by TR Kohler
Lost to the same jumble of debris as Mike’s own Glock.
A move leaving him with no choice as he pushes himself hard in the opposite direction. One quick revolution across the forest floor before rising to his knees, fists drawn up before him.
A pose not unlike that of Arief and his one functional hand a few feet away.
Chapter Eighty-One
The bomb went off just minutes after Arief stepped outside. Coming only seconds after a trio of gunshots rang out, Firash could very nearly map out the sequence of events in his mind.
The young man stealing up on the American and unloading three rounds into him. The heft of the oversized loads knocking him into a hidden mine.
The unwanted intruder being tossed into the air in a hail of dirt and wood chips.
A visual that manages to bring a thin smile to Firash’s face. A look steeped in the satisfaction of knowing that not only has the endeavor of the last couple of weeks managed to bring him back from the shadows, it has also enabled him to clear the deck of past ills.
An added bonus far beyond anything he expected.
A sign from the universe that this is what he is meant to be doing. An acknowledgement of his prowess and the need for his skills in the world.
Thoughts that linger as Firash wheels himself across the main room of his shack. Pausing along the rear wall, he takes up the folded photograph of the man that is currently just a couple of hundred yards away. The same one he’s been carrying for years now.
The very image he showed to the girl the day before, getting confirmation that the target he thought long finished was back.
Using one of the tacks that were previously meant for securing blueprints to the wall, he pins the photo into place. One final act of preparation in the event that the battle playing out nearby doesn’t go the way he hopes.
That Firash needs to do things himself.
An eventuality that becomes less likely as more gunshots erupt from the jungle behind him. A second grouping bunched tight that pauses just briefly before culminating with another explosion erupting.
A battle bookended by detonations.
One that hopefully now has Arief on his way back. Grabbing hold of the man by the ankle or hefting him over a shoulder, working his way through the labyrinth they created.
In a matter of minutes, the young man will present himself on the porch. Like a proud hunter posing for a photo, he will display what he harvested from the jungle before dragging the man inside.
Allowing Firash to finish what was started years before, finishing off a man with his particular ability in the only way possible.
Leaving the printout tacked to the wall in the center of the room, Firash wheels himself into the bedroom. Checking to ensure that the basin of water that Arief filled earlier is still as they left it, he turns himself back to face the door.
Rolling onward just a couple of feet, he positions himself in the center of the bedroom doorway.
Weight leaning forward, he slides the matching gun to the one he handed Arief a short time earlier from the pocket along the side of his chair. Snapping the chamber out to the side, he ensures that all six slots are loaded with .45 caliber rounds before locking it back into place.
Anticipation pulsating through his system, he sits with his focus fixed on the front door to the shack. Eyes narrowed, he peers through the mesh screen, waiting for the slightest sign of movement.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Spread flat on his back on the jungle floor for the second time in the last ten minutes, Mike gulps in as much air as his battered torso will allow. Intakes that are barely half of what his body needs, even those enough to send sharp stabs through him.
A pose he has been in since landing the dropkick on Arief.
The spot where he managed to cover his head and roll a bit to the side to protect himself from the shower of various organic matter that rained down in the wake of the man setting off the mine.
An unfortunate end that Mike wouldn’t wish on anybody.
Even someone as deserving as Firash’s new right hand.
Raising both hands from the ground beside him, Mike places his index fingers along his brows. Using them like wipers, he pushes them straight back, peeling away the sweat and dirt and leaves that have collected there.
Even a few bits of other things he’d rather not think about, continuing the motion until past the crown of his head before lowering his hands to his sides. Wiping them clean against his jeans, he draws in one more breath, his focus locked on the mottled jungle canopy above.
Without question, the last time he can remember experiencing anything close to this was those first few moments after coming to in the basement of the embassy in Thailand. Sprawled flat on his back, his entire body ached as he stared up through the broken construction of the building above.
A mangled structure with a few divots and pockmarks visible, letting stray shafts of light pass through.
An instant like this one, coming courtesy of Firash and his handiwork.
Letting out a low groan, Mike rolls his body to the right. A slow turning that brings his weight up onto his shoulder before using his elbow to lever himself to a seated position.
A simple move that seems to ignite every pain receptor in his body as he makes a concerted effort to avoid the remains of Arief nearby. Instead, he aims his focus the opposite direction, peering through the dense foliage to the south.
Well beyond his original route and on toward the one Arief had been following.
One that hopefully he will now be able to retrace to get where he needs to. The small shack that Eka alluded to. A structure he wasn’t sure even existed before the arrival of Arief gave credence to her story.
Information willingly forked over after nothing more than a couple of swats to her paramour.
Pressing a palm into the soft dirt of the jungle floor, Mike drags his feet up under him. The same tripod pose he was in just a few minutes earlier, his legs are a bit shakier, his vision a touch more blurred.
Reasons he remains bent in half, counting off seconds, waiting for them to pass.
A process that takes much longer than anticipated, lasting nearly a full minute before he is able to draw himself upright.
Had the encounter with Arief arrived with a clean slate for both, there is no doubt that things would have gone in a much different direction. One in which the respective training of both men would have been almost even, meaning that sheer physicality would have been the key distinguishing factor.
Something that Mike had in spades over the smaller man.
A fact rendered moot by the abuse already taken in the last couple of days. Gunshots verging on the double digits. A pair of blasts in less than twelve hours.
Things that Mike can feel in sharp relief as he turns to the south and begins to move. A slow, stilted walk with his gaze sweeping the ground. A constant search, both for the guns that were cast aside during the fracas with Arief and for any more of the unnatural piles left behind by Firash.
Anything at all he can use as fortifications of his own as he makes his way toward the shack he has spent all morning in search of.
And – more importantly - the man he now knows to be tucked away inside.
Chapter Eighty-Three
The last person to even acknowledge Henry Rawit’s calls or texts was Firash himself. A fact that can only mean that either Intan and Arief have been arrested and are currently being detained or that Firash himself ordered them to stop interacting with Rawit.
One final act in seizing control himself, the man’s evolution from jungle recluse to self-righteous bombmaker of old having come about much quicker than Rawit would have ever imagined.
For the last two hours, Rawit has more or less repeated what was the day before. A constant vigil along the windows lining the outside of his office interrupted only by attempts to call out for information.
Probes for information that went completely ignored, all but just a couple of t
ries going directly to voicemail.
Hundreds of trips across the confines of his office fueled by anxiety and adrenaline and caffeine.
As best Rawit can tell, there has been no new blast. The fourth bombing that Firash hinted at earlier has not occurred, the skyline remaining void of any harsh visuals like the day before.
Repeated scrolls through the local news have turned up nothing. Aside from a string of faint sirens a little while earlier, there haven’t been any major public outcries that he has seen.
A sum total meaning he still has time. If not to call off Firash, get him to change his mind and adhere to the previous schedule, then at least to get up in the air.
He and Mia to get away from the island and out to one of their offshore facilities. An impromptu spot check insulating him with plausible deniability. Allowing him to return in a day or two, feign concern and outrage, and then quietly continue toward his desired outcome.
Not once has Rawit questioned what it is they are doing. Not the methods employed or the goals they are after.
His concerns have been with the manner things have evolved. The shift by Firash from merely being pleased to be back up and working toward the man he previously was, driven by blood.
A marked departure that not only gnaws at the very things Rawit is looking to preserve, but – even worse – brings down unwanted scrutiny.
That scrutiny being what has Rawit now staring intently out the rear window of the Lexus SUV. Dimly aware of Mia sitting beside him, his focus is on the outskirts of Jakarta flying by outside. Total attention on every vehicle that files past, watching to see if there is any interest in the Lexus.
Any urgency in their actions, hinting that something might have taken place elsewhere.
“Okay,” Mia says, her voice just barely registering beside him. Shuffling through a short stack of papers, she gets things exactly as she wants them before announcing, “I was able to move the three o’clock from an in-person meeting to a conference call. I figure we will be able to do that from the air, and still have plenty of time before we land.”
The words managing to penetrate only slightly, Rawit nods. A quick dip of his chin before again checking the phone clutched tight in his hand.
The lifeline he has been clinging to for days, nothing but the short discussion with Firash to show for it.
An inversion of things that he does not care for, putting him on the bottom of the totem pole. The man with the foresight and the funding to make all this happen, now shunted to the side.
“I also reached out to the plant in Lembongan,” Mia continues. “They’ve made arrangements for our arrival and will send someone to pick us up when we land.”
Where they are going or who they will be meeting with, Rawit doesn’t much care. Still unable to hold a single thought without the words of Firash returning to mind, his only hope is that whatever the rest of the day holds will be quick and uneventful.
A jaunt to a neighboring island providing optimal camouflage.
Nothing more.
Again lowering his attention to the darkened screen of his cellphone, he considers calling it to life. Sending out a mass text message, demanding that someone get back to him.
A notion that barely has time to fully form before being interrupted by a voice he doesn’t expect. One that hasn’t said a single word since welcoming them into the car fifteen minutes prior.
“Excuse me, sir, but what do you make of that?” the driver asks.
A question that draws Rawit’s attention from his phone to the pudgy man in an ill-fitting suit hunched behind the steering wheel. One finger extended before him, Rawit follows his direction farther still, his chest tightening as his gaze lands on what is being referenced.
A feeling that soon permeates his entire body as he stares at the throng of police vehicles gathered in front of his private jet. Blocking most of the tarmac, they are parked nose-to-tail, many of the corresponding officers spilled out onto the pavement.
A mismatched cluster, none more so than the young woman with dark skin and a plume of matching hair standing in the center of it.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Taken individually, there is no way the homemade device weighs more than a couple pounds. A simple design hastily thrown together, it is far from the most elegant Mike has seen Firash devise. Nothing more than a simple metal pipe setup with a pressure-release fuse on the top, it is most likely filled with some combination of gunpowder and plastic explosive.
That part isn’t what makes carrying it toward the house so hard.
The difficulty lies in keeping it perfectly aligned vertically with one hand while maintaining pressure atop it with the other. A multi-part approach requiring constant monitoring while at the same time checking the path before him.
A task made at least moderately easier after finding the trail that Arief had used in getting to him, the man’s recent passing almost impossible to miss once Mike stumbled across it.
The first thing Mike was able to uncover after leaving the remains of Arief behind was the enormous revolver he’d been carrying. A gun with enough stopping power to take down anything short of a grizzly, but woefully short in terms of capacity.
A fact that meant the bullet he put into the dirt after Mike broke his arm with the chunk of wood was the last round in the chamber.
A weapon downgraded from a gun capable of tearing through a brick wall to nothing more than an oddly shaped bludgeon. Extra weight Mike didn’t bother with, leaving it behind and going off in search of the Glock he’d been carrying upon arrival.
A task that took five long minutes of groping around through scattered remains of the first landmine blast. A search alternating between shoving aside piles of dirt and leaves with the toe of his boot and getting down onto his hands and knees.
An effort he nearly discarded twice, very much aware both of the pain it was causing and the time it was consuming, before finally finding what he was looking for pressed against the base of a tree. Wedged so tight he nearly mistook it for a root, only on a second consideration did he move in for a closer look.
A decision rewarded with the weapon now stowed away in the waistband of his jeans.
Definitely better than approaching whatever abode Firash has built for himself deep in the jungle unarmed, but nowhere near enough. Not considering the fortifications lining the surrounding grounds and the weapon Arief was carrying upon his arrival.
Hints that whatever precautions Firash has made for himself will be even more formidable.
That being the reason Mike spent the extra couple of minutes finding and removing the mine now held before him. An explosive capable of taking whatever Firash has planned and instantly flipping it on end.
A device that will hopefully provide Mike with something approaching a level field for one of the few times in the last couple of days.
Moving along in half steps, Mike flicks his gaze to either side. An ongoing vigil for any additional traps. Items more than just those buried in the ground. Wires and rigs fastened up higher. Snares that might drop something from above.
Firash himself hiding amid a dense thicket as Arief had been earlier, a matching revolver to the one his cohort was carrying in hand, ready to unload further on Mike.
So intent in his vigil, on constantly monitoring the jungle to either side, not until he steps out onto the edge of a clearing does he even realize his path has come to an abrupt end. A small carveout in the center of the dense jungle landscape, not even large enough to have interrupted the canopy overhead.
A clearing just barely sufficient for the roughhewn shack standing in the center of it and the van parked right outside. An area completely shrouded in shadow, thick branches extended inward from all directions.
A scene from a standard low-budget horror flick Mike watched a hundred times growing up.
Drawing to a complete stop, for just an instant he considers retreating into the woods. Falling back behind the cover of the forest so he can assess f
urther. Sit and watch and decide on the best way to approach.
Consider the geography of the area and what he knows about Firash.
Think how the man he spent months studying would use this unique setting to his advantage.
As fast as the notion arrives, he casts it aside, knowing there is no point. No chance at falling back into the woods, the odds of not being seen already virtually non-existent.
A realization leaving him with but a single option. A plan that isn’t really one at all. More like a concerted lack of options causing him to push himself straight ahead. A hard charge that covers no more than three long strides before shoving the device in his hands out before him.
A quick dash getting him halfway to his target before launching the mine straight at the front of the structure.
A move that gives him just a couple of seconds as it hangs suspended in the air to dive behind the van nearby for cover.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Nowhere near the size of the devices that gouged enormous holes into the Gatorade and Pepsi factory buildings, the mine was still more than sufficient to rip a gaping maw into the side of the hastily assembled shack. Tossed in through the simple screen covering the front door, it reduced the entire southeast corner of the place to sawdust. A plume of wood particulate and smoke that slammed into the van Mike was sprawled behind, punctuated by sheets of paper and assorted other items swirling into the air above him.
A veritable storm that he weathered by folding himself in half and turning to the side, waiting just until the worst of it passed before retaking his feet.
An attempt at rushing the place, hoping to find Firash in much the same state of disrepair as Arief.
