Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (13 page)

Chapter
35

Whitaker
drove down a waste barren street, deep in one of the worst ghettos he had ever
seen. He was still in Los Angeles, preparing for the strike against the rival
drug-running gang called the Hands of Death.

Empty
warehouses with graffiti-covered walls flanked the street, and Whitaker shook
his head in disgust. A plastic bag blew across the street in front of him.
Spray-painted dumpsters and trash-covered alleys seemed to be the only
noticeable landmarks.

This
was the new frontier, Whitaker thought. For centuries, it used to be the oceans
until men like Columbus broke them, and then later, the Wild West, which
Calvary troopers and unflinching, gritty sheriffs tamed. Then came outer space,
but man had mostly conquered it as well, putting a man on the moon and a space
station in the air.

Some
said outer space hadn’t been conquered, that the U.S. should now try to put a
man on Mars. But, that was all bullshit, Whitaker knew. The real frontiers
resulted from lost ground, where once beautiful towns had turned to
business-deserted, drug-infested inner cities.

The
days of negotiating with the likes of Sitting Bull and Geronimo had been
replaced by worried police chiefs trying to control large numbers of barely educated,
unmotivated groups of people. These groups of people were of all colors,
including white, but they shared a common tendency: they were beat down and
mostly uninterested in education or self-improvement.

They
would riot, burn, and loot what few valuable buildings they still had, given
the smallest reason.

With
every sensory gland screaming out warnings, Whitaker felt very much alive as he
traveled deeper into the deserted no man’s land of this ghetto. No different than
it was a good hundred and fifty years ago, he thought. He was the lone gunfighter
riding through town scoping out the enemy, his posse just behind him.

He
had passed three groups of thugs, each standing on street corners. These were
the black type, not Hispanic or white. Not that it mattered. They were all trash,
Whitaker knew.

Armed,
the men had eyed him and his black BMW with suspicion. Even Whitaker, the
daredevil that he was, knew he was pushing his luck. Whitaker was certain they
were all members of the Hands of Death. He figured they were packing pistols,
maybe an automatic Uzi or two among them.

But,
he was armed, too. Underneath his right leg, a fat Glock pistol lay packed with
seventeen rounds of hand-loaded, 9 mm hollow-point ammo. The rounds, crammed to
the limit with powder like some mid-Western silo stuffed full of corn,
dangerously pushed the limits of safety as to what could be fired without his
pistol exploding.

But,
Whitaker trusted his unit’s hand loader, one of the best in the country. More
important than safety, he wanted the additional knockdown power of the super-powerful
bullets, as well as the higher magazine capacity of the smaller nine-millimeter
round.

He
was watching the last group of thugs in his rear view mirror when his cell
phone rang. Few had his number, so he answered it. “Yes?”

“Sir,”
a woman said, “Sherlock Holmes reports a likely contact between their target
and Lone Wolf. Please advise.”

Shit,
Whitaker thought. Sherlock Holmes was the code name for two agents keeping an
eye on the reporter Allen Green back in New York. The two agents, a man and woman,
were pulling murderous twelve-hour shifts, taking turns relieving each other
while everyone tried to guess what Allen Green would do. Thankfully, the shifts
had been boring and mundane to date.

But
that must have changed since the term “Lone Wolf” was the code name for Nick
Woods.

Shit,
shit, shit. There was no way the two strung-out agents could take down Nick
Woods. Not likely anyway. Nick would have selected the rendezvous and scoped it
out to his advantage. It was routine sniper procedure. But, damn it, he
couldn’t allow the two men to make a connection either. Allen and Nick
together, if working in collaboration, would pose the most serious threat that
Whitaker’s unnamed unit had ever faced.

He
had no strike teams within range. Two of the eight-man teams were still in
Pakistan, and one was prepping for the bloody raid planned for tonight against
the Hands of Death. As for the last two groups, one was doing desert training
in the Mojave Desert, and the other was practicing building assaults in a rough
part of Seattle.

Who
else was available? He thought there might be a retired member of his unit in
upstate New York, but that man probably couldn’t make it to New York City in
time. For that matter, the man probably couldn’t even make a successful hit on
Nick.

It
didn’t matter. There was a chance of success, and unfortunately, freedom
demanded a heavy price. He would order an immediate hit on both of them.

“Sir,
are you there?”

“Yes!”
Whitaker snapped. He practically screamed.

Distracted,
he never noticed the stop sign he ran or the black and white police cruiser
that pulled out from an alley between two buildings. The car immediately
flipped on its flashing lights, which caught Whitaker’s attention.

“Shit,
got to go. I’ll call you right back,” he said, slamming shut the folding cell
phone before his agent on the other end could reply.

Whitaker’s
heart was throbbing, his hands shaking. He knew running was not an option. Too
many other cruisers and helicopters in L.A., not to mention he didn’t know the
area. He pulled the car to the curb, easy-like. No, his only option would be an
ambush. A brutal, cowardly ambush.

The
officer watched him warily from inside his cruiser once they were both stopped.
He bent his head to the side and said something into a radio. Whitaker was not
worried about that. His license plate was authentic, as was the car’s
registration. Both to a retired U.S. Army officer.

The
retired officer got paid good money for the small risk of letting Whitaker
borrow his car while he was in L.A. Whitaker would warn him to report the car
stolen as soon as he took care of this piece of business.

The
officer got out of the car, remarkably slow. Wary. Standing behind the opened
police car’s door, he looked about him, eyeing the thugs from the Hands of
Death standing on the corner behind them two blocks away. Satisfied all was
well, he shut the door.

The
officer was Hispanic and young. Probably early twenties. Of course, that made
sense. No veteran officer in their right mind would be patrolling this part of
town. They’d have earned safer patrol zones.

The
police officer was slim and wore thick black leather gloves. His short-sleeved
shirt revealed strong arms, not like a body builder’s, but more like a runner
or soccer player. His belt had the usual pistol, pepper spray, radio, and extra
magazines. He left his baton and shotgun in the car.

The
officer looked about again as he walked toward the car. His eyes remained
hidden behind reflective, aviator sunglasses. That would make it more difficult
for Whitaker. No doubt about it.

The
cop approached Whitaker, his body closely hugging the car providing practically
no target. Damn, he was good, Whitaker thought. In a different time and place,
Whitaker might have recruited him.

By
now, Whitaker knew a conversation followed by a distraction and a takedown was
impossible. This guy was just too good. And that sucked for him because
Whitaker would prefer to immobilize him and handcuff him, keeping him alive.

But
this officer had probably been patrolling this part of town long enough to know
that you didn’t think about sex or football when on duty in this area.

Whitaker
braced himself. This was the hardest part. One of them was going to die, or at
least get hurt badly.

Fuck
it, Whitaker thought as he grabbed the door handle and swung the door open.

The
officer, the consummate professional, was raising his hand, but not his voice.
“Sir, please stay in the car.”

Whitaker
knew the officer was thinking, “Nothing uncommon happening here. He had control
of the situation. Besides, the man was well dressed.”

But,
something very uncommon was indeed happening.

Whitaker’s
shoes hit the pavement and he stood, but his movements were slow and smooth,
very non-threatening. His left hand, purposefully visible.

Then,
things changed, everything moving too fast for the officer to do anything about
it.

Whitaker
twisted to face the man frontally and moved at a speed that screamed death. The
officer, only three feet away, realized he was in serious trouble. His right
hand was reaching for his pistol on his duty belt while his left moved toward
Whitaker to shove him off balance.

Whitaker
ignored the officer’s attempt and fired one-handed, his right hand holding the
pistol low near his beltline and out of reach of the officer. The shot
connected, hitting the officer low in the belly, but not penetrating the
bulletproof vest or knocking him down.

It
did stop both the shove and the draw of the man’s pistol. Instead, the
officer’s hands clutched his stomach, and his body tried to comprehend the
extreme blow.

Whitaker
fired again from his hip. The round hit in the chest area, twisting the man and
knocking him backward. Whitaker’s pistol extended and he aimed this time,
firing four shots into the officer’s back.

The
shots were fast, machine-gun like, and the officer had no trauma plate to
spread the shock along his back. The vest also probably couldn’t stop that many
shots that close together. It wasn’t designed for that.

Whitaker
didn’t care whether any had penetrated. As the officer jerked painfully and
further lost his balance, Whitaker kept shooting, walking the rounds up into
the neck and back of the head.

The
time for trying to take the man alive was long past.

The
man jerked with each shot and landed hard on the pavement, his head leading the
way. He jerked and shook in spasms on the ground.

Whitaker,
without even thinking, fired a final round into his head.

His
ears screamed from the shooting, a loud and annoying whistle. He hated shooting
without earplugs in.

He
glanced around, checking his blinds spots and eyeing the thugs two blocks away.
Convinced it was clear, he calmly changed magazines.

Whitaker
scanned the area one final time and climbed back into his vehicle. He refused
to squeal the tires as he pulled away.

Behind
him, the thugs from the Hands of Death looked on, impressed by the
well-dressed, white man in the BMW.

Whitaker
regretted killing the cop. There were not many of his killings he regretted,
and he was already certain this one would be the worst. Thankfully, he had
mentally prepared himself for it.

The
arguments were many. His unit’s mission was too important strategically for the
country when compared to what one good cop might accomplish. Not to mention,
the cop’s death would only improve the police force, making them train harder
and play it safer.

Crime-wise,
no doubt the death would create outrage, and the community would rise up with
the cops, determined to exterminate the vermin responsible for the man’s death.
That was good, except it would hurt his own drug trafficking efforts. Of
course, he could shift his boys and focus in some other city for the short
term. The crackdown might even break the Hands of Death for good.

He
was four blocks away now and certain he would get away. Probably in another two
or three minutes, dispatch would radio the officer inquiring why he hadn’t
checked in, as was standard for even routine traffic stops. They would scramble
their forces moments after that, and dispatch would know his license plate.

No
sweat, he thought, opening up his cell phone. He would just have to ditch the
car and call his unit for a quick pick-up.

Chapter
36

Nick
Woods beat Allen Green to Luzio’s and selected a table near the back. The place
reminded him of a Waffle House, a small rectangular restaurant with a long bar.
However, this bar had stainless steel vertical ovens behind it rather than an
open grill and used green as its primary color, instead of yellow.

Nick’s
waitress was a voluptuous Italian girl, probably in her early twenties. In a
“Luzio’s” branded white tee shirt that fit way too tight and with her hair up
in a youthful ponytail, she was hard not to check out.

She
took Nick back to a time before the brutal murder of Anne, before the horrors
of operating in Afghanistan, before the Corps. Back to his high school days,
when the place to go was a small ice cream shop in his home state of Georgia.

There,
it seemed some young hotty had worked at the local burger joint since the
beginning of time. They rotated through, usually just for a summer or a single
school year.

Nick
tried to clear his head. He didn’t need to be thinking about his high school
days right now. This meeting with Allen could likely be one of his last moments
on earth. It could turn into a modern day Alamo, with crack commandos firing
wildly as they overran him.

Well,
he had eight rounds in the pistol, and two magazines of seven to add to the
tally. He’d at least get a few of them.

And
perhaps a huge gunfight would draw the attention of the press, and they’d
finally crush whatever organization was behind this thing.

It
would be a small victory for Anne.

One
thing was for sure. Nick wouldn’t have picked Luzio’s to meet at. It had only a
single entrance and exit, which was about midway up the wall from Nick. Three
sides of the building contained windows. All it’d take would be for one good
sniper to pop him from a four-story apartment across the street.

It
wouldn’t take the sniper long for him to find Nick. He was one of only two
white males in the place. Four other males were Italian and one other older
male was black.

Shit,
you’ve really put yourself in a pickle on this one, Nick, he said to himself.

He
glanced down at his watch again. It had been twenty-three minutes since the
phone call. Frustrated, he took a sip of his Mountain Dew -- it definitely
wasn’t a time to be chugging a beer. He needed to stay sharp and alert.

He
saw Allen walking toward the entrance. He knew it was him before he could even
make out his face. Allen Green walked fast and glanced around anxiously like a
felon still wearing an orange jump suit.

He
walked in, looked around uncertainly, and focused on Nick. Nick waved him over.

Allen
had not changed much from the picture that Nick tore out of the newspaper. He
had long hair that was parted to the left, though carelessly. It was brown with
lines of gray intermingled.

Nick
guessed he was fifty. Sitting in front of him, Nick realized how small he was.
Probably five-seven, maybe one hundred and sixty pounds. His hands looked soft,
and his fingernails were round and even, almost manicured-like. He wore khaki
pants, a button up long-sleeved shirt, and a dark suit jacket over that. He
wasn’t the kind of guy Nick would strike up a conversation with back home; that
was for sure. Too much like a lawyer, preppy and metrosexual. Nick preferred to
hang around men who wore jeans and work boots.

Allen
realized as soon as he walked in that Nick was the mysterious caller with the
Southern twang. This guy, whoever he was, was straight from the movies. Tall,
lean, and serious.

He
wore dark blue jeans and a T-shirt.

The
man’s blonde hair was short, almost like a tuft on top, and even shorter on the
side. Definitely the preferred haircut of cops and soldiers.

The
man’s blue eyes could have been handsome, but they were too grave and biting.
His tee shirt showed a strong build, and his forearms, covered in thick blond
hair, would have made even Popeye jealous. The man had to be a mechanic or
something, given his forearms. His hands were sitting on top of each other, but
Allen figured they were calloused like sandpaper.

“Hey,
there, have a seat,” Nick said, though he immediately realized it had sounded
too country. He extended his hand.

“Allen
Green,” Allen said, trying to match his grip, but failing miserably. “Lying
journalist and child molester. What can I do for you?”

Allen
saw that the man still looked serious. As if he didn’t even hear the joke.

“I’m
not going to beat around the bush,” the man said. “There’s some mean folks that
intend to kill you.”

Allen
tried to show nothing.

“Maybe
I should order something to drink before our discussion gets too serious,” he
said.

“We
don’t have time for that,” the man said. “We need to be leaving right now.”

“‘We,’
you say?”

“Yeah,
‘we,’ if you have any sense.”

“Please
explain.”

“Look,
that article in the magazine that you wrote? I know it was true.”

Allen
was intrigued now, but still cautious. Perhaps this was a test to see if he
would admit the article was accurate, only to be killed later by one of
Whitaker’s thugs. He had been warned, after all, by Whitaker himself.

“How’s
that?” Allen asked. “Even I admitted I fabricated the entire thing.”

“I
know it’s accurate because you wrote about me, that’s why.”

“Really?
What part?”

Nick
looked about him and leaned forward. “Does the name Nick Woods mean anything to
you?”

Allen
nearly gasped. He knew his face paled. There was no controlling it.

Nick
Woods was the name of the sniper who had died in a “training accident.” That
was a fact only Allen, his editor, and his publisher knew. They had wisely
avoided publishing the name.

“Alright,”
Allen said, “I’m listening.”

“Look,
we don’t have much time. Read this.”

Nick
threw the article on the table that summed up the raid on his home. Allen
picked it up, and his eyes raced back and forth across the page. He finished it
so quickly that Nick wondered if he had actually read it.

“I’m
not sure,” Allen said, “what this has to do with you. Who is Bobby Ferguson?”

“I
was Bobby Ferguson until you wrote your article.”

“I
don’t follow,” Allen said, still confused.

Nick
looked toward the door and eyed a young man that entered. He was young, wearing
a jacket that could be hiding a weapon. No obvious bulge indicating a pistol,
but he glanced toward their table.

“Look,
I don’t have time to explain. I pulled off those missions you wrote about, was
sold out, and managed to escape back to Pakistan, where I made sure lots of
people saw me. Thankfully, I was smart enough to make up the name Bobby
Ferguson instead of telling the truth.”

“But,
didn’t your family see your face?”

“Look,
mister. My family doesn’t keep up with the news the way they do in other parts.
Now, we need to go, and quick.”

“Exactly
why did you come here?” Allen asked.

“To
warn you.”

“No,
what’s the real reason?”

Nick
sat there thinking. What was the real reason? Was it to warn this guy? Not entirely.

“I’ll
shoot straight,” Nick grunted. “I need your help. I don’t think you had child
porn on your computer, and I know for damn sure that article was dead on. I
lived it. But, I’m betting you’ve been visited by some nasty fellows. And, I’m
betting they fucked with you, just like they fucked with me back in the ’80s.
Someone needs to do something about this group. Who knows how many laws they’re
breaking?”

Allen
never said a word, just smiled, a bit eerie-like for such a soft-looking
fellow, Nick thought.