Blackwell Ops 19: Soleada Garcia: Hunting the Hunter: Blackwell Ops, #19

By Harvey Stanbrough

Solana "Soleada" Garcia in a vivacious but unassuming young woman of Mayan ancestry.

She lives in Mazatlán where she works out of her small apartment—as a professional assassin for TJ Blackwell and Blackwell Ops.

Despite her diminutive size, her disarming nickname—which translates as "Sunny"—and her unusually calm demeanor, she is also among TJ's best.

And now he has hand-picked her to go after fellow operative Charles Claymore "Charlie" Task, who has had enough and gone off the reservation.

But Charlie has disappeared into a time long before either he or Soleada Garcia were born.

Soleada is also only the second operative with whom TJ has shared the location of the time portal through which Charlie escaped the 21st century.

Will she find Charlie Task all the way back in the 1940s or 1950s? And if she does, what will happen?

This exciting ride, at first a crime-thriller and action-adventure novel, also delves into science fiction with time travel, and into magic realism with — well, everything that occurs around the edges of normal life in that place where reality folds into imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Mar 12, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224587902

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

Part One: The 21st Century

Prologue: TJ Blackwell

Present Day

After I talked with Charlie Task on the phone, I had an uneasy feeling in my gut.

Charlie agreed to come see me in a couple of weeks, exactly as I expected and wanted him to.

But— I don’t know. Something didn’t feel quite right.

Something in his tone, maybe.

Or maybe the level of his eager acceptance of my invitation. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. But something felt off.

I’m older, of course, so at first I marked my unease up to indigestion or something. I’m prone to indigestion and a few other maladies. Running what basically amounts to a worldwide network of assassins has its stresses.

For around sixteen years, Charles Claymore Task has been one of the best. But recently, he’s been adding to the stress more than helping to alleviate it.

Especially on his last assignment. Which I believe he intentionally botched.

And there’s only one thing to do about a wayward operative, no matter how reliable he’s been in the past.

Eliminate him. And so I’d cordially invited him to Denver.

*

Despite the Tums and later Maalox, the uneasy feeling persisted the rest of that day and all the next. It wasn’t even really a feeling. More like an odd, an almost ethereal sense, that something was amiss.

Had I tipped my hand somehow?

But if I called him again, he would certainly know something was up.

So I resisted the temptation to call him back that whole first week. That week stretched to ten days, then twelve. And finally I hit on a solution that wouldn’t involve Charlie directly.

I called an acquaintance at a major airline. I asked her to verify that the one-way ticket I had purchased almost two weeks earlier and reserved in Charlie’s name was still on the books.

Brightly, she said, Oh, I’m sure it is.

I forced a chuckle. Would you look anyway, please? Humor me.

Yes sir. Did you say Charles Task?

Yes.

One moment, please. In the background, computer keys started clicking. A moment later, she was back. Hmm. I’m not sure I understand why you wouldn’t know this, but—

On my end of the phone, I felt my forehead furrow. More stress. What? Just tell me! That might have come out a little more gruff than I intended.

Yes sir. I’m sorry, but the ticket appears to have been changed and then used.

Changed how? And when?

Let’s see. More tapping on the keys. Oh my. According to the record, it was changed the day after you bought it. You didn’t know?

"No, damn it, of course I didn’t know! If I knew, why would I be asking you? Changed how and when?"

Yes sir. Sorry sir. The passenger changed it himself from Denver to Hermosillo, Mexico. The flight left Miami two days after you purchased the ticket. And I know the passenger himself changed it because he used a credit card to make up the difference in the price. The name on the card is Charlie C. Task. Does that sound right?

I slammed the phone down. Damn it! He’s running!

And I know why. I had tipped him off.

On the phone, I told him I could have my secretary, Louise, shift some things around—future tense—to make time in my schedule for us to meet in a couple of weeks.

But toward the end of the conversation, I grew impatient. I finally told him outright to fly to Denver and meet with me at 3 p.m. in exactly two weeks.

Which of course told him I had already shifted things around. That our meeting wasn’t merely possible, it was already set.

I can’t believe I slipped-up like that.

But I also know where he went. His final destination wasn’t really Hermosillo. At least not the present Hermosillo. And I know how he got there. Only the first leg of his journey was via aircraft on my damn ticket. The important leg was through a space-time portal south of Hermosillo.

He skipped into another timeline.

I slammed the heels of both fists onto my desk.

Well, his plan to escape won’t succeed. Not in the long term.

Now, who do I have in Mexico?

Rather than relying on my memory, I brought up the master spreadsheet. I filtered the information by country, then eyed the names on the list.

Four of the five were Caucasian ex-pats, three men and a woman.

Hmm. This job might be more smoothly executed by a woman. There were only two women on the list, but only one name stood out: the luscious Solana Garcia de Mendoza. Señorita Garcia is more highly skilled in more varied areas than all of the others combined. And she can blend into the population at will.

I noted her telephone number, closed the spreadsheet, and picked up the phone.

Chapter 1: Solana Garcia

My name is Solana Garcia de Mendoza. My friends call me Soleada, which translates to Sunny in English. Those who are less familiar with me call me Solana or, more often, señorita Garcia. I am twenty-six years of age and have no plans to marry. What I do for a living is not conducive to marriage, or even to having a steady partner.

I was born in Colombia, but I have lived most of my life thus far in Mexico. I am just over five feet tall and far stronger than anyone would readily give me credit for. I am proud of my figure. My skin is like dark coral and my lips as so rosy I do not need lipstick to enhance my appearance.

I have long, thick black hair that occasionally entices men. But I was also blessed with eyes so dark they will stop most men from speaking before they even open their mouth.

The reaction is almost humorous. The smile in their eyes disappears. Then their lips form a thin, tight line. I can almost hear them rethinking their options.

Others are left with their mouth hanging open as they back away or quickly avert their gaze to something else that has suddenly captured their interest.

I admit, either affect is one I enjoy a great deal, but I do not laugh at them. I am not a cruel woman.

Well, unless cruelty is necessary or mandated by my job. In that case, I am simply doing my job.

I do specialized work for a man called TJ Blackwell.

Señor Blackwell is perhaps the easiest man on the planet to work for. He is not intrusive in any way, and yet a sizeable payment arrives each month in a Swiss bank account. Even in the months when I receive no assignments.

And as a woman, I do not have to put up with him. He is very old. But even if he were not, I have seen him only one time in person. That was several years ago—seven, I think—when I met him and agreed to work for him. In all that time, he has never even called me on the telephone.

Ever since we met, he contacts me only through a special device that is similar to a small cell phone. And even then the contact is not personal. He only sends my assignments through that device. It is for security, both for me and for himself and for his business. When I have read the assignment and pressed either the Accept or Reject button, the message disappears with no trace. The device is called a VaporStream.

The actual demands of my job are difficult at best, by which I mean they test my skills. I have never received an easy or fun assignment, though I have enjoyed a few of them. Unfortunately, those are rare.

Usually I do not know even why a target has become a target. Only that he or she must be the focus of my attention for a short time.

On the other hand, all of my assignments require one or more of my specialties, so I do not complain. And I am allowed to accomplish most of my objectives from a distance.

For others, though, I am required to introduce myself properly and to inform the person he or she is about to die. For those, I am required to conduct my job—How do you say it? De cerca y en persona. Up close and personal.

But I said a moment ago that señor Blackwell never calls me on the telephone.

That was true only moments ago as I began this account, but it is no longer true.

*

I had just prepared a light lunch for myself: an excellent crab salad and some dark crackers. But as I approached my chair in my small apartment in Mazatlán, I realized I had forgotten my shrimp fork. I always eat such salads with a shrimp fork. It takes longer and brings less food to my mouth at a time. So it enables me to manage my diet more closely.

As I walked past the corner of the kitchen again, the telephone rang.

I set the dish on the counter and took the old fashioned receiver from the unit on the wall. It is pink. Contrasted with the light yellow wall, it helps brighten up the kitchen.

But I was not expecting a call. Hola?

Although it had been many years since I had heard that voice, I knew it immediately. It crunched forth like the tires of a truck on gravel scattered over asphalt. Solana Garcia de Mendoza, por favor. He completely mangled the flow of my beautiful language.

"Señor Blackwell? What is wrong? You have never called me before."

No, no. I know. Nothing is wrong. I need an answer to a question. Um, una pregunta.

I laughed. Yes, I know what is a question. I think we should stick to the English, sí?

Thank you. I mean, gracias. I know that word. I could almost hear him smiling. I would not tell him it is pronounced in two syllables, not three, and that no part of it sounds like the description of a lawn. As I said, I am not cruel.

Through the smile that remained after my laughter, I said, De nada. What can I do for you, señor Blackwell?

Like I said, just a question or two.

Bueno. I mean, okay.

Do you believe in magical things like I have heard about from down there?

I shrugged as if he were in the room. Some of them, perhaps. The ones I was taught as a child. Those are fun to believe in. Except the chupacabra. The goat sucker. Those stories are meant to make children behave.

I see. Okay. Do you trust me, Solana?

That took me aback. I-I suppose. You have never driven me wrong.

"Steered. I have never steered you wrong."

I wagged one hand. Same thing. Driving, steering.

Okay. I have a special task for you. It is for you alone, but you may refuse it if it, um, frightens you. The task—

I frowned. I am afraid of noth—

I know, but this will be different from anything you have ever encountered. Please do not interrupt again.

Sí. Yes sir.

He took a breath. The task will appear in three parts, one after the other. Press Accept for each of the first two parts so I know you have read them, comprende?

Yes. I smiled. He meant comprendes, but I did not correct him.

If you press Accept for the third part, I will know you have accepted the assignment. If you press Reject, I might have to rethink our business relationship. Just as I would if you accept the assignment, but fail. But I will not be harsh. As I said, this is a very different assignment. He paused. Do you understand everything I have said?

Sí. I understand.

Thank you. Goodbye. And he hung up the phone.

I looked at the receiver, then hung it on the wall. I took a shrimp fork from the drawer and carried my bowl into the small living room.

What a strange phone call.

He did not speak of an assignment, though he did speak around one. He also moved slightly into the personal side of my life. Probably he is infatuated with Mexico. If he encountered the chupacabra he certainly would not be infat—

The VaporStream device emitted a tone.

Chapter 2: A Piecemeal Assignment

The tone had sounded sooner than I expected.

I got up and carried the bowl back to the cabinet, then went into my bedroom to retrieve the device.

I sat on the side of the bed and pressed the