Obsession Under Jakarta Skies

Chapter 3

The heavy-caliber rounds finally stopped chewing through the penthouse walls, replaced by the distant, dying roar of an engine and the frantic screams of sirens approaching from Mega Kuningan. Silas didn’t move. He kept his body draped over Anastasia, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her shoulder. The air was thick with the smell of cordite, expensive scotch, and pulverized plaster.

"Are you hit?" Silas hissed, his voice raspy from the dust.

Anastasia’s fingers dug into his forearm, her knuckles white. "I... I don't think so. My dress is ruined, though."

"Perspective, Anastasia. Try to find some," Silas grunted, slowly pushing himself up. He scanned the wreckage of the living room. "Nadia? You still in one piece?"

"I’m in the kitchen!" a shaky voice called out. "I’m... I think I’m okay. I’m calling the Commissioner."

"Good. Tell him to bring a cleaning crew and a SWAT team," Silas muttered, helping Anastasia to her feet. He looked at her, really looked at her, checking for blood. Aside from a few stray shards of glass in her hair, she looked remarkably intact—though the mask of the untouchable heiress had finally cracked, leaving behind a woman who looked very small in the middle of a war zone.

*

Six hours later, the humidity of the Jakarta dawn was already beginning to bake the asphalt. Silas sat in the passenger seat of an unmarked, dented Toyota that smelled faintly of old gym socks and cheap air freshener. His suit was gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. Beside him, Dorian was rummaging through a plastic bag with the intensity of a diamond thief.

"I’m telling you, the chili oil is the secret," Dorian said, pulling out a plastic container of batagor. "Without the oil, it’s just fried dough. With the oil? It’s a religious experience."

"It’s five in the morning, Dorian. Your stomach is going to go on strike," Silas said, staring through a pair of binoculars at a nondescript apartment block across the street.

"My stomach is a seasoned veteran, Silas. It’s seen more action than you have this week." Dorian poked a piece of fried tofu with a plastic fork. "You want a bite? You look like you’re about to collapse. That penthouse job really took it out of you."

"I’m fine. Just watch the door. Our courier is supposed to drop the package at 05:15."

"He’ll be here. Couriers are punctual. It’s the only thing they have going for them." Dorian chewed loudly, a smear of peanut sauce landing on his thumb. "So, the Kertawati heiress. She’s something, huh? Even under fire, she looked like she was posing for a magazine."

"She’s a person of interest, Dorian. Nothing more."

"Right. And I’m the Sultan of Yogyakarta," Dorian snorted. "You tackled her like you were trying to win a gold medal in wrestling. Very heroic. Very 'bodyguard-chic'."

"I was saving her life. It’s in the job description."

"Sure, sure. But the way you were looking at her before the windows blew out? That wasn't 'job description' eyes. That was 'I might skip my mortgage payment for a date' eyes."

"Shut up and eat your tofu," Silas growled, adjusting the focus on the binoculars. "Wait. Silver moped. Blue helmet. That’s him."

Dorian sat up straighter, nearly knocking his batagor onto the floor mats. "Okay, okay. He’s early. I hate early people. It’s a sign of a nervous disposition."

The courier hopped off the moped, clutching a padded yellow envelope. He looked around nervously, his gaze skimming right over their beat-up car.

"He’s headed for the side entrance," Silas whispered. "Give him a second to get inside, then we move. We need to see who picks up that envelope."

"Got it. Stealth mode engaged," Dorian said, tossing his empty container into the back seat. "I’m a shadow. I’m a whisper in the wind. I’m—"

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

The Toyota’s horn began to blare in a rhythmic, deafening cycle. The headlights flashed in sync, illuminating the entire street like a low-budget disco.

Silas froze, his eyes widening. "Dorian. Tell me you didn't."

"I... I was just leaning back to get my jacket!" Dorian scrambled, hitting buttons on the dashboard frantically. "Why is the panic button on the center console? Who designs a car like this?"

"Turn it off! Turn it off now!"

"I’m trying! It’s stuck! The fob isn't—"

Across the street, the courier didn't wait to see who was having a mechanical breakdown. He dropped the envelope, jumped back onto his moped, and kicked it into gear with a frantic snarl of the engine.

"Go! Go! Go!" Silas yelled, throwing the door open before the car had even stopped making noise.

"I’m coming! I’m coming!" Dorian scrambled out after him, finally managed to kill the alarm, but the damage was done.

The moped zipped onto the sidewalk, weaving between a fruit vendor’s cart and a stack of plastic crates. Silas was already sprinting, his boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. He wasn't built for sprinting—he was built for endurance—but the adrenaline from the night before was still surging through his veins.

"Stop! Police!" Silas roared, though he knew it was useless.

The courier took a sharp turn into a narrow alleyway, the moped’s exhaust coughing a cloud of blue smoke into Silas’s face.

"Dorian! Take the parallel street! Cut him off at the market!" Silas yelled over his shoulder.

"I'm—pant—trying—pant—to find my—gasp—rhythm!" Dorian shouted back, already trailing twenty feet behind.

Silas lunged forward, leaping over a sleeping dog and sliding around a corner. The alley opened up into a small, tucked-away plaza that felt out of place in the middle of Jakarta’s concrete jungle. It was a row of boutique shops, most of them closed, but one was brightly lit. A sign above the door read The Pierogi Pocket.

The courier had ditched the moped near the entrance, the engine still ticking. The door to the shop was swinging shut.

Silas didn't hesitate. He burst through the door, his hand hovering over his holster.

The smell hit him instantly—boiled dough, savory meat, and heavy garlic. It was a cozy, warm scent that clashed violently with the tension in his chest. Behind the counter, a man with a thick neck and a shaved head was holding a plate of dumplings. In the corner booth, the courier was frantically trying to hand over a burner phone to two men in expensive, sharp-shouldered leather jackets.

"Nobody move!" Silas shouted, his badge out. "Hands where I can see them!"

The man behind the counter didn't look surprised. He just set the plate down. "You’re late for breakfast, Detective."

The two men in the booth exchanged a look. One of them—a man with a jagged scar running through his eyebrow—smirked. "You’re a long way from the precinct, Silas. Does the Captain know you’re harassing delivery boys in your spare time?"

"Riven Adhyatma’s men," Silas said, his eyes narrowing. "I should have known. Riven doesn't like to get his hands dirty, so he sends the B-team for the pierogies."

"Hey! We’re at least A-minus team," the scarred man protested, slowly raising his hands. "And we’re just eating. Is there a law against dumplings?"

Dorian burst through the door a second later, doubled over and gasping for air. "I... I think... I’m having... a heart attack..."

"You’re fine, Dorian. Secure the courier," Silas ordered.

Dorian lunged for the courier, who was trying to slide under the table. After a brief, undignified scuffle involving a spilled cup of coffee and a lot of cursing, Dorian managed to pin the boy’s arms behind his back.

"Got him," Dorian wheezed. "And I found his phone. He tried to dump it in the trash."

Silas stepped closer to the booth, his gaze fixed on the two enforcers. "What’s the message, boys? Why is Riven interested in a shipping magnate’s murder?"

"We don't know what you're talking about," the scarred man said, his smile never wavering. "We’re just hungry. Maybe you should go back to protecting your little princess. We heard her house got a new ventilation system last night. Lots of holes."

Silas felt a cold flash of rage. He stepped forward, grabbing the man’s collar and slamming him back against the vinyl booth. "If you or Riven so much as breathe in her direction again, I will burn every front business you own. Do you understand me?"

"Silas, take it easy," Dorian warned, holding up the burner phone. "We got what we came for. Let's not give Internal Affairs a reason to visit."

Silas shoved the man back and stepped away, his chest heaving. He took the phone from Dorian’s hand. The screen was still unlocked.

"What do we have?" Silas asked, his voice tight.

"He was about to send an encrypted message," Dorian said, scrolling through the recent files. "Looks like photos. Surveillance stuff."

Silas looked at the screen. His heart stopped.

The photo wasn't of a shipping lane or a warehouse. It was a high-resolution shot taken from a distance, likely with a long-range lens. In the frame, Silas was kneeling by the body of Hadi Wijaya in the ballroom, but the focus wasn't on the corpse. It was on the way Silas was looking at Anastasia Kertawati as she stood by the pillar.

He swiped to the next photo. It was from less than an hour ago. It showed Silas and Anastasia standing in the ruins of her penthouse, his hand on her arm, her looking up at him with a raw, vulnerable expression.

Underneath the photo was a single line of text in the draft box, addressed to a number Silas didn't recognize.

The Detective is compromised. Use the girl to break him.

Silas felt the blood drain from his face. The "message" Anastasia had talked about wasn't just about power or shipping lanes. It was about him. He hadn't just walked into a murder investigation; he had walked into a trap, and he’d brought the most famous woman in the city right into the center of it with him.

"Silas?" Dorian asked, his voice losing its playful edge. "What is it?"

Silas didn't answer. He turned and walked out of the shop, the silver earring in his pocket feeling like it was burning a hole through his skin.

"Silas! Hey!" Dorian called, scrambling after him.

Silas stopped by the ditched moped, looking out at the rising sun. The city was waking up, oblivious to the fact that a war was brewing in the shadows.

"We need to go back," Silas said, his voice like flint.

"Back where? To the station?"

"No," Silas said, turning to his partner. "Back to Anastasia. If they’re using her to get to me, then I’m the only thing keeping her alive. And I’m not letting them finish what they started."

Dorian looked at the phone, then at Silas. "You realize how this looks, right? The brass will think you’re in her pocket."

"I don't care how it looks," Silas said, climbing back into the dented Toyota. "Start the car, Dorian. And for God's sake, stay away from the panic button."