The dirt exploded inches from Bima’s ear, showering his face in grit and decomposed leaves.
"Move! Now!" Rangga’s voice was a guttural command, his hand already clamped around Bima’s upper arm.
Bima didn’t think; he scrambled. "Was that, was that a real bullet?"
"No, it was a celebratory firework," Rangga snapped, hauling him through a dense thicket of ferns. "What do you think? Keep your head down and don't stop until I say so!"
"I'm moving! I'm moving!" Bima gasped, his boots, the practical ones Rangga had forced him into, slipping on the mossy slope. The sovereign grant felt like a lead weight inside his waterproof bag, swinging rhythmically against his spine.
They dove over a fallen log, sliding into a shallow ravine filled with stagnant water. Rangga pressed his back against the damp earth, his chest heaving. He gestured for Bima to stay flat.
"They aren't aiming to kill," Rangga whispered, peering through the brush. "If they wanted us dead, we wouldn't have made it to the log."
"Then why shoot at us?" Bima hissed.
"Warning shots. Scaring us off. They want us to run away from the marker so they can finish what they started." Rangga looked at Bima, his eyes searching the younger man’s panicked expression. "You still have the bag?"
Bima clutched the straps. "It’s right here. It’s not going anywhere."
"Good. Because if they’re using guns, the legal gloves are completely off. We need to get back to the jeep."
"The jeep? Won't they be waiting for us there?"
"Better to take our chances with the cruiser than to wait out here for them to circle around," Rangga said, checking the horizon. "Come on. We’ll double back through the creek bed. It’ll keep us out of their sightlines."
The trek back was a blur of burning lungs and mud. Every snap of a twig sounded like a trigger pull to Bima. They reached the ridge overlooking the plantation trail twenty minutes later. Bima stumbled to a halt, his hand flying to his mouth.
"Rangga... look."
In the distance, rising from the heart of the estate, was a thick, oily column of black smoke. It wasn't a controlled burn for the fields. It was coming from the center of the compound.
"The office," Rangga said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low hum. "They’re burning the office."
"Everything is in there," Bima whispered, his heart sinking. "The files I sorted... the archives... the grey cabinet."
"Everything we left behind," Rangga corrected him. "Hardono’s making sure there’s no paper trail left to challenge him. If we didn't have that grant in your bag, we’d be holding onto nothing but ash right now."
"We have to go back," Bima said, his legs shaking. "We have to see if anyone’s hurt. The staff..."
"The staff won't be in the office at this hour. Hardono’s a snake, but he’s a corporate snake. He wants assets, not a mass murder charge," Rangga said, though his hand was white-knuckled on the grip of his machete. "But we aren't going in through the main gate. We’ll take the back service road."
"Wait," Bima said, feeling a sharp vibration in his pocket. "My phone. It’s buzzing."
"Ignore it," Rangga ordered. "We don't have time."
"It could be the notary! Or the police!" Bima pulled the device out, his fingers fumbling.
He tapped the notification. It wasn't a call. It was a message from an unknown number.
"What is it?" Rangga asked, noticing Bima’s sudden, deathly silence.
Bima’s face went translucent. He held the screen out, his hand trembling so violently that the phone almost slipped. On the screen was a high-resolution photo. It wasn't of the plantation. It was a picture of a modest townhouse in a suburb of Jakarta, the house Bima had grown up in. Standing at the gate were his mother and sister, laughing as they brought in groceries.
Beneath the photo, a single line of text: Pretty family. It would be a shame if the city grew too dangerous for them.
"They have them," Bima choked out, his knees finally giving way. "Rangga, they’re watching my family."
"Give me that," Rangga growled, snatching the phone. He looked at the image, his jaw working as he processed the threat. "It’s an old tactic. They’re trying to squeeze you because they know you’re my weak link."
"It’s not an old tactic to me!" Bima screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria. "That’s my mom! They don’t even know why I’m here! I told them I was just doing data entry for a fruit company!"
"Listen to me, Bima," Rangga said, kneeling in front of him and grabbing both his shoulders. "Breathe. Just breathe."
"I can't! If I don't give them what they want, they’ll..."
"They won't do anything yet," Rangga insisted. "The moment they hurt them, they lose their leverage. It’s a bluff to make you hand over the bag."
"A bluff? You're willing to bet their lives on a bluff?" Bima shoved Rangga’s hands away. "I’m not you, Rangga! I don't care about the soil! I don't care about who owned what in 1920! I want my family safe!"
"And they will be! But if you fold now, Hardono won't just take the papers. He’ll make sure you never talk. To anyone. Ever." Rangga’s eyes were fierce. "The only way out of this is through the court. We have the leverage now. Not them."
"I need to call them," Bima said, reaching for the phone. "I need to tell them to leave the house."
"Bima, don't! The line is tracked. If you call, you’re just confirming that the threat worked."
"I don't care! They’re all I have!"
Bima scrambled up, turning toward the sound of an approaching vehicle. He didn't care about cover anymore. He didn't care about the smoke or the grant.
"Hardono!" Bima screamed toward the trail. "I know you're there! Stop!"
"Bima, get down!" Rangga tackled him just as a black SUV lurched around the bend, its tires spitting gravel.
The vehicle screeched to a halt, blocking the narrow path leading back to the compound. The dust settled slowly, revealing a figure leaning against the hood. It was Hardono, looking as pristine as he had in the middle of the night, despite the chaos around him. In his right hand, he held a single sheet of paper. In his left, a silver lighter.
"I overheard the shouting," Hardono called out, his tone conversational, almost bored. "It’s such a stressful morning, isn't it? The heat, the smoke... the sudden concerns about family safety."
"You son of a bitch," Rangga shouted, standing up and pulling Bima behind him. "You’re done. We have the grant. We have the markers."
"Do you?" Hardono held up the paper. "This is Bima's employment contract. It has a very interesting clause about the ownership of any 'intellectual or physical property' discovered during the term of employment. Specifically, that it belongs to the employer."
Hardono flicked the lighter. A small, orange flame danced in the humid air.
"And since the bank now holds the title to this estate," Hardono continued, "technically, we are his employer. Which means that leather bag in his hand? It’s our property."
"You haven't won anything yet, Hardono," Bima said, his voice steadier than he felt, though his eyes were fixed on the lighter.
"Oh, Bima," Hardono sighed. "Don't be a hero. Look at your phone again. I can send a second photo in thirty seconds. One with a different background. Maybe the inside of their living room?"
Bima felt a cold sweat wash over him. He looked at Rangga, whose hand was hovering near the bag.
"Rangga," Bima whispered. "What do I do?"
Rangga looked at the smoke rising from his legacy, then at the terrified clerk who had saved it. He was silent for a heartbeat, the only sound the crackle of distant flames and the click-click-click of the lighter’s lid.
"Rangga?"
"I’m sorry, Bima," Rangga said quietly, his voice heavy with a defeat Bima hadn't heard before.
Hardono smiled, stepping forward with the contract. "Good man. Let's not make this any more dramatic than it needs to be. The bag, please. And I might even let the fire department through to save whatever’s left of your porch."
Bima looked at the bag, then back at his phone. The screen flickered again. Another notification. He braced himself for a new photo of his family in danger.
Instead, it was a text from an unsaved number.
We’re at the gate. Ready when you are.*
Bima’s eyes widened. He recognized the tone. He looked at Rangga, who barely gave a micro-nod.
"Well?" Hardono prompted, holding out his hand. "The papers or the family, Bima. Choose."
Bima gripped the strap tight. "I choose the law."
"Wrong answer," Hardono sneered, turning his thumb toward the men in the SUV.
But before he could speak, a second engine roared from behind them—a heavier, faster sound. A police tactical vehicle, followed by a local surveyor’s truck, slammed into the scene from the brush path Bima hadn't even seen.
"You brought 'em early?" Hardono hissed, his composure finally cracking.
"I have a digital backup of the 'logic' too, you idiot," Bima shouted over the sirens. "I sent the scans to the notary an hour ago from the ridge!"
Rangga let out a roar of laughter, lunging forward to catch Hardono as the lawyer tried to retreat into the car. "I told you, Hardono! The city boy is a pain in the neck!"
Hardono dropped the contract, but as he fell, he flicked the lighter onto the dry grass near Bima’s suitcase.
"If I can't have the paper," Hardono screamed, "no one gets the soil!"
The fire caught instantly, a ring of orange teeth snapping at the edge of the bag. Bima dove for it, the heat searing his palms as he tried to save the last evidence of Rangga’s life.