by TR Kohler
Just barely readable at a distance, Kari Ma waits until she is nearly to the front entrance before confirming it is where she wants to be.
Mike’s Place.
The low-rent joint she’s come halfway around the world to see.
Or, rather, the man whose name adorns the placard above the door.
Shoving her way through the swinging saloon doors across the main entrance, Kari stops just past the threshold. A quick pause to assess her surroundings, the scene immediately bringing to mind images from old movies she’s witnessed over the years.
Westerns that her father favored when she was just a child.
Even a couple of newer comedies that Doc used to foist on her when they were working or training together during their time as members of the original iteration of The Ranch.
Images not having so much to do with her surroundings, the joint stretched before her pretty standard fare. A space larger than one might expect from the outside, comprised of a single large room opening out to her right. A trapezoidal area dotted with wooden tables and matching chairs. Customer clusters of anywhere from two to five gathered around each one.
Along the back wall, a jukebox. Beyond it, a couple of open doorways leading onto a covered porch area.
To her left, a bar stretched the length of the wall. Waist high, backed by enormous panes of glass. Mirrors that reflect the abundance of light streaming in through the doors and windows, making the place look absolutely sprawling.
All of that, Kari catalogs and files away within seconds. Mere footnotes to the part that has her recalling so many old movies as she steps inside.
The fact that nearly every last person in the joint has turned to stare her way. Open gawking accompanied by raised brows and slack jaws.
The only thing missing being the proverbial record scratch, instantly halting all other sounds.
An alternative that would be far preferable to what actually occurs.
The man that is the first to speak looks like he has been hard at it since sometime early in the day. Or possibly even the night before. A state of inebriation that has his pale cheeks and forehead shining red, nearly matching the flame-orange of his hair and moustache.
Leaning away from the table he is seated at, he makes a show of looking Kari up and down before calling, “Hell yeah, somebody ordered us some Chinese food!”
A quip that elicits a round of chuckles from the others at the table. A burst of laughter that moves across the floor, rising with each passing moment.
A swell that seems to give the man extra confidence, prompting him to begin to rise from his seat.
An ascent that makes it no farther than a couple of inches before Kari presses the button imbedded in the silver head of her cane. A release that detaches the outer sleeve, allowing her to slide out the razored blade buried within.
One fluid movement that ends with Kari balanced on her right leg. A position she can hold forever with the tempered steel blade extended parallel to the ground.
Held straight out from shoulder height, the tip touches the soft skin along the underside of the man’s chin. A placement that isn’t by mistake, a drop of blood already appearing from the hairline scratch of the initial contact.
“First of all,” Kari says, her voice the only sound save the turning of the ceiling fans overhead, “I am not Chinese.
“Second, this is Japanese steel, hand forged in the mountains of Okinawa, and right now resting directly over your jugular.”
Adding nothing more, Kari leaves the blade in place as the color drains from the man’s face. As the loose skin on the underside of his neck begins to quiver, his entire body starting to tremble.
A position Kari leaves him in until a third voice enters the mix. One decidedly different from the man that first insulted her or Kari.
One bearing an unmistakable accent, found only one place in the world.
That place being a hell of a long way from where they are all now standing.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” the man says, pulling Kari’s attention over to see the man she traveled so far to find. The titular character of the bar she is in. “Why, I think he was just about to apologize. Weren’t you, Carl?”
Chapter Eight
Since leaving his home state of Tennessee at the age of twenty-two, Joseph Robert Mychalski has spent most of his adult life traveling the world. An enlisted man in the United States Army, he went wherever he was told, his particular profession as an Explosive Ordinance Disposal Specialist putting him in high demand in a variety of places.
A list that covered much of the Middle East and Asia before mustering out and now making his home on the island of Nusa Ceningan, not far off the coast of Bali.
More than a decade of meeting and interacting with people from all walks of life.
Absolutely none of which look anything like the woman lowering herself onto the wooden chair across from him.
Forced to summarize her in fifteen words or less, he would call her a cross between a corporate executive and a comic book villain. A woman of Asian descent with silver hair styled into a sharp bob wearing a black pant suit and using a cane to help her get around.
A cane that - as everybody in the bar now knows - carries a blade of Japanese steel embedded in the shaft.
Appearing to be completely nonplussed by the small dustup just moments before, she settles herself onto the seat opposite him. Without waiting for an invitation, she appears certain of the chair she has chosen.
The person she is there to find.
Even if Mike has no clue who she is or what her presence might mean.
Folding the newspaper he was previously reading before her arrival and laying it flat onto the table, Mike settles back in his chair. Turning his body to the side, he crosses one ankle to the opposite thigh.
On his face, a small smile grows. A reaction both to what just took place and the complete self-assuredness that now has her seated before him.
“Ma’am,” Mike says.
“I’m curious,” the woman replies. “Why Mike? I mean, besides the obvious connection to your last name.”
Of all the places the conversation could begin, never once did Mike expect it to be there. Not her tone or delivery or complete sidestep of any kind of formal introduction.
The only part that doesn’t surprise him being that she knows who he is, a woman like her clearly not ending up before him by mistake.
A fact he decides to push aside for the moment, replying with, “Well, I wanted to name it Joe’s, but that was already taken.”
A quip that earns him barely more than a smirk before the same expectant look returns to the woman’s face.
A look that he allows to linger for several moments before saying, “If you know my last name, you also know my first and middle names are Joseph and Robert. No chance in hell I was going to be Joey, or JR, or worse yet, Joe Bob.”
A response that is one hundred percent true, this time it earns a genuine response from the woman. A single crack of laughter before she adds, “Yeah, I can see where being Joe Bob from Tennessee might be a problem. Especially for someone in your line of work.”
“Bar owner?” Mike replies. “Of all the reasons most people on this side of the world have heard of Tennessee, it is usually from staring at the label on a bottle of Jack Daniels.”
Another joke that this time falls completely flat, the woman merely arches an eyebrow before saying, “I was actually referring to your other line of work.”
Barely has the woman been inside his bar for five minutes, and already Mike doesn’t like where it is going. From the earlier scene with Carl to her very unusual approach to the conversation they are having, it all rings of similar discussions he has had in the past.
People arriving with their own agenda, there to sell him on how his best interests would be served by helping them.
Thoughts that drift to the front of his mind as a young woman in jeans and a plain black t-shirt approaches. Hai
r twisted into a bun and held in place with a pencil, she asks, “Get you anything?”
Offer aimed at the woman sitting across the table, it is responded to with, “Water, please. Bottled.”
An answer that earns an eyeroll from the waitress, turning her attention his way.
“Mike?”
“All set. Thanks, Diah.”
Getting a nod in return, Mike watches as she leaves. A few more seconds to work through what has already been shared before saying, “I’m sure you’ve got an entire presentation worked out, but what say we come at this from the opposite direction? You give me the punchline and I decide if I want to hear the buildup to it.”
A proposal the woman seems to consider a moment before pursing her lips slightly. Nodding once, she says, “In the last week, there have been two bombings in Jakarta. Both major American companies, both crippled.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
Chapter Nine
Whether the woman has lined up his entire resume and memorized it as some display of legitimacy or is simply painfully thorough by nature, Mike doesn’t know. Considering the amount of information she just unloaded in response to his last question - everything from his upbringing in the Smoky Mountains to his college football career at Middle Tennessee State to his time in the military - it is far from his greatest concern either.
Pausing to make sure she is done with her little spiel, Mike waits as Diah reappears with the bottle of water. Placing it on the table between them, she retreats without a word, the plastic exterior already beginning to sweat from the omnipresent heat.
“Okay,” Mike replies, “let me come at you now. First of all, who are you?”
Flicking her gaze to the water, she decides against reaching for it just yet. “My name is Kari Ma.”
“Not exactly what I meant.” Running his gaze the length of her, he adds, “You don’t look like military and the FBI has no jurisdiction here, so I’m guessing the Agency?”
“The Agency doesn’t have jurisdiction here either,” she replies. “A presence, but only looking, no touching.”
“That doesn’t necessarily answer my question,” Mike replies. “If anything, it only strengthens my assumption.”
Leaving the statement there, he allows her to connect the dots. As he does, his gaze shifts to the side, scanning the crowd gathered nearby. The usual cast of locals that often frequent the place. A motley band of loyal customers that have elevated the joint in the last couple of years from barely scratching out a living to a fairly comfortable existence.
All things being equal in a place like Nusa Ceningan, anyway.
The initial surprise of Ma’s arrival having passed, most in the room have returned to their previous conversations. Animated banter fueled by libations.
The general background din that accompanies most of the time he spends squirreled up at his table in the corner.
“No,” Ma replies. “I’m not with the Agency. I actually don’t represent any particular governmental organization, though I will be honest with you, I am here on request from the President.”
Tracking his gaze away from the interior of his bar, Mike’s attention lands on the woman parked across from him. Someone that has managed to not only nab the bottle of water from the table, but also remove the cap in the few seconds his focus was elsewhere.
“President of what?” he asks.
“The United States.”
An answer that pushes a loud exhalation through his nose. An audible scoff in response to what was just shared. The sort of thing that his Army recruiter shared once upon a time.
Crap that he ate up when he was fresh out of college and aching for something new and exciting, but knows better than to bite on now.
“Right.”
“I’m serious,” Ma replies. “Though I can understand your trepidation, so allow me to rephrase. I’m not here talking to you on behalf of the President. He doesn’t know who you are. If there was a camera nearby, he’d probably thank you for your service, but otherwise...”
Spoken with the gravitas of someone having been down the path a few times herself, Mike nods in agreement.
“I’m here because of the bombings,” she continues. “That’s not the sort of thing any President wants to be dealing with, especially not one just a couple of months into his term.”
Much like most of what has been shared since the woman sat down, the response is not what Mike was expecting. A marked divergence from other recruiters that have tried to lure him in over the years, he can’t be sure if her candor is some new tact or if what she is saying is true.
“Which brings us back to my original question,” Mike counters. “Who are you?”
Several clarifying questions lined up in order, he lets them fall away. Additional information that he assumes she will get to in the course of her pitch.
Or not, his patience for the discussion fast waning.
Initial curiosity already having given way to confusion and now even a bit of agitation.
“Like I said,” Ma replies. “I’m not from the government. I’m actually here representing a program known as The Ranch.”
“The Ranch?” Mike asks. “Is that some sort of poor man’s version of The Farm?”
Twisting her gaze to survey the room around them, Ma replies, “I know you’re being a smartass, but you’re actually closer than you realize.”
Turning back to look his way, she continues, “It’s a revival of a program that was shuttered around the turn of the century that was housed deep within the Agency.”
“And now?”
“It isn’t.”
Each new thing the woman says managing to bring about more questions, Mike cuts himself off. In no mood for getting into extended banter, he lets silence fall between them for a moment. A few seconds to break the rapid pace they were descending into before asking, “So the President calls you when he has things he wants to go away? You find someone like me with a certain skillset in a certain location, show up and try to convince them to jump in?”
Despite the humidity in the air and temperature of the sun streaming through the windows, the woman seems impervious. No moisture lines her skin as she stares at him, meeting his gaze before giving her head a quick shake.
A move that makes her bobbed hair shift around her head as if one solid unit.
“No,” she replies. “I came to see you for two specific reasons. First, because like every single one of us at The Ranch, you have abilities. What the full extent of yours are, I don’t know, but I’ve read your files. No way somebody survives that embassy bombing three years ago and walks away without some major enhancements.”
Feeling his jaw sag slightly, barely does Mike have time to respond before she adds, “And second, I can help you locate your daughter.”
Chapter Ten
Every file and notation Kari Ma has read about the man before her was written in glowing terms. Going clear back to his high school teachers and coaches, each person has gone out of their way to extoll his virtues.
Not a single one of which is poker, a fact that Kari recognizes could not have been by mistake as she watches the shock register on his features.
Not the veiled annoyance of her arrival or even his bemusement at her mention of the President.
Open, unadulterated, shock. The kind that cannot be manufactured, his eyes wide as he stares back at her. A process that started with her speaking to his abilities, but truly took off when dropping mention of his daughter.
“My what now?” he manages to get out after several moments of openly gaping at her.
“Your daughter,” Kari repeats.
A bit at a time, the words land. Resonate. Slowly pull his initial reaction past surprise, a wan smile forming on his lips.
“I am sorry to be the one to inform you Ms. Ma, but it appears your exhaustive research has finally let you down,” he replies. “I have no daughter. No children at all.
“Doubt I ever will, to be
honest with you.”
“In which case, I am sorry to be the one to inform you, Mr. Mychalski, that I have reason to believe otherwise. Several, in fact.”
Lifting his forearm from where it rests on the table before him, Mike runs his knuckles the length of his jawline. Backhanded scratching that is plainly audible, the short bristles rubbing against his fingers.
Auburn stubble that is the same length and color as the rest of his head, all of it buzzed down to a uniform length.
A decision, no doubt, made as his hairline began a steady retreat some years before. Male pattern baldness that, from a distance, makes him appear a bit older than she knows him to be.
“You have one hell of an interesting sales pitch, I’ll give you that,” he eventually says. “Walk in here, pull out your blade, name drop the President. When all of that doesn’t work, you even mention a non-existent kid to try and get my attention.”
Dropping his hand back into place, he turns to stare at her squarely.
A look that makes no effort to hide the visible agitation he bears.
“Tell me, though, does that shit ever actually work?”
Feeling her own annoyance spike in kind, Kari’s lips part. Retorts lined up, she almost lets them slip out before forcing herself to stop. Hold them in, knowing that pushing further right now will do no good.
She has presented the first part of her case. An enormous chunk of information that most anybody would need some time to work through, the quick summation he just gave not far off.
She did namedrop the President and she did hit him with an unexpected bombshell about a daughter he doesn’t know exists.
Hell, she also pulled a blade, that part far from planned, but not exactly helping her cause.
Proof that the trainees back in Arizona aren’t the only ones going through growing pains. Just her second time approaching someone over the age of seventeen, the first wasn’t really an apt comparison at all.
