by TR Kohler
Or, as Doc has pointed out in private many times, the two with the most work to undo before they can be trusted on an assignment.
Standing a full six inches shorter than Myles, Murreaux weighs at least a hundred pounds less. A lithe form made even more pronounced when offset by the plume of frizzy curls that encases her head.
A look that Kari knows is not by accident, the girl often employing it as a curtain. An obstruction to keep her eyes hidden from view.
Means of self-preservation honed after losing her aunt – and closest thing to a parent she had – in an accident two years earlier. The start of a life on her own in New Orleans that saw her relying more and more on her gift of aerokinesis as a means of getting by.
So much so that when Kari first was approached about the idea of reviving The Ranch program, Murreaux was one of the first people to cross her desk. Somebody that had become so obvious, she didn’t even require scouting to be found.
The exact antithesis of how most people with enhanced abilities tend to operate. An open target that Kari knew was bound to draw unwanted attention, getting the strong impression after meeting with the girl that such a thing had already happened.
The promise of training and protection being what ultimately swayed her to be one of the first trainees to sign on.
“Okay,” Doc begins. Standing between them like a referee in a prizefight, he swings his gaze in either direction. “The rules are, no using your abilities, under any circumstances.”
Starting with Murreaux, he asks, “Got it?”
Answering with merely a dip of her chin, the girl shifts her weight to the side. Her hands rise a few inches before her.
Moves that bring a grin to Myles’s face as Doc turns his way.
“That means you too.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Myles answers. Two words dripping with indifference as he positions himself in a weak approximation of a fighting stance.
A pose that causes Kari’s grip to tighten on her cane, wanting nothing more than to jump in herself and drive home the lesson Doc is looking to impart.
To at the very least transfer some of her own prowess into Murreaux.
Ideas and notions interrupted by the feel of her cellphone springing to life from the inner pocket of her suit jacket. A dull and persistent buzz pressed tight to her ribcage causing her to shoot a hand inside the front lapel and snatch the device up, a quick glance to the screen sending a jolt of dread through her.
Not at the name it reveals, but at the fact that there will be no ignoring it to watch what is about to unfold on the mat.
Chapter Four
No matter how many times Kari Ma speaks with Perry Walker - Deputy Chief of Staff to President Wilson Pruitt - the first thing she is always struck by is the breathless nature of the man. The fact that he always seems to be on the verge of panting, his first few words coming out as gasps.
A personality quirk that would seem to hint at someone much more bulbous than the svelte former college athlete she knows him to be.
“Mr. Walker,” Kari says. Using her cane to help support the twisted remains of her left leg, she crosses from the rubber surface of the training center floor into the hallway outside. A narrow corridor of brushed concrete leading to the locker rooms for the facility.
Behind her, the sounds of the ongoing training exercise between Myles and Murreaux can be heard. The clear dins of gloves and pads thudding into each other. The occasional groan or cheer of fellow students.
All of it underscored by Doc barking out orders to one side or the other.
“Ms. Ma,” Walker shoves out, matching her formality. “I’m sorry to cold call you like this, but...”
Pausing there, he seems to cut himself off. A moment to choose his next words carefully. A career bureaucrat working close enough to elected officials to have picked up a few of their traits.
A personality quirk that Kari herself went to great lengths to avoid during her nearly two decades in Washington, D.C.
“Have you perchance been following the situation in Indonesia this week?” Walker asks.
Ignoring the urge to poke at the man’s use of the term perchance, Kari pauses just long enough to give the impression she is considering it. Not because the question is worthy of ridicule, but because her attention hasn’t gone anywhere near that part of the world since leaving D.C. six weeks prior.
“I’m sorry,” Kari replies, “I have not. Between getting The Ranch up and going and continuing active recruitment...”
Letting her voice trail away, she hopes the insinuation is clear before asking, “What’s going on in Indonesia?”
“Christ, don’t we wish we knew,” Walker replies. Six words shoved out with a sigh, making his unusual delivery pattern even more pronounced.
“Early this morning, or last night, or whatever it is with the time difference over there,” he begins anew, his voice rising with fluster before cutting himself off. Sighing once more, he says, “A couple of hours ago, there was a major bombing in Jakarta. The second one in the last week.”
Not sure how the information applies to her, or how she would have heard of such a thing already, Kari replies, “I see.”
“No,” Walker replies, “you don’t. Normally, a bombing in that part of the world would barely cross our radar, but the target was a Pepsi bottling company.
“The first one? Gatorade.”
Feeling her eyebrows rise slightly, Kari nods. Walker was right in saying that a single bombing in a place like Indonesia would hardly rise to the level of making the morning press briefing.
Having spent more than a decade with the Department of Defense herself, she is intimately familiar with the passing glance it would receive. A directive to a low-level employee somewhere to continue monitoring.
Two such blasts in short order, though, is grounds for concern. The start of a pattern nobody wants to see escalate further.
“I see,” Kari repeats. A nod that she is listening, while still leaving the floor open. Allowing him to get to whatever it is that has him calling before she offers much input one way or another.
Even if she already has a strong inkling about what his reasons might be.
“Anyway,” Walker says, his cadence hinting that he has been given a very finite amount of time to get out everything he knows. A headlong sprint that continues with, “You know the drill in that part of the world. We have a presence, but it is strictly hands-off.”
Speaking in more of the veiled style that is so common in the capital, he is correct in saying that Kari knows the drill.
As well she should, having spent decades maneuvering through it.
And in some cases, even helping to choreograph it.
“You also know that this isn’t an order,” Walker adds, “but more a request for assistance.”
Pausing a moment to make sure that the man truly hears and understands the words he just said, one of the key requirements laid out by she and Doc when mention of resurrecting The Ranch was first discussed, she asks, “Indonesia, you say?”
“Yes!” Walker replies, almost jumping at the question. “Jakarta.”
“I think I know a guy who might be able to help.”
Chapter Five
“Will there be anything else this evening, Mr. Rawit?”
It isn’t the person asking the question that causes Henry Rawit to snap his attention away from the computer screen before him. Someone that he has interacted with arguably more than any other over the last couple of years, he knows it is his assistant Mia.
A woman just a year past thirty that he hired right out of business school from the University of Southern California.
A choice that was pragmatic for a variety of reasons, her education and training making her excellent at her job. Her looks helping considerably when hosting men from various local enterprises.
It also isn’t the unexpected arrival of the question that causes Rawit to flinch. An inquiry launched before even passing through the door, landing
in a quiet office where he assumed he was alone.
The reason for the quick jerk of his focus away from the screen, for the ribbon of palpitations that rises up through his chest, is what he was watching upon her arrival. Vivid images splashed across the monitor depicting in full detail what is happening across town.
One of the few times that the local media in Jakarta seems to be getting things right, more or less livestreaming events as they unfold.
Something no doubt aided considerably by an anonymous phone call he requested be made earlier in the evening.
Feeling a flush rise to his cheeks at being caught intently watching the footage on his screen, a bit of anger rises within. Hostility not at the young girl before him, but at the evoked response of her arrival.
A mix of surprise and shame, as if he shouldn’t be watching what he is. As if it isn’t something to be celebrated. The next step in a plan he so painstakingly put together. A vital entry in the build to a culmination well over a year in coming.
Taking an extra moment to fight down the rising acrimony, Rawit replies, “Sorry, you caught me off guard there.”
“My apologies,” Mia returns. Standing with her three-inch heels just inside the threshold of the door, her hands are clasped before her. A standard pose, making it easy for her to bend forward at the waist in a bow.
One of the few remaining vestiges of the Japanese heritage that is so visible in her features.
“I just wanted to check and make sure everything was all set for tomorrow before I headed out for the evening.”
Grunting softly in reply, Rawit shifts his focus back to the monitor. Gaze landing on the feed continuing to roll in, he watches as the view is shifted to the ground right outside the warehouse where the recent explosion took place.
A close-up of a gurney being rolled out of the charred hull of the building, a bloodied woman strapped atop it. The type of unfiltered access not allowed in most parts of the world.
A scene that quite nearly brings a smile to Rawit’s face as he watches.
“Have you been watching this?” he asks, leaving Mia’s question aside for the moment. Elbow propped on the edge of his palatial desk, he extends a finger toward the screen.
Focus still aimed that direction, he waits as the young woman takes a few steps forward. Silent footfalls across the thick rug covering the vast majority of the floorspace. Far enough just to see past the corner of his onyx desk before pulling up.
“I got an alert that it happened,” Mia replies. “But I haven’t been watching.”
Bent forward to match her pose from a few moments earlier, she stares on in silence. Long enough that by the time Rawit glances back her way, tiny red tendrils have started to creep into the sclera of her eyes.
Yet another thing that tugs at the corners of his mouth, threatening to form into a full smile.
Confirms that not only is what he is doing right, but that he is the only one capable of pulling it off.
“So awful,” Mia whispers before blinking several times in succession. Enough to clear her eyes of their glassy sheen as she rises to full height, retreating a step back toward the door. “And twice in one week.”
Dropping his hand down to the mouse beside him, Rawit removes the window from his screen. Not completely closed but merely minimized, there for him to call back up the instant Mia is gone.
“So awful,” he says, parroting her word choice. “Makes you wonder what kind of monsters are doing this, doesn’t it?”
“It really does,” Mia agrees. “Or what they could possibly be hoping to gain from it.”
Chapter Six
To hear the crew approach, it is almost befuddling to Firash how they managed to pull off any of the political stunts they were responsible for over the last eight months. The original events that were said to put them on their mutual employer’s radar.
The reason the man insisted on their inclusion, much to Firash’s chagrin.
Starting more than five minutes earlier, he heard the rumble of the engine powering their dilapidated van long before it arrived. Pulling his focus away from the workbench in front of him, he wheeled himself backward and was seated staring at the door by the time the brakes let out an audible squeal and the vehicle rolled to a stop.
From there, it was a cacophony of voices that spilled out. Jovial tones that sounded like a locker room celebrating after winning the big game.
As if the two that he knows are the ones speaking so candidly had won a thing.
Or had even played a damn part in what just took place.
Glorified servants, they exist only because his body will no longer allow it and because the man paying the bills demands it. Minions that are involved only to perform one very specific function.
Interchangeable parts in a machine so much larger than they can imagine.
A point he hammers home by grabbing up a length of pipe leaning against the wall beside him. Mashing the butt of it into the thin wooden frame of the door, he shoves it open. Hard enough that it swings back, slamming into the side of the shack.
An emphatic crack of wood that draws the banter spilling from around the van to a halt. In its stead, three faces backlit by the interior light of the vehicle turn his way.
Two, from the pair that have not shut their mouths in the time since he first met them.
The third, the only one of the trio worth keeping around.
For now, anyway.
Frozen along the side of the van for an instant, the former two both stand in a state of shock. Eyes and mouth wide, they stare up at him.
The third wears an expression that hints of the annoyance he feels. Exasperation matching that of Firash, heightened over the long drive back from Jakarta.
Positions all three hold for a second before shoving the doors of the van shut and making their way forward.
A progression that makes it no closer than the edge of the sagging porch lining the front of his place before he raises the length of pipe before him. Moving slowly, he points the end of it at the pair of people on the left.
On the outside is a stocky male standing somewhere close to six feet in height. A total length that is tough to calibrate, exacerbated by the dirty blonde dreadlocks that hang past his shoulders. Hair made to look even lighter by the dark hue of his skin, visible from the waistband of his shorts up.
Beside him is a young woman that is as tall – if not a bit taller – than him. Someone that looks like she could have been a track athlete in another setting, her limbs long and lithe. An inversion of her partner, her skin tone is lighter, her long, straight hair much darker.
A pair he vaguely remembers being referred to as Intan and Eka. More details seen and dismissed in an instant. Things cast aside, replaced by the fact that combined, they don’t equal his age.
Children that fashion themselves some sort of environmental activists. Fancy words that, to him, translate to meaning they are anchors he is strapped to. Idealists or zealots that in his eyes are little more than sacrificial lambs. Tools for seeing his work to completion.
People that created a little mischief and somehow found themselves a seat at the adult table.
A thought that brings a scowl to Firash’s face as he sets his focus on the third member of the team. The only one to have not said a word since arrival.
A former soldier in his early thirties, wearing all of the telltale indicators plainly.
“You two, wait here,” he says, shaking the end of the pipe toward the young duo. His gaze fixed in the opposite direction, he jerks his chin upward at the last member of their party. “You, inside.”
Not waiting for a response from the man or the inevitable scowls of the young pair slapped down for quite possibly the first time in their life, Firash drops the pipe into his lap. His hands free, he uses them to work both wheels on his chair in concert.
A quick turn on the narrow expanse of the porch before passing back inside.
More than two hours now, he has been waiting. Sitting
in the superheated silence of the shack, his focus on the new set of blueprints that were just posted to the walls around him.
His next endeavor after finishing the work on the handful of devices earlier in the day.
Tasks to keep his hands and mind busy. Prohibit him from fixating on what he knew was to take place this evening.
The second in a return campaign. One he wasn’t much interested in as recently as a month before, but with each passing day cannot believe he waited so long to entertain.
Pushing himself through the front doorway, Firash rolls across the floor of the main room comprising the majority of his home. Moving to the same spot where he was parked just a few moments earlier, he turns himself back toward the door.
Taking the pipe up from his lap, he grips it tight in both hands as the man known as Arief steps inside. A scowl on his face, he offers a single glance over his shoulder. A pointed look toward the sound of faint voices just barely audible from outside before letting the screen door to the shack swing shut behind him.
An emphatic statement to the people left behind that it is time for them to shut the hell up.
A sentiment Firash agrees with entirely as he watches Arief take no more than a couple of steps before stopping in the center of the room.
His usual pose, prompting Firash to again use the pipe as a pointer, this time motioning to the lone other seat. A straight back wooden chair sitting by the door, any hints of stain or varnish rubbed off long ago.
“Sit,” Firash says, “and tell me everything.”
Chapter Seven
A cracked wooden sign juts out perpendicular to the front of the building. Weathered by constant exposure to the harsh equatorial elements, the paint on it has faded badly, giving it the appearance of something done in the favored new style so popular in the U.S. Pieces that are designed to look aged and sold at a markup to people with too much money and not enough exposure to the actual outdoors they are trying to emulate.
