Blackwell Ops 13: Chapters 22, 23, 24
A personal note
Folks, thank you for being along on this ride. If you enjoy the Blackwell Ops series, you can find twelve more of them as well as the rest of my novels and stories in other genres at StoneThread Publishing.
I don’t know what I’ll write next. If I start a new one-off or a novel in one of my SF, Western, Myatery, or Action-Adventure series, I’ll post it here so you can read each day’s writing as I finish it. If I start a new Blackwell Ops novel, I won’t include it here. I figure you might prefer some variety.
Thanks again, Harvey Stanbrough
Now here are the final chapters of Blackwell Ops 13: Jenna Crowley:
Chapter 22: Charlene Lovello and Joey
I added Charlene’s first name and her home phone number as a contact in my cellphone, then dialed the number.
A woman with a very different personality than the one I’d just talked with answered quietly, almost weakly. “Hello?” She sniffled.
“Charlene Lovello?”
She seemed to brighten. “Yes. Who is this?”
“Charlene, is there anyone there with you?”
“No. I’m alone.” She sniffled again. “They—he took my baby.” She paused. “I’m sorry, who is this again?”
“Charlene, do you know anyone named TJ?”
“Oh. Oh yes! Do you mean Mr. Blackwell?”
What the hell. She doesn’t know who I am. “Yes.”
“Yes, I know him. Well, we haven’t met but—”
“Charlene, I’m a friend. TJ said I was to contact you about something. You’re my only contact.”
“Contact. Oh, right. Yes, he told me about you.”
“He did?”
“Well, about someone. He said someone would be coming to help me, and that he would give that person my name as a contact.”
“So you don’t work for TJ on a regular basis?”
“No ma’am. It’s just—this is kind of my personal problem, so— So I guess I’m the only one who could explain it to you.”
I frowned. Why do I need an explanation? My job is to hit the guy, then split. “Yes, he told me this is kind of a special case. That’s why he wanted me to have a con—that’s why he wanted me to talk with you.”
“Good! That’s good. I—I know what you’re going to do to Mr. Harris. That is, I hope I know. But yes, there are some things I need to tell you. You know, before that happens.” She paused. “Are you in town?”
“No. No, I’m not. Listen, are you gonna be there for awhile?”
She sighed. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“All right. I’ll call you back in a few minutes. Stay there, please.”
“Yes ma’am.”
I closed the connection.
I opened my laptop and pulled up a map of Wichita Falls. I studied it for a few minutes, then called Charlene back.
“Hello?”
“It’s me. Are you still alone?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, you know where Wichita Falls is, right?”
“Why sure, it’s—”
“Okay, can you drive down here? Can you come to Lucy Park, to the duck pond? If you can, I’ll meet you there.”
“I—I can do that. Lucy Park Duck Pond.”
“Well, just Lucy Park. Leave as soon as I hang up, okay?” I gave her directions to the park. “I’ll be waiting near the duck pond.”
“How will I know you?”
“You won’t. What do you look like?”
“Well, I’m a little overweight, and I’m wearing a pink t-shirt. Oh, and I’ve got big red hair.”
“I’ll find you.”
I closed the connection.
* * *
I opened the laptop and checked for photos of Thomas P. Harris in Lawton Oklahoma.
Several came up, from various angles. He was a large man with dark brown hair, what there was of it. He wasn’t so much tall—maybe 5’9” or 5’10”—as big around. In every photo he was wearing a three-piece suit and a tan overcoat. His almost-pencil line moustache, receding hairline and style of dress reminded me a little of Robert Benchley, the famous humorist and writer.
I closed the laptop, changed out of my sweats into jeans, a white button-down shirt, and a lightweight black jacket, then slipped my Beretta into the waistband of my jeans at the back and went downstairs to the Land Rover.
In the truck, I snugged the Beretta under my right thigh and slid a box of facial tissues up next to it, then drove to Lucy Park. Once I located the duck pond, I parked some distance away. I tucked the Beretta under the back of my jacket again and found a picnic table under a covered, three-sided shelter. I sat on the far side of the table, with the inner wall behind me.
Then I waited.
Charlene wouldn’t get here for an hour or so, but if any law enforcement types or Mr. Harris or other suspicious individuals approached the pond, then maybe Charlene had lied to me about being alone. Either that or she called someone after I hung up. Either way, I would have nothing more to do with her. At least nothing she would like.
I hoped that wouldn’t happen. She sounded like a nice woman, if one troubled by something. Something directly involving Mr. Harris.
Fortunately, as the time wore on, I saw nothing suspicious anywhere near the duck pond. I could see the far side, the side closest to the edge of the park, as well as both ends and the near side. If there was anyone watching for me, they were very good.
Eventually, I spotted Charlene on the far side of the pond.
She was dressed in light green stretch pants, white comfy shoes, and as advertised, a pink t-shirt. And when she said she had “big red hair,” she wasn’t exaggerating. The guys in the ISS might have seen that red hair moving across the green lawn of the park.
Her head might as well have been on a swivel. She kept looking left, then right, then left again. Each time runners passed by on the asphalt path that circled the pond, she scrutinized them.
After ten minutes or so, she gave up and parked herself on a bench.
I got up and made my way around the pond, moving behind trees when I could. When I reached her side of the pond, I circled wide around her and came up from behind. Then I sat on her bench, on the opposite end. Without looking at her, I said, “Nice day for sitting, isn’t it?”
To her credit, she didn’t look around. She practically whispered, “Is it you?”
I only nodded. “I’m your friend at the moment, but you can never know me. And if you tell anyone about me, I’ll have to silence you. Understand?”
Barely above her breath, she said, “Yes. Just please help.”
“All right, contact. What do you have for me? Why did TJ involve you?”
“It—it isn’t like that. I begged him to let me talk to—whoever he sent.”
“Right. But why?”
“Because he—Mr. Harris—he has my little boy. He’s only ten and he’s all I have in the world.” She finally looked at me. “You have to save him.”
I got up and walked a few feet away, folded my arms over my chest and looked out across the duck pond. “I’m only here to—”
“I know.” She paused. “I know you’ll—do something to Mr. Harris, and he deserves whatever he gets. But if you don’t— If you don’t find my Joey—” She hunched her shoulders and started sobbing.
A passing runner glanced in our direction. Can’t have that. “Charlene, I’ll do what I can. Just tell me what you know.”
She bobbed her head as she wiped at the tears on her cheeks and at the sides of her chin. “Yes. I understand. He has Joey in a ‘safe place,’ he said, and he laughed. He laughed! The only place I can think of is his apartment. It’s above the pool hall downtown.”
“The guy a lawyer or something?”
She looked at me again. “Oh hell no.” She looked away again. “He’s just the worst crook in Oklahoma. Everyone calls him Mr. Harris. His so-called friends call him Blue Dick. Disgusting. Because of all the hell he causes. Like a take-off on Blue Duck, that renegade half-breed—”
“In the Lonesome Dove series. Got it. Go on. Why did he want your boy?”
“Joey’s dad is a black man. That makes Joey a ‘throwaway’ to Harris. He takes whoever he wants, always children, and he uses them in horrible ways. And the authorities look the other way, like they do with the gambling and prostitution and all the other damned lousy things he does. When he’s through with Joey—” Her voice caught. “When he’s through with the children, he—he disposes of them, like they’re so much garbage.”
“So do you—”
She clenched her fists. “Damn it, it isn’t right!”
“No, it isn’t. And I’ll stop it, I promise. But do you know anything else? Any guards around him? In his apartment or on the street? Anything like that?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just want my Joey back.”
I nodded. “I’ll do what I can. Listen, thanks for coming. Please don’t tell anyone anything about this. Or about me.”
She stood up. “No, I won’t. I wouldn’t. Like I said, I just want Joey back.”
“Well, I’ll do my—“
She turned to me. “You just make that bastard pay. Please make him pay.”
I nodded. “You go on home now.”
She turned and started across the lawn toward her car.
Chapter 23: The Hit on Thomas P. “Blue Dick” Harris
Back in my room, I opened the laptop and checked for pool hall, downtown Lawton OK. Only one result came up: Harris’ Billiards and Pool. The address was listed along with the hours: 9 a.m. to 2 a.m.
I opened the tab that displayed the photos I’d viewed earlier and looked more closely.
Harris was a white man, but in most of the photos on the street he was accompanied by a large black man and an even larger Hispanic man. Both were wearing suits. Probably bodyguards. They would most likely be the et al TJ referred to in the message. I studied their faces, committing them to memory.
Of course, there might be more than two.
Hangers-on at his pool hall might even decide to get involved.
Okay, first, I would hit him in the dark hours after the pool hall closed.
Second, I’d search his apartment for Joey and get him out of there. At ten years old, he should be able to show me where he lived. I’d drop him off, watch him to the door, then beat feet the hell out of Lawton. US-62 to US-287 and up to Amarillo. And if TJ dropped another assignment on me before I got there, I might have to refuse it. Hey, I was due.
* * *
I decided the Tavor 7 was better suited for this job. I could fire a single round, a short, three-round burst, or switch to full auto if necessary.
I inserted a twenty-round magazine. I’d replaced the flash suppressor with a sound suppressor up in Vermont, so that was good to go.
By 1:30 a.m. I’d put up my hair and donned my black outfit plus my black jacket and a black ball cap. I decided against wearing the balaclava. I stuck my Beretta under the jacket at the back, packed my bag, and hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door on my way out.
An hour later I was in downtown Lawton in the alley behind the pool hall.
* * *
There was a padlock on the back door—I’m pretty sure that’s illegal—but the wood of the door jamb was dried up and half rotted away. It didn’t take long to pry the hasp out, complete with the screws. The padlock dangling and my Tavor at the ready, I carefully moved the door open.
I swept the room with the Tavor, looking for anything moving in the dark.
Nothing.
I closed the door silently, then crouched.
The place was dark. Pool tables marched away in three rows of seven or eight tables each. To the right of the far end of the nearest row of pool tables, a sharp corner with a lighter edge protruded. Maybe a slightly warped trap door. There’s a basement? A long oval light fixture dangled over each table from a ceiling that was uniform at about eight feet.
The guy’s apartment must take up the whole second floor.
All around the painted, darkened reverse letters that read Harris’ Billiards and Pool, moonlight glinted off the large window in the front. Across the street, a street lamp glowed, but the pool of light barely made it over the curb. In the faraway distance, a siren. Somebody was having a rough start to their morning.
Nobody in the cashier’s cage to the left of the front door. Unless they were on a cot behind the counter. Maybe ten feet from the cage, I could just make out the bottom of a stairwell running up along the left wall. At eight feet up, it continued through a cut-out in the ceiling.
I took a deep breath, then straightened and moved silently toward the cashier’s cage.
I peered over the counter.
Nothing.
I turned, took another breath, and made my way across the intervening space to the stairs. To lessen the chance of any of the old boards creaking, I stayed next to the wall on my way up.
The door to the apartment was to the left on a small landing.
I crouched, put pressure on the doorknob, and tried it.
Locked.
Well, of course. If I had kidnapped children in my place, I’d keep the door locked all the time too.
I straightened, backed up a half-step, tensed my left shoulder, and—
Hit the door. Hard.
* * *
In a quiet explosion, the jamb splintered and the door flew open.
As it slapped against something solid to my right a long, bulky shadow sat up on to my left.
A couch.
A deep, loud voice crackled, groggy with sleep. “Hey!”
I fired at the shadow and it fell back.
The flash was blinding, but something solid clattered on the wood floor.
Another bulky shadow to the right front. I brought the Tavor around.
The shadow was a rectangle. A chair?
The top of the shadow developed a round extension. Another part of the shadow, lower and on its right, shifted.
I pointed the Tavor, closed my eyes against the flash, and fired at the round part. My eyelids lit up and I opened them, the Tavor still leveled.
The round part was slumped and the shadow was square again.
To my left, groaning, but rustling ahead of me.
Through the darkness, a door.
I moved, kicked the pistol away from the couch and crouched to the left of the door.
I reached up, found the doorknob and turned it.
An explosion, and a bullet plowed through the door. Then it swung open.
I leaned forward, my Tavor extended, and something kicked my right hand. My little finger tingled and went numb.
The Tavor clattered away and I fell back toward the corner at the end of the couch. My right shoulder grazed an end table as I reached back for the Beretta.
A shadow filled the door and stepped through. His teeth all but glowed in the dark as he looked down at me and laughed. “You can’t—”
I fired.
His head jerked and he fell to his right through the door. Something hard and heavy hit the floor sharply in that room.
More groaning to my right as I regained my feet and peered past the edge of the door. I hissed, “Where’s the boy?”
Silence.
Another groan from behind me as I reached through the door, found the light switch, flicked it on.
I peered past the door jamb.
Trousers, shoes, and two more doors.
I stepped over the legs, crossed the room and flung the nearest door open.
The bathroom. I stepped in and jerked the shower curtain aside.
Nothing
I exited, took two long strides and pulled the other door open, shook my head. “A damn closet.”
Another groan from the front room.
I turned around and glanced down as I stepped over the body on the floor again.
Positive ID. It was Harris. The bridge of his nose was smoking and his right eye dangled on his cheek. He wasn’t moving.
Illuminated by the light coming through the bedroom door, the guy in the chair was dead too, his fat black head lolling on his white shirt, blood dripping from his face. On his right thigh, a pistol.
The guy on the couch lay on his back, both hands on his abdomen. A pool of blood was expanding on his white shirt.
His eyes tightly closed, his lips squeezed into a grimace, he groaned again.
I stopped next to him, pointed the Beretta at his face, and tapped his forehead with the sound suppressor.
He opened his eyes a slit, the grimace still on his face. “Who the hell are—”
“Where’s the boy?”
“Get me a damn doctor!”
“Where’s the boy?”
“Fuck you!”
“In your dreams. Tell me where the boy is and I might let you live.”
He only glared at me.
I tapped him on the forehead with the sound suppressor again, a reminder. “The boy, asshole.”
He groaned again, clutched at his abdomen. “Basement, damn it! He’s in the basement.” He closed his eyes again, groaned, clutched at his abdomen.
Ah. The trapdoor. “Good boy.” I took a step back and shot him in the forehead.
He didn’t even jerk.
So much for et al.
I slipped the Beretta into the waistband of my jeans under the back of my jacket, then looked around and found the brass from the Tavor and the Beretta. I put those empty casings into my jeans pocket, then picked up my Tavor 7.
I looked around for a moment.
Nope, nothing else.
I reached past the jamb of the bedroom door to flick off the light.
Chapter 24: Joey Lovello, and a Surprise
On the landing again, I crept silently down the stairs five or six steps, then crouched and looked over the main room.
Same as before. Cashier’s cage at the bottom, front door still closed, moonlight still glinting on the window. Pool tables still marching away in rows, lamp shades dangling, nothing moving.
If anyone had heard the shots—especially the unmuffled pistol Harris had fired—and called the cops, I only hoped they’d be slow to respond.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness, mitigated only a little by the moonlight on the window, I hurried down the remaining stairs and toward the back door.
Then I turned left and walked as quietly as I could toward the trap door.
Will there be more men down there? Guarding the boy?
The kid must be terrified. Would they have heard the shots down there?
I approached the trapdoor, stepped past it and pulled it open.
Nothing but a dark, rectangular hole, the top few steps descending.
A chill swept over me. But I promised Charlene I would try.
I pointed the Tavor 7 down the stairs and stepped into the dark rectangle.
God I hope the boy doesn’t come running up the stairs.
Two steps down and having heard nothing from below, I turned and pulled the trapdoor closed. The hinges creaked and I grimaced.
As I turned and descended into the darkness, with my left hand I alternated between checking the wall for a light switch and checking above my head for a pull chain.
I found neither.
Almost to the bottom, something lightly touched my forehead.
I think my heart stopped. I took an electric step back and up and swept my left hand left to right in front of me.
A pull chain. A damn ping-pong ball on the end.
I took a silent breath and pulled the chain.
A fluorescent light flickered on below me.
Only three steps remaining. I crouched, the Tavor leveled.
Waiting. Watching. Listening.
Nothing.
I straightened again and looked around.
To the left only the grey concrete back wall of the basement.
Directly ahead toward a corner, some boxes. Slightly to the right, four folding chairs and a brown card table. The cards were still on it, along with a small ring of three or four keys.
On my right side, a two-by-four unfinished pine railing.
And in the far right corner two cots.
Neither were empty.
A small figure slept on each cot, an old green army blanket pulled up over their shoulders.
On the near one, a boy with brown, tightly curled hair.
On the other, a little girl with a full-on afro.
Jesus! Two?
I slung the Tavor over my left shoulder, finished the descent and crossed the poured concrete floor toward the babies.
* * *
I crouched next to the first cot and softly cupped the little boy’s shoulder.
He shifted under my hand.
Barely above a whisper, I said, “Joey?”
He stirred.
“Joey, wake up. I’m gonna take you home.”
He rolled toward me, brought his fists from under the blanket, and rubbed his eyes. He looked at me and squinted. “You’re not my mom.”
“No, but I know her. She’s Charlene, right?”
He nodded.
“I’m a friend. I’m going to take you to her.”
He propped himself up on his right elbow. “But what about Sam?”
I frowned. “Who’s Sam?”
The girl shifted, then sat up. “I am, Miss.”
She looked to be about seven.
She shrugged. “Samantha really. But Joey calls me Sam.”
“Okay. I’m going to take both of you to Joey’s house, okay? His mom will get you home, Samantha.”
“Yay!” She clapped her hands.
“Shh!” I put one finger to my lips. “Now you both have to be very quiet, okay? Come on. Just follow me up the stairs. And if there’s any shooting, you run back down here, okay?”
Joey said, “Like in the movies?”
Okay. “Yeah, like in the movies.” I straightened. “Come on. Get up. We have to hurry.”
Joey said, “But what about Lionel? Can we take him too?”
“Who’s Lionel?”
Joey pointed. “He’s in there.”
I looked. He was pointing at a door to a small room in the corner. How had I not seen that?
“Yes, he can go too. Wait here while I go get him, okay?”
I started toward the room. There was a padlock on the door.
The keys. There was a ring of keys on the card table.
I turned around and glanced at the kids. “You guys wait there. I’m not leaving.”
I went to the card table, picked up the keyring, and returned to the small room. I picked the right key on the second try. I opened the padlock, tossed it and the keys into the corner under the stairs, and opened the door.
The room was only about six-by-six.
Lionel was sitting in a back corner, his arms wrapped over his drawn-up knees, his head bowed.
“Lionel?”
He looked up, a frown on his face. His cheeks were dusty and streaked with tears. “I ain’t gonna do it!”
He appeared to be about Joey’s age, maybe a little younger.
“Do what?”
“Whatever you want me to do. I ain’t no girl.”
I crouched and smiled. “And I am. But I’m not a bad one. Come on.” I extended my hand, palm up. “I’m getting you kids out of here. The bad men can’t hurt you anymore.” I flexed my fingers at him. “Come on.”
He got up, ran to me and hugged me, his arms around my neck.
After a moment, I straightened and led him by the hand toward Joey and Sam. “Okay, now all of you stay together and follow me up the stairs. It’ll be dark up there, but don’t be afraid. And like I said, if you hear any shooting, run back down here until it’s over, okay?”
They all nodded.
But there was no more shooting.
They followed me up the stairs and across the floor to the back door.
In the alley, I opened the back door of my Land Rover, picked up Sam and put her in, then reached for Lionel.
“I can get in by myself.”
And he did.
Joey followed him.
Boys.
* * *
When we reached the end of the alley, the streets were still quiet. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Joey, can you show me where you live?”
He sat straighter and looked around for a moment, then pointed right. “That way.”
I turned right. “Okay, now you tell me where to turn.”
“No ma’am, just straight down the street. When you see the nail place, it’s the next block.”
We passed by Jay-Ree’s Nail Salon. The building was pink.
When he pointed out the right house, a clapboard-sided one and a half story white house with an elevated concrete porch, I pulled to the curb. “Wait here for just a second, okay? I want to talk with your mom.”
In the rear-view window, Joey nodded.
I got out, pulled out my cellphone and punched in Charlene’s number.
She picked-up on the second ring. “Hello?” Groggy.
“Charlene, it’s me. I have Joey and two other babies. I’m in front of your house. I’m going to leave them with you. You get the other two to their mamas, okay? But wait until after sunrise.”
“Oh, thank you! Thank you! God bless you! I only hope someday we can become real friends.”
“I’m sorry, but that just can’t happen. The kids’ll be on the porch.” Then I ended the call, turned around, and opened the back door. “Come on.”
They all piled out. I watched them until they got onto the porch, then for another few seconds.
As the front door opened, I pulled away from the curb.
Around twenty minutes later, I was on US-62 West and headed for Amarillo when the damned VaporStream device went off again.
Okay, this is too much.
I edged off the side of the highway, lifted my butt off the seat and fished the thing out of my jeans pocket. I pressed the On button.
The message wasn’t quite what I expected:
Good jobs all around
Take two months off to settle in
Didn’t want you to worry when 6 weeks pass with nothing
I’ll be in touch
I grinned and pressed Send.
TJ, you old dog. Bless your heart! Thank you!
I could use the time off.
I had a lawn to mow and a couple of flower beds to think about planting.
Thanks to my friend Herman, I was finally going home.
* * * * * * *