Blackwell Ops 13: Jenna Crowley: Blackwell Ops, #13

By Harvey Stanbrough

Jenna Crowley is beautiful, mild-mannered, and descended from a hero. She has inherited her looks and even temperament from her three-times great-grandmother, Coralín, and her sense of justice from her three-times great-grandfather, Wes Crowley, a Texas Ranger in the 1880s.

 

And she is an operative for a worldwide network of assassins: Blackwell Ops.

 

Like the other books in the Blackwell Ops series, this one begins with a bang.

 

But can she play any role necessary to fulfill the missions she receives from TJ Blackwell?

 

But why does she feel compelled to move? And where will she end up?

 

Can she pull the trigger on a man she deems undeserving even though he is the target of a contract?

 

Will she go above and beyond to dispense justice or will her personal feelings get in the way of her profession?

 

If you enjoy high-tension, page-turning stories, plunge into this thrill ride.

 

You'll experience the sheer joy (horror?) of watching Jenna work without being a target yourself. And you won't regret it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Nov 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223287049

Harvey Stanbrough

Harvey Stanbrough is an award winning writer and poet who was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas, and baked in Arizona. Twenty-one years after graduating from high school in the metropolis of Tatum New Mexico, he matriculated again, this time from a Civilian-Life Appreciation Course (CLAC) in the US Marine Corps. He follows Heinlein’s Rules avidly and most often may be found Writing Off Into the Dark. Harvey has written and published 36 novels, 7 novellas. almost 200 short stories and the attendant collections. He's also written and published 16 nonfiction how-to books on writing. More than almost anything else, he hopes you will enjoy his stories.

Book preview

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 isn’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 village. 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 Spilantro 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 would 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 Spilantro and anyone else who showed up. So eventually nobody would show up and the revolving-door circus would continue. It’s what the feebies call building a solid case.

It would take them months or years, so they couldn’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 Spilantro and three other bosses were supposed to meet tonight—well, early this morning—to decide the fate of the fifth boss. Some boss-of-bosses would probably show up fashionably late to underscore their importance. But Spilantro was a working-class 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 Spilantro 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. The targets would never see the flash anyway, and if they did, they wouldn’t have time to slap leather, as Grandpa Wes would have said. In place of the flash suppressor, I attached a sound suppressor. The noise of the driving rain would help 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 in sheets, 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 a reddish pink in the dim light from the street lamps.

I shifted the rifle slightly to discover a narrow tag that 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 must’ve shoved the car door closed with his left foot.

Okay, that’s number two. Probably the bodyguard, Rico Clemente.

I’d seen pictures of him a couple of times as I researched Spilantro. Usually close enough to respond if Spilantro so much as stubbed the toe of his red Italian loafers.

I don’t number them in order of appearance. I number them as targets, in order of importance. Number one would be Carlo Spilantro.

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 of the car.

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 Spilantro stepped out.

I think. That looked like 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.

I’d seen those on western hats back in Texas, but never on a snap-brim fedora. 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 my boy. Give me verification.

He looked straight down, then stepped up onto the curb.

Clemente closed the car door and stepped up too.

Spilantro must’ve stepped out into a stream of water running along the curb. Aw. Clemente hadn’t parted the waters for him? Poor baby.

Spilantro 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 thrust the umbrella toward Spilantro, 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 Spilantro raised his right foot.

I squeezed the trigger.

The bullet hit the little lump, and Spilantro 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.

Clemente staggered, took a step toward the car.

Just his legs on autopilot, trying to walk him out of trouble.

But the other car doors were probably about to open.

I shifted the rifle down slightly and moved the barrel 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.

Clemente hadn’t moved again.

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.

The assignment I’d received on my VaporStream device a little over a week ago had specified Carlo Spilantro et al.

Well, Rico Clemente was the only et al who’d gotten out of the car on that miserable night.

I have no further obligation here. And the night is miserable.

I located the two spent shell casings and put them in my pocket. Moving quietly, I made my way down the stairs at the back corner of the store. I thought maybe the people who owned the general store might live 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. In fact, it isn’t even in the apartment building itself. My apartment and the one the landlord lives in are separate little houses in their own right. 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.

As for his offer to buy the furnishings, I doubt I’ll ever pack up and move. Well, unless I decide to head down to 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