The Dunlap-Denman Hit

1: The Ingress

Around midnight I drove northwest from Huntsville to Menlo Park, Illinois. It’s only about a four-hour drive, and about a half-hour before sunrise I scouted the area, then climbed a 150 foot silver-painted rebar ladder in the pre-dawn darkness to get into position. I wasn’t wild about having to use that ladder again for the first stage of my egress, but it’s what I had.

Then again, there were no other high vantage points in the vicinity, the little farmhouse behind me looked like it had been vacant for years, and there were only two targets. Plus the hit would occur shortly after sunrisse. So it wasn’t like anybody would be around to interrupt my descent.

2: Waiting

Once I was in position—the eastern horizon was just beginning to set up a violet haze—I double checked the safety of the Browning X-Bolt .308 I’d brought with me, then sighted through the scope using the bottom knob of the top hinge on the door to zero in. Then I had to wait for the targets to show up, so I let the rifle relax.

Silas Dunlap, the primary target, would arrive from his house, a mile or so to the northeast, almost directly ahead of me.

But Jared Denman, the second primary target, would arrive from the northwest, so I rolled onto my left side to watch for a telltale rooster tail of dust from the dirt road while I waited.

The meeting is supposed to happen in the small, white, concrete-block office near the base of the silos on the far side of the field across the road shortly after sunrise. So probably in the next fifteen or twenty minutes. I hoped to pop them outside the building once they were both out of their vehicles.

Even if I weren’t here it wouldn’t be a long meeting. Just whatever time it takes them to say hello or nod at each other and for money and drugs and a little information about “next time” to change hands.

Only I am here, so there won’t be a next time. Not for those two. They’ve been running this deal for over five years, with Dunlap importing cocaine and selling it to Denman. Then Denman distributes it to dealers all over Menlo Park and the surrounding area.

Five years of that. Can you imagine the grief those two slugs have caused?

3: The Rationale

That’s one reason I mostly like my job. I’ve long believed Justice should be not blind, but a little nearsighted. Homicide as such should not be painted with a broad brush. Don’t get me wrong. Unnecessary homicide certainly should be a crime. But in my mind, necessary homicide—homicide to remove parasites from among us—is justifiable in every case, and the law should be clear on that. This hit on Dunlap and Denman is necessary.

Somebody got fed up with those two and contracted with my boss, TJ Blackwell, to make it stop. And here I am. And I sleep fine at night.

I’m an operative for Mr. Blackwell and his company, Blackwell Ops. I’m also a specialist. TJ usually only calls on me every two or three months when he’d rather have a target sniped from some distance away instead of going up close and personal.

Today the distance is only a little over 400 yards, so about a quarter-mile, though I’ll be shooting on a downward angle. It’s easy to shoot high when you’re firing on a downward angle, but I know how to make allowances.

Anyway, while I’m waiting, I’ll tell you about that “quiz master” thing.

4: The Quiz Master

Yeah. The Quiz Master. That’s the handle Federico Cantán slapped on me the first time I met him in Quito, Ecuador. I guess I asked too many questions as he drove me to a remote staging area at the north-east corner of the country. From there, we boarded a chopper piloted by Dave and Celia Jordan and they flew us into Colombia to erase a bad guy. All in all, it wasn’t a bad tri—

Oh. Hold on a sec.

A rooster-tail a couple of miles to the northwest. I’m betting that’s Denman’s car.

Let me just take a look....

*

I pulled my spotting scope from the right cargo pocket of my trousers, rolled onto my belly, then shifted around to face north and brought the scope to my eye.

In the pre-dawn light the windshield was a diaphonous blue and the face above the steering wheel was lit up like a full moon. It was Denman.

I put the spotting scope back into my pocket, then swiveled around to my left again. Frankly I’d expected Dunlap to show up before Denman did since he was the host. But I hadn’t heard anything from the northwest and his late-model Ford pickup still wasn’t parked outside the little building.

I frowned. Did he maybe park behind the building?

I glanced back to the right. The plume of dust was still shooting up behind the car, then drifting lazily east in a gentle breeze. At the rate the car was approaching, Denman would turn right onto the little dirt road into the field in less than a minute.

I wriggled forward a little, set my legs and feet where I wanted them, then took the riftle into my shoulder again and sighted on the bottom knob on the top hinge.

Perfect. As I’d learned from a little research on the internet, Silas Dunlap, in all his 63 year old brown-haired balding glory and in his lace-up boots, stands right at 5’9”. The center of his head would align almost perfectly with the bottom knob on the top hinge.

As I broke my cheek weld and took my eye away from the scope, maybe three-quarters of a mile beyond the little white building and the line of silos another plume of dust appeared.

There’s Dunlap.

His house and outbuildings are maybe another quarter-mile past the low rise he’d just come over. So he and Denman will arrive at about the same time.

Good. Perfect. Neither of them will think the other isn’t there and maybe call off the meeting.

As I put my eye to the scope again and watched Dunlap come closer, the first rays of sunlight glinted off the hood of his black Ford. Behind him, the plume of dust wasn’t drifting off the road at all. It was following him.

*

Anyway, I should bring you up to date. Very quickly, a few months after I first worked with Federico I teamed up with him again, this time in Iquitos, Peru. Dave and Celia and their helicopter were in on that one too. They flew us into the Amazon in Brazil.

In that one Federico and a special guest and I nailed around 30 bad guys who were planning a coup in what I later learned was a neighboring country. It was basically a small battle, but owing to their lax discipline and the element of surprise, it was also a very one-sided battle. Only a few of them returned fire, and none of us were hit.

That assignment was also special because I was able to take Aspen Delaney along, at least as far as Lima. So she took a minor vacation while I was away at work. Aspen’s the love of my life, and we were able to spend several days on the beach at Lima after I’d done my job. I’ve never worked nine to five in a cubicle, but I’m betting people who do don’t get bonuses like that.

Have I said how much I enjoy my work schedule?

5: The Targets Approach

Dunlap came on, swung the pickup into the lot and parked at the north side of the building. He opened the door and stepped out of the truck in his lace-up boots and jeans, a long-sleeved, light-blue denim shirt, and a blue ball cap. He started toward the little office building.

When he passed the hinged side of the office door, the top ball of the hinge disappeared just below the top of the blue ball cap. Perfect. And about the time he got the key into the doorknob and turned it, Denman slowed his car and turned into the little dirt road into the field.

Dunlap pushed the office door open and went inside. The door remained open, but inside everything was still dark. No east-facing windows.

As Denman turned his car left off the smaller dirt road and drove toward the little building, Dunlap stepped out of the office, a medium-sized black duffel bag dangling from his right hand. He raised his left hand in greeting to Denman.

Denman stopped the car maybe thirty feet from the building. The backup lights on the left rear flashed white through the dust as he shifted into Park. He powered down the driver’s side window, then leaned to the right in the seat. Maybe reaching for the glove compartment. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt.

Dunlap approached the car and set the duffel on the roof, then leaned his right elbow on the roof and crossed his lace-up boots at the ankles. He said something I couldn’t hear, then tipped the brim of his ball cap back slightly and grinned.

Denman’s left profile filled the driver’s side window again and I let the crosshair settle on his temple. I’d planned to pop Dunlap first, but I’d also expected both of them to be standing. It doesn’t really matter. Denman looked down as he shifted a stack of cash in three banded bundles from his right hand to his left, then turned his head to face the open window. As he reached the cash out to Dunlap, he smiled and said something, then rested his left forearm on the window opening.

The crosshair centered on his forehead.

Dunlap took the stack of cash with his left hand, uncrossed his ankles and straightened, then flipped through the stack with the thumb of his right hand. He shifted, stuffing the cash inside his shirt, then reached for the black duffel and pulled it off the roof of the car. He turned away, opened the back driver’s side door, and bent to put the duffel in the floorboard. As he backed out, straightened, and closed the door—

6: The Hit

I fired. With the sound suppressor on the barrel there was only a quiet pop and sizzle.

Denman didn’t even jerk. He slumped forward and to his left between the steering wheel and the door.

Dunlap’s bottom jaw dropped open and he gaped. And just as he realized he should run and his left boot shifted, I fired again.

The blue ball cap whipped away over the roof of the car and he dropped like a towel, his head near the front tire, face down in the dust.

Before the little puff of dust settled from the impact, my rifle was slung over my back, the strap cutting diagonally across my chest, and I was mounting the top of the ladder for my descent.

Two more in the books.

*******

Author Note

“The Dunlap-Denman Hit” is derived from the novel Blackwell Ops 43: Sam Granger | The Quiz Master.

About the Author

Harvey Stanbrough was born in New Mexico, seasoned in Texas and baked in Arizona. For a time, he wrote under five personas and several pseudonyms, but he takes a pill for that now and writes only under his own name. Mostly.

Harvey is an award-winning writer who has written and published over 110 novels, 10 novellas, and over 290 short stories. He has also written 19 nonfiction books on writing, 9 of which are free to other writers. And he’s compiled and published 5 omnibus novel collections, 29 collections of short fiction, and 5 critically acclaimed poetry collections.

These days, the vendors through which Harvey licenses his works do not allow URLs in the back matter. To see his other works, please key “StoneThread Publishing” or “Harvey Stanbrough” into your favorite search engine.

Finally, for his best advice on writing, look for “The New Daily Journal | Harvey Stanbrough | Substack.”