Obsession Under Jakarta Skies

Chapter 10

“Silas! Stop for one damn second!”

The shout echoed through the rain-slicked labyrinth of shipping containers, but Silas didn’t slow his pace. His boots crunched over gravel and glass, his mind a jagged loop of Dorian’s bloodied face and the cold, mocking vibrato of Riven’s voice.

A heavy hand caught his shoulder, spinning him around. He reached for his holster by instinct, but Anastasia was faster, her palm slamming against his chest to pin him against a rusted wall. She was pale, her breath coming in shallow hitches, but her eyes were like flints.

“You go in there like this, you’re just delivering him a second body,” she hissed.

“He’s got Dorian, Anastasia! He’s probably breaking his fingers right now because I didn’t move fast enough!” Silas roared, shoving her hand away. “I’m not sitting around making a plan while my partner bleeds out!”

“I’m not asking you to wait! I’m asking you to be smart!” She winced, clutching her bandaged side, but didn't back down. “Look at yourself. You’re shaking, you’re exhausted, and you’re outgunned. Riven doesn’t want the briefcase at the stadium. That’s just where he wants to kill you. The real play is at the Gala. That’s where the power is. That’s where he’s ending the Chief.”

Silas took a ragged breath, the cold rain stinging his eyes. “Dorian is at the stadium. Riven said—”

“Riven lies, Silas! It’s his primary language!” She reached behind her, pulling a heavy black duffel bag from the shadows of a nearby crate—the ‘bigger gun’ she’d promised. “He’s using Dorian to pull you away from the Plaza. He wants you isolated. If we go to the stadium, we’re playing his game. We go to the Gala, we crash the board.”

Silas looked at the bag, then back at her. “How do we even get in? It’s the city’s anniversary. Every tactical unit in Jakarta will be there.”

“They will,” Anastasia said, a dark, sharp smile cutting through her exhaustion. “And half of them are on my family’s payroll. Or were, before Riven started buying them out. I still have the overrides for the service elevators. Get in the car, Silas. We’re going to a party.”

*

The Merdeka Plaza was a sea of light and high-society hum, a stark contrast to the grime of the docks. Tuxedos and silk gowns fluttered under the grand chandeliers of the ballroom, while outside, the rain continued to lash the glass walls.

Silas adjusted the collar of the heavy tactical jacket he’d thrown over his ruined shirt. They were in the maintenance tunnels beneath the main hall, the air thick with the smell of grease and expensive catering.

“You okay?” Silas whispered, checking the action on the subcompact rifle Anastasia had handed him.

“I’ve had worse nights,” she lied, her face glistening with sweat. “The clock tower overlooks the main stage. If Riven is holding Dorian as a trophy, that’s where he’ll be. It’s the highest point in the Plaza. He can see the whole city from there while he watches the Chief take a bullet.”

“How are we doing this?”

“I’ll hit the security hub in the basement. I can loop the feeds for five minutes. That’s your window to get up the tower stairs,” she said, handing him a small earpiece. “Don't be a hero, Silas. Just get him and get out.”

“A bit late for that advice,” Silas muttered.

“Silas?” She caught his arm before he turned toward the service stairs.

“Yeah?”

“If this goes south... if the lights don’t go out when I say... just run. Take the briefcase and go to the press.”

“Not happening,” Silas said, his voice dropping to a low, steady rumble. “I’m not leaving anyone behind tonight. Not Dorian. And definitely not you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, the distance between them vanishing for a heartbeat. “Then don’t miss.”

*

The climb up the clock tower was a blur of burning lungs and shadows. Silas moved with a predatory silence he didn’t know he possessed, bypassing two guards in the lower stairwell by sheer timing.

When he reached the top floor, the sound of the Gala’s orchestra was a muffled vibration beneath his feet. The room was circular, filled with massive brass gears and the rhythmic, metallic thrum of the clock’s heart.

In the center of the room, bathed in the red glow of a structural light, was Dorian.

He was slumped in a wooden chair, his head hanging low. His shirt was shredded, and even from ten feet away, Silas could see the jagged bruising on his ribs.

“Dorian!” Silas hissed, rushing forward.

“Silas...?” Dorian’s voice was a wet wheeze. He lifted his head, his left eye swollen shut. “Silas, no... get out, man... you’ve gotta get out...”

“Shut up, I’ve got you,” Silas said, reaching for his knife to cut the zip-ties. “Where’s Riven? Where are the guards?”

“That’s the thing about a good diversion, Detective,” a voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls. “It only works if the target is desperate enough to believe it.”

Silas spun around, his rifle raised, but the shadows behind the Great Gear shifted. Riven Adhyatma stepped into the light, looking immaculate in a charcoal suit, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't holding a gun. He didn't need to.

“You’re late for the toast,” Riven said, checking his watch.

“Let him go, Riven. It’s over. I have the briefcase, I have the logs. Your whole network is on a server being uploaded as we speak,” Silas growled.

Riven laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “Is it? Anastasia is a talented girl, but she’s playing a game that ended ten years ago. You think names on a list matter in this city? You think the people downstairs care who pays for their champagne?”

“They’ll care when the Chief gets a hole in his head,” Silas countered.

“Oh, the Chief isn’t the target tonight, Silas,” Riven said, taking a slow sip of his drink. “The Chief is a partner. He’s the one who suggested we use the clock tower. It has such a commanding view of the ‘execution.’”

Silas felt a cold spike of dread. “What are you talking about?”

“Dorian, tell him,” Riven commanded.

Dorian looked up, tears mingling with the blood on his cheeks. “Silas... the precinct... they aren’t coming to help. They’re already here.”

The heavy iron doors at the top of the stairs groaned open. Silas pivoted, his finger tightening on the trigger, but he froze.

Six men stepped into the room. They weren't Riven’s mercenaries. They were wearing the blue-and-grey tactical gear of the Jakarta Metropolitan Police. Men Silas had shared coffee with. Men he’d backed up in dark alleys.

At the front was Captain Aris, his face a mask of cold professionalism.

“Drop the weapon, Silas,” Aris said, his voice flat. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Aris? What the hell is this?” Silas gasped, his mind reeling. “He’s a murderer! He’s got Dorian tied to a chair!”

“He’s a benefactor, Silas,” Aris said, stepping aside as four more officers entered, their rifles trained directly on Silas’s chest. “And you’re a rogue element who’s been compromised by a suspect. That’s the official report, anyway.”

“You sold out,” Silas whispered, the betrayal cutting deeper than any bullet. “The whole precinct... Gareth... everyone?”

“Not everyone,” Riven corrected, walking toward the edge of the tower balcony. “Just enough. The ones who like to win. The ones who realize that a badge is just a piece of tin if you can't afford a house with it.”

Riven turned back, his eyes dark and lethal. “You were a good detective, Silas. Honest. Hardworking. A real pain in my ass. But you made one fatal mistake.”

“What’s that?” Silas spat.

“You thought you were the hero of this story. But in Jakarta, the heroes are the ones who stay in the ground. The survivors are the ones who own the shovel.” Riven looked at Captain Aris. “Finish it. Make it look like he resisted. Shoot the partner, too. We’ll say the heiress did it.”

“Silas, I’m sorry,” Aris said, his finger moving to the trigger.

Silas looked at Dorian, who closed his eyes, then at the circle of his former friends. He felt for the earpiece. “Anastasia... if you’re there... now would be a really good time.”

Silence.

Riven smiled, leaning against the clock’s casing. “She’s not coming, Silas. My boys found her in the basement five minutes ago. She’s probably halfway to the bottom of the harbor by now.”

Silas felt his heart shatter. He tightened his grip on his rifle, ready to take at least one of them with him. “Then let’s get on with it.”

“Counting down,” Riven said, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Three.”

The officers adjusted their stances, the red dots of their lasers dancing across Silas’s chest.

“Two.”

Silas took a breath, his finger beginning to squeeze.

“One.”

CLICK.

The lights didn't just flicker; they died. The massive red glow of the clock face vanished, plunging the tower into absolute, suffocating darkness.

“What the—?” Aris yelled.

“Stay in formation!” Riven’s voice lost its calm. “It’s just a backup trip! Kill him!”

A second passed in the blackness, filled with the sound of panicked breathing and the clicking of safeties.

Then, the world ended.

A massive, bone-shaking explosion rocked the base of the tower. The floor buckled, the ancient gears of the clock screaming as they were wrenched from their moorings. A wall of orange flame licked up the side of the building, the shockwave shattering every pane of glass in the tower.

Silas was thrown backward, the sound of the blast deafening him instantly. He hit the stone floor hard, the air driven from his lungs, as the ceiling began to rain dust and debris.

Through the ringing in his ears, he heard a new sound. Not the orchestra. Not the rain.

It was the sound of the city screaming.

He looked toward the balcony, but all he could see was smoke and the flickering glow of a fire below. Riven was gone. Aris was gone. Dorian’s chair had been flipped over in the chaos.

“Anastasia...?” Silas wheezed, crawling through the dark toward where he’d last seen his partner.

But the only answer was the roar of the fire and the slow, heavy tolling of the giant brass bell as the tower began to tilt toward the black horizon.