Obsession Under Jakarta Skies

Chapter 7

“The Chief doesn't know what we’re dealing with,” Silas said, his voice echoing in the sterile silence of the forensics lab as he headed for the door. “Nobody does. But I think I just figured out why Anastasia was so calm when the lights went out. She wasn't watching a murder. She was watching a harvest.”

“Silas, wait! You can’t just go in there swinging!” Dorian shouted, scrambling to keep up as Silas navigated the precinct’s maze-like corridors. “The conservatory is a fortress. You’ll be arrested before you even see a leaf!”

Silas didn’t slow down until he reached the parking lot. The humid night air hit him, thick with the smell of exhaust and approaching rain. He leaned against his dented Toyota, the weight of the orchid petal in his pocket feeling like a hot coal.

“You’re right,” Silas muttered, pulling out his phone. “I don't need a blowtorch. I need a ghost.”

“A ghost? Silas, what are you—?”

“Go home, Dorian. Get some sleep. If the Chief asks, tell him I’m at a shrine praying for my career.”

“You’re going to see Nolan, aren't you?” Dorian asked, his expression shifting from panic to resignation. “That kid is going to get you a one-way ticket to a federal black site.”

“He’s the only one fast enough,” Silas said, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Stay off the radio.”

*

An hour later, Silas was standing in a room that smelled of ozone, stagnant Red Bull, and overheated motherboards. The apartment was located in a crumbling block in Glodok, hidden behind a facade of a defunct electronics repair shop.

Nolan Wicandra didn't look like a master hacker. He looked like a teenager who had forgotten what the sun looked like. He was hunched over a triple-monitor setup, his fingers moving with a rhythmic, clicking speed that made Silas’s head ache.

“I told you three months ago I was retired, Silas,” Nolan said, not looking away from a scrolling waterfall of green code. “The police pension for ‘consultants’ is non-existent, and the stress gives me hives.”

“This isn't a consultation, Nolan. It’s a favor. A big one,” Silas said, dropping a heavily encrypted external drive onto the desk.

Nolan glanced at the drive, then back at his screen. “Where did you get that? The casing has Kertawati Group markings. You’re trying to get me killed, aren't you?”

“Anastasia dropped it. Or left it for me. I’m not sure which anymore.”

Nolan whistled, spinning his chair around. “You’re messing with the Ice Queen of Jakarta? Bold. Stupid, but bold. You know her security is handled by a private firm out of Singapore, right? They don't use firewalls; they use digital landmines.”

“Can you do it or not?”

“Is the coffee fresh?” Nolan asked, nodding toward a stained percolator in the corner.

“I brought a whole bag of the good stuff. Sumatran dark roast.”

“Then sit down and try not to breathe on my servers. This is going to be a long night.”

For the next four hours, the only sounds in the room were the hum of cooling fans and the frantic tapping of keys. Silas paced the small perimeter of the room, his mind replaying the kiss in the warehouse, the silver briefcase, and the terrifying DNA report from Cassian.

“Bingo,” Nolan whispered, his voice raspy. “We’re through the first layer. Man, her encryption isn't just military—it’s proprietary. It’s like it’s written in a language that shouldn't exist.”

“Does it mention the DNA? The orchids?” Silas asked, leaning over Nolan’s shoulder.

“Wait, wait. I’m pulling a directory. It’s... oh. This isn't corporate stuff, Silas. These are personal archives. Private journals, old photos, legal documents from fifteen years ago.”

“What am I looking at?”

Nolan clicked through a series of scanned newspaper clippings. The headlines were grim: TRAGEDY AT THE DOCKYARDS. KERTAWATI PATRIARCH PRESUMED DEAD IN WAREHOUSE INFERNO.

“The fire,” Silas murmured. “I remember this. It was ruled an accident. A gas leak.”

“Check the police report,” Nolan said, his fingers flying. “Look at the witness list. There’s a name here that was redacted in the public version, but the raw file has it.”

Silas squinted at the screen. Lead Investigator: Riven Adhyatma.

“Riven?” Silas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. “He was a cop?”

“A detective, just like you,” Nolan said. “But look at the insurance payouts. Within six months of the fire, Riven resigned from the force and started his ‘security’ firm. The seed money? It came from a shell company linked to the Wijaya Group.”

“Hadi Wijaya,” Silas whispered. “He didn't just win those shipping lanes. He stole the whole empire after Riven cleared the board for him.”

“It gets worse. Anastasia wasn't just a survivor. She was there. Look at this statement from her nanny. She saw Riven holding the lighter.”

“She’s been planning this for fifteen years,” Silas said, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. “The ballroom, the orchid on Wijaya’s chest... it wasn't just a murder. It was a reconstruction of the crime scene she witnessed as a child.”

“She’s not just a killer, Silas. She’s a surgeon,” Nolan said, his eyes wide as he scrolled through more files. “But look at this folder labeled ‘Bait.’ There’s a list of names here. High-ranking officials, shipping magnates... and you.”

“Me?”

“Your name is at the top. She’s been tracking your career since you were in the academy. She knew you’d be the one assigned to the Wijaya case. She didn't choose you because you’re a good detective, Silas. She chose you because she knew you’d protect her even when you shouldn't.”

Silas sank into a rickety chair, rubbing his face with his hands. The guilt was a heavy, suffocating weight. “I thought I was the one investigating her. I thought I was the one making the choices. But I’m just a piece on her board.”

“She’s using herself as bait to lure Riven out into the open,” Nolan said. “She knows Riven wants that briefcase. She knows he’ll burn down half of Jakarta to get it back. She’s not the one in danger, Silas. She’s the trap.”

“And I’m the one holding the door open for her,” Silas groaned. “I let her go. I let her take that case back into the wild.”

“Hey, don't beat yourself up too much. You’re dealing with a woman who can outplay the devil. But Silas... there’s one more file. It’s an incoming transmission. It arrived about twenty minutes ago.”

“Open it,” Silas said, his voice turning cold.

“It’s a video file. From an untraceable server. The subject line is: ‘THE PRICE OF CURIOSITY.’”

Nolan clicked the icon. The screen flickered, revealing a dark, damp room. The lighting was harsh, illuminating a single wooden chair in the center. A woman was tied to it, her mouth gagged, her eyes wide with terror.

Silas felt his heart stop. “No. No, no, no.”

“Is that...?” Nolan’s voice trailed off.

“Celine,” Silas choked out.

His sister looked small, her face bruised. A hand entered the frame—a hand with a familiar jagged scar running through the eyebrow. Riven Adhyatma stepped into the light, leaning down to whisper something into Celine’s ear that made her flinch.

Riven looked directly into the camera, a wolfish grin spreading across his face.

“You’re getting very close, Detective,” Riven said, his voice smooth and terrifyingly calm. “Too close. Anastasia is a very clever girl, but she forgot one thing. I don't play by her rules. I play by yours.”

Riven pulled a small, purple orchid from his pocket—the exact same kind found on Wijaya’s body—and tucked it behind Celine’s ear.

“You have the briefcase, Silas. Or you know where it is. Anastasia thinks she’s the only one who can use you as bait. I’d like to prove her wrong.”

The screen went black.

The silence in the room was deafening. Silas stood up, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man walking through deep water.

“Silas? Man, I’m so sorry,” Nolan whispered, his hands trembling on the keyboard. “I can try to trace the ping, but they’re using a triple-bounce VPN through Eastern Europe. It’ll take hours.”

“I don't have hours,” Silas said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his service weapon, checking the magazine with a sharp, mechanical click.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find the gardener,” Silas said, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal focus. “And then I’m going to burn the whole garden down.”

“Wait! You can’t go alone! If Riven has her, it’s a setup!”

“I’m not going alone,” Silas said, heading for the door. “I’m going to find Anastasia. She started this war. Now she’s going to help me finish it.”

“But she used you! She’s the one who put Celine in the crosshairs!”

Silas stopped at the door, his hand on the frame. He looked back at Nolan, his face a mask of iron.

“I know,” Silas said. “And that’s exactly why she’s going to give me Riven’s head on a silver platter. Because if my sister dies, Anastasia Kertawati is the only thing left for me to destroy.”

He stepped out into the rain, the neon lights of Glodok blurring into streaks of red and blue, the hunt finally turning into a blood feud.