The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 18: Counter-Audit: Daffa's Revenge

Chapter 18: Counter-Audit: Daffa's Revenge

The rusted corrugated iron of the old port warehouse groaned under the relentless lashing of the tropical storm. Inside, the cavernous space smelled of saltwater, rotting timber, and impending doom. Water dripped from the shattered skylights, pooling into dark, reflective mirrors on the cracked concrete floor.

Daffa slammed the passenger door of the sedan shut, his boots splashing through a puddle as he sprinted toward a rusted electrical sub-panel near the loading bay. His breath came in ragged, hyperventilating gasps, but his mind was running at the speed of a high-frequency trading algorithm.

"Clarisse, kill the headlights!" Daffa yelled over the deafening roar of thunder crashing just offshore.

The sedan plunged into total, suffocating darkness as Clarisse cut the engine and the lights. She stepped out from the driver's side, her wet blazer clinging to her shoulders, a rugged, battery-powered portable terminal gripped tightly in her hand.

"They're less than two minutes behind us," Clarisse said, her voice sharp and carrying zero panic. She jogged over to join him by the sub-panel, water dripping from the strands of her obsidian hair. "The port security grid is entirely automated. If you can tap into the local terminal, what's your play?"

"My play?" Daffa pulled a small multi-tool from his pocket, popping the rusted metal casing of the electrical box to reveal a tangled nest of copper wiring. "Your father thinks he can audit everyone into submission? We're going to give him a taste of his own medicine. We’re going to run a counter-audit on the Bautista Holding Trust live, right here, right now."

"You can't audit a multi-billion-dollar corporate trust from a dead port terminal, Daffa. The firewalls are military-grade," Clarisse argued, though she stepped closer, shining the beam of a small tactical flashlight onto the exposed wires for him.

"Watch me," Daffa muttered, stripping a blue ethernet wire with his teeth and twisting it expertly around the data pins of her portable terminal. "The Bautista network relies on a centralized cloud router located in the main Jakarta tower for all regional branch authentication. But because this port warehouse was once slated for an automated shipping expansion five years ago, it maintains a direct, unmetered dark-fiber bypass straight into the main server's legacy port."

"A legacy bypass?" Clarisse’s eyes widened in sudden, dawning comprehension. "The back-door protocol my father installed before the financial crash in 2008... he forgot to decommission it."

"Exactly," Daffa grinned grimly, hitting the enter key as the terminal screen flared to life with a blinding green command line. "He left the back door wide open because he never imagined anyone would be desperate enough to climb through the garbage chute. Hand me the micro-SD card."

Clarisse didn't hesitate. She pulled the tiny plastic chip from her pocket and dropped it into his palm.

Daffa slotted the card into the side port of the terminal. The screen flickered violently as Leo’s digital diary, the offshore audio logs, and the Marina Bay routing numbers synchronized with the dark-fiber feed.

"We've got connection," Daffa whispered, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a manic, rhythmic clacking. "Now, let's see how much Chairman Bautista loves his precious legacy when the world watches it get liquidated in real-time."

Outside, the distinct, low rumbling of heavy diesel engines echoed across the gravel yard. Two black SUVs tore through the rotting wooden gates of the port, their high-beams cutting blinding swaths through the rain and fog before locking directly onto the stationary sedan parked outside the warehouse.

"They're here," Clarisse murmured, her hand instinctively dropping to a heavy iron wrench she had picked up near a stack of crates.

"Good. Let them come," Daffa didn't look up from the screen. "I'm rerouting the entire Project Kraken asset trail directly into the public accounts of every charity, non-profit, and labor union that the Bautista Group has crushed over the last decade. Every single dollar they embezzled is about to be legally redistributed."

"You're draining the trust?" Clarisse gasped, staring at the cascading lines of financial transactions scrolling down the monitor at breakneck speed. "Daffa, that's forty million dollars! They'll hunt us to the ends of the earth!"

"Let them try," Daffa hit a final, definitive keystroke and slammed his fist down on the enter key. "Transfer initiated. There's no stopping it now. The smart contracts are locked, encrypted, and decentralized across five hundred public nodes globally. Even your father can't undo code this clean."

Heavy boots crunched on the gravel outside the warehouse doors. Shouts in harsh, professional cadence bounced off the corrugated iron walls.

"Federal security! Clear the perimeter and secure the building!"

"That's not port security," Clarisse froze, her face draining of what little color it had left. "Those aren't my father's corporate goons. Those are state-level tactical units. My father didn't just send a hit squad—he called in a systemic state intervention."

The heavy wooden doors of the warehouse exploded inward, splintering into a thousand flying shards of timber as a flashbang grenade was tossed into the cavernous room.

BANG!

A blinding white light and a deafening roar detonated across the concrete floor. Daffa staggered backward, his ears ringing violently, the world spinning into a disorienting blur of white noise and pulsing afterimages.

Before he could regain his footing, two tactical operatives clad in matte-black body armor swarmed through the smoke, zip-ties already unspooled in their hands.

"Don't move! Down on the ground! Hands behind your back!"

Daffa tried to lunge toward the terminal to smash the screen, but a heavy boot slammed into the back of his knee, driving him hard onto the wet concrete. A knee pressed sharply into his shoulder blade, pinning him face-first to the floor.

Through the roaring in his ears, he saw Clarisse fighting back with the ferocity of a trapped cat. She swung the heavy iron wrench, catching the first operative across his armored shoulder before three more descended upon her, pinning her arms behind her back with brutal, efficient strength.

"Get your hands off her!" Daffa roared, struggling against the weight pressing him down, his cheek scraping against the gritty, water-soaked floor.

"Save your breath, Wicaksana," a cold, cultured voice echoed from the shadows of the doorway.

The heavy rain seemed to part as a tall, silver-haired figure stepped past the ruined threshold, flanked by two armed guards. Armand Bautista walked into the warehouse with the casual elegance of a man inspecting a newly acquired asset. He didn't even bother looking at the operatives pinning his daughter; his sharp, unforgiving eyes locked entirely onto Daffa.

"You really thought you could outsmart a lifetime of institutional power with a portable terminal and a stolen micro-SD card?" Armand asked, his voice dripping with absolute, glacial contempt. He stopped a few feet away, looking down at Daffa as if he were a bug scraped off the sole of an expensive shoe.

"We uploaded the ledgers, Chairman," Daffa spat out, blood trickling from a small cut on his lip where he had hit the floor. "The world knows what you did. Your money is gone."

Armand chuckled—a dry, terrifying sound that held zero humor. "Money is just a construct, Mr. Wicaksana. It moves, it flows, it regenerates. Especially when you control the central banks that audit it. Did you really think I wouldn't have a dead-man's switch on the public distribution nodes?"

Clarisse fought against her captors, her face flushed with fury. "You're insane, Father! The state audit is already triggered! You can't bury this anymore!"

Armand slowly turned his gaze toward his daughter, his expression hardening into something profoundly dark. "I didn't survive three economic crashes and a hostile market by leaving my flanks exposed, Clarisse. The state audit isn't coming for me. It's coming for the rogue executive who orchestrated an unauthorized digital heist of corporate assets."

He paused, a cruel, triumphant smile stretching across his weathered face.

"And her name happens to be the Vice President of the Bautista Holding Trust."

Daffa’s heart skipped a beat, a cold wave of absolute horror washing over him. "No. You wouldn't. She's your daughter!"

"She's a liability," Armand corrected smoothly, signaling to the lead tactical officer. "Take them both away. Separate vehicles. And make sure the public ledger records show that the entire embezzlement scheme was an internal coup led by my ungrateful, rogue daughter—with a desperate, debt-ridden analyst acting as her unwitting accomplice."

"You're a monster," Clarisse screamed, thrashing violently against the operatives as they dragged her toward the waiting SUVs outside. "You've been eating your own family your whole life!"

"Silence her," Armand ordered coldly.

Daffa watched helplessly as Clarisse was shoved into the back of the lead vehicle, the heavy door slamming shut to muffle her muffled shouts. The rain continued to pour, washing the blood from Daffa's face as the heavy, inescapable weight of the Bautista machine closed in around them once more.