Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (10 page)

Chapter
24

Whitaker
walked into a crowded room. It was a rented conference area at the Marriott
Hotel in Knoxville, and his troops were assembled. Tank -- his big-ass
right-hand man -- was with him, as he always was.

Whitaker
wasn’t in a good mood. Senator Ray Gooden had called less than an hour earlier,
questioning and threatening Whitaker for nearly twenty minutes. This was an
incredible amount of time for his boss to talk to him.

Gooden
served on the Senate Armed Forces Committee and usually used aides to pass
along direction. Gooden always kept his distance from Whitaker, but he hadn’t
today.

Whitaker
had known when he accepted the job that he was the fall man in case the whole
unit and its various operations were ever exposed. This was Senator Gooden’s
project, and Whitaker was merely one of several men to lead it. Most likely,
Whitaker wouldn’t be the last. Not as long as the crusty, old Texas Senator was
kicking.

Whitaker’s
troops watched as he ambled to the front of the table. They knew that Whitaker
ambling was not normal. Definitely a bad thing. Whitaker practically sprinted
places, never walked. And definitely never ambled.

They
were all concerned about what he was about to say though likely some would deny
it. He was likely to tell them to double their efforts or some other impossible
task like that.

They
had all heard stories about his service in Vietnam. How he had arrived as a
brand new lieutenant and had nearly been fragged within three days. A record by
all accounts. He volunteered his men for everything. Patrols. Ambushes. Guard
duty.

When
they were not behind their rifles, he volunteered them for work assignments.
They burned shit. Filled sand bags. Cleaned machine guns on the line. All
because he said they lacked discipline, and America had a war to win; and
apparently, Whitaker had decided he’d win it himself.

They
had hated him. Before his first contact, he had told the men and squad leaders
that any man who didn’t pull his share of the load during a firefight would
find himself on every dangerous assignment Whitaker could find. He had said
that if they were not naturally brave, he would make them brave.

Those
who showed an attitude or acted insubordinately were put on point during
patrols by Whitaker. The one that hated him the most and had thrown the frag, a
guy named Jones, had paid dearly for his hatred of Whitaker.

Jones
had been leading the platoon across an open field one day, mentally and
physically exhausted. Whitaker had kept Jones on point for six straight hours.
If Whitaker’s superiors had known that, they would have likely court-martialed
him. But they didn’t and never would because no one dared to cross Whitaker.

So,
Private First Class Bill Jones, a wily veteran with just thirty-two days left
in ’Nam, stepped on a mine that even a green replacement would have seen. But,
Jones didn’t because he wasn’t paying attention. Not that any man could have
been after six hours on point.

Even
worse, Jones was dizzy with exhaustion from being put on the ambush squad the
night before by Whitaker. Jones had also worked double duty the day before
that, filling sandbags while the platoon was in the rear at a firebase,
supposed to be resting.

Jones
was practically a heat casualty when the event happened. So trudging along,
fighting the urge to turn and gun down a boot lieutenant, Jones had stepped on
a mine pitifully hidden by a nine-year-old Vietnamese boy.

Some
in the platoon swore Whitaker smiled when the blast spewed blood and bone into
the air like a geyser. Whitaker had simply called a medevac helo and then had
the audacity to tell Jones as he lay on a poncho stretcher, “Son, your country
appreciates your service.”

The
story went that Whitaker had smiled like a madman when he said it.

Strangely
though, the platoon members eventually
grew to respect Whitaker, despite his maniacal reign. They became better than
the other platoons. Even tighter, because they had to endure more.

He
actually became a good leader, finally learning to take care of his men and not
to volunteer them all the time. None dared to smoke dope, and they began to buy
into Whitaker’s philosophy: a badass platoon that fought daily would take fewer
casualties in a firefight than a shitty one that made one bad contact with the
enemy.

Whitaker’s
platoon was lethal in combat. They would pursue the enemy with an intensity
befitting the best Special Forces troops. They walked a bit prouder because
they knew they bore a heavier load. Twice, their platoon, leading the company
as usual, wasn’t ambushed because of their intensity and alertness. Instead,
the Vietcong had ambushed trailing platoons that were walking and talking, some
even wearing headphones.

Eventually,
soldiers were requesting transfers to Whitaker’s platoon. The platoon had
earned the much-deserved reputation as the best platoon in the battalion, and
if you were a draftee who wanted to do some good
and
come home safe, you
wanted to be with Whitaker.

Whitaker
flourished. He fought the war with such intensity that before long, he went
from a platoon with twenty-three men to a company with more than a hundred men.
He returned to America after his tour was up, but ultimately, Whitaker missed Vietnam
and couldn’t handle the hippies.

Frustrated,
he returned. He worked in Saigon in intelligence. He re-enlisted and extended
his time and finally got to fill in as a battalion commander while only a Major.

The
power was incredibly addictive though Whitaker was only battalion commander for
three weeks. Seeing there were few opportunities for command and knowing he was
not cut out to wait to earn lieutenant colonel and command a battalion,
Whitaker sought other opportunities.

He
eventually finagled his way to working intel directly for Ranger teams, Long
Range Recon Patrol squads, and even a few CIA teams operating in Cambodia and
North Vietnam. He left the Army shortly thereafter and entered the shadows,
working for the CIA. And he had been in the shadows ever since.

“Alright,
people,” Whitaker said, finally stopping his ambling. He stood at the head of
the conference table since he never sat when he was in this kind of mood. His tall
figure helped remind them of the chain of command, which way it went, and
exactly where his position on it was.

All
thirty-one of his undercover people were in the room, and his three eight-man
strike teams were present as well. All wore civilian clothes, but they were
packing heat under coats, in briefcases, and in ankle holsters.

Looking
around the room at his people, he announced, “We are changing plans. Forget the
restaurants and the gas stations. Start checking out cheap motels. Also, start
pulling badges and drop the you-are-looking-for-your-friend story. We’re pulling
out all of the stops on this one.”

His
troops listened and tried to hide the concern. Whitaker’s change of plans
concerned them. None of them wanted to find Nick Woods alone. And they knew they
couldn’t call for back up with every possible confirmation made by some motel
manager. One of them would inevitably knock on some door and a very dangerous,
super paranoid man would answer.

Whitaker
understood this. Even knew this, but was willing to lose an agent to locate
Nick. Once he was located, Whitaker’s strike teams could move in, and they
would take him down. And if they couldn’t get there fast enough, the local law
enforcement could cordon off the area. They’d finally kill him though it mist
cost them some men.

Nonetheless,
it was a win-win situation as far as Whitaker was concerned. National security
trumped concerns for his people and local law enforcement.

It
was no different than taking a hill as he had done many times back in the Army.
You knew you would lose a few soldiers, but you took the hill. Holding a hill allowed
you to dominate terrain, and dominating terrain allowed you to win a war.

Killing
Nick Woods was a national priority because he was a threat to one of the
greatest, most effective operational units the CIA had ever created.

Chapter
25

Nick
Woods had been busy.

He
spent the day going through the classifieds of the local weekly paper,
The
Oak Ridge Observer
.

He
had found a car to buy, as well as a used rifle. Nick had made phone calls
about likely vehicles, narrowed it down to three, and then taken cabs out to inspect
the vehicles and talk to the owners.

He
settled on a 1982 Chevy Caprice. It was green, ran fairly well, and wasn’t too
eye-catching, being neither a complete piece-of-shit nor a shiny brand new
vehicle. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t draw the attention of cops or potential
witnesses. More importantly, it was a heavy, well-built car that could be used
to drive through a roadblock if necessary. It cost him twenty-five hundred
dollars, which he paid in cash.

Next,
Nick began looking for a scoped deer rifle. There were lots of them listed.
After all, it was east Tennessee, and deer season was underway. He narrowed the
decision down between a .30-06 and a .308. He went and looked at both, finally purchasing
the .308.

The
.308 was a Winchester Model 70 bolt-action rifle. It cost him $400, including
the mounted scope. He left the farmer’s home and went straight to Wal-Mart,
where he bought five boxes of shells. One hundred rounds. It was a start. He
left Wal-Mart and bought five more boxes of .308 shells at a gun store in west
Knoxville, as well as some targets.

As
the day was ending, he drove the Caprice to a large field and began sighting in
his rifle. It was way out in the country, north of Oak Ridge, in Morgan County,
and he knew the gunshots would not alert anyone. Everyone shot up here on a
regular basis.

However,
he was worried some armed, angry farmer might pull up. He didn’t know how he
would handle that. He just took his chances, and his chances paid off.

He
shot thirty-four rounds and got the rifle sighted in. More importantly, he got
somewhat comfortable with the rifle and its trigger, from the shooting and all
the dry-firing he did prior to finally letting loose. He picked up all of his
casings and target sheets before leaving and headed back to his motel room. He
needed a shower, some more training time, and sleep.

In
the morning, he would go to the public library, first thing.

Chapter
26

Nancy
Dickerson was tired. She had been driving from shitty motel to shitty motel for
the last eleven hours, following the change of plans ordered by Whitaker.

She
had only slept four-and-a-half hours the night before, and the search for Nick
Woods was taking a serious toll on her thirty-five-year-old body.

Today,
every stop had been the same. She would walk into a motel’s office, show a real
FBI badge (though she had never been a real agent), and then show a picture of
Nick Woods. There had been seven possible sighting already, which was understandable
since she was stressing to each manager that Nick Woods may have changed his
appearance.

She
had knocked on all seven possible sighting doors with the manager standing by
her side with a key. Each time, her adrenaline had been pumping, and she had
kept her hand on the heel of her nine-millimeter pistol. Each time, a man had
answered, and it had not been Nick.

More
than three hours ago, her search brought her to motels in Oak Ridge. She really
wanted to call it a day and get some rest, but Whitaker had explained this guy
was spying on the U.S. and had some top secret information he was trying to get
out of the country to China. It was vitally important, he had said, and she
believed him.

It
had to be.

They
had flown her from Los Angeles to take part in the search. And beginning today,
she and the other cohorts of Whitaker were flashing FBI badges, an action only
taken in the most extreme of circumstances. This man -- Nick Woods -- had to be
one of the worst enemies America could possibly have.

Chapter
27

Nick
woke up rested, though sore. After drinking his morning Mountain Dew and
throwing down two Pop Tarts, he jumped in the Caprice and drove toward the
public library. He needed to do some research on the FBI office in Knoxville,
and he figured the library was the best place to start. Nonetheless, he worried
there might be some video cameras in the library.

The
library was just down the Oak Ridge Turnpike, on the right side of the road.
Nick parked and debated leaving the .45 in the car. He debated the pros and
cons a few moments but decided he would live and die, win and lose, with it on
him. So, he kept it in the small of his back under a loose, untucked T-shirt.

He
walked through a set of glass doors and immediately panicked. Just inside the
doors was a set of head-high, gray security sensors. Nick didn’t know if they
were metal detectors or sensors that detected if books were being stolen. Nick
stood there stupidly, debating the issue.

A
man and woman heading for the doors stopped and watched him. A library staff
member behind the checkout desk stopped typing on a computer and looked up. Nick
was attracting attention, so he decided to go forward and if it went off, so be
it.

He
took a step, looked down at his watch to play off the awkwardness, and went
through the sensors. The sensors remained silent, so they were for books.

Nick
walked over to the magazine reading section. He wanted to map out the place
while sitting down. He had already stood out too much.

He
grabbed the day’s paper and sat in a wide, plush chair. The FBI raid on his
house was not on the front page, as it had been the day before. Nick decided to
thumb slowly through the entire “Nation/World” section just to make it obvious
he was not looking for the raid story, which he was now confident would be in the
local section of the paper. While flipping, he glanced throughout the library
and confirmed there were no cameras. He didn’t see any.

A
story grabbed his attention. The headline read, “Reporter who broke story, now
ridiculed.” The story was short, obviously the follow-up to a follow-up to a
much bigger story, but, it named Allen Green, the reporter from
The New
Yorker
magazine, and gave the gist of what happened.

This
reporter named Green had uncovered a massive story involving Nick and his
spotter’s actions in Afghanistan, gained immediate fame, and then resigned
after admitting it was false. He was now charged with storing and distributing
child pornography. His arraignment was nearly three weeks away, the story said.

Nick
stood and went to the library staff person behind the desk. He asked for past
newspapers. She pointed to a stack he hadn’t noticed. The articles from the two
days before shocked Nick. The reporter had most of the facts right about
America’s actions in Afghanistan. The major exception to this accuracy was that
Allen Green had written that both the sniper and spotter had been killed following
having their information leaked.

Now,
everything made sense, Nick thought. This hot-shit reporter broke the story,
and Nick (unaware since he didn’t keep up with the news) had gone to work same
as always.

Some
covert unit had immediately jumped on the ball and moved in to apprehend
Colonel Russ Jernigan, most likely, and they’d probably decided to use the FBI
to arrest Nick for the sake of speed.

Just
like that. Stop the collateral damage. Except that Nick had been fighting with
Anne and had stormed out of the house hours earlier. Something they couldn’t
have expected.

Nick
Woods knew he needed to get to New York to find this guy. A small picture of
the reporter was in the article from the second day. He looked around to
confirm no one was watching him. Seeing no one, he quietly tore out the picture
and the name.

One
thing was for sure, this guy would die in some accident soon if Nick didn’t get
to him.