the cart to a rest tight against the wall, he slides a cellphone from his pocket. Raising it to his cheek, he uses it to shield his face from the lone camera on the far end of the hallway.
Window dressing for a final check to make sure that the corridor is his alone. Nobody nearby to question his presence or – more importantly – move the cart that he just spent more than an hour getting into position.
Seeing nobody, Arief turns back the opposite direction. Keeping the phone tight to his face, he retraces his steps, following the flow of the office complex back toward where he started.
A short journey that ends less than three minutes later as he steps outside and climbs into the passenger seat of the van idling along the curb.
Chapter Three
The pairing is one that Kari Ma has seen before. A deliberate choice made by Andre Doctson – Doc to anybody knowing him for more than an instant - head trainer at The Ranch, the program they both help to oversee. Meant to display the fallibility of believing in appearances and physical stature, to the left is Lukas Myles, the oldest of the first group of trainees to reside at The Ranch.
Standing several inches above six feet, his height is enhanced by the strands of bleached hair standing upright above his head, held in place by a healthy dollop of hair gel.
A look more befitting someone strolling the boardwalk along Venice Beach than a young man that six months earlier was a high school football player that rarely saw the field in small town Montana.
A state of being that ended abruptly after he was mauled by a grizzly bear while out hiking not far from Yellowstone. A random attack that saw Myles score a couple of minor hits with the knife he happened to be car
rying.
Blows that were just barely enough for the two combatants to have drawn blood from one another.
A merging of recombinant DNA that saw Myles gain more than forty pounds of mass and five inches in height in the time since. Power and aggression upgrades to match.
Newfound abilities that pair with the look he is now sporting. A sudden increase in hubris that Kari foresees being their biggest obstacle in working with the young man.
Teaching him to harness and utilize his abilities as an accessory, rather than an entirely new identity.
A goal that - thus far - she and Doc seem to be coming up woefully short on.
Standing across the circle painted atop the rubber membrane on the training facility floor from Myles is Angel Murreaux. A young woman that is just a few months younger than her counterpart. The two oldest and, presumably, closest to entering the field.
