by TR Kohler
A maxim that isn’t always easy, but is invariably done with purpose.
An approach Eka has been spared most of her life, but is about to learn for the first time.
Even if she doesn’t yet fully know it.
Seated in the passenger seat of the van, a duffel bag rests in the girl’s lap. A standard nylon sort that is plain blue in color with black straps meeting atop it.
A sack that in total covers the entirety of her thighs, weighing more than twenty pounds.
A parcel with enough C-4 inside to set off a blast that can strip the interior of the building Arief walked through just the night before. Smash through the assembly line machine it is to be placed under, reducing it to nothing more than shrapnel. Chunks of flying metal enough to destroy anything within a wide radius.
To say nothing of the effect that will be had once the resulting heat and shock wave reaches the chemical stores spread throughout the facility. Highly flammable and corrosive materials needed for the particular products made inside.
A bomb that Firash himself acknowledged was far less elegant in design, but potentially even more devastating in its execution.
A weapon that Arief himself should be the one to place, though Firash was adamant in informing him that this was for the girl to deliver. A task she is to be left to as Arief retreats.
Finds a suitable vantage point and takes in all that transpires. An outcome he suspects will be much different from the previous sites, though he knew better than to ask.
Not after having already made two potential faux pas in as many days.
“You good?” Arief asks as he glances over.
Teeth slid out over her bottom lip, Eka stares straight ahead. Gnawing at the soft flesh, she bobs her head quickly, the stray overhead lights of early evening in the city passing over her features.
A pale glow that highlights her eyes open wide. The flare of her nostrils with each breath.
“You sure?” Arief asks as he maneuvers the van through the tangle of streets surrounding their newest target. A web of roads cobbled together without any clear design. A haphazard pattern constructed through decades of demolition and realignment.
Paths that, had he not spent a good chunk of the day navigating on foot, would almost certainly have him lost.
Especially now with the fast approach of darkness, everything taking on a decidedly different appearance.
“Yeah,” Eka says, again bobbing her head quickly in response. Finishing it by glancing over his way, she adds, “I mean, just like before, only this time we split the load, right?”
Rolling forward the last couple of blocks to their destination, Arief waits until easing the van to a stop along the curb before turning to match her look.
“Right,” he replies.
Nodding one final time, Eka asks, “You drop yours, I drop mine, we meet back at the van?”
A question that prompts Arief to extend a hand, balancing it on her shoulder. “Exactly.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Pepsi has the third largest manufacturing presence in Jakarta. Gatorade, the fourth.
Out in front is General Motors by a wide margin, the place Mike visited earlier in the day a veritable campus on the edge of the city.
Three of the top four employers of local labor in the area under American ownership, putting the obvious outlier as the one sitting in the number two spot. Avon Industries, a company that Mike would have never picked on his own, but cannot deny the sheer size it inhabits based on the numbers Tania Lynch was able to get for him.
Tucked away behind the wheel of the same sedan Tania had nearly ran up onto the curb just the day before, Mike works his way through early evening traffic. A task made infinitely tougher than even his journey in the cab early this morning by the fact that for the first time, he isn’t heading toward the outskirts of the city.
Not somewhere resting out in the suburbs, or even beyond. A location with ample space for facilities and plenty of wide thoroughfares for shipping.
Now, he finds himself fighting his way toward the waterfront. The northern part of Jakarta Tania referred to as the old section. The chunk of the city stretching back hundreds of years to its origins as a seaport.
The reason for its existence, long before it rose to become the capital of Indonesia.
Moving opposite from all of his previous dealings, it isn’t difficult to see why the recent construction has chosen to flee toward the edges. With each block that passes, the streets narrow. To either side, buildings push in tighter. Structures with outer walls flush to one another extend up several stories into the air.
High enough to blot out what little remaining daylight seems to exist. A state of semi-darkness that makes navigating the potholes along the cobbled street even more difficult. A series of starts and stops that sees both the speedometer and tachometer peak sharply before falling away.
Movements very much in line with the various chemicals spiking within Mike.
The inclusion of General Motors was the piece he was missing. The part that was required for the full pattern to emerge. Before that, it was too easy to focus on the superficial. The fact that Gatorade and Pepsi were both beverage companies, giving the impression from the outside that that was the reason for their being targeted.
A rival company. An investor looking to introduce a new product. Perhaps even someone with a common ownership stake looking to make an insurance claim and cash out.
All possibilities that were cast aside by the inclusion of the automotive manufacturer. An outlier that served as a third point of reference. An addition making the myriad differences between the three suddenly much more obvious.
The lone similarities being they were all American-based corporations and that each attack was achieved on a successively shorter timeframe.
A pattern that now has Mike tucked up behind the wheel of Tania’s sedan. A mad dash into the city that he hopes is for naught, but cannot run the risk of dismissing out of hand.
Not given the number of casualties incurred at the GM plant earlier.
And certainly not while now knowing that it is Firash propelling things forward.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Whipping his way through the narrow streets of Jakarta, there is no way for Mike to hold the phone in one hand and steer with the other. Doing the best he can by putting the call on speakerphone, he balances it in his lap as he continues pushing his way forward.
Less than a mile to his final destination, if the directions given to him before departing are correct.
A journey that, to look at on paper, should have been relatively simple. A short trek up through the heart of the city at a time when what little traffic there is should be heading in the opposite direction.
Suppositions proven false over the last twenty minutes. Enough to have Mike’s pulse thundering as he sits gripping the steering wheel in both hands.
“I talked to the plant manager at Avon just a second ago,” Lynch says, spitting the information out rapid fire.
How she managed to get the top person on the phone so quickly, Mike doesn’t have a clue. Most likely, in much the same manner she was able to get the right person at the Agency on the line in a matter of minutes.
Mentioning names like Firash or impending incidents like bombings have a way of doing such a thing.
“Really didn’t like that I pulled him out of a meeting,” Tania continues, making no attempt to hide the annoyance in her tone or the emphasis on the first word. “Eventually managed to back off when I told him we had reason to believe his facility was going to be the next one targeted.”
Twisting the wheel of the sedan to the left to avoid a gaping hole in the street ahead, Mike asks, “Back right down?”
“Nope. That didn’t occur until I told him it was likely to happen tonight and our best analyst was on his way to help make sure it didn’t.”
Even with the adrenaline already working through him, Mike can’t help but feel one corner of his mouth cr
ease back. Not at what she just shared, but at the obvious pain it must have caused for her to utter the words.
A point he doesn’t press on for the time being, but will be sure to file away for future use.
“That did it, I hope?” he asks instead.
“It did,” Tania replies. “He agreed to work with us, even patched me through to their Chief of Security. Guy named Kevin Banyu that I had to go through the whole spiel with again before he agreed to be there waiting when you arrive.
“In the meantime, the place is going on lockdown. Floor is being cleared, all non-essential personnel pulled outside.”
Grunting softly, Mike nods in the semi-darkness of the sedan. Such an order could very well be the source of the crowded streets around him. Employees that were just sent home, all scrambling to get away. Responders or nosy onlookers or whoever else fighting to get closer.
An impending spectacle playing out in real time.
A scene not entirely unlike what he arrived at GM to find this morning. One he hopes will yield a similar result in the form of the girl he is looking for.
After he manages to thwart whatever Firash has planned.
Many times along the drive over, he has wrestled with the final question Tania posed before signing off their earlier call. Something that he couldn’t even feign anger with, knowing she was entirely right to ask.
That being whether or not it was necessary. If they truly believed that this was something so time sensitive. That they would accelerate their window to the point of pulling off multiple attacks in the same day.
An inquiry that Mike still believes must be answered in the affirmative. If not only for the constantly diminishing gaps between attacks, then also for their now having the young man with the dreadlocks in their possession.
Never one for working well with others, Firash most likely either had the young team foisted upon him or was forced to include them due to whatever reasons have kept him sidelined for so long. Reasons Mike would guess to be from injuries sustained at the embassy in Thailand.
Physical impairments that Firash would have to work around in the course of carrying out his goals, but would not merely allow him to push aside notions of self-preservation. Stand in for what was probably already a minimal amount of trust.
Knowing that the young man is in custody, Firash will want to finish whatever he has lined up and get out. Disappear before anything useful can be extracted.
Beliefs that have Mike’s pulse thrumming as he bears down on his destination. Adrenaline beginning to seep into his system as he pushes his way over the last mile.
A chemical elixir that prevents him from saying much more than, “Thank you,” before signing off the call.
Chapter Sixty-Four
For the first forty-six years of his life, Firash reveled in his mobility. Blessed with good genetics, he always had a lithe body type. Never did he carry any extra weight, putting any undue stress on his joints. Any working out he did was always in the course of functional training, not the kind of unnecessary pounding endured by gym rats the world over.
A combination that enabled him to get into places that others couldn’t.
A luxury that was ripped so violently from him by the man that has suddenly re-entered his life without want or invitation. Someone that Firash had at first thought was willing to sacrifice himself for his country and his cause.
A man that was a worthy opponent, willing to die in the name of stopping Firash. Somebody that should by all rights be dead. Someone that should not have survived the devastation at the embassy, Firash himself lucky to have escaped the worst of the rubble before crawling on his forearms more than a half mile in the darkness.
Injuries that kept him from going after the man in the years since, no matter how many times he might have considered it.
For days now, Firash has felt the old familiar feelings reengaging. Sensations that started with simply being back at work, exercising his particular brand of creativity. Emotions that began to become undeniable as he sat and listened to Arief share the tales of whatever took place.
A host of thoughts and notions fueled by the idea that perhaps he could return to his previous life. That maybe his physical state wasn’t quite the sentence into exile he had assumed.
A notion now buttressed by the re-emergence of Mychalski. A second chance from the universe that has ignited something far greater than utility or even curiosity.
Hatred. Ire.
Wanton despisal for the man that took so much from him. A reason far greater than whatever money Henry Rawit might be offering or goals he may have therein.
Even if the task Firash now finds himself working on has nothing to do with Rawit or his interests.
Resting with the stumps of both legs planted into the soft, damp soil of the jungle surrounding his shack, Firash toils with a collapsible shovel. A folding model carried by soldiers the world over, designed to be easily stowed and packed over long distances.
Two things that didn’t play into his consideration when making the purchase, instead opting for it because of its shortened length and pointed tip. Ideal alterations for someone working under his particular limitations.
One hand wrapped around the handle atop the spade, the other clutches just above the shovelhead. Grips that allow him to drive the implement down into the ground, hollowing out a narrow divot. A hole just large enough for one of the many homemade landmines resting on the seat of his wheelchair nearby.
Another in a matching set totaling more than twenty in number. Hobby projects that Firash had put together when first relocating. Items stowed in the event that he ever felt his home had been comprised.
Anything resembling someone he was affiliated with becoming captured or someone like the soldier having reason to seek him out in the jungle.
A handful of the mines already tucked away beneath the soil, they have been covered over with leaves and palm fronds. Camouflage that won’t pass close inspection, but will be more than sufficient in the darkness.
Or even from someone approaching too fast, without taking care with each step.
Items that might not serve to eliminate Mychalski, but will make things much tougher. Even announce his arrival long before it comes to pass.
Reaching the required depth necessary to tuck the device from sight, Firash tosses the shovel away. Taking just a moment to lift the tail of his tank top and clear the collected sweat from his eyes, he presses his fists into the ground. Using them for leverage, he turns himself toward the wheelchair and grabs up the closest explosive.
Shifting back, he places it into the newly fashioned hole and shoves loose soil in around it. Bringing it up level with the top, he takes up some stray bits of foliage from the jungle floor around him, using it to cover up the buried charge.
One more gift in anticipation of his impending guest.
A thought he entertains for just the briefest of moments before moving on toward the next one.
Chapter Sixty-Five
The amassed crowd outside of the Avon factory is of a much different form than the one Mike rolled up to find at General Motors this morning. Comprised almost entirely of employees, several hundred people in matching work shirts are outside the facility. Grouped into loose clumps, they stand milling about, openly speculating as they stare up at the sprawling structure rising before them.
Nobody is injured or in hysterics. Nowhere are there first responders directing foot traffic or aiding the victims.
No sirens pierce the air. No flashing red and blue lights stripe over everything, painting the area in fluorescent hues.
Aside from the workers standing outside and the clumps of guards gathered around each of the entrances, there is nothing at all to hint of what occurred or of the impending danger that might still exist.
An overall muted scene that makes for much easier movement as Mike threads his way through. A pace just south of a jog that has sweat streaming down his face and his shirt clinging to his back by th
e time he makes it to the front gate.
Pulling the credentials he first used on Rex Hardison a day before from his rear pocket, he flashes the leather bifold overhead. Not sure exactly what Kevin Banyu looks like or the uniform he is wearing, Mike rotates to either side, hoping the sight of the bifold will be enough for him to be spotted.
A tactic that takes several passes before bearing fruit.
“Agent Michaels?” a voice calls out, stopping Mike where he stands. Neither an agent nor bearing the last name Michaels, he recognizes both instantly as the title Tania would have likely assigned to him.
The first part, to impart legitimacy. The second, in not having his full name to work with.
Or, at least in not wanting to share as much, the name difficult enough without being used by someone with as thick an accent as the voice currently calling for him.
“Yes, sir!” Mike replies, turning back toward the sound of the voice. A response that causes the few people clustered up tight to the gate to part, revealing a middle-aged man making his way forward. A jogging shuffle carrying him along the concrete walkway leading down from the main entrance.
Movement that seems to require every bit of effort possible, the tail of the man’s dress shirt coming untucked from his baggy slacks as he makes his way ahead.
Arriving a moment later, he falls forward at the waist. Planting both palms into his knees, he draws in several deep breaths, using the last in the sequence to draw himself back upright.
Thrusting out a hand, he says, “Kevin Banyu, Chief of Security. Sorry I’m late.”
“Don’t be,” Mike replies, meeting the man’s sweaty palm with one hand while tucking away the bifold with the other. “Looks like you’ve been busy here.”
“We have,” Banyu replies. “The minute we got the call from Agent Lynch, we started pulling people back.”
