"Get those files in a waterproof bag,” Rangga said, his voice low but urgent. He was already pulling a pair of heavy, mud-caked boots from a locker in the corner. “We can’t be here when they come back with the police.”
Bima stared at him, his hands still trembling slightly as he clutched the sovereign grant. “You really think they’ll come back with the cops?”
“Hardono doesn’t play fair, Bima. Never has. If he gets the local authorities to seal this building, we’re locked out of the evidence. We need to go somewhere they can’t find us easily, the site itself.” Rangga tossed a bundle of dark fabric at Bima’s chest. “Put those on. My old work clothes. They’ll be big, but they won’t rip in the scrub.”
Bima caught the bundle, feeling the coarse, thick weave of the denim. “Where exactly are we going?”
“To the northern boundary. The spring. If the map says the line is there, we find the physical marker and document it before they can move it. Now hurry up. We’ve got five minutes before the sun is high enough for them to start tracking us.”
“Should I pack my suitcase?” Bima asked, looking at his neatly organized bag.
Rangga let out a short, dry laugh. “Leave the fancy box. Pack only what you need to survive forty-eight hours in the brush. Water, basic kit, and those papers. Especially the papers.”
“Right. Essentials. I can do essentials,” Bima muttered, more to himself than to Rangga.
Ten minutes later, Bima was sitting in the passenger seat of an open-topped, vintage Land Cruiser that looked like it was held together by sheer willpower and multiple layers of rust. The engine roared to life with a violent shudder that Bima felt in his teeth.
“Hang on,” Rangga shouted over the noise. “The road’s a bit rough until we hit the old logging trail.”
“Define rough!” Bima yelled back, gripping the grab handle until his knuckles turned white.
“You’ll know it when your stomach hits your throat!”
As the jeep lurched forward, leaving the main office in a cloud of red dust, Bima looked back. The plantation buildings seemed so fragile against the encroaching emerald wall of the jungle. He realized then that he wasn’t just an administrative assistant anymore. He was a fugitive clerk on a mission he barely understood.
The forest grew denser as they ascended the ridge. The heat was a living thing, damp and heavy, pressing against Bima’s skin like a wet blanket. By mid-afternoon, the jeep could go no further, its wheels spinning fruitlessly in a patch of deep, black silt.
“We walk from here,” Rangga said, killing the engine. The sudden silence of the jungle was deafening, filled only with the high-pitched hum of insects.
Bima stepped out, his feet sinking into the leaf litter. “How much further?”
“A few miles. Maybe three? But miles in here aren’t like miles in Jakarta, kid.”
“I’m starting to gather that,” Bima sighed, adjusting the straps of his heavy backpack. “My legs already feel like lead.”
“Take some water,” Rangga said, handing him a battered canteen. “You’re doing better than I expected. Most city guys would have fainted by the second river crossing.”
“I’m motivated by the fear of failure,” Bima admitted, taking a long swig. “And honestly, I really don’t want to see what happens if I lose those files.”
Rangga leaned against the side of the jeep, watching Bima for a long moment. His hard gaze softened, just a fraction. “Why did you take this job anyway? A guy with your resume could be working in a high-rise with air conditioning.”
Bima wiped his mouth and looked up at the towering canopy. “My dad. He worked in logistics for a big firm. Spent his whole life being the invisible guy who kept everything running. When the company downsized, they let him go with nothing. I wanted to prove that someone like him, someone who keeps things in order, actually matters.”
“He sounds like a good man,” Rangga said quietly.
“He was. He always said that order is the only thing that keeps the world from eating itself.” Bima looked at Rangga. “What about you? Why fight so hard for this place? You could have sold it years ago and lived comfortably.”
Rangga pushed off the jeep and started hiking upward, his machete swinging rhythmically to clear the low-hanging vines. “My grandfather cleared this land with his bare hands. He died with the dirt of this plantation under his fingernails. If I let those suits take it, I’m letting him die twice. It’s not about the money, Bima. It’s about the soil.”
“I think I get it now,” Bima said, following close behind. “It’s about who belongs to the land, not who owns the paper.”
Rangga paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Maybe you aren’t as shallow as your shoes suggested.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bima smiled, though it was quickly replaced by a groan as he tripped over a stray root.
Night fell with a suddenness that caught Bima off guard. They had set up a small camp near a trickling stream, the sound of the water provide a thin veil against the noises of the deep forest. A small, smokeless fire flickered between them.
“You’re quiet,” Rangga noted, propping his boots up on a log.
“Just thinking,” Bima replied. He was sitting close to the fire, the orange light dancing in his eyes. “It’s actually beautiful out here, once you get past the biting flies.”
“It has its moments,” Rangga agreed. He reached out, his hand lingering near Bima’s as he passed him a piece of dried meat. “You’ve got a lot of heart, Bima. I wasn't easy on you when you arrived.”
“You were a nightmare,” Bima corrected him, though there was no malice in his voice.
“Maybe I was. I’m used to people coming here and looking at me like I’m some kind of relic. A caveman who won’t get with the times.” Rangga’s fingers brushed against Bima’s wrist. It was a brief, accidental contact, but the air between them suddenly felt charged with a different kind of heat.
Bima didn’t pull away. He looked at Rangga, really looked at him, seeing the weariness behind the strength. “I didn’t see a relic. I just saw someone who was under too much pressure.”
“And you decided to shoulder some of it,” Rangga whispered, his voice dropping an octave. His hand moved intentionally now, his thumb skimming Bima’s knuckles. “Why?”
“Because,” Bima said, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames. “I like the way you look at things. And maybe because nobody should have to fight their ghosts alone.”
Rangga leaned in slightly, the space between them disappearing. For a heartbeat, Bima thought he might say something else, or do something, but Rangga suddenly pulled back, his head snapping toward the dark tree line.
“Did you hear that?” Rangga hissed, the softness in his eyes vanishing instantly.
“Hear what?” Bima asked, his heart beginning to race.
“Something moved. Something big.”
They reached the coordinate marker at dawn. It was an old, moss-covered pillar of granite, half-buried in the earth near the mouth of the natural spring.
“This is it,” Rangga said, his breathing heavy as he knelt beside it. “If we clear the moss, the serial number should match the grant.”
Bima crouched beside him, using a small brush to sweep away the debris. As the grey stone was revealed, both men froze.
“Rangga... look at the base,” Bima whispered.
The ground around the marker was fresh. There were deep gouges in the stone where a crowbar or a jack had been used. The pillar hadn't just been there for decades; it had been recently shifted. It was tilted at an angle that looked unnatural.
“They’ve been here already,” Rangga growled, his hand balled into a fist. “They dug it up and moved it twenty yards inward.”
“But look,” Bima pointed to a series of markings near the bottom. “It’s not just shifted. It’s been chipped away. They were trying to erase the ID number.”
“Bastards,” Rangga spat. “They’re not just seizing the land; they’re rewriting history.”
“Wait,” Bima said, pulling out his phone. “Rangga, look at the orientation. The original hole is still visible over there under those ferns. See? If I take a photo of the displacement and the fresh soil, and compare it to the geological layers in the Dutch ledger...”
“You can prove it’s been tampered with,” Rangga finished, a grim look of realization on his face. “But who did it? Hendra’s people don't know the exact location of the markers yet. Only my senior staff had these coordinates.”
“Someone on the inside?” Bima asked, his stomach doing a slow flip.
Rangga looked around the quiet clearing, his expression dark. “It means we aren’t alone out here.”
Suddenly, the peace of the morning was shattered.
CRACK.*
The sound of a gunshot echoed through the trees, sharp and terrifyingly close. Bima dove into the ferns, his heart hammering against his ribs as Rangga scrambled to cover him.
“Stay down!” Rangga barked, his eyes scanning the dense greenery as a second echo rolled through the valley. “They aren’t waiting for the lawyers anymore.”