Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (11 page)

Chapter
28

Nancy
Dickerson pulled up to one of the roughest joints she had seen yet in Oak
Ridge. Why does the city allow them to keep operating this thing, she wondered?
She walked into a shabby office.

A
repulsive man sat behind a dusty, cheap desk. He was in his early thirties,
needed to shave, and wore a dingy T-shirt. Chest hair came up and out of his
T-shirt like bushes growing across a fence. Everything in her wanted to hurry
up and get home and get some sleep.

Nancy
pulled out her FBI badge and gave her pitch for the umpteenth time this day.
She was an FBI agent in search of this man. Yes, he might look slightly
different. The man took it all in and pulled out a cigarette. Nancy watched
him. Surely, he wouldn’t light it inside --

A
lighter appeared in his hand, and he lit the cigarette. The man blew smoke in
Nancy’s face and grunted, “That man is here.”

“In
town?” Nancy asked.

“No.
In this building,” the man said as his eyes took in her breasts. He rubbed his
crotch and Nancy wondered if he were a sex offender. Thankfully, he continued.

“In
fact,” the man said, “he’s back from some errands. I just saw him go in his
room about ten minutes ago.”

Nancy
wasn’t buying it. But, the faster she investigated his claim, the faster she
could get away from this pervert.

“Grab
the key and let’s go check it out,” she said.

Chapter
29

Nick
Woods was in his room packing up. He had canceled his physical training, pistol
drills, and dry-firing practice with his rifle for the day.

Now,
nothing mattered but time. Some man he’d never met named Allen Green was hours,
maybe days from dying. It all depended on the media. If the media stopped
writing about Allen Green’s story, then they would move in and kill him. No
doubt about that.

Nick
stuffed his dirty shirts and blue jeans into his pack. He wished he would have
hand washed them the day before and allowed them to hang dry across the shower
rack.

Well,
he could wash them in New York somewhere. Of course, Nick suddenly realized he
didn’t know the route to get there. You’re a damn fool, he thought, cursing
himself. He had been in the library with hundreds of maps and internet access
but had departed without charting a course.

You
need to stop acting like a greenhorn, he thought. He stopped for a second,
debating a brief return to the library. No, he could just hop on one of the
interstates heading north, either I-81 or I-75, and get a map later.

Shit.
He was losing his composure. He bent over to cinch down the pack when he heard
footsteps at the door. Someone knocked and said, “FBI, open up.”

It
was a female voice. He didn’t move, afraid to make a sound. His hand grabbed
the .45 from behind his back and drew it. Maybe she would go away. Probably
just checking every door.

No
way, he thought. He had not heard her until just then, so she hadn’t knocked at
the doors to his left or right.

She
knocked again, harder. He heard a male voice say, “I just seen ’im go in
there.”

A
key or pick was inserted into the lock. He looked at the dead bolt on the door.
Fuck, he hadn’t bolted or chained the door in his urgency to get packed and
headed for New York.

He
started toward the door, thinking maybe he could get use his bodyweight to hold
it shut. His thoughts and actions seemed slow and thick in his panic.

The
door swung open before he could get to it, and there stood a woman. Her hand was
on the butt of a pistol. Her eyes widened in immediate recognition, and her
hand pulled the pistol holstered on her right hip.

Nick
wasn’t sure what to do. Was she was one of them? The covert unit who was
breaking who knew how many laws?

She
retrieved her pistol and Nick froze. Was she going to fire?

Her
pistol raised higher, he saw her finger tighten, and he ducked as her gun
exploded and launched a round by his head. Nick was already in the kneeling
position, the bullet having only missed him by inches.

Surely
this woman wasn’t FBI? She had literally tried to kill him right then and
there. All of these thoughts happened in milliseconds, and Nick’s reaction
followed. He hastily returned fire.

His
first shot wasn’t even aimed. He needed her to freak out and panic.

The
round caused her to scream, and she flinched. Getting shot at will do that to
you, Nick knew.

But
Nick’s recent practice of his drills took over as he instantly focused on the
black front sight of his pistol and the gun seemingly fired on its own. The big
.45 hit the woman in the chest and threw her four feet back.

She
landed on the pavement and Nick knew that being thrown back like that meant one
thing: bullet-proof vest.

He
stepped toward her to see if the fight was out of her. Maybe he could tie her
up, but from on her back, she raised her head and brought the pistol in his
direction. Her left hand moved up and molding to the pistol in a good two-hand
grip. At least as good a grip as possible after being surprised and suffering a
broken rib and cracked chest bone. Nevertheless, she was well-trained. And
tough.

Nick
had no choice. He aimed, focused on the front sight, and fired again. He saw
the results. His bullet hit her forehead and that was the end of that.

Nick
hurried to the door to see who the man was that arrived with her. He turned the
corner, and there stood the fat, stinking manager he’d met just days earlier.

The
man stood there, motionless and pale. Nick grabbed him, put the pistol against
his head, and growled, “Get in the room.”

The
man’s fear must have left him because he said “no” and reached for the pistol. Nick
saw the move coming from a mile away and yanked the pistol back.

Nick
kneed the man in the balls and the man fell forward, completely deflated. Nick grabbed
a handful of hair and pulled him into the room.

The
man fell and curled up in the fetal position, groaning and holding his groin
with both hands.

Outside
the room, Nick ignored the manager’s moans and looked around, scanning the
parking lot. Nothing but a few scattered cars and drape-covered windows.

He
saw no one though the shots had been so loud. Probably people were still too
scared to look out. He stuffed the pistol into his pants and rushed out to the woman.
He grabbed the pistol from her still warm hand and threw it in the room. Then,
he grabbed her legs and dragged her toward the room.

She
was light, Nick thought, as he noticed her gray dress, more of a suit really,
was still meticulous except for the blood stains. The shot to her chest had
brought no blood, thanks to the vest. The headshot had blown most of the blood
back. Pulling her legs, he dragged her into the room.

Behind
her, a trail of blood led to where her head had hit the pavement. Although even
a 10-year-old playing detective could have seen the blood trail and where it
led from a half-mile away, it didn’t matter.

He
had to move fast, and having no body immediately visible would gain him a tad
more time than having a body outside his door.

Inside
the room, he slammed the door and locked it. The man had righted himself and
sat against the wall, terrified. Too scared to even crawl toward the pistol
Nick had chunked into the room. Shit, that was stupid, Nick thought.

“I
knew I shouldn’t have rented a room to you,” the man snarled. “What are you?
Some kind of psycho wife killer?”

Something
snapped in Nick.

In
a blur, he ran
over to his
pack and searched for some rope. At that moment, when Nick had his back turned,
the man moved. He lunged toward Nick.

Nick
just managed to find the rope and spun to meet the man. The man threw a
haymaker, which Nick narrowly dodged by sidestepping left.

As
the man passed by him, Nick looped the 550 cord around the man’s neck. Before
the man could turn, Nick hauled the half-inch wide rope up and back.

The
man made a sucking sound of surprise as the rope burned into his neck. Nick,
trained in the art of garroting, shoved his back against the man’s back. And as
the man elbowed Nick’s ribs and kicked his boots into the back of Nick’s knees
-- both moves sent shots of pain through Nick’s body -- Nick bent forward.

Bending
forward pulled the rope tighter, and now Nick was lifting the man off the
ground. The rope had to be digging into the man’s throat, cutting off his air,
but all Nick could think of was the fat son of a bitch calling him a psycho
wife killer.

In
a way, Nick had killed Anne. And no other thought occupied his mind as the guy
struggled, the weight heavy across Nick’s right shoulder. Nick remembered the
argument. The faint gunshots across the steep ridge. His race back to his
house. And Anne’s body lying dead in the grass.

Yes,
Nick had killed her. And he would never forgive himself for not having been
there on the night she needed him most. Had he been there, she wouldn’t have
been so scared that she had resorted to grabbing a gun.

Yes,
Nick had killed her. And as a tear rolled down his cheek, he
realized the man was no longer moving.

Nick
let go of the rope and the body slid to the floor. He rushed to check the man’s
pulse, but it was too late.

Damn
it. What now?

For
a second, he thought about making the whole mess look like a drug deal gone wrong
or something similar.

No,
he thought. Just run. Keep it simple, stupid. The classic KISS principle.

He
stuffed the rope back into his pack, snatched the envelope full of cash from
beneath the top of the drawer, and closed the pack. He grabbed the rifle, slid
the bolt back far enough to see brass, and closed it. Hoisting his pack, he
reached for the door and stopped.

Shit,
his pistol wasn’t topped off. He had fired what, once, twice? Fuck it, no time.
He opened the door and scanned the parking lot. A woman was watching from an
open door about thirty feet away. He half-directed the rifle toward her, and
she screamed as she ducked inside and slammed the door.

The
cops were probably on their way, but he didn’t need her to see what he was
driving. He unlocked the green Caprice, threw the pack across the seat, and
laid his rifle, stock down, in the floorboard of the passenger seat.

He
turned the key, and the engine roared to life -- thank God for small favors. He
backed up quickly, slammed it into drive, and sped out of the parking lot. A
police siren was barely audible in the distance, and he quickly headed for the
busy turnpike of Oak Ridge.

Would
they have his vehicle description? Probably not, though the lady he’d pointed
his rifle at may have seen it and could now be calling it in. Would dispatch
have those details distributed yet? Not likely.

It
didn’t matter. He had to run. He’d either get lucky or not.

As
he drove down a neighborhood street, he crossed his fingers and hoped for the
best.

Chapter
30

Whitaker
heard about the shooting approximately twenty-five minutes after it happened,
the best he could figure.

An
aide told him the Oak Ridge Police Department had responded to a “possible
shooting/armed white male menacing residents” call at 11:32 a.m. The police had
arrived and quickly discovered the bloody mess in the parking lot.

An
officer had noticed the drag marks toward the room and had run back to his car,
calling for back-up as he raced to the cruiser. He had immediately opened the
driver’s door, unlocked the shotgun, and hefted it out of its console mount. When
the next cruiser arrived two minutes later, he was still kneeling in the space created
from the cruiser’s open door, his shotgun aimed at the hotel room.

By
then, dispatch had notified the two officers that a white male had been seen
leaving the parking lot in a boxy, large green car. Make and model unknown. An all-points
bulletin immediately went out. The two officers had finally approached the door
and tactically entered it, their guns and flashlights scanning the room.

They
discovered the two bodies, one female and well dressed and the other fat and
unkempt, passed over them to clear the bathroom, and then called for
ambulances. Seconds after calling the ambulances, the officers changed the call
to a non-emergency code for the ambulances. These two were dead, no doubt about
it, and there was no need for an ambulance to kill anyone in their rush to the motel.

The
two officers then left the room, careful not to disturb anything. It was now a
crime scene, and every piece of evidence needed to be preserved. The first Oak
Ridge detective who arrived found the FBI badge and quickly called the FBI
office in Knoxville to tell them they had lost one of their own.

This
came as quite a surprise to the FBI Special Agent in Charge, since every member
from his Knoxville office was sitting in a full command briefing with him.

He
immediately canceled the briefing and they scrambled, some working the phones
and some heading for Oak Ridge. The FBI leader made his first call about the
situation to his boss in D.C., who immediately called Whitaker's boss -- Sen.
Gooden. Whitaker's boss denied at first that any operations were ongoing in Oak
Ridge but then asked why the FBI leader was asking, suddenly interested.

The
FBI Director had said, “Sen. Gooden, so help me, if you are doing something
down there using real FBI badges, I’ll have two hundred Washington agents flown
in, and you won’t be able to pass gas without us knowing it.”

“Now,
now,” Gooden said. “I’ve got nothing going on.”

“You
better hope not,” the FBI leader admonished before slamming the phone down.

Sen.
Gooden had immediately contacted Whitaker, and as Whitaker ended the call, he
calculated what to do. No doubt he had lost someone. He really had two options.
He could flood the area in search of Nick Woods or call back the troops. Disperse
them so things didn’t get more complicated.

He
knew he had to go with the latter option. The exposure was already too great.
Shit, he thought. Now he would have to go on the defensive against Nick Woods.

Of
course, Nick could get caught by the locals or feds, but he doubted it. Nick
had avoided hundreds of Soviet troops and native Afghans after having his
location passed to them. And that was in a country where he couldn’t even speak
the language.

Yes,
he would have to go on the defensive and wait for Nick’s first move. He could
try to role-play what Nick would do, but where would that even begin? Even he
didn’t know what he would do if the roles were reversed. Nick wouldn’t know who
the enemy was, so what could he do?

Irritated,
Whitaker dialed the number for one of his team leaders. He would release the
retired ones and send his regulars on vacation or something. Just as long as
they got as far from East Tennessee as possible. And fast.

Whitaker
cursed himself for not memorizing who was in the Oak Ridge area. A good
commander would know that. He thought it was Nancy Dickerson. She was a pretty
good agent.

And
women made great operatives because men never suspected a woman to be tailing
them. Or to put a pistol in their face. They were a great tool. Or usually
were. But Nancy hadn’t proved a threat to Nick. That was for sure.

The
exposure wasn’t much of a threat. She, like everyone else, would have
legitimate paperwork to prove she was a bounty hunter. Furthermore, she had
three printed fact sheets for real east Tennessee fugitives. So, the locals and
feds would assume that some crazy bounty hunter was out searching for some con
while impersonating an agent.

Not
that rare of an occurrence actually. The chances the FBI would connect much
larger dots were small. Small, that is, if all of his agents got out of the
area without getting caught.

One
more armed “bounty hunter” carrying an FBI badge would make the situation
something more than a coincidence. It would spell disaster. The thought made
Whitaker’s stomach churn.