The Man Who Bought The Apocalypse

Chapter 7: First Confrontation

Radit tapped the window of the SUV. The black sedan behind them had been maintaining a perfect three-car gap for six kilometers. "Pull over near the entrance of 'The Socialite,'" he said.

"The girl’s still on our tail," the driver said.

"I know. I'm taking her to dinner."

Radit stepped out of the vehicle as Camille skidded to a halt on her motorbike. She didn't even have time to kick the stand down properly before she was on her feet, helmet under her arm, looking ready to swing it at his head.

"You led me on a three-district tour of Jakarta’s worst traffic just for fun?" she panted.

"I led you to the best wagyu in the city," Radit said, adjusting his cuff. "And don't worry about the bike. The valet will handle it."

"I'm not here for steak, Radit. I want to know about the seeds."

"And I want to know how you managed to plant a GPS tag on a briefcase in under thirty seconds. Come on, interns don't stand on the sidewalk."

The restaurant was a cathedral of marble and low-amber lighting. They were seated at a corner table, shielded by an ornate screen. Radit ordered a bottle of champagne that cost more than Camille’s bike.

"You’re surprisingly chill for someone who’s being tracked," Camille said, leaning forward.

"I've been tracked by professionals. You? You’re just enthusiastic."

"I know what you're doing at Plot 44-B," she whispered, ignoring the menu. "It’s not just an aquifer. My contact at the Department of Agriculture says you've cleared out every heirloom seed stock from three different provinces."

"I like gardening," Radit said, his eyes scanning the room.

"Fifty tons of legumes and grain isn't a hobby. You’re building a vault."

"The wine is here, Camille. Try to look like you're on a date, or the security guards at the door will think I'm being kidnapped."

She snatched the glass. "You’re buying coal plants, land deeds, and now genetic blueprints for crops. What’s the goal? Are you trying to corner the market on survival?"

"In a few years, 'market' will be an abstract concept. I’m just tidying up."

"Tidying up? You're hoarding the world’s umbrellas while telling everyone else to enjoy the sun."

Radit smirked, swirling his drink. "If you knew a storm was coming, would you sell your umbrella to the first guy who asked?"

"I’d tell people to build a roof!"

"I tried that. Nobody listens to a twenty-year-old with zero balance. So I'm building my own roof. If people want a spot under it, they can pay the admission f*e."

"Which is what? Your total loyalty?"

"Intelligence," Radit said, his voice dropping an octave. "And maybe a bit of silence from the press."

Camille’s phone buzzed on the tablecloth. She looked down. A message from her boss: 'LEAK THE STORY NOW. WE HAVE THE TAX RECORDS. WE END HIM TONIGHT.'

She gripped her glass until her knuckles were white. "You think you can just buy everyone off. Even me."

"I'm not buying you, Camille. I'm offering you a front-row seat to the end of the world. Why report on celebrity shoe-throwing when you can write the history of the next civilization?"

"You're a megalomaniac."

"And you’re starving. Eat your salad."

They traded barbs over the appetizers—she accused him of insider trading; he reminded her that the market he traded in didn't legally exist yet. She was sharp, sharper than anyone he’d met in this timeline, and for a moment, the weight of his task—the decade of ash and fire—felt lighter.

"Why me?" she asked suddenly. "Why tell me anything?"

"Because you were the last one writing when the satellites went dark. You’ve got a backbone. I could use that in the mountain."

"I haven't said yes to anything."

"You haven't said no, either."

The waiter arrived, carrying a heavy tray of main courses. He was young, over-eager, and his foot caught on the edge of the plush carpet. The tray tilted violently toward Camille.

Before the waiter could even gasp, Radit’s hand shot out. He didn't just stabilize the tray; he grabbed Camille’s chair and yanked it toward him, shielding her with his shoulder. The tray crashed into the empty space where she’d been sitting.

"Careful," Radit said, his face inches from hers.

Camille’s breath hitched. She was looking into his eyes—not the eyes of a college student, but someone who looked like he’d survived a thousand car crashes and didn't mind the scars. Her hand was resting on his chest, feeling the frantic but steady beat of his heart.

"You... your reflexes," she whispered.

"Comes with the territory," he said, not letting go. "You okay?"

"I’m fine," she said, quickly pulling back as the manager rushed over to apologize. "You’re a lot faster than you look."

"You'd be surprised what you're capable of when you've seen things fall apart."

Radit sat back, his composure returning instantly, though the spark in his eyes remained. He signaled the manager to keep the bill off the table.

"My briefcase," Radit said, glancing at the seat next to him where the leather bag lay. "It's full of useless paperwork today. But tomorrow? Tomorrow it holds the access codes for the Suralaya thermal grid."

"Is that a threat or an invitation to steal it?"

"It’s an observation."

Camille checked her tablet under the table, her heart still racing from the near-miss—and the look in his eyes. She tapped the tracker interface.

"Something wrong?" Radit asked.

"Your briefcase," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she stared at the screen.

"What about it?"

"The tag I put on it," Camille said, showing him the screen. "It says your briefcase is currently five hundred meters away, moving at sixty kilometers per hour through the residential district."

Radit didn't panic. He slowly reached down and picked up the leather bag next to him. He unzipped it.

Inside was nothing but a stack of blank printer paper and a cheap, plastic alarm clock that began to beep mockingly.

Radit laughed—a dry, genuine sound. "You were good, Camille. But I’m better."

"You swapped them?" she hissed. "When?"

"In the hallway, while you were busy playing hero by 'finding' it for me. I knew you’d track it."

"Wait... then where is the real one?"

Radit stood up, his gaze settling on her with chilling intensity. "Exactly where I want people to think I am. But look closer at your tablet."

Camille zoomed in on the green dot. It wasn't just moving through the district. It had stopped.

"Wait," Camille said. "That’s the regional police headquarters. Why would you send your briefcase there?"

"Because," Radit said, "inside that briefcase is a folder with 'State Secrets' written on the cover in big, bold letters. And inside that folder is exactly enough information to keep them busy for forty-eight hours while we finish the site."

"We?"

"You’re coming with me," he said, grabbing his coat.

"In your dreams!"

"Camille, check your email."

She opened her inbox. There was an automated message from her own news outlet. 'Camille Bautista has been placed on indefinite leave pending an investigation into her unauthorized access of Ministry files.'

"You set me up?" she gasped. "You tipped off the Ministry?"

"I gave you an exit strategy. You can't stay in the city anymore. They’re coming for everyone who was involved in the Malindo leak."

"You did this to force me to follow you!"

"I did this to save you. Now, get on your bike or get in the SUV, but we're leaving Jakarta in three minutes."

Suddenly, the green dot on her screen blinked out. It was replaced by a massive red triangle.

SIGNAL LOST: UNIDENTIFIED JAMMING DETECTED.

"Radit," Camille said, looking at the street through the restaurant’s window. "Your SUV. Why are the guards running away from it?"

A massive explosion shattered the glass facade of the entrance, throwing tables into the air. Through the smoke, Radit saw three figures in gray tactical gear moving with mechanical precision.

"Change of plans," Radit shouted over the ringing in his ears. "Forget the SUV! Run to the kitchen!"