Blackwell Ops 13: Jenna Crowley
Here’s the first installment of the novel. As I write this note, I finished today’s fiction writing about ten minutes ago. I ran a quick spell check, but no revisions, no edits. What you see here is what happened there. Enjoy! I’ll be back tomorrow with more of the story.
Prologue: Never Start with the Weather
Some famous writer once said when you’re telling a story you should Never start with the weather. So I thought if I ever wrote anything, I wouldn’t.
But the weather started it, and I’m no shrinking violet.
Besides, I have to be here.
* * *
It was a warm night with pounding rain, a little before 2 a.m. In heavy boots thick with mud, thunder rumbled across the sky after the lightning that caused it. Just as if it was annoyed the lightning had brought it into existence.
Like a lot of kids I know, including me.
Except for me, it started with my four- or five-times great-grandpa—in my mind, the emphasis is on great—Western Z Crowley. He was a Texas Ranger back in the day. Chased Comanches and fought comancheros and other dark sorts like that. Well, except he actually respected the Comanche, especially that one war chief, Four Crows.
Grandpa Wes believed being upright is not a matter of degree. I like to think he meant being upright within your profession and within your personal life, not overall, such as with your choice of profession. He’s kind of my hero.
Well, when I haven’t been waiting in a hide for an hour in pounding rain at 1:44 a.m.
Anyway, Grandpa Wes ended up way down south in Mexico in a fishing village called Agua Perlado. He married a local girl there, a senator’s daughter named Coralín Martinez de la Silva. Everyone says she was a force of nature, and everyone says I look and act just like her. So maybe I didn’t only get Grandpa Wes’ attitude and aptitude. I guess I managed to inherit Grandma Coralín’s attitude too, and her face and skin tone.
But I also seem to have inherited Grandpa Wes’ love of doing away with bad guys. I know, bad guys is sexist, but I’m not a straight while male, so I guess it’s all right. Ridiculous. Both genders have their roles to play. Anyway, all my targets so far have been guys.
That’s probably another way I’m like Grandpa Wes. I don’t think he ever met a woman he wanted to shoot. I can almost hear him saying he’d “rather bed ‘em than blast ‘em.” Though he wouldn’t have said that exactly. He wouldn’t have been that crass about it. Above all, he wasn’t a crass man.
I’m not sure how much you want to know, but my last name should be Tinitus. Not like the ringing in your ears, though. It’s pronounced with a soft I and a hard accent on Tin. It’s my ex-husband’s name. When I decided to change my career from working as a teller for Amarillo State Bank to picking off bad guys for TJ Blackwell, Greg chose not to come along.
Probably a good decision on his part.
Since I had the option, I took back my maiden name. But I’m proud it’s also Grandpa Wes’ last name. After all, the guy was nothing short of magnific—
Oops. Gotta go.
It’s showtime.
Chapter 1: An Attack of Tinitus
I know. Bad pun. I’ll probably change the title of this chapter later. But I’m busy just now.
A sleek black CLA-Class Mercedes pulled to the curb in front of The Bear & Lion. According to my watch, it arrived 1:47 a.m.
Full disclosure, this wasn’t in England. The Bear & Lion is an English-style pub backed into the woods along a small highway in Vermont. So it’s very much off the beaten path.
But if you ignore the woods, it looks every bit like it’s on the high street in some English town. White stucco with ample windows along the front, all reflecting the light from the gaslight-replica street lamps posted at both corners of the building. It even has the brownish slat boards intersecting at odd angles beneath the gable up top. Those form a symbol to ward off evil spirits or something.
So it had that going for it too. Then the owners of the pub spoiled the spell or whatever by inviting Carlo Spolano and some others like him to meet here. But it’s probably the only place these guys can meet without the feebies being close enough to hear them fart.
Despite what some believe, the FBI isn’t really inept. They’re just legally hamstrung. If they were onto this meeting, they do the usual: snap pictures, try to read lips, and listen-in through electronic bugs. In other words, they would generally harass the hell out of Carlo Spolano and anyone else who showed up. It’s what they call “building a solid case.” It would take them months or years.
But they wouldn’t make a real difference. At least not in the short term.
I have no such restrictions.
With me, justice is quick and complete.
* * *
Carlo Spolano and three other bosses were going to meet that night—well, early that morning—to decide the fate of the fifth boss. Some boss-of-bosses would probably show up fashionably late to underscore their importance. But Spolano was a working guy who rose up through the ranks. He always arrived everywhere a few minutes early.
Compared to the FBI, who were handcuffed with legal niceties, I only started researching Spolano a week before the hit. Yet on the assigned morning I was in my nest on top of the second floor of the general store, catty-corner across the street from the pub.
With my scoped Tavor 7 assault rifle.
Of course, I had removed the flash suppressor earlier. The targets would never see the flash anyway, and if they did, they wouldn’t have time to slap leather, and Grandpa Wes would have said. In place of the flash suppressor, I attached a sound suppressor. The noise of the driving rain helped with that too.
When the Mercedes stopped, I shifted the rifle into my shoulder, got a good cheek weld and flipped up the scope cover on the near end. I peered through the scope. The sight picture was dead-on, the crosshairs steady on the far edge of the front of the passenger compartment.
The rain was coming straight down, and the angle of the rifle was just enough to keep the big lens from getting wet. The scope cover on the near end and the bill of my black ball cap kept the eyepiece dry.
Good for me.
The passenger-side door of the Mercedes opened. Someone stuck the folded end of a black umbrella out, then popped it open.
Something at the edge of the umbrella glowed in the dim light from the street lamps.
I shifted the rifle slightly to discover a narrow tag was stitched into the edge of the umbrella. It read Versace.
Dang. I didn’t even know they made umbrellas.
A second later, a squat, hunched, heavyset man in a dark overcoat and a dark fedora stepped out of the car and ducked under the umbrella. The way his shoulders twisted as he straightened, he shoved the car door closed with his left foot.
Okay, that’s number two. Probably the bodyguard, Rico Clemente.
I don’t number them in order of appearance. I number them as targets, in order of importance. Number one would be Carlo Spolano.
According to the scope, and thanks to the dim, rain-streaked light spilling from the street lamps, Clemente hadn’t shaved his neck for awhile.
Wow, maybe ever.
Despite the umbrella, a raindrop trickled down over his neck hair. The curled hair was so thick, the drop might not ever touch skin.
Clemente took a quick step toward the back door.
I took a breath, slipped my index finger over the trigger, and followed him with the scope.
Wait for it....
He opened the door, stepped past it, and shifted the umbrella to cover the open triangle it formed with the back right fender of the car.
I shifted the point of aim slightly to the right. To the small black triangle just below the near edge of the umbrella.
And Carlo Spolano stepped out.
That was the same camel-colored overcoat and fedora he was wearing in every photo I’d seen of him. Although tonight a cheap transparent plastic raincoat was draped over it. And a transparent plastic cover was stretched over the fedora too.
But what? He didn’t trust Clemente to be quick enough with the umbrella?
I centered the crosshairs on the back of his head. On the little lump that identified the place where the spinal cord meets the brain. A bullet there would turn him off like a light switch.
I caressed the trigger a little with my index finger.
Turn just a little, Carl. Give me verification.
He looked straight down, then stepped up on the curb.
Clemente closed the car door and stepped up too.
Spolano must’ve stepped out into a stream of water running along the curb. Aw. Clemente hadn’t parted the waters for him. Poor baby.
Spolano looked up again, then turned his head to look at Clemente.
There it is. The profile verified it was him.
I read his lips. What he said isn’t printable.
Then he pointed toward the door with his right hand.
Clemente quickly handed Spolano the umbrella, then hurried toward the front door of the pub. It had an old-fashioned heavy brass door handle with a thumb release at the top.
Clemente grasped the door handle and pressed the thumb release as Spolano raised his right foot.
I squeezed the trigger.
The bullet hit the little lump, and Spolano dropped like he never wanted to get up.
Blood sprayed across the door and started running with the rain toward the sidewalk.
I shifted the rifle slightly to the left.
Clemente stared and mouthed, “Boss?”
I fired again, and the bullet took him just above the forehead. Something, maybe the bullet, maybe part of his skull, shattered the window directly behind him.
Oops. Gonna be some water damage.
But the other car doors would open.
I shifted the rifle down slightly and moved left to right and back. Front door or back door?
But as Clemente dropped face-down, the Mercedes sped off.
Nobody else was anywhere in sight.
I checked my watch. It was 1:51 a.m.
The other bosses would begin arriving soon, and I still had an almost full magazine.
But the assignment I’d received on my VaporStream device a little over a week ago had specified Carlo Spolano et al.
Well, Rico Clemente was the only other et al who’d gotten out of the car on that miserable night.
I had no further obligation here. And the night was miserable.
Moving quietly, I made my way down the stairs at the back corner of the store. I thought maybe the owners lived just beneath my feet in the second story. But again, the drumming rain helped cover any sounds I made.
My Land Rover was in the woods maybe forty yards away.
I put the Tavor in the back, then slipped in behind the wheel and drove off in the same direction the Mercedes had gone.
Chapter 2: Time Off, and a New Assignment
Two days later I was back in my apartment in Amarillo.
My apartment isn’t much by some standards, but it’s clean and neat and big enough to move around in. And it’s on the ground. I don’t personally care for heights. The sky was meant for clouds and bees and birds, not buildings.
The apartment was unfurnished when I rented it, but the landlord, Herman Glenn, has already told me he’ll buy anything I don’t want to take with me if I decide to pack up and move someday. He’s a sweet old guy. He’s almost 80, and I’m pretty sure he has a crush on me. He made a hand out on Jones Ranch until he was almost 70. Then he moved into town and bought this block of apartments with saved wages and a bank loan. He spends a lot of time gardening, and about once a week he brings me a small bouquet of flowers. Says he was only going to throw them out anyway and thought I’d like them.
But I doubt I’ll ever pack up and move. Well, unless I decide to head for Mexico someday. I’ve always had an affinity for Mexico and the people there.
Anyway, the apartment’s comfortable too.
In the living room I have a couch and a big recliner, both in brown leather, a TV in an entertainment center, and an antique console radio that doesn’t work. That sits by the front door. I keep a bowl on top of it (on a doily) and use it as my catch-all place for keys, spare change, and my mail. Oh, and one wall is covered with floor to ceiling bookshelves. I have about twenty-five books that have to do with my Grandpa Wes, and then a lot of others.
Under the TV there’s also a stereo sound system. I listen to older country-western music—anything from Hawkshaw Hawkins and Hank Williams Sr. on up to George Strait. After that it goes to crap. And then I like classical music too.
The bedroom is simple with a queen-sized bed, two nightstands, a chest of drawers and a dresser. Way too much storage just for me, but it was a set so I bought it. I only need one nightstand, but I couldn’t bear the thought of the other one sitting alone in the store wondering why it wasn’t picked.
And then my kitchen has all the normal stuff, including a dishwasher. If I could nail tin pie plates to a picnic table with a hinged top, then stand it up and hose it down to do dishes, I might not mind so much. Of course, somebody from the state would put a quick stop to that, especially these days. Always poking their noses into folks’ private business. They’d say it was unsanitary. But nothing’s unsanitary if your intentions are good. And nothing’s clean if your intentions are bad.
I feel the same way about Amarillo that I feel about my apartment. At a little over two hundred thousand people, it has everything I need: every kind of store, a symphony orchestra, plays and horses.
Well, plus it’s the place where Grandpa Wes started his career as a Ranger.
Nobody knows where he was born, but he lived up north in Watson in his early years. It wasn’t exactly what you’d call a childhood, especially by today’s standards. And in 1868 at the age of 16, he rode south with his buddy, Otis “Mac” McFadden, and took the oath at the Company D headquarters right here in Amarillo.
The headquarters was diagonally across the street from the old Amarillo Inn. He and all the other Rangers lived there on the state’s dime as part of their pay. He was there off and on for around 16 years before he finally rode out to find Mac, who had gone bad.
When that was settled, he rode on south to Mexico to deliver some bad news to the family of Senator Martinez that his daughter was dead. That was Marisol, who was actually Grandma Coralín’s older sister. He and Coralín were smitten with each other, and he stayed down there. The rest is history.
Anyway, even in the hustle and bustle of the city Amarillo has become, at times I could swear I can feel his spirit.
* * *
But I need to get on with my own story I guess. That’s why you’re reading all this.
There isn’t much to tell in between assignments, but after I’d been off for almost two week, I got another one.
I had showered and then pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and plopped down in my recliner to watch some Brit TV shows. I especially like anything that has Nicola Walker in it. Or Judy Dench or Maggie Smith or Eileen Atkins. I’ll watch any of those two or three times.
But just as I reached for the remote, I heard the tone. I’d left the dang thing in the bathroom next to the sink. I always keep it close just in case. All of us operatives are supposed to, but I’m sure some of them don’t. I’ve only been signed on for a few years, but I haven’t missed reading any assignments yet, and I haven’t rejected any either. So far.
I stretched my arm toward the bedroom door—the bathroom’s off the bedroom—and spent about ten seconds willing the thing to come to my outstretched hand. Someday that’ll work, and it’ll probably give me a heart attack.
But it didn’t work this time and the tone sounded again. It’ll do that every fifteen seconds for three minutes, or so they say. I’ve never let it go that long.
Anyway, you have to press the On button to read the message. You have a full minute to do that, and then you either press the big A button to accept the assignment or the R button to reject it.
I put the footrest down, got up and padded into the bathroom. Sure enough, there it was. It looks like a tiny little cell phone.
I picked it up, turned it so I could see the little screen, and pressed the On button. The screen’s only about an inch and a half wide by about two and a half or three inches tall. And even in this modern time, the text looks like it’s on one a really old computer: light-green text on a dark background.
Anyway, I read it over a few times so I wouldn’t forget. Then I pressed the Accept button. At least this one was closer to home. I wouldn’t have to fly. I hate flying because of that heights thing. And I wouldn’t have to drive for two days either.
I mean it wasn’t exactly local, but— Well here, see for yourself:
Lawton OK
TWP Richard L Sayers
BFSP drugs AA
[Date Range]
Lawton C Club Back Course
Presto Magic Bakery Restaurant
Wow. Lawton was only about three hours away. I’ve never been there, but I’ve thought about going before. I’ve wanted to visit the Mattie Beal house there. She was an interesting woman back around the turn of the 20th century. Of course, I won’t have time to go during this trip. For me, assignments are strictly get in, do the job, and get out.
Anyway, the message probably needs some explanation.
The first line is the location of the target, and the second line is the target. TWP means terminate with prejudice. I always thought that was a little unnecessary. I’m gonna pop the guy. How much more prejudice can I show toward him?
But that next line. BFSP means Big Fish, Little Pond. Apparently Mr. Sayers at least thinks he’s a big deal. It also means he doesn’t sell drugs himself. Won’t get his hands dirty. Just collects the money for someone else’s sweat.
I already didn’t like him. Oh, and the AA means All-Around. So the guy’s a jerk. Kind of goes along with the BFSP. He treats other people bad just because he can.
Then the date range. You don’t need to know that. The opening date is a Wednesday, and the last date is the following Saturday. So he probably play golf two days a week.
The last two lines are suggested sites for the hit. I’ll have to do a little research, but that’s only normal. And I could put that off until tomorrow. The opening date was still four days away.
# # #