by TR Kohler
Turning back in the direction from which he just came, Banyu motions for Mike to join him. Falling in shoulder-to-shoulder, the few guards and employees lingering nearby part, giving them the entire width of the sidewalk heading into the facility.
A march right into a potentially active scene that Mike hasn’t made in a long time.
Not since the last time he crossed paths with Firash years before.
“Appreciate you acting so fast,” Mike says. “Have you been able to start sweeping the facility yet? Any unknown packages or personnel?”
“Nothing yet,” Banyu replies, “but I’ve got two of my guys scouring the camera feeds as we speak.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
The main security hub for the facility is situated just off the front walk, less than sixty yards from the front gate. By the time Mike arrives, fresh droplets of sweat have formed on his brow, a direct result of the adrenaline beginning to crest within him more than the dash to reach where he is currently standing.
A state he does not share with Kevin Banyu beside him, the man still gasping for breath as they pull up in front of the expansive panel of video monitors affixed to the wall. More than thirty in total, their coverage appears rather extensive. All displaying visuals in black and white, the qualities range greatly, seeming to correlate with the importance of the area being observed.
This being his fourth such facility in the last couple of days, the images conveyed before him bear a strong resemblance to each of the others in the area. A common design that he imagines was probably built by the same contractors. People hired and given the instructions that a major American company needed a big space to work in.
From there, it was as simple as setting up four outer walls and enough support poles throughout to keep a roof overhead.
Manning the cameras this evening is a pair of men in matching security uniforms. Dark pants and shirts much closer to the workers outside than the ill-fitting dress shirt and tie Banyu is wearing.
A clear delineation of stature that nobody seems to notice as the two men diligently work their way through the feeds.
One at a time, they zoom in on each of the screens. A quick scan over the area being captured, looking for any signs of movement. People that don’t belong. Lurkers attempting to plant something.
As they do so, Mike flicks his gaze back and forth. A constant sweep of what the guards are examining, searching for anything that might have already been placed.
A box where it shouldn’t be. A backpack left behind in an opportune spot. A metal rod or bracket matching what he found earlier at General Motors, the design alerting him of the connection to Firash.
Going through each of the images in order, Mike rocks his weight up onto his toes. Finding himself bobbing in place, he asks, “What percentage of the place is visible here?”
“One hundred, outside,” Banyu replies, neither of the men before him so much as turning at the sound of his voice. “Maybe half that indoors.”
Grunting softly, Mike feels a frown tug on either end of his mouth. Information he had expected, it still does nothing to quell the rising anxieties hurtling through him.
Considering the placement of the factory and the general aesthetic of the port district Mike just drove through, he isn’t surprised that more focus would be placed on the outside. Care taken to make sure that loiterers weren’t on the premises or vagabonds trying to get in.
People looking to get their hands on something of value or just find a place to set up a new home.
With that kind of attention given to the grounds, there would be much less concern with covering every square inch of the inside. Attention given to the high traffic areas and the pieces of machinery most prone to malfunction, but no need to be constantly monitoring all activities.
Reasoning that is sound, even if it does very little to help them now.
Gaps in the surveillance leaving a great deal of space for someone to be hiding or for a small device to have already been placed.
“You have people sweeping the interior now?” Mike asks.
“Some,” Banyu responds. “I only have ten on staff, and most are right here or securing the area outside.”
Stated in a way that is almost apologetic, he adds, “The rest are working through the blank spots as we speak.”
“And how many of those are there?”
Extending a hand to the screen, Banyu’s mouth opens. Attempting to process the question, the side of his face scrunches.
An impending answer cut off by one of the techs before them turning and simply saying, “A lot.”
Shifting his gaze from the monitors to the man and back again, Mike reaches for his rear pocket. Drawing out his cellphone, he punches in the most recent number and holds it to his cheek.
A moment later, Tania Lynch answers, the sounds of the road plainly audible in the background.
“Six minutes out and closing,” she opens.
“I’m in the main security center now,” Mike answers. “When you get here, come straight in and help them monitor the cameras.”
“And where will you be?”
“I’m headed out onto the floor.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The size of the place definitely bears out it being the second largest production facility in the area. Dwarfing the sizes of both Pepsi and Gatorade, it falls just short of the spread found at General Motors this morning.
An expanse measuring hundreds of yards square, all of it sprawling out before Mike in an uneven grid.
“Shit,” he mutters, head swiveling in a quick arc, surveying the room before him.
Unlike the automotive plant earlier in the day, the equipment is much smaller in stature. Machines built to allow workers to do their job while sitting in plastic chairs or, at most, standing.
A design that requires much more square footage, but makes for vastly improved sightlines.
Pacing the eastern edge of the facility, Mike gets the feeling of being in a grocery store. Marching forward and back, he peers across the sea of equipment, looking down each of the uneven aisles before him.
A child that has been separated from a parent and is desperately trying to locate them.
A process that takes him the length of the facility twice, neither time turning up anything of note. Five solid minutes of marching back and forth, propelled onward by adrenaline and concern, that reveals absolutely nothing.
Sweat beginning to burn in his eyes, Mike snatches his phone out of his back pocket. Glancing away from the factory floor just long enough to check the screen, he hits the most recent listing in his call log.
Mashing it to his cheek, he waits through a pair of rings before Tania Lynch picks up.
“Just got here,” she says. “We have you up on camera. Looks like you’re getting as little out there as we are in here.”
Far from the words Mike was hoping to hear, he pulls his lips back over gritted teeth. Sucking in a sharp breath of air, he fights down a pair of obscenities before asking, “Nothing doing, huh?”
“Not a thing.”
“Shit,” he mutters in reply, stretching the word out several seconds in length. A word he expects no response to, isn’t surprised when one doesn’t come. “Alright, I’m going off-grid.”
“Roger that,” she replies.
“Ask Banyu where the biggest blind spots that aren’t being covered are.”
The muffled sound of movement is the first reply. Jerking the phone away before muted voices can be heard faintly over the line.
A quick conversation that ends with Tania popping back up to say, “He says the largest area is in the southwest quadrant of the floor. There’s a big tangle of machines back there where the labels are printed and slapped on the individual containers.
“Roughly a buck-twenty from where you’re now standing.”
The instant the directive is out, Mike barely takes the time to end the call before charging off. Bolting through the opening directly adjacent to hi
m, he reaches a full sprint in just three strides. A pace he is able to maintain for nearly twenty yards before having to slow.
Drifting to the left, he winds his way through a series of conveyor belts. Waist-high feeds loaded with nail polish of various colors. Chairs pulled away from the sides.
A scene reflecting what just took place, workers fleeing in the middle of their shift. A picture with the people photoshopped out, leaving behind an active worksite.
Barely so much as giving it a glance as he passes, Mike pushes in the direction outlined by Tania. Making his way through the small tangle, he reaches an open corridor, again raising his pace.
Feet slapping against the concrete floor, this time he is able to make it nearly a full fifty yards. A sizable chunk of the distance to his destination before running into his next bit of machinery. Some sort of printing feed, the smells of paint and alcohol thick in the air. Scents that gnaw at the edge of his nostrils, matching the sting of sweat in his eyes.
The slow burn in his quads and lungs from the uneven sprinting pattern.
A constant propelling forward that is drawn to a stop by the sound of a horn erupting through the silence of the production floor. An elongated tone stretched several seconds in length, loud enough that it seems to reverberate through the space.
Bouncing between the concrete floor and the metal roof overhead, Mike guesses it to serve as a signal for a break time or shift change. Loud enough to be heard through ear plugs and over the wail of machinery, it is nothing short of a cannon blast inside the quiet interior.
More than sufficient to bring a wince to his features, hands rising to shield his ears.
An effort that ceases nearly as fast as it starts, called off by a flash of dark hair moving across his periphery.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
To look at it from the outside, there is no doubt that the scene looks markedly different. No longer are Mike and the young woman outdoors, under the full light of day. Nowhere is there a cloud of smoke or the din of a crying mob. No sirens in the background or the acrid scent of chemicals in the air.
Instead, they are inside a quiet factory. A space designed to hold hundreds of people. One that at least sixteen hours a day is a hub of activity, with industrial machinery running and forklifts traversing the floor between them.
A place that right now verges on eerie. A completely silent cavern except for the buzz of the fluorescent lights shining bright above.
Even the clothes they wear are different, Mike having swapped out the t-shirt with bullet holes and his prey now donning a work shirt to match the standard factory uniform.
From Mike’s point of view though, there is no difference. There is absolutely no shift between what he was doing earlier in the day and now.
A dead sprint, his entire world view narrowed to the dark hair extended almost parallel to the ground before him. A run with one arm outstretched, every step bringing him closer to it.
A gap between them that gets steadily smaller.
A race that ends in a manner not entirely dissimilar to the first time Mike gave chase to the young woman spotted somewhere she shouldn’t be.
With Mike absorbing multiple gunshots, this time taking a trio of rounds fired haphazardly by a weapon trailing behind the young woman.
How she managed to produce a gun while at a dead sprint, Mike has not a clue. What the odds are that three of the five shots fired would manage to strike him, he’d rather not speculate on.
Taking one of the shots to his left thigh, the second one mashes into his abdomen, not far from a similar round fired earlier in the day. A spray pattern with her arm rising upward with each shot, the last strikes him directly in the collarbone.
A spot that would cause tremendous damage if not for his birthed gift. A tender area that still allows for a sharp sting as the round skips off his impenetrable skin, hurtling back over his shoulder.
A final impact that only serves to heighten the vitriol he feels as he takes one more stride before launching himself forward. Shoving off the ball of his foot, he extends himself parallel to the ground, his target standing no chance beneath his weight.
Crumpling to the ground, her long hair swirls up into his face. The bare skin of her forearms and lower legs slaps against the concrete.
The sound of air escaping her lungs and the revolver she was carrying skittering along the floor finds Mike’s ears.
All things that barely register as he mashes his forearm along the base of her neck. Planting a knee into the small of her back, he keeps her body pressed prone, looking up just in time to see Tania Lynch charging toward him.
Following the same path he used just moments before, the gold cross jangles against her throat. Dark hair bounces behind her head.
An impending arrival preceded by the young woman beginning to laugh. A low and uneven cackle that causes her entire body to quiver, drawing Mike’s attention down her way.
Tightening the hold he has on her, he lowers himself a few inches. Teeth gritted, he demands, “What the hell is so funny?”
A question that is met with heightened vigor. More laughter that rises in pitch as Tania pulls up beside them.
Endless chuckling that causes Mike to grab the girl by the back of the canvas work shirt she wears, lifting her upper body from the floor. A quick, spastic movement that brings her up to her knees.
Just far enough for Tania to step forward, whipping her hand across her torso. An open-handed swat that lands flush on the girl’s cheek, snapping her head to the side.
A shot punctuated by the sound of skin-to-skin contact, a stream of spittle spraying out onto the concrete floor.
And, mercifully, bringing the unwanted intrusion of the maniacal cackling to a halt.
“Now,” Mike says, lowering her back to the concrete, “what is so damn funny?”
Head still turned to the side from the impact of Tania’s slap, the girl peers up through a thin curtain of her own hair. An eye just barely visible, peeking out between the long strands.
A couple of inches lower, a smile forms, revealing teeth shiny with blood and saliva.
“What’s so funny is, you’re too late,” the girl replies. “You, me, this whole damn place, the company it represents, even the country you’re all from – gone.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Things look markedly different this time than in the previous iterations. There is no blinding flash of light. No thunderous booming sound. No hole ripped into the roof or shattered windows or even smoke billowing out from the structure.
All there is to alert Arief Wardoyo that something has happened is the renewed rush of people from the area. The last remaining employees and a few bystanders and even a few vagrants all charging by the stall where he is parked.
A long line of them tearing past him in a convoy, not a single one so much as glancing his way as they go.
A sight that Arief can’t say he is surprised by, even if a little disappointed. An eventuality he was fully expecting when Firash insisted on Eka being the one to go inside and deliver the package.
A task well beyond her capabilities, even when Intan was still joined at her hip.
His only hope being it is all part of a ruse. A larger plan he has not yet been made fully privy to.
Seated in the front seat of the van, Arief rests with the driver’s chair slightly reclined. Far enough back that he is hidden deep in the shadows, though still sufficiently upright to see everything playing out around him.
A post he maintains until after the time when the device should have gone off. Until after the line of cars hurtling past him has begun to slow.
Long enough to signal that the building is not going to blow before extracting his cellphone from the middle console. Keeping the screen turned downward to limit any light that might be seen from the outside, he enters the number for Firash’s burner phone from memory and hits send.
A moment later, the line is picked up, Firash sounding as if he is almost panting as he
asks, “Did it go off?”
No opening line. No greeting of any kind.
Just straight to the reason for the call.
“No,” Arief replies.
Grunting softly, Firash asks, “Any word from the girl?”
“No.”
“Police?”
“No,” Arief repeats, “but something happened. Anybody who was left just went tearing out of there.”
Bracing himself for some bit of ire, for another outburst like that on the porch earlier, he is shocked to find nothing more than an indistinguishable sound. Something akin to a grunt, as if confirming what was suspected all along.
“Good,” Firash replies, the single word causing the surprise flooding through Arief to spike.
A reaction that pushes his eyebrows up, almost causing him to make the mistake of asking if he’d heard correctly.
An error he just barely avoids, managing to remain silent long enough for Firash to ask, “Are you still onsite now?”
“I am,” Arief answers.
“Get back here as fast as you can,” Firash replies. “Call me before you arrive, then pull straight down the driveway. Do not step out until I come get you.”
Coming on the heels of the earlier reaction, more confusion floods Arief’s system. With it comes additional questions. Things he wants to ask, both about what just happened at the Avon factory and what is going on out in the jungle.
Why he is to call Firash again upon arrival and what concern there is with his exiting the van.
Inquiries he will not allow himself to voice, instead merely replying with, “I’m on my way.”
Chapter Seventy
The first thing to penetrate the darkness is the pain. An excruciating pressure that feels like it slams into Mike’s torso, crushing him from all angles with a single blow. Bad enough to make him gasp as his eyes pop open, his body curling into itself as he rolls onto his side.
A completely involuntary movement that sets everything afire again.
