Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (15 page)

“But,
that’s not the case against a couple of snipers. Each of the ten knows damn
well that the sniper will kill one of them. No chance involved at all. It’s all
calculated, practiced skill. Science, if you will. A shot will be fired, and
one man will die. No doubt about it. He won’t be wounded or maybe just lose a
leg or arm. No. Somebody is going to take one through the chest. Or maybe the
head, depending on the range.

“So,
this agent is going to die. And when he does, somebody who is responsible for
killing Anne is going to say, ‘Oh shit. Nick Woods is not only still alive,
he’s hunting again.’

“And
this somebody will try to rally his troops. Tell them they have every edge.
Nothing to fear. All that bullshit. And then another man, Colonel Russ Jernigan,
is going to die.

“And
then it’s going to begin to eat at them. They’ll sleep less and start to think
this shit isn’t so fun when you’re on the losing team. And their leader will
try to rally them, but it will start to seem fake. Like he’s trying too hard.
Or, maybe he’s never had to rally them before. And then the threads of the
organization will start to unravel.

“And
with luck, this leader will start making mistakes. Or, at least some moves
we’ll notice.”

Allen
didn’t know what to say. As much as it pissed him off, he found part of the
logic convincing. Still, he didn’t think the agent needed to die. He debated
his choices. He could ask Nick to let him out, and then send a warning to the
man.

Nick,
glancing over at Allen, had a guess or two about what he was thinking. “Hey,
partner,” he said.

Allen
looked back at him.

“You’re
still not sold on all this, so let me give you two more reasons. If that still
doesn’t cut it, I’ll let you out and you can live on the run. Or, face up to
those child pornography charges. Serve some hard time. Become bed buddies with
some stinking, three-hundred pound felon in the penitentiary.

“The
first reason you need to help me is because you know now. You know about this
group. You know how illegally they operate. They’re so above the law that it’s
scary. But you can’t plead ignorance anymore. While I know ignorance is bliss,
you and I have a moral responsibility to stop whoever is behind this group.
They're evil. Plain and simple. Almost certainly operating without
Congressional approval, maybe even without the President’s. Probably just one
man behind them. And, as you know, you have to fight fire with fire, so we’re
going to have to do some things that morally, we might wish we hadn’t had to
do.

“That’s
your high ground moral reason. But, there is one more. Believe me, revenge is
sweet. Why do little twerps, finally pushed to the limit by some bully, pull
out a knife and stab and stab and stab, even after the only thing under them is
a corpse growing colder? Because it feels good to finally get even with someone
who's tormented you and hounded you for years.

“Don’t
you see, Allen? It’s too late. The bully has already clobbered you. Bloodied
you, but good. He fucked with you and thinks he’s above the law. Arguably, he
is. And if we don’t do something, he’ll fuck with Jennifer and anybody else you
care about, too.

“Now,
the choice is yours. You know you have to pick up that knife and start stabbing
him, or he’s going to keep coming back. Some asshole named Whitaker will watch your
every move until the day you die. He will threaten you and be in your head
every second of the day. You’re going to be miserable.

“He
may even make you do something against someone else because he owns you now.
You’re going to have to stay away from Jennifer, and from your writing and
reporting. So, I’m saying, ‘Pick up the knife, Allen.’ Don’t be the bitch on
this one.

“Let’s
go do these guys. And, I promise you this. Whether we win or lose, live or die,
I'd rather die as a man standing up for himself than allow fear to rule my
life.”

Allen
glanced over and met Nick’s eyes. Nick smiled. Allen felt pretty sure he was
looking into the eyes of either a crazy man or one of the best combat veterans
the country ever produced. Maybe both.

Regardless,
the country boy from the South had convinced him. He was in.

Chapter
39

Allen
and Nick sat camped out at the Holiday Inn in Knoxville. Allen had taken off
for the public library, intent on doing all the necessary research on the FBI
office in Knoxville. Nick had said he needed to do some calisthenics and
weapons drills. Allen could only vaguely guess what that was.

Inside
the library, Allen made short work of his research. Like any decent reporter,
he began with a phone book. A cursory search revealed the FBI office location
at 710 Locust Avenue and its phone number. He jumped onto a computer and
searched for the address.

He
found directions to the office and printed satellite aerial photos of the
surrounding area.

Back
in the hotel room, Nick had showered after his brutal workout. He knew at some
point he would have to get Allen involved in exercising, too, for his own sake.
However, that could wait, at least until after this hit. Now clean and cool,
Nick was on the floor, lying down.

He
was dry-firing his unfamiliar .308, getting more comfortable with the trigger
and scope of the rifle he'd bought out of the classifieds section. He was executing
his seventy-third practice “shot” when there was a single knock on the door --
the signal that it was Allen.

Nick
took no chances. He lay down the rifle, pulled out his .45, and got behind the
bed.

“Come
in,” he said.

After
sliding the key card into the slot and entering the room, Allen hastily said,
“Alright, damn it. Put that thing down. No one is behind me.”

Nick
smiled, holstering the pistol. “Sorry,” he said.

“I
found the mother lode,” Allen said. He dropped off some printed copies of his
research onto the nearest bed.

“Great,”
Nick said, picking them up.

“I
had an idea, too,” Allen said.

“What’s
that?” Nick grunted, shuffling through the papers.

“We
need to do an interview with the local paper after the shot.”

“Say
what?” Nick looked up at Allen.

“Yeah,
we need to do an interview with the local paper after the shot.”

“I’m
not following.”

“Trust
me. It’s the power of the press. You have to at least acknowledge that we could
fail. That we could be killed without finishing the job, right?”

“True,”
Nick reluctantly agreed.

“Exactly.
We need to get as much of the story out there as we can. Just in case that
happens. This murder will give our story further creditability.”

“Yeah,
but it will get our faces out there, too.”

“Oh,
come on. Our faces are already out there. You’ve got a nationwide all-points bulletin
on both of your names. And, I’ll have the same on me when I don’t show up for
court on those child porn charges here soon. Not only does this provide some
insurance in case we fail, it’ll also hinder our enemy’s movement. Think of it.
Ten or twenty of the nation’s top reporters asking questions at the Pentagon
and military bases throughout the country. Regardless of how ridiculous the
story, the reporters will start digging. Believe me, I know these reporters.
Even something this outlandish will draw interest. And once that many start
digging, then it'll be impossible for the group to blackmail that many people.”

“Maybe,”
Nick said, measuring the idea.

“One
other thing.”

“What?”

Allen
pulled out a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket. He held it out to
Nick. “That lady you killed in Oak Ridge?”

“I
don’t want any more details,” Nick said, eyeing the paper and refusing to
accept it. “I’m not happy I had to do that. But she pulled and was going to
execute me right there. That’s the way my hand was dealt.”

“No,
you can sleep well from here on out,” Allen said. “She was definitely a fraud.”

Nick
snatched the paper, scanning the printed news article. The article quoted
several FBI agents who said Nancy Dickerson was not an FBI agent. Nor had she
ever been.

Allen
saw that Nick’s relief was obvious.

“At
least now I know I wasn’t making up in my head the fact she attempted to murder
me,” Nick said.

“Yep,”
Allen responded.

Nick
wasn’t sure what to do. He suddenly felt as if a major load had been lifted off
him. He had assumed she was one of Whitaker’s agents since she fired first, but
a nagging thought had kept telling him that perhaps she truly had been an FBI
agent. And that perhaps she had either panicked out of fear or seen the pistol
by his side.

It
might not matter to some, but it mattered greatly to Nick that the woman hadn’t
been a real FBI agent after all. That article was definitive proof that Nick
had acted solely in self-defense, and that made meant a lot to him.

He
already carried enough regrets.

Two
hours later, Allen and Nick were still in the hotel room. Allen was reading “A
Man in Full,” a novel by Tom Wolfe, on the bed farthest away from the door.  The
near perfect phrases from Wolfe never ceased to impress Allen. Allen was a fine
writer, but Tom Wolfe was great.

Across
the room, Nick was kneeling in front of the motel’s cheap chest of drawers,
looking over the aerial photo Allen had downloaded from MapQuest. He was
studying the picture, looking for the right answer, finding trees, rooms, and
parking garages where he could shoot from. It had taken him more than an hour,
broken up by sets of pushups and sit-ups, but he had found the best answer.

It
was hardly perfect. Just a parking garage located what looked to be two hundred
yards away. Nick did not know how high the walls in the parking garage were,
but he guessed them to be about four feet high. The simplest proposition would
be to park, walk up to the wall, and wait until FBI agent Jack Ward left the
building.

Nick
could leave the rifle leaned against the wall, hidden behind his body. To most,
Nick would just look like someone getting some fresh air. He could smoke a
cigarette for an added effect.

That
was all fine and dandy, Nick thought, until he had to make the shot. Then he
would have to raise his rifle and get behind the scope. Somebody would
certainly see him then.

Well,
that option wouldn’t work. At least, not within the safety parameters Nick
demanded. Sure, if the timing was right, he might be able to take the shot with
no one noticing him on the second level of the garage. But, that would require
some luck.

Actually,
if Jack Ward left the office after five, as Nick suspected he would, then it
would require some divine intervention to have no one on the second floor,
either walking to their car or driving down to the first floor exit.

Too
many people left work at five for Nick not to be noticed.

A
better idea hit him. They could steal a van, one of those ’80s, full-sized ones
-- the type with hardly a window on either side. They could park its rear
bumper against the wall, have a back window removed, and Nick could fire from
inside it. The van would allow him plenty of safety and concealment. He could
take the shot and have Allen play chauffeur as they left the parking garage.

Relieved,
he stood. His knees hurt from his long study of the photo. The recent intense
running hadn’t helped much. These aches reminded Nick that he hadn’t run in
what, two, three days? He’d have to take care of that. Maybe he’d have Allen
drop him off downtown, so he could run through what was now his AO, or Area of
Operations.

“Hey,
Allen,” Nick said.

Allen
looked up from his novel, lifting his head the slightest bit in the look of a
“yes?”

“I
got something you can do,” Nick said. “I need you to take me downtown and drop
me off. I’m going to do my run for the day, as well as check out this one
location from where I might shoot from. While I’m doing that, I was wondering
if you could get a map and find three routes from, uh, from …” he couldn’t
remember the name of the garage. He walked over to the printed “MapQuest”
photo. “From the James White parking garage to some mall inside of town. Just pick
one.”

“Okay,”
Allen said. “But, why a mall?”

“Because
it has a huge parking lot there that stays relatively full. My green Caprice
shouldn’t be noticed.”

“Well,
I can just look at the map and pick three routes. And, didn’t you already work
out today? Why do you need to run?”

Nick
realized Allen had a lot to learn about the craft of war. He remembered he
should be patient since he needed Allen and since his last argument with Anne
might have been different had he not lost his temper and stormed out on that
fateful night.

“Look,”
he said. “Yes, you could pick out three routes from the map, just as I could.
But, the map only tells you so much. You know, distance and size of the road.
You may pick what you think are the three best routes from the map and then
find out there’s traffic lights or busy intersections on one of them that you
didn’t know about. Hell, there may be construction, or a two-lane road may
actually only be one.

“So,
what I’m asking is for you to pick five or six routes from the garage to
whatever mall you choose. Once you’ve picked them, I want you to drive them all
and narrow the list down. After you’ve narrowed the list down to three, I want
you to drive each of them several times, until you’re comfortable with them.
Until you know them. Then, start driving the side routes of them.”

Allen
nodded, thinking Nick did indeed make sense on some things.

“And,”
Nick said, “I’m going to run because I need to, and because I want to see the
shooting location. You know, do a little recon.”

Allen
smiled, pulling a cigarette out from a pack. He lit it, sitting on the bed.
“How will this plan of yours end up working?”

“We’ll
steal us a van,” Nick said, “one of those old full-sized ones that doesn’t have
windows. We’ll park on the second or third level, whichever is best for the
angle of the shot, knock out the back window and back it in so that I can see
the front of the building. You can be napping or whatever in the back with me
until around five or so when Ward leaves. Hopefully, I’ll be able to ID him
quickly and get a good shot off. Then, it’s up to you to get us out of the
parking garage on whatever route you pick. Just remember, traffic will be a
bitch at five since it’ll be rush hour.”

Allen
blew out a lungful of smoke. “What if he enters a side door and thus doesn’t
leave out the front door? Or what if a crowd is exiting at the same time and
he’s among them? You know, maybe you won’t be able to get off a shot. And
frankly, I’m worried about the five o’clock thing. That’s a maximum number of
people out driving and walking about. Lots of eyes and ears are going to be
open, and we’re going to be leaving in some piece of a shit van that will be
missing its back window?”

Nick
hadn’t considered that. “You got any better ideas?”

“Not
right now,” Allen groaned. He stood, walked over to the sink and ground his
cigarette in it. He rinsed off the black stain from the white porcelain and
dropped the cigarette into the small hotel trashcan. Lighting another one, he
thought of a better idea.

“I
got it,” Allen said. “Let’s call him from a cell phone and ask him to come down
to the front of the building.”

Nick
nodded. That was good. Why hadn't he thought of that? Allen was trying not to
grin too much, using his cigarette as a prop, but the sides of his mouth gave
him away.

“That’s
a damn fine idea,” Nick said. “Plus, that allows us to control the timing of
the shot, we can do it in the morning at about ten or so, and it will keep him
standing still, as he looks around for whoever called him.” Now smiling at
Allen, he said, “You’re going to go a long way toward keeping my sorry ass
alive.”

“As
long as you do the same for me, we’ll call it even,” Allen said.

Nick
walked over to his pack and pulled out a worn, gray tee shirt to run in. Across
the room, Allen was sitting on the bed, ignoring his Tom Wolfe novel and
watching Nick. Nick pulled his shirt off. Allen was trying to size Nick up, to
look at his build, his muscle density, and the way he moved, judging him like a
gambler would a fighter about to step in the ring.

Nick
had a wiry, lean build and moved cautiously, in a smooth way, like he was
carrying a tray of full wine glasses at all times. Allen figured it was some
kind of sniper thing, since the toughest men he knew generally fell into two
categories. The thick weightlifters -- cops came to mind as an example -- moved
like elephants, puffed up and massive. While the small, gangster types strutted
around like roosters, staring down and sizing up those around them with
complete disrespect, fully confident the pistols and Mac 10s they were packing
would protect them.

But,
Nick was different. His manners and movements were more like those of a priest;
no, a monk. One of those Shaolin types. A humble, easy-going look that always
appeared balanced and smooth. It was the kind of look and attitude that
wouldn’t get many looks from other men or cause many fights in a rough bar.