Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (16 page)

As
Nick turned toward him and pulled the gray shirt over his head, Allen noticed a
thick line of scar tissue on Nick’s right shoulder. It was at least four inches
long and had the rough look of being treated by some miserable army doctor.
Hell, Allen had seen smaller scars on men and women who had lost limbs during
vehicle accidents and had them reattached. He guessed the scar came from a
gunshot wound that had been followed with lots of reconstructive surgery. One
thing was clear, there was no scar tissue on his back, which meant the bullet
had lodged in Nick. Probably had to be dug out, Allen guessed.

And
as Nick’s shirt came down over his arms, Allen saw just a glimpse of a scar on
Nick’s chest. It was round and about the size of a quarter. As the shirt came
down over the wound and Nick began to take off his blue jeans, the
quarter-sized wound took shape in Allen’s mind.

Nick’s
legs showed a smattering of jagged, healed wounds below both knees (mortar
round, if Allen had to guess),

But
Allen couldn’t shake the thought of that scar on Nick’s chest. He remembered
the location, centered where many cons plant chest tattoos. And as Allen
convinced himself it was some kind of marking or tattoo, he finally realized
what he had seen.

Nick
pulled on his shorts and tied his shoes while Allen tried to argue himself out
of what he had seen. But the harder he tried, the more convinced he became.

The
image on Nick’s chest was burned into his mind now, and it infuriated him. The
symbol -- one of Hitler's second most recognized symbol after the Swastika --
represented evil, and Allen felt a deep anger flare up inside him. It would be
simple to just let it slide or forget about it, but he couldn’t. No New Yorker
would. Hell, what was the worst Nick could do? Beat him into a pulp? Kill him?

Nick
was folding his blue jeans and stuffing them into the pack when Allen finally
found his voice.

“What
was that on your chest?”

Nick
stopped and looked up at Allen. “What?” he asked, having not heard Allen’s quivering
statement.

Allen
thought Nick was being a smart ass. Shaking, from both fear and rage, he
managed to stand, a small, diminutive man in his 50s. “I said, ‘What is that on
your chest?’”

Nick
didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew the little nut needed to quit
reading whatever the hell was in that book he had. The man’s tone and accent
really pissed him off, and he wasn’t afraid to beat a small man’s ass if he had
to.

He’d
give the twerp a chance to cool out. “What do you mean what’s on my chest?”

“That
symbol you’ve burned into your chest. Don’t deny it. I saw it, you racist
motherfucker,” Allen said, spitting a little and looking quite pathetic to
Nick.

“Oh,
this?” he asked, pulling up his shirt and showing off the burned scar, the
SS
.

“Yeah
that,” Allen said, practically yelling. He felt sweat forming in his clenched
fists.

“What
about it?” Nick asked, still perplexed.

“Oh
come on, you stupid bastard. You know what.”

“Uh,
no, I don’t,” Nick said.

“Bullshit,
where’d it come from?”

“Oh,
Germany.”

“No
shit,” Allen snapped. “And what’s it stand for?” he asked, no longer an
eloquent reporter from New York.

Nick
now finally understood, but Allen’s assumptions really pissed him off. “You
know, you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. You think this symbol is
some kind of racist trash, don’t you?”

“No
fucking shit,” Allen said. “There’s a few million Jews who can attest to that.”

Nick
looked down at the symbol again, the straight distinctive lines,
SS
,
and still felt proud of the tattoo.

“Listen
here, dumb ass,” Nick said through his teeth, about to lose control. “I’ve
never even met a Jew. The symbol stands for Scout Sniper, the term the Corps
uses to refer to its snipers.”

Nick
closed his mouth, inhaled deeply, calming himself before continuing.

“I
earned the title of Scout Sniper, so I burned this in my chest, just like most Marine
snipers do. Why this symbol? Because the German military revolutionized the art
of warfare, conquered half the world, and extensively used snipers. And as they
began to lose the war, their army provided an example few can match.

“The
Marines to this day study the German’s tactics of World War II. Their
Blitzkrieg tactics, their squad sizes, their delegation of command. And for me,
having this burned into my chest reminds me that … I don’t know, it reminds me
I need to be the toughest man on earth, that I need to be training at all times
because if I don’t, I’ll pay for it. Finally, that even the best can lose, as
Germany did.”

Allen
was at a loss of words. It was such a simplistic reason and probably true. He
knew he should just apologize, but he was still too angry and flustered.

Nick
stepped closer and slapped Allen easily on the face. “Hey big boy, thought you
were going to go to the mat with me there for a second.”

Allen
smiled, embarrassed, still scared, still mad. He tried to figure out a way to
apologize, but Nick cut him off.

“Come
on, let’s go,” Nick said. “You’ve got some driving to do, and I need to do a
little run.”

Chapter
40

Whitaker
was back in Washington in Senator Ray Gooden’s office. It was only the third
time Whitaker had reported to his superior’s office.

Doing
so was risky for Senator Gooden.

Following
Whitaker’s easy escape out of the ghetto after gunning down the officer, he had
felt lucky to be alive. However, his delight quickly transformed into outrage
and embarrassment for forgetting to call headquarters.

He
had wanted to order the hit on Allen and Nick while they were meeting in New
York, but then the cop had pulled him over and distracted him.

Now
that anger was growing into a sinking feeling of fear. Allen Green and Nick
Woods combined were worthy adversaries with their unique, complimentary talents.

Senator
Gooden sat behind his magnificent, boat-sized, mahogany desk reading a stapled
packet of papers. He seemed unaware Whitaker was standing in front of his desk,
at a modified parade rest. Whitaker had been in this position for nearly ten
minutes, and that was after a thirty-plus minute wait in the reception area.

Yes,
Senator Gooden was pissed, Whitaker knew.

Gooden
was a small man. About five-five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, he sat in a
small chair to understate this fact. He was well into his sixties though he
still had a full head of hair. It was gray and combed to the left, the classic
Washington look. He wore circular glasses and was always meticulously dressed
and groomed.

Today,
his coat was off, and Whitaker could see a gold cuff link on his right
shirtsleeve. Just above his left wrist sat a sliver of silver from a watch.
Whitaker knew it was a Rolex, no doubt a gift from some corporation.

Indeed,
Senator Gooden’s friends were many. And his enemies were dead. Either
politically or literally.

In
fact, the mysterious death of a democratic opponent for Texas senate had mired
Gooden for years. The opponent had been more than twelve points ahead in every
poll with the election just two days away when his plane crashed soon after takeoff
following yet another successful fundraiser. An investigation found faulty
wiring, which oddly had not been found in a preflight inspection conducted two
hours prior to taking off.

During
that campaign, four major newspapers had endorsed his opponent. Since then, the
number had continued to rise, regardless of the opponent. Senator Gooden was
hated. By the press. By his opponents. By the majority of the people across the
country, just not in Texas.

And
yet he kept getting elected. Everyone knew how dirty he was. He had taken
illegal campaign contributions. He had twice been investigated by the Senate
Ethics Committee for conflict of interest. But, with every opponent since
candidate Bob Kile, who died with his wife, four aides, and two pilots in a
fiery flash just outside of Houston, Gooden had easily been re-elected.

The
tactics were as brilliant as they were barbarous. Nude pictures of daughters or
wives of rivals leaked to media outlets. Strange investigations by the IRS were
launched. Unexplained endorsements for the Republican Gooden would emerge from
Democrats who had spoken poorly of him. Gooden believed a little dirt and
leverage could win any political battle. To date, he’d been right. And even
with all the ugliness in his past, he was as powerful -- or more so -- than
ever.

Texas
politician Gooden was ruthless, no doubt, but this corruption did not compare
to Senator Gooden, the defender of democracy, the mastermind of Whitaker’s
illegal unit to fight terrorism.

There
were years and years of history of illegally funding struggling minority groups
around the world with weapons and money. The mujahideen in Afghanistan, when
the Soviets were there and before it was even legal U.S. policy. And the
Northern Alliance against the Taliban following the Soviet departure.

The
Kurds in the Middle East. Most surprisingly, the Chechens against the now
democratic Russians, until the Chechens had resorted to barbaric terrorism in
Moscow. Nevertheless, Gooden still believed the Chechens should be funded to
keep the Russians from becoming a strong U.S. opponent again.

Whitaker
knew enough dirt on Senator Gooden to bury him, but he didn’t have the guts to
spill it. Senator Gooden was no different than a mob boss. He would get you,
even if he were in the confines of prison.

The
man finally laid the paperwork down and locked his fiery eyes on Whitaker.

“Good
afternoon, Senator,” Whitaker said.

“The
hell it is,” Gooden snapped. “You want to tell me what happened in California?”

“As
you know, we had a little situation.”

“No
shit. And why did we have a situation?”

“Because
--”

“I’ll
tell you why,” Gooden snarled. “Because you had to go out there on some kind of
damn stunt. Had to lead the troops, huh? Great. Now your face is on a videotape,
courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

Whitaker
swallowed hard. The thought of a camera in the police car never crossed his
mind, though he knew they were standard in the police departments of major
cities. Shit.

“Give
me a report on Nick Woods,” Gooden commanded. “I assume you’ve found him?”

“Unfortunately,
we haven’t.”

“Unfortunately,
I know that,” Senator Gooden roared back sarcastically. “I think there’s
something else you want to tell me about that situation, isn’t there?”

Whitaker
wondered how his intel was so good. Were there other units like Whitaker's
under Gooden’s belt?

“I
asked you a question,” Gooden chided.

“As
a matter of fact,” Whitaker said. “We’ve lost Allen Green.”

“No
fucking shit,” Gooden roared. “Don’t you think I would’ve liked to have known
that?”

“Of
course, but I’ve -- ”

“I
don’t want to hear it. You can’t find Bin Laden. You can’t keep a tail on Allen
Green, some stupid, liberal writer from New York. You go off like a cowboy and
waste a cop, and still don’t take care of the Hands of Death -- the very reason
you went out there.

“My
accountant says your funds are getting preciously thin, and those Hands of
Death thugs continue to undercut us out there. My patience is wearing thin,
Whitaker. You’re quickly coming to a point where I’m leaning toward terminating
your command.”

Chapter
41

In
Knoxville, the weather was clear. Still a bit cool, but sunny and beautiful.

Nick
sat inside a once plush, 1970s full-size van, watching the building where FBI
Special Agent Jack Ward worked through the scope of his .308 rifle.

The
window of the rear door of the van had been knocked out the day prior, and Nick
and his rifle were about five feet from the opening, deep in the shadows of the
curtained van.

Nick
waited in the seat of a captain’s chair, kneeling, with the rifle perched
across the back of the seat for support. With Nick’s head cramped against the
top of the van, it was a shitty position, but he was only shooting 260 yards.

With
the building’s doors sharp in his scope, all he could do was wait. Two days had
passed since his spout in the motel room with Allen over the
SS
symbol burned into his chest, but that was long forgotten. Though he knew he
was only moments away from taking the shot, he found it hard to concentrate.

Behind
him, Allen was smoking his third cigarette in five minutes. Allen kept thinking
of all the things that could go wrong. Someone could walk by the front of the
van and look in, Allen thought. Or, the employee waiting to take their parking
ticket might not be in his booth when they made a break for it after the shot.

He’d
probably be taking a piss, Allen worried. Well, it didn’t really matter now. Allen
had already called Jack Ward from a recently purchased, disposable cell phone.

And
there you had it: Allen Green, an only child raised wealthy by a dope-smoking
mom, was about to take another serious step back from his climb to the top.
He'd already dropped from award-winning journalist to accused child molester.
And now he was about to become a co-conspirator in the brutal assassination of
an FBI agent that was involved in a controversial shooting. Allen figured that
profile would warrant a short, sharp obit in
The New York Times
, which
oddly enough had always been one of his goals.

Usually,
only about three or four people had short
articles on them in the
Times
following their death. Famous politicians,
scientists, sometimes writers. Allen wanted to be one of those writers.

Well,
he thought, if you can’t make it in the front door, go around to the back. The
satire did little to cheer him.

Nick,
still behind the scope, wasn’t worried like Allen. In fact, Nick was far from
worried. He had that feeling you get before you knock on the boss’s door to ask
for a raise or to say you aren’t going to work another Sunday or Friday night.
He knew he needed to carry out this shot, but it was like finally knocking on
the door. You had to face the boss.

Nick
figured he could pass on shooting Jack Ward and live the rest of his life on
the run. Maybe find him a cabin somewhere. The covert unit would probably stop
looking eventually.

But,
like the cruel bastard of a boss who pushes some employees too far, Nick knew
he had to go through with this confrontation. After all, this boss was
responsible for Anne’s death.

Yeah,
he’d knock on the door all right. And if he got fired or killed in this
situation, so be it.

Any
doubts he had about knocking on the door were completely erased when Special Agent
Jack Ward stepped through the glass doors and onto the sidewalk. He looked
pissed, turning his head from left to right to meet whoever it was who had just
called and demanded to meet him outside. Alone.

Nick
knew the insolent piece of shit had twice told Allen on the phone that he was
in “Administration” and anyone with a tip about a crime needed to talk to “Investigations”
-- not him. After Allen insisted he would only pass along documents to Jack
Ward had the man finally relented. A real coward, thought Nick.

Nick
knew the type. Ward didn’t care about helping people or reducing crime. He was
in it for the paycheck, or bragging rights, or both. The eight-power scope
brought into grand detail the fat face and soft body. Jack was looking up and
down the street for his contact, and he looked agitated and angry.

Nick
figured Jack wasn’t happy to be away from his reports and stacks of paperwork
he probably enjoyed wading through. But it was time for Jack to get a cold
reality check.

Nick
pushed the analysis of Jack Ward out of his mind and focused on killing the son
of a bitch. The man was nothing but a total coward who had shot Anne because
he’d been too scared.

The
fears of meeting the boss were gone now. In fact, at that moment, Nick didn’t
care whether he lived or died. All he wanted to do was to exact revenge on the
disgrace before him. If Jack Ward’s superiors wouldn’t punish him, then Nick
would. He clicked off his safety.

Nick
had calculated the range, the bullet drop, and the windage. And as he pulled
the trigger slowly back, he thought about how this man had not only shot Anne,
he had tried to plant a weapon in her hands after the fact.

The
rifle exploded like a cannon, its sound amplified to a deafening boom in the
small, dark, enclosed van. As the gun knocked Nick back, his right hand was
already working the bolt to reload.

Jack
never knew what hit him. Like all long shots, the bullet ripped into him before
he ever heard the shot. Jack, now lying on the ground, screamed in panic and
tried to stop the blood pouring from his chest.

“Nick,
we need to go,” Allen said, his voice nervous. “Do you need to shoot again?”

Nick
put the safety on the weapon and pulled it from his shoulder.

“No,”
he said. “Unnecessary. It was a clean shot. Let’s go.”

Allen
started the van up and drove down the ramp of the parking garage, remembering
what Nick had said about getting in the enemy’s head. Killing enough of them would
make them ineffective, regardless of their overwhelming strength in numbers.

Allen
knew Nick had just fired the first shots of his war. He doubted the other side
had anyone as ready for this war as Nick.