Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (23 page)

Chapter
63

Allen
Green hit the jackpot the day after Whitaker lost his command.

Allen
had posted
The New York Times
artist's sketch online. The media and
public already knew the story of Whitaker and how he'd interrogated Allen in a
hidden room after the story broke. Within two days of posting it, reports
started to come in from California that the sketch of Whitaker looked exactly
like a man wanted in a police shooting. Allen immediately researched the
incident and knew the minute he saw the video footage from the police
department that he was looking at the man that had destroyed his life.
Whitaker, until he learned the man's real name.

Furthermore,
the hunt sped up as it hit its next stages. Reporters from dozens of newspapers
and TV stations were combing through photos of graduating classes at West Point
and the Naval Academy, hoping to find out who this guy named Whitaker really
was.

Better
yet, even former graduates and officers from all four branches were trying to
figure out who he was. This man had gunned down a cop and abducted a reporter
in some kind of unbelievable CIA-like conspiracy. You didn't do that, even in
the post-9/11 world.

The
public smelled blood and desired payback, and the media fanned the flames as
only the media could.

Chapter
64

"What's
our plan?" Tank asked.

He
and Whitaker sat in a corner booth of Waffle House. It was after midnight. Whitaker
needed some coffee and time to think, and Tank could always use more protein
for his ever-starving muscles.

"The
bottom line is we need to kill Nick and Allen," Whitaker said. "If we
do that, then their website goes inactive and eventually the public will move
on. We'll keep a low profile during that time and hope for the best."

"How
do we pull this off now that there's a sketch out of you? That sketch is a good
one, at that, and they may have your actual name before long. They'll find you
from your West Point annual. There just aren't that many West Point grads of
your height and who would have graduated in the time period that you did."

"All
true," Whitaker said, reminding himself yet again that Tank was no dummy.
The man had more than just bulging muscles. "And, of course, we really
have no intel or any way to figure out how to find them."

"Which
means, what?" Tank asked as he forked down a load of eggs.

"It
means we need to e-mail them through the website and arrange a meeting somehow.
And at such meeting, we kill them."

"Why
would they risk that? They'll know what we aim to do."

"That's
a fact," Whitaker said. "So, we'll need some bait to help bring them
in."

Chapter
65

Sen.
Ray Gooden sat behind his desk. It had been hours since he talked with Whitaker,
and it was now after midnight.

Gooden
had cancelled attending an important fundraiser with some Texas constituents
who had flown in by private plane, sending his No. 1 aide instead and
explaining a national security situation had held up the Senator.

Now
he rested at his desk. Half drunk. His tie loosened and his shirt a wrinkled
mess. He knew the situation was spiraling out of control right before his eyes,
and it was moving at a speed he found difficult to comprehend. Things were
moving at the speed of political campaigns, except in this case it involved
national security and too many felonies to count.

With
every passing day, the chances for a Congressional inquiry grew. Once those
began, the risks would further increase. There'd be tough questions asked out
loud and broadcasted throughout the country. There'd be asshole former military
officers, maybe even a few current ones, who -- too straight-laced and
honorable for their own good -- would leak info or even testify about what
they'd heard rumors of. These men had no idea about real national security,
Gooden thought. You couldn't protect all of America while following the law to
the letter. You had to blend it a bit, adding in some terrorism of your own.
You had to exist in that shade of gray, in an ugly world where nothing was
black or white.

But,
the speed and danger of this situation had Gooden more scared than he'd been in
a long time. Probably since he'd trailed Democratic candidate Bob Kile. Yeah,
this situation felt as dangerous as that had felt -- much worse than those
investigations by the Senate Ethics Committee.

Gooden
smiled as he remembered that firebrand, Bob Kile. He grinned harder and
thought, "Well, Bob, I'm betting that twelve-point lead and endorsement by
four different newspapers didn't matter much as your plane raced toward the
ground."

 Bob
Kile had been two days away from burying him in an election, and he'd still
found a way out. Now, he just needed to find a similar way to end this crisis.

Certainly
in just a day or two, the media would figure out who Whitaker actually was. And
from there, those bastards would start pulling that small thread and following
it to its source. And with so many recent deaths among his troops, and so many
of their family members and friends who may have seen or known Whitaker, the
risks were skyrocketing.

Gooden
felt his stomach rumble and wiped his sleeve across his forehead.

Oh,
they hated him, and he'd pissed off and attacked so many people that what allies
he had might turn on him this time. That was the problem with power. You had to
exercise it, and yet with each time you used it, you gained more opposition and
animosity.

Gooden
gulped down the rest of his Jack and Coke and slammed the glass on his desk. He
immediately refilled his glass, mixing it with about 70 percent Jack Daniels
and 30 percent Coke.

He
took another large swallow. He couldn't shake the thought that he needed this
to end fast. At this point, it didn't matter whether Whitaker and Tank lived or
died. He just needed them to either take Nick and Allen down or die trying. If
they succeeded, then Allen's website would cease being updated and the story
would soon die. If they failed, then there'd be the body of Whitaker, and Nick
and Allen could claim victory.

With
luck, Nick would return to the woods of Tennessee and a life of construction,
and Allen would win some kind of award and be offered some senior reporting
slot again.

There'd
be danger immediately after the death of Whitaker and Tank, but the CIA would
deny any knowledge of the men's group, which was of course the truth. The
public would again suspect the CIA knew very well about the group and its
operations. There might be some increased oversight from Congress and some
articles written, but it'd all die down soon. Too many terrorists out there to
hammer the CIA too hard.

Gooden
chugged the rest of the drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, further
soiling his shirt.

Damn,
he needed this to go down soon. Within the next day or two. Regardless of who
came out the winner, he needed it over.

He
refilled the glass again. What was this? The fifth? Or eighth? Or was it even
higher than that?

Gooden
didn't care. He had an aide and driver who could get him home, and in the
depths of the back of his mind, he could feel a possible solution coming on. He
stood and started pacing the room.

He
staggered in a line, back and forth, thinking hard and sipping his drink. Yes,
he liked this idea. He could arrange the showdown. Make it happen fast. And
then whoever won, won.

The
idea came further together. He'd contact Whitaker and Tank and claim he'd
changed his mind. That due to the urgency of the situation, he needed it
resolved quickly. Therefore, he'd decided to use all the political leverage he
had to have the NSA get involved one final time. He’d say they had the rough
location of Nick and Allen, so Whitaker and Tank should stage themselves at one
of their CIA cabins not currently in use deep in the woods.

Gooden
knew just the right location to put them at. It wasn't near anything. The two
sides could have their war, and the public would be none the wiser.

And
while Whitaker and Tank waited, Gooden would be leaking their location to Nick
and Allen. He felt certain Nick would overpower Allen and insist on going to
get them, even if it
was
a trap.

Nick
wouldn't allow Allen to bring in the cops. Allen was still wanted by the
police, and Nick probably wasn't in the clear either. Lots of bodies had been
felled, including one FBI agent who’d been operating officially in his legal
duties.

Yes,
Gooden thought. This could work.

He
pushed the "page" button on his phone, and when his aide picked up,
Gooden quickly commanded, "Vaughn, get me a clean laptop. Brand new. And
have our tech people set up a clean email account with no history. And I don't
want that laptop logged onto the Internet or anything else that might leave an
IP address or any other kind of internet history. You understand?"

"Yes,
sir. I'll start making it happen immediately."

Gooden
turned his speaker phone off and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the
drink that remained on his desk, but it no longer called him.

He
felt his confidence returning and allowed his political mind to strategize about
an upcoming hearing he needed to chair in two days.

Chapter
66

"You've
got to see this," Allen said.

Nick
looked up from his ninety-third pistol drill of the day. He only had seven more
reps of this exercise.

"What
is it?" he asked.

"Could
be the jackpot," Allen replied. "Got an e-mail from someone who says
they're in Whitaker's group. Says they want to give away his location so we can
take him."

Nick
grunted. "Sounds convenient. How stupid do they think we are?"

Allen
shook his head. "I don’t know. The e-mail is pretty long and detailed. It
talks about all the offenses Whitaker has committed and says he's giving up
Whitaker and his bodyguard -- some guy named Tank -- because they're out of
control."

Nick
smiled and said, "Sure they are."

"I
agree at first glance it seems like a trap, but I don't know. He talks in here
about how he didn't know Whitaker had shot a cop or started to torture
me."

"Keep
dreaming," Nick grumbled, completing repetition number ninety-eight.

"He
says this organization is pivotal to the war on terror, but it's gotten off track
under Whitaker's leadership. He doesn’t want to sell out his buddies. Just
Whitaker, who he calls a maniac."

Nick
finished his pistol drill and reloaded the weapon. He slid it behind his back
and walked over to read the e-mail. The e-mail seemed legit, but that meant
nothing.

"Tell
him we need proof he's telling the truth," Nick said. "Ask him to
send three different photos of Whitaker, as well as a good one of this guy
named Tank. If he's as close to them as he says he is, he should be able to get
them or already have them. Units are usually tight. I had photos of all my
buddies."

"Great
idea," Allen nodded. "I'll e-mail him now."

Chapter
67

Whitaker's
phone rang, and he recognized the number as a Washington, D.C., area code.

He
flipped it open and said, "Go ahead," having learned a long time ago
you never said your name when you didn't know who was calling. And sometimes
even when you did.

"Whitaker,
this is Gooden. Change in plans here."

"Go
ahead."

"This
whole thing is spiraling out of control, and it needs to end fast. So, I've
called in every favor I've got left with every friend I know in the NSA."

"And?"
Whitaker surmised.

"They're
going to do it. In fact, they're already doing it. They've got Nick and Allen's
location pinned down somewhere in the mountains of East Tennessee. They're
having more trouble this time, though. Allen has some tech guys from various
news organizations, as well as some really talented hackers, working with him.
You know how the hackers love conspiracies like this."

"Can
they get it?"

"They
say they can, but when they do, I want you and Tank nearby. Ready to strike.
Otherwise, their hackers may pick up that we've pinged them, and we'll have
blown our only chance. You know if they split, we'll have no way to find them
again."

"Where
do you want us?"

"The
CIA has an unused cabin way up in the mountains in East Tennessee. It's miles
from anywhere. Go there and wait. I'll text you the location. This might even
take a couple of days they say, but you two stay rested up. I want you ready to
move within minutes whenever we get their location."

"Sounds
like a plan."

"Where
you all headed right now?"

"New
York. We had every intention of nabbing Jennifer."

"Jennifer?
Who the hell is Jennifer?"

Whitaker
laughed. "Alan's sweetheart. We'd planned to use her as bait."

Now
Gooden was laughing, too. "You sick bastard."

"I
learned from the best."

"Indeed,
you did."