Blackwell Ops 13: Chapters 5 & 6
Chapter 5: The Hit on Richard L. Sayers
I arrived at the pro shop right at 6 p.m.
I was wearing a copy of the same sleek black skirt from yesterday, with a brand-new pair of black Nike running shoes I’d picked up last night. The only difference was my purse and my blouse. The purse was a squat black leather thing in which I carried only the Beretta. My blouse was silk, the same cut and style, but in red instead of white. Again I’d unfastened the top three buttons.
As I stepped daintily out of the Land Rover, Roger appeared at the window of the shop, smiled, and turned a plastic sign from Open to Closed. When he came out he was still smiling. “I wondered whether you’d come back.”
I lowered my sunglasses a little to peer over them, put my hand to my chest and frowned slightly. “Well why on Earth would I not? I can hardly wait to meet with Mister Sayers. I’ve heard he’s a very large man.”
Roger chuckled. That told me he had swallowed the implication as I’d meant it.
I’d seen pictures of Sayers as I researched him, of course. He was maybe 5’10, and he had a pot gut and acne scars on the sides of his chin. And he wasn’t a flashy dresser. He wore suits every day, but they were definitely off the rack. And the rack might have been located in Goodwill.
He had an unruly shock of thinning brown hair that seemed to stick out in every direction. He also had a thick grey moustache and little wisps of stubble near the acne scars, like he couldn’t quite shave them cleanly. Finally, he had the usual two eyebrows, but even in the photos you could tell he shaved between them. Apparently he didn’t have the sense to have them plucked.
Yet he was a playboy and a ladies’ man.
Whatever.
His money was a playboy and a ladies’ man. I don’t know two women who would get close enough to him to beat him with a stick. And I mean a long stick.
His smile expanding into a grin, Roger gestured. “C’mon around back. I’ll drive you out there.”
I followed him. “Is it far? I thought we might take my truck.”
“No ma’am. No vehicles allowed on the course.”
“Oh, of course. Silly me. But then how will we get there?”
As we rounded the back corner of the pro shop, he gestured toward a four-seat golf cart. “Where we’re going is only a couple of hundred yards from here. And I’ll leave the cart in case Mr. Sayers wants to drive you.” He actually went a little pink. Isn’t that sweet? “You know, I mean around.”
“Oh, of course. But how will you get back?”
He shrugged. “I’ll walk. It’s fine. I was just closing up the shop anyway. When I get back I’m heading home for the night.”
“I see.” I acted like I wasn’t sure which foot to put in the golf cart first.
“Here, let me help.” He took my hand, the lucky boy, and helped me up into the cart.
I sat primly, my hands folded on my purse, which lay in my lap.
He gestured. “You want me to put your purse in your truck for you? You won’t really need it out th—”
“No, I’ll keep it with me. My dear departed daddy gave it to me. It’s my constant companion. Call it a security blanket.”
He nodded. “That’ll work. While you and Mr. Sayers are, um, practicing, you can leave it in the cart if you want.”
“It’ll be fine. Shouldn’t we go? I would simply hate to be late for this wonderful event.”
“Oh, yes ma’am.”
He started the cart and we drove away from the pro shop.
* * *
We followed a little asphalt path for around two hundred yards before Roger turned off it to the left and drove across the grass.
I looked over at him. “I don’t see any golfers. Are they farther along in the course?”
He glanced at me. “Mr. Sayers pays extra. On Wednesdays he reserves the Back Course for only himself. Calls it his practice day.”
He grinned, and soon we drove across a shallow stream near a little arched wooden bridge. To the right front another forty or fifty yards was a small grove of trees and brush. I pointed. “Is that what they call the rough?”
He only nodded.
He angled toward the grove, and maybe ten yards short he swung the cart in a little arc and stopped. He smiled at me. “Wait here for a moment.” Then he got out and walked into the grove.
A long moment later he came out. He smiled at me again as he walked past the golf cart.
I remained seated, waiting.
Soon I heard his footfalls on the bridge, and then the sound died away.
I looked around. He was already a good distance past the bridge, angling across the grass toward the clubhouse complex.
A mousy voice came from the direction of the grove. “Are you gonna step down, or what? I’m a busy man.”
I looked toward the sound.
Roger L. “Little Dicky” Sayers was standing just outside the grove. He was dressed in his usual cheap brown trousers and a white shirt. Apparently he’d left the suit coat in the grove if he’d even brought it with him. He was appraising my skirt.
I beamed a smile at him. “Why of course,” I said. “But Rojah asked me to wait here.” I paused. “And I generally always do what I’m told.”
I thought he might come closer and offer to help me down from the golf cart, but he didn’t. Instead he curled one hand. “Well, come on, girl. Let’s get to it. I don’t have all day.” The tip of his tongue traced a path over his lips.
Then I understood. He wanted to see how far up my thighs my skirt would rise as I swiveled my legs to the side of the cart and stepped out.
In my best sing-song southern flirting voice, I said, “Just a moment.” I turned my shoulders away and opened my purse. As I took out the Beretta and laid it on the driver’s seat of the cart, I stole a glance at Roger. He was just going past the pro shop.
I picked up the Beretta, turned slightly toward Little Dicky, and put both hands behind my back. I smiled again. “I’ll leave my purse in the cart. Is that okay? I wouldn’t want anything to come between us.”
“Yeah, leave it. Whatever. Just come here. I’ve made us a special place back here.” He jerked one thumb over his shoulder.
I giggled, then swiveled my knees around to face him. I spread them slightly as I slid toward the edge of the seat.
The pig actually crouched, and again his gaze went straight to my knees and thighs.
“I’m comin’, Richard. May I call you Richard?”
He swallowed and nodded. Sweat dripping off his voice, he straightened and said quietly, “Come on, baby.”
I slipped off the seat and straightened, twisting my shoulders a little. “Oh, before I forget my manners, thank you for agreein’ to meet with me.” I giggled again. “I simply can’t wait for this to happen.” I started toward him, swaying my shoulders like a little girl hiding candy behind her back.
He was curling both hands toward me and backing up. His voice was hoarse and cracked. “C’mon, baby. You’re gonna like our little love nest.”
He was several feet into the grove.
I was almost to the grove. Behind him on the ground was a red and black plaid, zipped, oversized sleeping bag. The mattress. “Oh, I’m sure I will.”
He backed up a few more steps. He stopped when he felt the sleeping bag at his heels. He grinned. “You didn’t really come out here for golf lessons, now did you? Admit it. You want old Dicky, don’t you?”
Considering the nickname I’d made up for him, I almost laughed. But I just kept smiling and moving forward. “Oh yes, Dicky. I want you more than you can possibly imagine.”
He grinned and gestured again, “C’mon baby. That’s right. Come on.”
In light of the performance I’d kept up for two days, I was feeling a little dramatic. Three steps past the edge of the grove, I stopped. My smile and my southern accent fell away, and I brought the Beretta from behind my back. I assumed a combat stance, my feet shoulder-width apart, the pistol held in both hands.
I said, “Richard L. ‘Little Dicky’ Sayers—”
He scowled. “What is this? Did that damned Roger set—”
I raised my voice. “For the drugs you deal and other crimes against humanity, and for women everywhere, I sentence you to death.”
His eyebrows arched and both hands shot up in front of him. He took a step back. “Hey now! You wait just a minute! Wait!”
I fired.
The first bullet went through his left hand and hit him in the center of the chest.
He took another step back and looked straight down, both hands clawing at his chest in an automatic reflex, trying to reverse time and dig the bullet out.
Then he looked up, a deep frown on his face. “What the hell are you do—”
I fired again.
The second bullet took him in the forehead and he collapsed on “our little love nest.”
The guy wouldn’t know love if it bit him on the butt.
Well, not anymore.
Chapter 6: The Egress, Amarillo, and a New Assignment
The egress was simple. I had watched Roger start the golf cart earlier. I climbed in, slipped my Beretta into my purse, then started the cart and drove to the pro shop. I parked it where Roger and I had gotten into it, then walked around front to my Land Rover. I got in, backed up, turned around and headed out.
The old gentleman was standing outside the little guard shack.
Must be awfully boring, being in that one place all day.
As I drove toward him, he raised one hand again.
I stopped and powered-down the window.
He smiled broadly. “Did you find everything you need?”
“Oh, just every thang! Thank you.” I curled my fingers at him as I powered-up the window. “Tata now.” And I drove away.
I didn’t even drive back into town. I turned the other way and took a back road I thought would connect with US 62. It did, and I headed west.
I stopped at the little city park in Altus, Oklahoma, carried my bag into the bathroom and changed clothes. I kept the Nikes, but I put on jeans and a light blue t-shirt. A couple of hours later I was back in Amarillo.
The next day I went to two different thrift stores and donated the outfits I’d worn in Lawton.
* * *
I’d been home almost six weeks before my VaporStream device went off again.
I was about to make some burritos, some for my supper, a few to refrigerate, and several to freeze.
The chicken breasts I’d stewed with vegetables in a crock pot were done. I’d already cut up two of them. Four cans of beans, two black and two pinto, were mixed and mashed. I’d been refrying those over low heat in a large cast-iron skillet for almost an hour. And a package of large, thick tortillas—the gorditas, not the thin ones—were laid out and waiting to be filled and rolled.
It was time stir-in the cut-up chicken breasts, some shredded Monterrey Jack, cheddar, and asadero cheese, and a few cans of hot Hatch green chiles.
And I realized I didn’t have the chiles.
I have to have green chiles. I eat them with pretty much everything but cereal.
Jalapeńos would do too, so I checked the fridge.
The jar was less than a quarter full. I remembered I’d used them on the last pizza I’d embellished.
So I turned off the fire under the skilled, folded the pack of tortillas and stuck them back in the bread box, and covered the chicken with a pan lid. I’d have to go to the store. And my mouth was already watering with the mix of smells in my kitchen.
At least there wouldn’t be any long lines at the cash registers at this time of the evening. It was almost 7 p.m., so most people were home now eating supper. So the round trip would only take maybe 20 minutes.
Grumbling as I all but stomped across the living room, I snatched my keys out of the bowl on the old radio by the front door, went out and got into the Land Rover.
I backed out of the driveway into the street and drove off.
But a few blocks down, I realized I’d left my VaporStream thingy laying on the table beside my recliner.
Really, though, the trip wouldn’t take that long. I had thought it might take twenty minutes, but I could probably pare that down to fifteen.
I decided to continue.
By the time I’d gone a couple more blocks though, I remembered the tone on the device would sound for only three minutes. After that, the message would disappear from my device and it would be off to another, more attentive, more deserving operative.
TJ would be disappointed. He might even fire me, and I don’t need that. Especially the way I’ve heard he fires people. This outfit’s harder to walk away from than the New York mob.
I thought back about the hit I’d conducted on Carlo Spilantro and Rico Clemente. One second they were there, and the next second they were “fired.” Or “retired.” Whatever.
I muttered, “Aw crap.” I wasn’t scared—not really—but it was obvious my stupid head wasn’t going to leave me alone until I went back for the thing.
I took the next right, made a block, turned left and sped back to my apartment.
I whipped the Land Rover into the driveway. I left the engine running and the driver’s side door open when I got out. I ran across the small yard, flung the front door open, and raced to the table next to the recliner.
I fully expected the little red light to be on in the corner of the screen, accusing me of missing a message for the very first time.
I snatched the device off the table, flipped it over—and dropped it.
It landed face-down on the Saltillo tile and clattered a few feet away.
I chased it, bent down and picked it up again. I turned it over carefully this time, and—
The little red light wasn’t on.
I smirked. Take that, stupid head.
Then I shook my head and breathed a sigh of relief.
Stupid thing. I’d have been to the store and at the checkout by now if I’d just kept going, no harm, no fou—
And the tone sounded.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it’s just my stupid brain again. No way did I come back for it and then it went off that fast.
But the other light, a pinprick of blue, was flashing in the other corner.
Then the tone sounded again. Fifteen seconds had passed.
My front door was still standing wide open. I could hear the engine of the Land Rover grumbling in the driveway. And I felt someone behind me.
I turned around, and Herman was standing in the door gripping the door jamb. The furrows on his forehead were deeper than usual. “You okay, Jenna?”
In my frustration, the words came out harsher than I meant for them to. “Oh damn it, I’m fine, Herman.” I held up the device, the back of it toward him. “I’m sorry, but I really have to take this.”
And I pressed the On button.
Herman, dear old gentleman that he is, only nodded. He reached in and pulled the door closed as he walked out.
The message spilled onto the screen:
Eyes only
Albuquerque
TWP Jonathan Sage
[Date Range]
Personal Attention Required
That was it.
Wow. I’d never gotten an eyes-only message before. If I remember right, that meant it was only for me, that it wouldn’t go on to any other operatives. Maybe nobody else was available or TJ didn’t think they could meet the date-range requirements or whatever.
Or maybe it was a test to see whether I could jump through this particular hoop.
At least Albuquerque was close by. About four hours due west on I-40.
If I timed it perfectly, I could leave home, drive over and do the hit, and sleep in my own bed again that night.
Nah. That’s the adrenaline talking.
I read the message a couple more times, committing the target’s name to memory, then pressed the Accept button.
The opening date was only three days away, and the closing date was the next day.
Pretty tight timeline.
I’d have to get cracking on the research.
Well, but first I need to finish the burritos. It wouldn’t take long once I got to the store and back. Just mix everything together, simmer it for a half-hour or so to mix the flavors, and fill the tortillas.
I could even make a couple for supper, then do the rest tomorrow.
I slipped the VaporStream into my front jeans pocket, crossed the room and went out to the truck.
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