Obsession Under Jakarta Skies

Chapter 9

“No, Celine,” Silas said, his gaze fixed on the dark, rainy horizon. “I think the harvest is just beginning.”

The sirens were a dissonant choir against the rhythm of the rain. Silas felt the adrenaline begin to ebb, replaced by a bone-deep ache that made every breath feel like a chore. He tightened his grip on Celine’s hand as a pair of medics rushed toward them, their flashlights cutting through the gloom.

“She’s okay,” Silas shouted over the wind, though his voice cracked. “Just get her into the ambulance. Shock, maybe some bruising. Just... just take care of her.”

“Silas, wait,” Celine grabbed his sleeve, her eyes red-rimmed and frantic. “Where are you going? You’re bleeding, too.”

“I’m fine, kid. I have to finish this,” Silas said, gently prying her fingers loose. “Dorian! Get her to the hospital. Stay with her. Don’t let anyone through that door who isn’t wearing a uniform you recognize.”

Dorian trotted over, his face pale under the flickering halogen lights. “I’ve got her, Silas. But where the hell are you going? The Captain is on his way. CSI is already setting up. You can’t just walk away from a crime scene this big.”

“The woman who just saved my sister is out there somewhere, and she’s bleeding,” Silas said, his eyes scanning the rooftops. “The sniper shot that took out the detonator? That was her. But she took a hit earlier. I saw the way she moved.”

“You’re going after the heiress? Now?” Dorian hissed, leaning in close. “Silas, the brass is going to have your badge for lunch. We just arrested Elvira. We have the leak. We won.”

“We didn’t win anything, Dorian. Elvira was just the cleanup crew. Riven is still out there, and Anastasia is the only one who knows where he’s heading.” Silas turned away, his boots splashing in the oily puddles. “Just do this for me. Watch Celine.”

“Silas! Dammit!” Dorian’s voice faded into the cacophony of the emergency response.

Silas didn’t look back. He followed the mental map of the dockyards, moving toward the old warehouse where he’d seen the muzzle flash. He found her in the narrow gap between two rusted containers, slumped against the corrugated metal. Her rifle was tucked neatly into its case, but her hand was clamped tight over her side, dark blood seeping through her fingers.

“You’re late,” Anastasia whispered, her breath hitching. “I thought you were a better tracker than this.”

“I had to make sure my sister was in the ambulance,” Silas said, kneeling beside her. “You’re hurt. Let me see.”

“It’s a graze. I’ve had worse from a bad gala,” she tried to joke, but her face was ashen.

“Stop talking,” Silas muttered. He reached into his tactical vest and pulled out a trauma kit. “This is going to sting. Probably a lot.”

“Just do it, Detective. I’m not as fragile as I look.”

Silas pulled back the fabric of her jumpsuit, exposing a jagged tear in the skin just above her hip. He worked quickly, his hands steady despite the cold. As he pressed a sterile pad against the wound, Anastasia let out a sharp, hissed breath, her fingers digging into his shoulder.

“Sit still,” Silas said, his voice dropping to a low, quiet hum. “You saved her, Anastasia. Why? You could have let the bomb go off. It would have cleared the board for you. Elvira would be dead, I’d be dead, and Riven would have no one left to hunt him.”

“Is that what you think of me?” she asked, her dark eyes searching his in the shadows. “That I’m that cold?”

“I don’t know what to think of you. You’ve lied to me since the moment we met in that ballroom.”

“I didn’t lie about the fire, Silas. I didn’t lie about Riven.” She leaned her head back against the container, her eyes fluttering shut for a second. “And I didn’t lie in the warehouse. Not about us.”

Silas paused, his hand lingering near her waist. The air between them felt thick, charged with the same electric tension that had nearly consumed them nights before. “You used me as bait, Anastasia. You put a target on my back and waited to see who would take a shot.”

“I had to know who Riven’s mole was,” she whispered. “If I’d told you, you would have gone to Internal Affairs. You would have played by the rules. And by the time they’d finished their investigation, we’d both be in the ground. Elvira was too smart for your system, Silas. But she wasn't smart enough for mine.”

“Your system involves a lot of body bags,” Silas countered, wrapping a bandage around her waist.

“It’s the only way to deal with men like Riven. He doesn’t understand law. He understands leverage.” She reached out, her cool fingers brushing the stubble on his jaw. “You're a good man, Silas. Too good for this city. But you’re starting to see it, aren’t you? The rot goes all the way to the top.”

“What do you mean?”

“Elvira wasn't just working for Riven for the money. She was the pipeline,” Anastasia said, her voice turning sharp. “The briefcase I took from Riven? It wasn't full of cash or drugs. It was full of records. Names, dates, account numbers. Riven has been funding the Chief’s re-election campaign. He’s been paying off the city council for years.”

Silas felt a cold knot form in his stomach. “Chief Gareth? You’re lying. He’s been on this force for thirty years.”

“And he’s been on the payroll for ten,” she said. “Why do you think your investigations always hit a dead end? Why do you think the Kertawati case was handed to you—the one detective too honest to be bought, but too junior to be dangerous?”

“He wanted me to fail,” Silas realized, the words tasting like lead.

“He wanted you to be the fall guy. But Riven is getting greedy. He doesn’t want a partner anymore; he wants a puppet. He’s planning to remove the Chief during the Merit Ceremony tomorrow at the Plaza.”

“A hit? In front of the entire city?”

“It’s the perfect play. The Chief gets martyred, the city goes into a frenzy, and Riven’s hand-picked successor steps in to ‘restore order.’ It’s a coup, Silas. Wrapped in a flag and a funeral.”

Silas sat back on his heels, his mind racing. “If you have the proof, give it to me. I’ll take it to the Governor. We can stop this.”

“The Governor is part of the same circle, you idiot,” Anastasia said, a trace of her old fire returning. “There is no one left to tell. There is only us.”

“I’m a cop, Anastasia. I can’t just go out there and start a war.”

“You’re already in one,” she said, leaning forward until her lips were inches from his. “You can arrest me right now. You can take me back to that precinct and hand me over to the men who want me dead. Or you can help me finish this.”

Silas looked at her—the blood on her hands, the fire in her eyes, and the sheer, desperate beauty of her resolve. He thought about Celine, about the bomb, and about the badge he had worn with such pride.

“If I do this,” Silas said, his voice a low growl, “it’s not for you. It’s for the city.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Detective,” she whispered.

She leaned in, her hand sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss that tasted of salt and copper. It was a desperate, fleeting thing—a pact made in the dark. Silas pulled away first, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“We need to move,” he said, standing up and offering her his hand. “The police will be combing this area in ten minutes.”

“I have a car waiting two blocks away,” she said, taking his hand and pulling herself up with a wince. “But Silas... there’s something you should know about Riven. He doesn't like losing. And he definitely doesn't like being ignored.”

“I’m used to it,” Silas said.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting a frantic text from Dorian about Celine. Instead, the screen showed a video call from an unknown number. He swiped to answer.

The screen flickered to life. It was dark, the only light coming from a swinging bulb overhead.

“Hey, Silas,” a voice said. It wasn't Riven. It was a man he didn't recognize—a heavy-set guy with a jagged scar on his cheek.

The camera panned down. Dorian was slumped in a chair, his face a mess of blood and bruises. His hands were tied behind his back, and he was struggling to breathe through a broken nose.

“Dorian!” Silas shouted, his grip tightening on the phone.

“The detective is a little tied up at the moment,” the man on the screen laughed. “He’s got a lot of questions about shipping lanes and heiresses. We thought we’d let him ask you instead.”

Riven’s voice came from somewhere off-camera, smooth and terrifyingly calm. “You have three hours, Silas. Bring the briefcase to the North Gate of the old stadium. If I see a single patrol car, I start sending you pieces of your partner. I think we’ll start with the fingers. He’s a fast typer, isn’t he? That would be a shame.”

The screen went black.

Silas stood frozen, the rain soaking through his hair, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He looked at Anastasia, who was watching him with a look of dawning horror.

“They have Dorian,” Silas whispered.

“It’s a trap, Silas,” she said, grabbing his arm. “He knows you’ll come. He’s counting on it.”

“I don’t care,” Silas said, his eyes turning into shards of ice. “He has my partner. He has my friend.”

“Silas, listen to me!”

“No, you listen!” Silas roared, turning on her. “This is your war, Anastasia! Your secrets, your briefcase, your vendetta! And now my friend is paying the price for it!”

He shoved the phone into his pocket and began to walk toward the street, his pace frantic.

“Where are you going?” she called out after him.

“I’m going to get my partner,” Silas said, not looking back. “And then I’m going to kill Riven Adhyatma. With or without your help.”

“Silas!”

But he was already gone, disappearing into the shadows of the dockyards, a man who had finally run out of rules to follow. Anastasia stood alone in the rain, clutching her side, watching the spot where he had vanished.

“Fine,” she whispered to the empty air. “Have it your way, Detective. But you’re going to need a bigger gun.”