Express Delivery: Spiced and Stirred

Chapter 10: The Last Delivery

The marble pillar groaned as another high-velocity round chewed into its polished surface. Zayyan didn't flinch, his body pressed firmly against Keisha’s, shielding her from the spray of stone dust.

"You realize how much it costs to dry-clean blood out of Italian silk?" Zayyan whispered, his eyes scanning the tech booth fifty feet above the ballroom floor.

"Zayyan! This is not the time to worry about the deposit on your tuxedo!" Keisha’s voice was a jagged edge of panic, her fingers digging into his forearms. "There is a sniper! A literal sniper in the tech booth!"

"I know. He’s ruining the vibe. And honestly? His aim is a two-star experience at best. He’s missed me three times now. It’s embarrassing for the profession."

"You have a gun, Zayyan! Do something!"

"I’m waiting for the reload. High-capacity mags take about four seconds to swap if you’re clumsy. And judging by how he handled that last volley, our friend up there is very clumsy."

Click. Clack.

The mechanical sound echoed through the high-ceilinged ballroom, momentarily drowning out the distant screams of fleeing socialites.

"There it is," Zayyan grinned. "Stay behind this pillar. If anyone who isn't me or a waiter with more quiches comes close, hit them with the heavy end of your heels. Those things look lethal."

"Zayyan, don't you dare leave me here!"

"I’m not leaving you, Boss. I’m just going to have a word with the management. I’ll be back before the ice melts."

Zayyan didn't run for the stairs. That was too predictable. Instead, he holstered his weapon, sprinted toward the decorative crimson tapestry hanging from the mezzanine, and leaped.

"Oh my God!" Keisha shrieked, watching him fly through the air.

Zayyan caught the heavy fabric, his momentum swinging him upward. He used the tension to propel himself onto the ledge of a golden balcony, his movements so fluid they seemed to defy gravity.

"Budi, you there?" Zayyan tapped his earpiece, grunting as he pulled himself over a railing.

"Zay! I’m seeing the news! The Excelsior is a war zone! Are you dead? Please tell me you aren't dead, I haven't finished the taxes for the business yet!"

"I’m fine, Budi. But the tuxedo is a total loss. Tell the tailor I’m sorry. Also, I need you to bypass the tech booth’s fire suppression system. If I’m going in, I want it to be spectacular."

"You want me to set off the sprinklers? In a room full of electronics?"

"Just do it! And Budi?"

"Yeah?"

"If I don't make it back, tell the laksa lady her broth was always a little too salty. She needs the feedback."

"You’re an idiot! Shut up and don't die!"

Zayyan reached the tech booth door. He didn't knock. He kicked it off its hinges with a force that sent the metal frame screaming into the darkness. Inside, a man in a black tactical rig was scrambling to chamber a round into a sleek sniper rifle.

"Hey, buddy," Zayyan said, his voice dropping into that terrifying, low register. "I have a delivery for a Mr. 'I Can't Aim for Shit.' You know him?"

The shooter spun, reaching for a sidearm, but Zayyan was already a blur of motion. He didn't use his gun. He used his hands—striking with a brutal, military efficiency that had nothing to do with a delivery boy and everything to do with a predator.

CRACK.

"That’s for the ice sculpture," Zayyan grunted, breaking the man's nose with a palm strike.

THUD.

"That’s for scaring my fiancée. She’s very sensitive about her gala nights."

Zayyan grabbed the man by the throat, pinning him against the control console. The sniper gasped, his eyes widening as he looked into Zayyan’s cold, dark gaze.

"Who sent you? Was it Marcus? Or did the Debt Collector finally find his backbone?"

"You... you’re supposed to be dead," the shooter wheezed. "The Mahardika heir... died in the fire..."

"I got better," Zayyan whispered. "Now, tell me—"

The tech booth door creaked open behind him. Zayyan didn't turn; he felt the cold barrel of a gun press against the back of his skull.

"I’m afraid he won't be telling you anything, Zayyan. Or should I call you by your real name?"

Zayyan slowly raised his hands, releasing the unconscious shooter. He turned around, a reckless, mocking smile plastered on his face. Marcus Thorne stood there, holding a silver-plated pistol in one hand and a thick manila folder in the other.

"Marcus. You’re late to your own party. That’s a major social faux pas."

"The party is just starting," Marcus sneered. He tossed the folder onto the console. It spilled open, revealing high-resolution photos of a younger Zayyan in a military uniform, a death certificate with the Mahardika family seal, and a dishonorable discharge paper that looked heavily redacted. "The elite of Jakarta are currently huddled in the lobby, waiting for the police. Imagine their surprise when they find out their favorite new 'hero' is actually the ghost of the city’s biggest criminal empire."

"Criminal empire? My father built this city's infrastructure, Marcus. Your father just stole the blueprints."

"History is written by the survivors, Zayyan. And currently? You’re a dead man walking. Again."

"Zayyan?"

The voice came from the doorway. Keisha stood there, her midnight-blue gown torn at the hem, her face pale and streaked with dust. She looked at the photos on the console, then at the gun Marcus was holding, then finally at Zayyan.

"Keisha, get out of here," Zayyan said, his voice breaking for the first time. "This isn't your delivery."

"Is it true?" she whispered, her eyes fixed on the military photos. "The Mahardika name... the 'Shadow of Jakarta'... that was you?"

"It’s a long story, Boss. Mostly involves a lot of fire and a very bad career choice."

"He lied to you, Keisha," Marcus cooed, stepping closer to her, the gun still aimed at Zayyan. "He didn't climb your building for soup. He climbed it because he was hunting for a way back into the world his family lost. He used you as a shield. As a paycheck. As a way to hide from the people he owes blood to."

Keisha looked at Zayyan, her expression a devastating mix of terror and betrayal. "Was it all a lie? The laksa? The bridge? The... the penthouse?"

"The laksa was real, Keisha," Zayyan said, stepping toward her. Marcus shifted the gun, but Zayyan didn't stop. "The bridge was real. Everything I did to keep you safe was real."

"Don't move, street rat!" Marcus barked.

"You’re not going to shoot me, Marcus," Zayyan said, his eyes locking onto Keisha’s. "Because if you do, you lose the only leverage you have left. And besides, I have a 4.9 rating for surviving guys like you."

"Your rating just hit zero," Marcus hissed.

Suddenly, the ballroom below erupted in the sound of sirens. Blue and red lights strobed through the high windows. The heavy boots of a SWAT team echoed in the hallway.

"Police! Drop the weapon!"

Marcus didn't drop it. He smiled. "Perfect timing. Officers! This man is the one who attacked the gala! He’s the Mahardika fugitive!"

The police swarmed the tech booth, their rifles leveled at Zayyan. Keisha was pulled back by an officer, her eyes never leaving Zayyan’s face as the reality of the situation crashed down on her.

"Zayyan Mahardika," the lead officer shouted. "You’re under arrest for multiple counts of domestic terrorism, fraud, and the 2018 Ledger breach. Get on your knees!"

Zayyan didn't resist. He slowly lowered himself to the floor, his eyes still fixed on Keisha. She looked like her entire world had just turned to ash.

"Keisha," he said, his voice a soft, painful murmur.

"Don't," she sobbed, stepping back as the officers moved in. "You... you weren't the delivery boy. You were the disaster."

"I wasn't just delivering food, Keisha," Zayyan whispered as the cold steel of the handcuffs clicked onto his wrists. "I was delivering justice. You just haven't seen the receipt yet."

"Enough talk! Move him out!"

As they hauled Zayyan toward the door, Marcus stood by the window, watching with a look of pure, triumphant malice. He leaned over to Keisha, his voice a silky poison. "See? I told you. He was always just a ghost, darling. Now, let’s get you home."

Keisha pushed his hand away, her face hardening into a mask of the Ice Queen that was colder than any Zayyan had ever seen. "Don't touch me, Marcus. I think I’ve had enough 'protection' for one night."

Zayyan was being pushed through the ballroom, past the shattered ice and the terrified elite. He looked up at the ceiling, a strange, calm smile touching his lips.

"Budi," he whispered into his hidden collar-mic. "Now."

"Copy that, Zay. Five-star delivery coming right up."

BOOM.

The foundation of the Grand Excelsior didn't just shake; it roared. A massive explosion ripped through the basement levels—not enough to bring the building down, but enough to kill the power to the entire district.

The ballroom plunged into absolute darkness.

"What was that? Sitrep! Sitrep!" the officers shouted, their flashlights dancing wildly through the smoke.

In the chaos, Zayyan felt a hand grab his arm. It was small, firm, and smelled of sandalwood.

"The service stairs are twenty feet to the left," Keisha’s voice whispered in his ear, her tone no longer filled with betrayal, but with a cold, calculating fury that matched his own. "And you’re going to tell me everything, Zayyan. Or I’m giving you a one-star review you won't survive."

Zayyan grinned in the dark. "Yes, Boss. I think I can handle that."

Outside, the city of Jakarta watched as the lights of the Excelsior went out, unaware that the Ghost had just been handed his most dangerous delivery yet.

The war hadn't just reached the front page. It had just moved into the shadows.