Blackwell Ops 6: Charlie Task: Blackwell Ops, #6

By Harvey Stanbrough

Sometimes being who you are is no excuse.

Charles Claymore "Charlie" Task is a self-described professional psychopath.

Because of what Charlie believes of himself, he has a special skillset that TJ Blackwell of Blackwell Ops finds of use.

▪ From taking a peculiar kind of mercy on a man in Boston
▪ to dispensing unspeakable torture on behalf of an imam
▪ to helping a friend square a contract for his woman-friend, and more,

Charlie always carries out his assignments to the letter.

But there's a great deal more to Charlie than meets the emotional dicsonnect, as he himself is soon to learn.

This is yet another part of his story, as told to the author. As always, only the more sensitive parts of Mr. Task's story are fictionalized. Everything else is true.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393472766

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

Brace yourselves. My methods are gruesome at times, but effective.

At the moment, Clarence Griswell is seated in the corner of his living room on the floor, bleeding from his nose down through the mousey moustache that’s draped over his fat upper lip like a malnourished caterpillar.  His chubby little chin is covered in the stuff, as is a streak down the center of his crisp white button-down shirt. Messy.

The walls to either side have a little low-velocity spatter on them, the result of him shaking his head to clear it right after he took a seat. Soon enough, his equally crisp, expensive off-white Berber-loop carpet will be drenched in it. More’s the pity.

The antique mahogany phone table that was positioned in that corner a moment ago is laying on its side to his left. Its left front leg is snapped off about four inches up, just below the little square shelf that used to hold the antique phone book that currently lies under it. The phone itself, its coiled cord stretched almost straight, lies a few feet farther away, the receiver just short of the cradle. No dial tone though. It was connected to the wall plate only for looks. I’d wondered, briefly, when I spotted it after he first admitted me.

But hey, none of the mess is my fault. I only hit Clarence. He hit and dislodged the table and sent the book and phone flying. His heirs wouldn’t be pleased, depending on how much value they place on antiques. Still, it couldn’t be helped. What happens happens. It’s all fate.

He raised his right hand, palm out. No more, he said. I understand this time. I finally get it.

I actually felt my own head cant slightly to the right.

Really, Clarence? You understand this time? You finally get it?

Obviously he didn’t understand. He didn’t get anything.

If he’d understood, I wouldn’t be here and he wouldn’t be lying in the corner and lying about what he finally understands. And obviously he understands Mr. TJ Blackwell even less.

Because unlike Clarence, Mr. TJ Blackwell does what he’s told. For money. A contract’s a contract.

Basically, TJ serves as a clearing house. In common parlance, TJ takes to-go orders.

People, governments and organizations with a lot of influence, expressed as money, call TJ on the telephone. If their influence is lucrative enough, TJ draws up an all-sales-are-final oral contract with them, nothing in writing. Then he contacts one of his operatives via an untraceable message on a pager-like device called VaporStream. All metadata is gone like vapor the instant the message is opened and the assignment is read and accepted.

Apparently Clarence Griswell has visited with at least one other operative before today.

And apparently, despite his protestations, he didn’t get anything. Or not enough to make him truly understand the gravity of his situation.

And here I am.

All of that shot through my mind as Clarence wagged his palm side to side and then lowered it to his right thigh. It left a smudge of blood on his fine grey slacks as his nerves pushed his hand toward his knee and back. His wife must have fits trying to keep his clothes clean. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore after today.

In deference to the fear he must be feeling, I didn’t laugh. I’m a professional, after all.

Instead, I tried to ease the fear a little.

I’m sure, I said, and crooked one finger in his direction. Come here, Clarence. As I said at the door, I only want to talk with you. On Mr. Parker’s behalf.

For a longer moment than I thought necessary, he only looked at me warily. The last guy Parker sent said the same thing. Only he beat me.

I laughed lightly. Well, so did I, I suppose, but only because you attacked me. Instinct, you know? Then I crooked my finger again. Come on. Seriously, this will all be over in another minute or two. Then I’ll let myself out and you can go about your business. I managed a smile. I have a nice, friendly smile, or so I’ve been told. I promise.

Clarence drew his left foot, which had been extended in the direction of the toppled antique table, up beside his right. Then he put his palms on the floor alongside his hips and leaned back against the wall for support.

He tried for a moment to work his shoulders against the wall as he pushed himself off the floor.

I could have told him that wouldn’t work. The laws of physics were against it.

But he finally figured it out, drew his feet farther back as he rocked forward and put his palms on the floor in front of him. Then he was up on his knees and hands, then only on his knees. Finally, positioned as he was in the corner, he put his left hand on one wall and his right on the other, and pulled himself up onto his feet.

He looked at me again from under his upper eyelids, his head bent slightly forward. You really only want to talk?

I nodded and crooked my finger at him for the third time. Come on, I said quietly, still smiling. It’s all right.

And he came toward me—three steps—then stopped and looked up at me.

My smile still in place, I said, But you really do get it, right?

He nodded. I get it. Really. I won’t be late to Mr. Parker again.

As he nodded, I glanced down just in time to see a spot of blood hit my vest between the second and third button from the top. But I was still smiling. So you trust me now?

He started to nod again, moved his head the slightest bit forward, then stopped. Maybe he saw the blood spot on my vest too. Then he mumbled, Yes. I trust you.

Still smiling, I said, Good, Clarence, that’s good. So then I need you to turn around for me. Your nose is a mess.

He frowned. I never realized before how deep the wrinkles could be in a fat man’s forehead. Turn around?

You said you trust me, right? So I need you to turn around and focus on the corner you were sitting in a moment ago. Don’t look down, though. Just look straight ahead.

Okay, he said, then shuffled his feet until he was facing away.

Now then, I said, breathing warm air on the bald spot near the back of his head. Concentrate on that corner. I’m going to make you feel a little better. A trick I learned in Haiti.

Haiti?

I nodded slightly to put the right tone in my voice, though he couldn’t see me. Now I’m going to touch your chin. Don’t be alarmed and don’t flinch. Just concentrate on the corner.

His shoulders trembled a tiny bit as he shook his hands, then flexed them, and he was ready. He looked at the corner, settled himself and said, Okay.

I reached over his left shoulder to gently cup his chin.

Then I grabbed the back of his head, snapped his neck and released him.

I might as easily have eased my .22 semi-automatic out of my right coat pocket and put a round where the base of his skull met his spine, but I didn’t want the blowback to get on my suit.

He crumpled face down, his ankles crossed right over left.

I was certain he was dead before he hit the floor. I heard the satisfying snap as his neck broke. But my instructions said to provide insurance. So from that safe distance of about five feet, I put a bullet in his head. Then I put two more next to the first one for good measure.

I only use low-velocity ammunition for things like this and I had a silencer on the pistol, so the only sound was a quiet pfft, pfft-pfft.

I looked down at my vest.

The blood droplet was tiny, but it was there, and it carried Clarence’s DNA. I pulled a Kleenex from the box on the table beside the couch and pinched the bloodstain, then went to Clarence, crouched and spread it over the three entrance wounds.

Then I picked up my brass, dropped them into my left jacket pocket, and straightened. I put my pistol into my right jacket pocket and removed my handkerchief as I approached the front door.

I was careful not to wipe away Clarence’s prints as I opened the door, let myself out, and closed it behind me.

How is he?

Chapter 2

A woman’s voice.

But his wife was out of town, and I hadn’t heard a car. She wouldn’t be home for another day or two. At least that was the plan.

I folded my handkerchief. As I stuffed it back into the breast pocket of my jacket I turned around, the smile on my face again. Pardon?

A little old lady at the top limit of middle-aged was standing several feet away. She was in the yard, but tentatively, just this side of the city sidewalk. She was squinting at me, her round little nose scrunched up.

A passing neighbor. Definitely not his wife. He was what, maybe 30?

The curls of her black and grey hair clung tightly to her head above a flower-print, matronly dress and below a fashionable palm-weave hat with a large brim. Her flat-heel tan shoes almost matched the hat.

She put one hand to her mouth. Her fingernails were a different red than her lipstick. Lighter, I think. I’m sorry, young man. I didn’t mean to startle you. I said how is he? Clarence has had the sniffles for the past week or so.

Oh. I laughed quietly. No, he’s fine. He’s over all of that now.

She smiled broadly and raised that same hand to the brim of her fashionable hat as a sun visor. "Well, I’m glad to hear it. You visited