Blackwell Ops: Soleada Garcia: The Subseries

By Harvey Stanbrough

Solana "Soleada" Garcia de Mendoza is a vivacious but unassuming young woman of Mayan ancestry.

Despite her diminutive size, her disarming nickname—which translates as "Sunny"—and her unusually calm demeanor, she is also among the best operatives in TJ Blackwell's network of assassins.

Trust me. You've never met a woman quite like Soleada.

This omnibus collection holds all seven of Soleada's Blackwell Ops novels and also features Blackwell Ops operative Charles Claymore "Charlie" Task.

If you enjoy thrilling action with a healthy dose of psychological suspense and even romance, you'll enjoy the rollercoaster ride of this subseries.

• Language: English
• Publisher: StoneThread Publishing
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224975396

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: My First Hit: Las Culpas NM

The sun went down about a half-hour ago. When it did, a light flickered on in the round aluminum shade mounted above the light-grey door that is my focus across the alley.

I am standing some thirty feet away, hidden only by the shadow of the corner of the red-brick building behind me and a steel dumpster with chipped and peeling green paint. I arrived here a few minutes after sunset and crouched, initially, between the dumpster and the wall.

An employee lifted the lid of the dumpster. Judging from his voice when he responded, "In a minute!" to a shouted request from someone at the light-grey door, he is a young male.

He dropped the bag inside with a shush, then let the lid drop. That made a sound that left my ears ringing for a few seconds.

His shoes scuffed on the dirt of the alley. So he had turned around.

I peeked around the corner.

Thin as a wisp, that one. Black hair beneath a black ball cap, a white short-sleeved shirt, black trousers and shoes. The thin strap of a long white apron—it reached almost to his knees—lay across his neck in the back. He crossed to the door, opened it, and went in.

The door remained slightly ajar against the door frame, but a moment later someone inside pulled it the rest of the way to make the latch click.

The sky was finally growing darker. I straightened and stepped into the moon shadow cast by the corner of the building behind me.

*

The alley runs behind Garza Pollo, a baked and fried chicken place. Judging from the cars parked out front when I drove past an hour ago and then again a half-hour after that, it is a popular place. Especially in the late afternoon and early evening, when those in the neighborhood decide to order pick-up instead of cooking at home.

I only had to wait, and I can do that. Patience is part of my job.

But I would not have to wait long.

According to my necessarily hurried research, the owner, Jesús Reynoldo Garza, comes in at 7 every morning to begin preparing for lunch. The employees arrive between 10 and 10:30, when he opens the front doors to customers. He stays through lunch and then through the supper rush, which typically dwindles at around a half-hour after sundown. So around 7 p.m. at this time of year.

Then he leaves.

That is the important part. He always leaves through the bland, light-grey door that opens onto the alley. He probably walks left to the end of the alley, then another two and a half blocks to his home, where he does whatever he does. Then he sleeps so he can be back at work the next morning at 7.

I checked my watch—it read 7:05—then returned my attention to the door.

A few minutes later, so right on time, the chrome door knob turned. Something made a muffled thump against the inside of the door, and it began to swing open.

Inside, the business was still going full blast, as evidenced from the sounds that slipped out through the narrow opening. The clinking of pans, the creaking of a spring—probably an oven door as it was pulled open—the sizzling of something cold lowered into a vat of something hot, and the distant, muted orders yelled inside among the employees.

The door opened wider and the sounds increased in volume. The faint scent of fried chicken wafted out.

Then a man stepped out. It was the first time I had seen him, but he matched the photo I had seen online perfectly.

He was shorter than I expected, though, at perhaps 5’6 or 5’7. He was also slender, so also not what I expected. Especially of a man who owned a fried-and-baked chicken place. His black ball cap featured a stylized and embroidered smiling red chicken head on the front. His thick greying-black moustache, neatly trimmed above his lips in the center, drooped an inch or so past them at the corners.

He wore a white, short-sleeved shirt with the same but smaller red chicken-head emblem embroidered above the left breast pocket, from which the top of a ballpoint pen protruded. And a red tie. A few discolorations had spattered the front of the shirt, just above the brown leather belt that held up his black uniform trousers. He also wore black shoes with thick, cushioned soles.

The only differences between the reality before me and the photo I had seen were the clean shirt and the broad smile in the photo.

I glanced both ways.

There was nobody else in the alley.

He turned his back to close the door and I brought the weapon up. I steadied it with both hands. I was nervous, but I was not trembling. That surprised me a little.

While his left hand was still on the door knob, he tensed his shoulders and his back slightly beneath the shirt, then twisted his waist as he firmly swung the grey metal door closed.

The edge of the door caught and complained for an instant against the door frame before the latch clicked into place.

The low front sight blade of the pistol was steady on my target. Not on the man but on the medulla oblongata, that small part of the man where the brain connects to the spinal cord. It is my favorite target.

I slipped my finger into the trigger well, took a breath and released half of it. I have done this many times before, but always while aiming at a paper target, either a bullseye or a silhouette.

Thoughts crowded into my mind.

*

TJ was right. He said I would not really understand until toward the end of my first hit.

In my case, the understanding began as I slipped my finger into the trigger well. That is when the realization of my intent came home full force. It was no longer fantasy. I was about to take the life of another human being.

More understanding came as I started to take up the slack that was my skin and the thin bit of muscle between it and the bone.

Am I actually doing this?

Of course I am. It is my job now.

Okay, then do it.

I thought that was the end of the understanding.

But still more came as I pressed through the miniscule bit of slack that was built into the trigger.

I had experienced that understanding before. That bit of slack is why it is important to squeeze, not pull, the trigger. Pulling will adjust the aim high. Just as anticipating the explosion and pushing or bucking the weapon, inadvertently forcing the barrel forward, will adjust the aim lower. Either might easily result in a miss and a frantic, panicked target.

Of course, paper targets do not panic. They only show embarrassing evidence that you pulled or bucked the weapon.

But this is not a paper target.

And of course, panic is a kind of pain in itself.

I do not want that. I do not want to cause him any pain.

But the only way to not do that is to either walk away or do my job. And I have agreed to do my job.

TJ’s words came back to me. How you react is a direct reflection on the reputation of the organization.

That is true. And even if the bullet still manages to violate the target after you pull against the trigger or buck against the weapon, the bullet will inflict unnecessary pain and suffering on the target.

Whereas steadily squeezing the trigger will result in simply putting him to sleep.

That is what I want. A gentle bullseye.

Not to harm him. Only to do my job.

Only to put him to sleep.

*

I completed the squeeze, and the gun bucked with the explosion, but not the bad way. Not forward. It bucked backward, up, and slightly to the left.

Thanks to the sound suppressor, the piercing explosion was barely loud enough to ricochet off the back wall of Garza Pollo. It died before it could echo again off the wall across the alley.

The man only jerked as if stunned.

For an instant I thought he was going to turn around.

Then his forehead contacted the door. I did not hear the impact over the ringing in my ears, but in my mind BAM! appeared in white letters in a black, multi-pointed star.

A sound effect from a cartoon? Is that appropriate?

I did hear a possibly lighter but much sharper thud on the door.

And his head slapped backward in an equal and opposite reaction to the impact of the bullet against and then into and then exiting from his skull.

The man dropped straight down.

For a moment I stared at the door. The oval imprint of his forehead was plain. It was pink on the door in the shape of one of those little plastic footballs. That imprint was centered in a larger rough circle of a million bright red dots. A larger, more solid, darker dot was centered in the oval and the circle. The sharper thud. The bullet. A bullseye.

Suddenly I caught up with myself. I bent to pick up the spent casing, a result of all the hours I had spent firing weapons on ranges.

Then I remembered to turn and walk away.

Chapter 2: The Egress, and Nerves

As I moved through the narrow opening between two buildings across the alley from the chicken place, my hands trembled a bit. I racked the slide of my Kimber and locked it to the rear. My pulse was pounding in my ears.

I unscrewed the sound suppressor and slipped it into my jeans pocket. Then I remembered again, this time to reach behind the left side of my black leather jacket with the barrel of the gun. I slipped the gun into the shoulder holster, then zipped-up the jacket and shoved my trembling hands into my jacket pockets.

Is this normal? Or usual?

As I neared the exit of the passage, I heard voices. But I was too keyed-up to be cautious. I kept walking.

As I stepped out of the passage, I glanced to the left.

A few houses away, two young children—a little boy and a little girl—were playing beyond a short wire fence on a swing set.

Only children.

Relief washed over me. I angled to the right across a narrow strip of dirt and weeds with bits of paper caught in them and stepped on the cracked and bulging sidewalk, and—

A woman’s voice called from behind me. Hey!

I caught my breath.

I cannot unzip the jacket without being obvious. I cannot get to my pistol.

My hands became fists in my jacket pockets and my shoulders hunched slightly against an expected impact. I almost stopped, crouched.

Then she said, Didn’t I tell you to get in here! Don’t make me call you a second time!

Again I was relieved. She was only talking to the children, although harshly, calling them inside. Maybe for their supper.

I frowned. What do I care why she is calling them?

I shook my head and kept walking, but I resisted the urge to run. Others might be peering through windows, or the woman herself might still be on the stoop. Like cats, people notice sudden movements more readily than steady movements. The screen door had not slapped the frame yet.

And then, just as I stepped off the curb and started past the back of my old, beat-up Toyota 4-Runner, it did. The sound was sharp, like the bullet hitting the grey-metal door.

I walked past the left side of my little truck, then quickly opened the door and slipped in behind the wheel.

And I took a very long, deep breath.

From the street, a passing man smiled and raised one hand.

I waved back, then started the truck, jerked the shifter into gear, and drove away.

As I shifted the gears again and turned a corner, my hands had stopped trembling.

Once I was on the highway and on my way home, random thoughts filtered through my mind. But they came calmly, as if keeping me company. Not harshly or frantically as they had an hour ago.

*

Only last night I was sleeping peacefully in my own bed. Granted, it was almost time for me to get up anyway, but I hate being awakened by anything other than my own alpha state. My sleep cycle is exactly three hours long, from dropping off into alpha, cycling down through theta and delta, then back up through theta and into alpha again. That is when most dreams occur, during the short time you are in alpha. That is why dreams so often wake you up.

Anyway, this is no dream, so that does not really matter.

My point is that I can get by on three hours of sleep if I have to. But for optimal performance I need two sleep cycles per night, so six hours. Despite common wisdom and what the so-called experts say, eight hours is too much, at least for me. Besides, at eight hours I would still be in the slower cycle of theta. If something wakes me while my brain is in either delta or theta, I am groggy and confused for at least a few minutes and usually an hour or longer. And I am not pleasant during that time.

It is much better to wake up while you are in alpha, just below the fully conscious beta stage when your brain is functioning normally. And three sleep cycles or nine hours is far too much. If I slept for nine hours every day, I would be sleeping away well over one- third of my life. That is too ridiculous to even consider.

It is bad enough that I have to have six hours each night. Even that is a point of frustration for me. If I could function well on only three hours of sleep, or on none at all, I would be perfectly fine with that. When you are asleep, you are not really alive. You only exist. And what good is having a life if you cannot observe it and participate in it?

But I know people who would rather be asleep than be awake. Sleep is a small death. I do not understand that mindset at all.

*

Anyway, as I said, only last night I was sleeping fine. And when the stupid VaporStream device went off and that small but piercing tone jerked me out of alpha, I was more than annoyed.

If I could ignore the tone for three minutes, the device would stop and whatever message was on it would disappear from my device and go on to someone else. But during that three minutes, the tone repeats every fifteen seconds. That is a lot to ignore. And for the record, folding your pillow over your head does not help. I tried it, but only one time. The next tone shot straight through the pillow and into my ear like a .45 caliber slug.

That is when I gave up. I muttered, Damn it! and in my mind I saw my mother’s disapproving face. But I threw back the covers and sat up, then swung my legs off the bed and stomped off to find the thing.

Fortunately, I did not have to go far, so my anger did not get a chance to build.

I snatched the device off my dresser and frowned as I flopped back onto the corner of my bed. I pressed the stupid On button. This had better be good, TJ.

It was. But I mean, it could not have been bad.

I gaped at the screen. It was real. The message read as TJ said it would. Brief and to the point.

It was my first assignment. The first I had received since I signed-on almost three months ago.

I took a breath and read the message.

Eyes only

TWP Jesús Reynoldo Garza

4722 South Cray

Garza Pollo, 4526 Madison Ave

Las Culpas NM

[Date Range]

He gave no reason for the hit. Nothing about what the man had done or even whether he deserved it. Still, after three months of accepting the money the company deposited in my account—the money served as a retainer—it was time to earn my new title.

This is as real as it gets.

Well, until I get to Las Culpas. That will be as real as it gets. And from that point, there will be no turning back.

No, that is not accurate. I crossed that line when I said to TJ, Please continue instead of getting up, thanking him for his time, and walking out. But that choice and the other possible futures of that life are behind me now. I must focus.

But the date range. It was only two days, a Saturday and a Sunday. And Saturday is tomorrow.

I frowned at the device. Jesus, TJ! You could not give me a little advance warning?

I took a deep breath and read the message again.

Okay, the first line said the assignment would not be offered to anyone else. It was only for me. He told me there would be messages like that. But the first one? So the annoying tone might not have stopped until I pressed the button to view the message.

I looked into the mirror near my bed and spoke to the image there. This is your true test.

Then I frowned. My hair was all over the place, some of it even standing out or on end from the electricity in the air. The oversized lavender t-shirt I sleep in was pressed against one side of my neck and almost off my shoulder on the other side. But I was not trembling with either annoyance or fear. That was a good sign.

I looked at the message again.

The second line was only TWP—terminate with prejudice—and the name of the target. Okay.

Then the target’s general location, Las Culpas NM, and two detailed locations. Those have to be his house and his business. Or the business where he works.

And then that ridiculously close date range.

No time for planning. I have to pack a bag and go.

I read over the message again to commit it to memory, then pressed Accept and got busy.

The message disappeared before I could even drop the device on the bed.

I pulled out my laptop first and went online.

I looked up Garza Pollo, Las Culpas, and studied the photos and read about it. Then I looked for articles that mentioned Jesús Reynoldo Garza. As the name of the business indicated, he owned it. I also found two human-interest articles that told me everything I needed to know about the man and his schedule. And another article, concerned with the grand opening of his business a year before, displayed a clear photo of him.

I closed the laptop, packed a small bag with what I would need for an overnight stay—just in case—then checked my weapon and both magazines, and headed out.

But now I am back. Now it is all right. The first assignment is behind me, and I am all right.

I passed my test.

Chapter 3: How I Got Here

Like I said, I am brand new to the profession.

Around three months ago, I called the toll-free number in a Blackwell Ops ad because the ad appealed to me. I still have no idea why, except it seemed mysterious. I do have special abilities as the first line of the ad asked, though it did not specify what kind of special abilities. I suppose I hoped the job, whatever it was, would match my interests and my set of skills. I like weapons of all kinds, and I am accomplished with them.

Besides, I was bored. I needed to break into a new world. I have always known those are all around me. They are around all of us. You know, the worlds we can all see but worlds to which most of us can never aspire: the world of spies or the world of billionaires or the seedy world where people like gun runners and people smugglers and child pornographers and the dark web are located. Okay, that is one most of us would not want to enter, but you get my point.

All those other worlds are Right There. We witness them or we hear about them almost every day, yet we know we can never touch them. But I wanted to find a way to get into one of those. What society calls normal is not right for me. I realized that long before my quinceañera, back when I was around nine or ten years old.

To appease my parents, I did graduate from high school. And I was ranked third in my class of over four hundred, but I never cracked a book. It was boring to me. I even spent almost two whole years in college. But that was boring too, and I enjoyed it about as much as I thought I would. Which was not at all.

The professors, even the few who still seemed to have operating brain cells, were so dull they could induce a coma. And none of them seemed capable of original thought. To me, that is particularly annoying.

Of my fellow students, the females comprised a world of prissy women, women who wore space panties because they apparently believe their biggest ass-et is out of this world, and innocents. I have time for none of them.

And the other side was either boys with male-buns—I cannot call them man-buns because there is not a man among them—or the jocks whose idea of a come-on line is a flexed bicep and saying something stupid like "Eh? How about that, baby?" Ugh.

But I have developed a look with my eyes that plainly says they should not test me. That they should go away. And they do.

And as for being radicals like the students in the last century when some of them made a difference? There is none of that. These students only want to appear to care about anything at all. They care only about themselves and what others think of them. Mostly they busy themselves with trying to remember the correct personal pronouns and inventing new ones. And they try to force everyone else to their will on very serious matters like that. They are spoiled. Blah.

But my fourth semester was mercifully almost at an end. I had already decided to tell my parents I was not going back to school. I could not take another semester of that stuff. And I would not. Only I had not quite figured out a way to tell them without giving one or both of them a heart attack.

Then I noticed a magazine that a lot of the boys with male-buns were looking at. Some of them even read the articles, although they did so only for vicarious thrills. In their real life, if they heard anything louder than two hands clapping together, they would beat a world-class sprinter to the nearest safe space. And probably they would also cower under a desk. They do not have a full ounce among them of that toxic masculinity everyone is always griping about.

So I looked at the magazine too. Mostly I looked at the ads. Voraciously. You know, just in case me finding the magazine was fate or something.

I did read the stories about the sidearms and long guns—that is my interest—but I did not learn anything new. And I was not interested in the we went there adventure things. Certainly reading about other people’s adventures is fine if that is what want to do, but I would rather have my own adventures, whether or not anyone ever reads about them. The whole point of life is to live, is it not?

I had almost given up on the idea of fate having led me to the magazine when one short, simple ad on the next to the last page of the classifieds caught my attention:

Do you have special abilities?

Want to put them to use?

Give us a call at Blackwell Ops

Real-Time Solutions to Real-World Problems

Then there was a toll-free phone number. Nothing else. No hype and no blather. Just mystery. The whole ad was maybe a column-inch long, including the white space above and below. It was not even set in bold type.

As I have already alluded to, the content of the ad was vague too. What kind of special abilities?

Still, the call was free, and I had been attracted to the ad for whatever reason. Plus, there are a lot of magazines and books for people who like to read about adventures. But I had a feeling this magazine was real. I think it is for those who actually live instead of sitting on the sidelines or in a recliner with a bowl of popcorn as they watch other people live.

I was intrigued, so I pulled out my cell phone.

But the battery was low. It would not do to have my phone lose the call in the middle of the conversation. And it was a toll-free number. So I walked down the hall to the nearest professor’s office and tapped on the door. Then I opened it and looked in.

He was not at his desk. Probably he was in class.

I checked my watch.

Or maybe he was gone to lunch.

I sat down at his desk and dialed the number, and—

I got a stupid machine. You have reached Blackwell Ops, where we offer real-time solutions to real-world problems.

Ooh, nice hook. I am sure I smirked. But that is in the ad too. Tell me something I do not know.

As most of them do, it offer me choices. If you have reached this recording in error, please hang up.

Okay, that is blunt. I like that.

If you require our confidential services, please have your credit card ready and press 1. If you wish to cancel a requested service, please press 2.

Ah, more mystery. Still, I rolled my eyes. This is almost as boring as college. Please, machine, get on with it.

If you would like to discuss employment opportunities—

Finally! That is the part I was waiting for.

"Other than as a Level-1 operative, please press 3. If you would like to engage in a pre-interview discussion and possibly apply to become a Level-1 operative, please press 4."

Oh oh. Questions began to pile up in my head.

All I know is that I have special skills and I want to use them.

So do I apply to become a Level-1 operative or do I apply for a job other than as a Level-1 operative? And how should I know in advance? What are the other than job titles? And what is a Level-1 operative? And how many levels are there? And what exactly or even vaguely would being any kind of operative entail?

But the machine answered none of those questions. Be advised, if you apply as a Level-1 operative, you will be under no obligation to the company until you complete the in-person interview and begin the application process.

I was flustered. How long do I have to choose? I quickly pressed 4 in about the middle of that last sentence. For my particular set of skills, operative at least sounded better than the other than jobs. For some reason, other than translated in my mind as less than.

But that last sentence: You are under no obligation until you complete the interview and begin the application process?

I frowned.

Are they even allowed to do that? I mean, can they put a potential employee under obligation for simply applying for a job?

On the line, a light click sounded in the background and another phone rang.

Chapter 4: Still on the Line

When the other phone rang, my shoulders and neck tensed.

This whole thing is happening too fast. Why am I still on the line? There are too many unanswered questions. Besides, I will probably be put on hold for an hour or something.

I moved the phone away from my ear, meaning to hang up. Maybe I can try again later, after I give this some more thou—

From a few inches away, the phone said, This is TJ.

I frowned and put the receiver to my ear again. Oh. Hello. I am interested in—

Excuse me, but before you begin, please bear with me. Company rules, you know. A mere formality.

Great. Another machine. Except the voice put me in mind of the old author, Truman Capote. Whoever recorded the message also sounded old. Like he was already alive when dirt was invented. I grinned.

The machine said, First of all, this call is being recorded. And then it coughed.

I arched my eyebrows. It coughed? So it is not a machine. Maybe it is Truman Capo—

You probably heard a click on the line just before I picked up. Second, do you—

Oh sí. I wondered if that click wa—

Young lady, please don’t interrupt me again. I don’t like that.

Definitely Truman Capote’s voice. But a little grouchy. Maybe he missed his nap.

I chuckled. Yes sir. Sorry.

"Now then, second, do you wish to engage in a pre-interview discussion with the goal of applying as an operative? If not, you may hang up now."

Hang up? "I—Uh, yes sir, I do. But may I ask, what is a Level-1 operative? I mean, is that like entry level or something?"

He laughed, and it came out more like a cackle. I don’t know why we call it that. There is only one level. You are either an operative or you aren’t. His tone said he was still smiling. So do you still wish to engage in—

Yes sir, I do. Ooh, sorry.

I scowled at myself for interrupting him again. I halfway expected him to hang up. But if he did, I would not call back. Well, at least not for awhile. Besides, he still had not said what an operative is. Or what an operative does. But then, that is not what I asked him.

He did not hang up. But he also said nothing about my second infraction.

For some reason I was relieved, and I frowned. Why do I want this so badly?

Good, good. First, give me your name and your date of birth please.

Solana Garcia de Mendoza. But my friends call me Soleada. And I quickly gave him my date of birth. No doubt he would use that to determine my age, which was fine. If he had asked, I would have told him I am nineteen years old. Though barely.

Thank you, Miss Garcia. That is acceptable. And where do you live currently?

I gave him my full home address, even as I wondered whether that was the smartest thing to do. But as he pointed out a moment later, it would not have mattered.

City, state and country are fine. We can find out the rest anyway.

Bam. One point for TJ, whoever he is. I said nothing. But country? So Blackwell Ops is international? Interesting.

Most of the rest of the conversation was him asking and me answering about my specific degree of skill with firearms and which firearms and with other weapons and which other weapons, including whether I was skilled in martial arts and which martial arts and at which levels. He did not ask anything about my so-called education.

That whole part lasted about fifteen minutes.

Then he said, And Miss Garcia, have you ever taken another human life?

I actually stammered. N-no, sir, I have not. I was not sure what else to say. "Should I have?"

I frowned. Was my answer flip? Condescending? Dismissive?

But he laughed again. Congratulations. You have successfully completed the pre-interview discussion. When you are ready, you are officially invited for a full interview. We’ll explain everything then and test your abilities. We’re located in Golden, Colorado. You may fly, drive or take whatever other mode of transportation suits you. If you drive, come to the following address. And he gave me the address. If you take other transportation, come the rest of the way by taxi.

Yes sir. So the trip would be on my dime.

Fine, fine. Now, to gain entry to the building, you must provide a code number to the gentleman you will encounter at the door. Are you ready, or do you need to find a pen or pencil?

I pulled out my cell phone and opened the note app. I will remember. I am ready.

Ah, one of those cell phone things. That will work.

Again I frowned. How did you know I am using my—

I’m observant, Miss Garcia. Your response was not immediate, so you obviously aren’t relying on your memory. You’ll work on that, of course.

I will work on that?

And I heard no rustling paper, so— Anyway, the code is— And he rattled off the seven-digit code: 2706822. Any final questions?

Yes sir. How long is the code valid?

He sighed and assumed an air of endless patience. We are looking for people with your particular skill set, Miss Garcia. If we were not, I would not have invited you for an interview or given you a code. Whether and when you come is strictly up to you. As I said, everything else will be explained during your intake interview. That said, the code is good until you appear at the door. And he hung up.

*

So me finding the ad in such an unlikely place was fate. This is my destiny. Maybe.

I have always thought there is no time like the present. I went to my dorm room and packed my things. I put everything I wanted to keep into a large duffel bag. While I was doing that, I put my cell phone on the charger. Then I left a note for my roommate.

When I had finished packing, I phoned my parents—they were both at work—and left a message that I was taking a mini-vacation. I would be out of touch for a few days to pursue an opportunity, and I would call them later to let them know how it went.

Then I drove my beat-up Toyota 4-Runner to a major airport. It was almost two hours away. But two hours after I boarded my plane, so shortly after 3 p.m., my plane set down in Denver. I rented a locker and stuffed my duffel bag into it. Then I went out front, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address. As I slipped into the back seat, I said, But you probably get a lot of requests to drive to that address.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror. "Not really. I don’t think I’ve ever carried anyone to that address."

Huh. I figured a lot of cabs brought applicants to and from the place.

*

The drive took the better part of a half-hour, maybe a little longer.

Maybe because I assumed the business was international, I expected one of those steel and glass skyscrapers. Or maybe pink granite or something in an odd shape with windows all over the place.

But this building was a plain, boxy three-story in heavy white stucco. There were no identifying marks on the outside other than a street number in chrome on the wall near the door. And no windows at all except the chrome and glass double doors of the main entrance. The place looked deserted.

The taxi driver thought so too. He glanced at me again in the rear-view mirror. This is it, Miss. You want me to wait ‘til you see if it’s open or whatever?

I stepped out and looked at the building for a moment. No, it is all right.

He told me the fare, and I paid him through his window. Gracias.

He only nodded, then drove away.

All around the building was nothing. The huge lot across the street was empty, and the nearest other collection of buildings—they looked like a newer housing development, all with the curved Spanish tiles on the roofs—was about a half-mile down the road to the north. To the south, there was only the road and more nothing on both sides.

I looked across the street at the building again, shrugged, and started toward it.

As I stepped up onto the curb and started toward the entrance, the right door opened and an older man stepped out. He wore heavy black combat boots, jeans, and a skin-tight black crew-neck t-shirt that showed off his well-muscled chest and shoulders.

Despite his age, he looked spry, and he towered over my diminutive 5’2". He had close-cropped white hair and overly bushy eyebrows over harsh blue eyes that I thought might have seen Hell first hand. It might even be his personal domain. Above his left eye was a blotchy, puffy pink scar not quite an inch across.

He retained his grip on the door, effectively blocking the entrance, and looked at me.

I stopped. My lips moved, but I was unable to speak. My right foot twitched as I almost turned away.

Almost without moving his lips, he said, Do you have a code number?

Uh, yes. Yes sir.

What is it?

I recited it.

He stepped aside, pulled the door farther open and gestured with his chin. Come inside, Miss Garcia. The elevator’s across the lobby. Level C. You’ll want C-4. But if you aren’t certain you should be here, you’re welcome to leave.

I frowned at him. Why would I leave? I just got here. But I only said, Thank you and stepped past him into the lobby.

C-4 is my favorite explosive, although I have not used it yet. Perhaps it is a sign.

Chapter 5: Blackwell Ops

The lobby was smaller than I thought it would be. It was as wide as the building, but it was not deep. It was also as undistinctive as the outside of the building. There were no pictures anywhere. There were no couches and chairs arranged in seating areas around animal-skin rugs, and no potted rubber tree plants. The headquarters of an international company should have those things, should it not?

But there was only an unremarkable golden-brown marble tile floor and a pair of muted silver elevators across the way.

I started toward the elevator. Below my jeans, my running shoes made that squeaky, squelchy sound and I wished I had worn something quieter. Even the elevator was bland. It lacked the usual indicator above it to show which floor the car was currently on. Just a button with an arrow pointing up. That was on the right side of the door. But at the moment, the elevator was on the main floor and the doors were open.

On the inside the car looked like the ones in every other elevator, except the floor was the same golden-brown tile. Otherwise there was only the same horizontal steel bar, about waist-high along both sides and the back. The heavy sliding doors sighed shut a moment after I entered.

Odd. The doors should remain open until you select a floor, verdad?

The keypad was a series of buttons in a single vertical row next to the door. At the top was the button marked C. I pushed it. As the car moved, I glanced over the other buttons. The next button down was B, and the next L. The next one down was marked U-1 and the one at the bottom was marked U-7.

So there are seven underground levels? More mystery.

I stepped out of the elevator on the third floor. The same tile covered the hallway. The walls and ceiling were a soft, muted white. Small, inset fixtures in the ceiling provided equally muted light. I glanced left, then right. There was nobody else in the hallway.

A series of brown wooden doors stretched away in both directions, all of them on the wall opposite the elevator. But the door directly in front of me was marked C-4.

I stepped out, knocked lightly on the door, then turned the door knob and walked in, as I had walked into the professor’s office. It is a bad habit.

The room was deep and wide. The floor was the same golden-brown tile, and again the walls were barren and the same muted white. Perhaps twenty feet in front of me there was a wide, impressive-looking desk in dark wood, maybe mahogany. In front of the desk was a single brown armchair. It looked like leather.

Centered behind the desk in a tall brown desk chair was a small, crinkled man. He was almost bald, with a few wispy tufts of hair on top and a horseshoe of short, mostly grey hair around the sides. Thick-rimmed black glasses had slid halfway down his nose. He was dressed in an unremarkable short-sleeved white dress shirt, from the sleeves of which protruded bony, apparently atrophied arms and hands. The back of the chair rose several inches above his head.

He looked up and pushed up his glasses. They immediately slid down again. Hello. And you are? Same as the voice on the phone. Truman Capote.

Solana Garcia. Or Soleada. I smiled, then recited my code number.

He smiled too and nodded slightly, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment. Not on my white peasant blouse and not on my jeans. But then, he is old. Then he said, Very good. He leaned slightly to his left, opened a drawer in his desk, and produced a file. He laid it on the desk in front of him, then leaned forward, his forearms on either side of it.

Without opening it, he looked at me again. Do you recall speaking with me on the telephone, Miss Garcia?

Truman Capote? How could I forget? But I only nodded. Yes sir. This morning.

He nodded. If everything you told me is correct, you’re acceptable. Then with a slight movement of his left hand, he gestured toward the chair in front of the desk. I should tell you, you may leave at any time during this process. If you don’t choose to leave at the moment, please have a seat.

I smiled, but in my mind I frowned. Again he mentions leaving. Do people often walk out unexpectedly? As I took a step toward the chair, he pointed past me. Excuse me, would you close the door first? And lock it, please.

I went to the door and closed it, then locked it.

Then I went to the chair and sat down. The arms were wood, but they were padded and covered with leather with the little brass tacks.

He watched me. Even with James on his post, I like to keep the door locked. A locked door doesn’t avert problems, but it can delay them for a moment or two. Remember that.

Yes sir. But I had simply walked in. Am I a problem?

He laughed quietly, the same cackling laugh I had heard on the phone. Of course I don’t mean you. You are not a problem, but I was expecting you. He rocked back in his chair, folded his hands in his lap and waited. Now, is there anything you would like to ask me?

He is playing a game. But it is on his time.

I said, Yes sir. How were you expecting me? I only just flew in, so—

He spread his hands slightly, still in his lap. Oh. I have eyes and ears, Miss Garcia. They report to me on matters that interest me. Those are some of the jobs ‘other than’ operative you were probably wondering about. He cackled again. But with your skills, you don’t want any of those. You’re bored, aren’t you?

Do I look bored? Excuse me, sir, I do not know—

Not right now. I mean bored with your life.

I frowned. Yes sir, I am, but how did you—

You were a straight-A student through your public schooling and through four semesters of college, yet you called me. He smiled. "Well, to be accurate, almost four semesters. You are also an expert marksman with several pistols and rifles and a fifth-dan black belt in three different forms of martial arts. Why didn’t you tell me your level of expertise?"

I shrugged. I did not want to brag.

He nodded, his gaze locked on my eyes. Anyway, yes, I was expecting you. I know when your flight landed. I also know in which locker you stashed your rather large brown duffel. G-15, right? I know the handles are yellowish—well, or maybe off-white—and I know what time you got into the cab in front of the airport.

I felt my jaw drop open. Again I was unable to speak.

He only grinned at me. "Do you feel an urge to leave now?"

No sir.

Still rocked back in his chair, he said, Good. Then please, tell me about yourself. He leaned forward and patted the file folder. Anything you didn’t already tell me during our phone conversation. Of course, please keep it pertinent. Then he leaned back again.

I talked for a little longer than an hour, mostly about my frustration with so-called normalcy and my desire to live my life. I also elaborated a bit more on some of my skills.

When I was finished, at first he only nodded. "Well, Miss Garcia, I have to say I’m impressed. Especially that you seem to march to the beat of your own personal drummer. As I said earlier, you are fully qualified mechanically, assuming you weren’t lying. Of course, if I didn’t assume you were qualified mechanically I wouldn’t have tendered an invitation and you wouldn’t be here."

He rocked forward, then stood up and started around his desk. He was wearing dowdy grey slacks with a narrow black belt and wrinkled black loafers.

Somehow, I was not surprised.

As he passed my chair, he said, Please, come with me.

I stood and followed him to the door.

Without looking around, he said, Again, you may choose to leave at any point until after we have returned to my office.

Behind him, I only nodded.

Across the hall, we stepped into the elevator and he pushed the button for U-5.

Neither of us spoke as the car descended.

Chapter 6: Tests

When the elevator settled, the doors opened on a pistol range. I stepped out behind him.

The range had twelve stations, side by side. Each was separated from the next by a thick sheet of Plexiglas. Most in-house ranges have only one station, or perhaps a few. Certainly not a dozen.

He adjusted his glasses on his nose. They slid down again as he gestured. When I say proceed, please move to Station One first, then Station Four, then Five. At each station, pick up the weapon you find there and deliver five shots on the target. At the third station, you will find two weapons. Use one on the left target, then the other on the right target. Of course, in every case, aim for center mass. Any questions?

Weird. And very specific. No sir.

Proceed.

I moved to Station One and picked up the Glock 19 9mm pistol lying there. The bullseye target was at the twenty foot mark. I started to rack the slide, but the weapon was already cocked. I brought it up and quickly delivered five rounds downrange.

I set the Glock down and moved to Station Four. There lay a .22 semi-automatic pistol. The target, a face-on silhouette of a bust, was 10 feet away. I picked up the uncocked pistol, racked the slide, crouched slightly and delivered five rounds to the nose of the silhouette. Then I put the pistol down and moved to Station Five.

On the left lay a .45 caliber Colt M1911A1. It was not cocked. To the right lay a revolver, a Smith & Wesson .44 magnum with an 8-inch barrel.

But there were two targets on the left, not one. Both were bullseye targets, one at 20 feet and one at 40 feet. A third target, a full-length silhouette, was staged at around a hundred feet away.

I picked up the Colt, racked the slide to the rear, and quickly delivered five rounds to the first target, then three more to the second one. With the magazine empty, the slide locked back. I laid the pistol down and, without changing my position, picked up the revolver and fired five more rounds to the chest of the distant silhouette. Then I adjusted my aim and fired one more round through the bullseye of the target at forty feet.

When I laid the revolver down and stepped back, TJ said, Let’s see how you did, shall we? He touched a button on the wall.

As I walked toward Station One all of the targets moved toward us.

He looked over the first target and nodded. You weren’t lying, it seems.

We moved to the second station. He pointed at the second target, the silhouette of the bust. I instructed you to deliver the bullets to center mass. Center mass on this target would be the throat. Why did you fire the rounds into his face?

"No sir, into his nose. With a .22 at that distance, that is where they would do the most good. There or the eyes. I shrugged. But I like groups." You could cover the holes in each of the targets with the lid of a jelly jar.

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. We moved to Station Five to look at the others.

Of course, the third and fifth targets had five holes each, but the fourth target had only four.

TJ frowned. "I said to deliver five rounds to each target. And to fire the last weapon only at the target on the right."

"No sir. First, I was expecting two targets at Station Five, but there were three. The 1911 holds only eight rounds. So I fired five into the first target, then three into the second. You did say to fire the revolver at the target on the right, but you did not say only. I fired five rounds with it at the last target. But with one round left, I put it where it would do the most good, into the fourth target."

He nodded. "Excellent response. I’m impressed with your marksmanship and your apparent ability to think on your feet."

He smiled wryly. And frankly, that was part of the test. If you had not engaged both targets on the left, you would have failed. Because things aren’t always as we expect them to be, are they? But you didn’t even hesitate, at least that I could tell. Of course, you passed. And thank you for the demonstration. He turned away. One more stop, and then we’ll go back to the office.

I followed him, wondering what might be on levels U-1 through U-4. And deeper, on U-6 and U-7.

But I did not have long to wait. And I wish I still did not know.

Because some things you can never forget.

But I will tell you some of it.

*

We stepped out of the elevator into a dank, darkened hallway. In front of us was a single, dingy, off-white door. Stark black letters at eye level read U-6.

TJ looked at me. When I open this door, you will witness horrors you have never witnessed. Would you rather leave?

I can still leave?

"Of course. Even after you’ve been inside, you will still be able to leave. Should the authorities pay a visit, we will know in advance, and we can always shift a few things around. Do you want to leave?"

I took a breath and shook my head. No.

All right. He paused. Are you ready?

I nodded.

He hesitated, and his voice grew softer. Are you sure, Miss Garcia?

I nodded again and said, Please open the door. How bad could it be?

TJ shook his head, then inserted a key in the door knob and unlocked the door. He turned the door knob and shoved the door open. Then he stepped aside and gestured for me to enter. He stepped in behind me and closed the door. The latch clicked plaintively.

Oh! I was so very wrong! I was not ready!

Nobody could be ready for what I saw, heard, smelled, and felt in that room, and all of it at one time. An assault on all of my physical and emotional senses.

Of course, I could not have known that, but he had tried to warn me.

I am a fool.

The air was heavy with a kind of humidity. My nose told me it was from sweat and body odor.

A single, bare, dim lightbulb dangled out of reach from the ceiling. And what that light revealed—

My eyebrows arched, and my eyes stung even as they opened wider. I actually felt my pupils expand.

Several hard metal chairs, their thin plywood seats attached with steel rivets, were scattered throughout the room. Several cot-sized mattresses also were strewn across the floor. And in various positions on the chairs and mattresses, live human beings, some naked and some partially clothed, gripped surfaces or themselves or others and sobbed or hissed or writhed and moaned.

Every surface in the room—whether wood, metal, concrete, block, cloth, or human hair or skin—was covered with various kinds of filth, adding to the stench.

The room was completely devoid of hope. None of the creatures looked at me or reached for me or said anything to me. Or to TJ. They did not even acknowledge our presence.

As I watched, one of them growled, lunged, then gripped and sank its teeth into the atrophied shoulder of another one. The biter jerked its head back and forth and came away with flesh. It began chewing.

The whole time, the torn one did not move or show any sign that it had even noticed the assault. It lay on a mattress, staring vacantly at the lightbulb.

TJ is behind me! Has he become one of these too?

I jerked my head around and looked at him.

He was the same as he had been, slightly stooped, his atrophied arms crossed over his chest, his bony hands gripping his triceps below his shirt sleeves. He gestured past me with his chin. At least that one will die soon. Otherwise he only watched. His deadpan expression had not changed.

I turned back, attempting to mimic TJ’s dispassionate gaze.

He must have meant the one who had been bitten, its flesh torn away.

I wanted to ask if we could leave, but I did not want the creatures to hear me speak. And I did not want to fail the test.

Then I caught my breath as one creature in the far corner of the room—

No. No, sorry. I will not describe the rest. Besides, I cannot. There are no adequate words.

And some things I have to keep locked away. Even from myself.

I think even Doctor Mengele would have been horrified at this room. At what I witnessed, his mind might have broken. I was not entirely sure mine would not break. But if I allowed that, would TJ leave me here? Is that what these creatures are? Failed applicants?

As if from a great distance, a soft, quiet voice permeated my consciousness. Shall we go back to my office now?

I heard the question, though my brain processed it more slowly than it was uttered. For a long moment, I could not tear my gaze away from the horrors. But horrors is not an adequate word. Especially to describe the actions I witnessed that I cannot say or write.

Why are they here? What did they do to deserve this? What event forced them into such a disgusting and morbid situation?

What I witnessed with my disbelieving eyes and nose were bad enough. But the sounds—I will probably hear those pitiful sounds for the rest of my life.

That TJ had said something finally registered. Then the question itself registered, and I was glad. But I could only nod. And I might have whispered, Por favor?

When we left that level, I was no longer curious about what was locked away in any of the other levels.

I never want to know.

Chapter 7: The Final Interview

When we were both seated in TJ’s office again, he said quietly, We’re almost finished. But first, after our visit downstairs, are you sure you don’t want to leave?

That room. I did not even want to identify it by saying its designation.

Yes?

May I ask about that room?

No. There is no reason. It was only another test. One that you passed admirably, by the way.

I frowned. How? I was certain I had failed.

With your lack of any oral or other physical reactions. And owing to your lack of an emotional display.

I nodded, staring at him. Okay.

Would you like to leave now?

No sir. I hesitated. No, I am fine.

He only looked at me for a moment, again, his gaze locked on my eyes. Finally, he said, Very well. Do you have any other questions? He rocked back in his chair and partially interlaced his fingers in front of his chest. He pressed his thumb tips together.

Yes sir, I do.

He nodded. Good. Ask them, please.

First, I understand that once I begin the application process, I will be obligated to—

He wagged a hand. I’m so sorry. My apologies for any confusion. We need to change that ridiculous recording. He shook his head. The application process is already underway.

Oh. I am sorry! I did not kn—

He put up one hand, palm out. Not to worry, Miss Garcia. You are under no obligation to the organization yet.

I frowned. "I am not?"

He shook his head. Not at all. As you said, you didn’t know. But you began phase one of the process when you gave James your code number and entered the building. He afforded you the opportunity to leave?

Yes sir.

"Yet you remained. You began phase two when you opened my door and walked into my office. Quite brash of you. I like that, by the way. If you exercise an appropriate level of caution, brash is good.

You began phase three when you accompanied me to level U-5 in the elevator: the shooting range. Excellent show of marksmanship. Maybe the best I’ve ever seen.

Thank you.

He raised one hand, palm out. You began phase four when you accompanied me into level U-6, and you began phase five when you followed me back into this office.

He held up one finger, "However, we are about to enter the final phase. In a moment, I will take a folder from my drawer, and you will open it. After you have read the information, you will choose either to leave or to stay. If you wish to stay, you must say that I should continue.

"If you choose to leave, there is no penalty. But this interview, the application process, and our conversation will end. You