Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (5 page)

Chapter
12

Outside
the house, the first three FBI agents stopped about two feet from the door,
holding their position. The first agent in the stack covered the door with his H&K
MP-5.

The
fourth agent, the breacher, moved up from the rear of the file with a
forty-five pound battering ram. Now in front of the door, he reared back and
swung the ram as hard as he could, aiming just to the left of the door handle.

The
ram smashed into the wood with a roar, knocked back the door, and set off a
screaming alarm that Bobby, in all his paranoia, had installed without Anne’s
knowledge.

The
door flew open and hit Anne's forearm, causing the cocked gun to swing right
and fire. The powerful .357 magnum exploded as it punched a massive bullet down
the barrel. The pistol was so loud that it temporarily overpowered the
126-decibel alarm.

Anne
had no idea if she hit anything or not. Sheer terror, magnified by the
screaming alarm, took over and she bolted for the back door.

The
breacher was spun around and thrown down by the massive .357 bullet. The jacketed
hollow-point entered his upper leg and smashed through his femur before exiting
out the back of his leg along with several bone fragments.

The
SWAT team froze, panic taking over. None of them had ever been shot at, much
less hit. Not to mention, the damn alarm had them frozen with its overpowering
sound. Their ears were ringing so loudly that they almost woozy from the noise.

Then,
training took over as the assault team leader screamed, “Shots fired, officer
down!” into his radio.

Now,
all the SWAT team members were trying to scream over the blaring alarm.
Suddenly, the first man felt a hand on his shoulder, as the second man hurled a
flash bang grenade into the room.

The
grenade blasted at over one thousand decibels and flashed with two million
candle light power. The officers burst into the room behind the stun grenade.

Anne
tore out the back door.

An
explosion behind her roared and lit up the entire house like a firecracker
lighting up a barrel. She stumbled over a root, falling hard and dropping the
pistol in the process.

Scrambling
to her feet, she could barely make out people in the backyard shouting over the
alarm behind her.

She
had to get into the woods. Bobby was there. Somewhere. He’d protect her.

She
saw motion running toward her off to her left. Someone was running at her,
pointing a pistol and screaming, though she couldn’t hear what he was saying
over the alarm.

She
had no fight left in her. Whoever these people were, there were simply too
many.

She
raised her hands to give up and show she was unarmed. But a flash and roar went
off from her left.

Something
hit her hard in the stomach and she tumbled. A searing, burning pain erupted in
her stomach.

On
her back, she struggled to stand, but her legs would not move.

Could
she be paralyzed? She tried to move her legs, but they didn’t respond. Panic seized
her and she screamed in an ear-piercing, heart-wrenching wail.

Numbness
spread and the world grew dimmer. The blaring alarm grew quieter. She lost track
of time but struggled to keep her eyes open.

Was
she dying? She didn’t know, but she felt so tired and sleepy.

Blurry
objects stood over her. She blinked her eyes to see them and realized they were
police officers.

How
odd, she thought, before fatigue beckoned her to close her eyes and go to sleep.

There
was someone running out the back door. FBI Special Agent Jack Ward screamed,
“Freeze, Police,” but, the person couldn’t hear him.

Actually,
he could barely hear his own words over the damn alarm.

“I
can’t let someone get away,” he thought. He pursued the “felon,” racing out of
the tree line, even if she wore a nightgown and looked non-threatening.

“Stop!
Freeze! Police!” he shouted, closing the distance.

She
saw him, and a cold fear overwhelmed him. “Holy shit!” he thought. She was
raising her arm, swinging it his way.

He
saw a gun. She was going to kill him, just like she had one of the members of
the entry team. He’d heard it on the radio. He raised his pistol.

His
hands seemed slow, as though they wouldn’t respond. It was like his senses were
inhibited by alcohol. But as he finally managed to pull the trigger, the sight
picture remained locked in his brain.

He
knew he had made a bad shot, hitting her low. He never even got on target again
before the woman fell from his sight picture.

Ward
ran up to her, to kick the gun from her hand. And that’s when he saw, she had
no gun. He replayed the scene in his mind of her running across the yard.

She
had been sprinting but had slowed when she saw him. And she had turned and
raised… Oh, no, Ward thought. She had been turning to raise her hands in
surrender.

He
looked about for the pistol. If he could just find it and place it in her
hands, he’d be all right.

Otherwise,
he might lose his job or end up in jail for shooting an unarmed woman. He
darted along her path from the house, searching frantically.

Chapter
13

Again,
Bobby heard the sound. This time, there was no doubt in his mind. It was a
gunshot, not quite as powerful and distinct as the first, nearly undetectable
off in the distance.

Countless
possibilities ran through his mind. The shots were definitely from the
direction of his home. He stood up from his rock perch, where moments before
the first shot he had been debating how best to make up with Anne.

He
was probably a mile from the house, but a steep ridge was in his path. The
night was quite dark with only a quarter moon to penetrate through the trees.
It would not be safe for him to run, but he decided to anyway, taking off at a
brisk jog.

Limbs
slapped his face as he tore through the night. Noticing a hole, he cut hard
left only to find his feet sliding out from under him on the leaves.

He
landed hard on the side of his left leg. Groaning, he scrambled back to his
feet, put weight on his left leg to test it, and took off again.

The
scene at the house had changed. Flashing blue lights from five police cars lit
up the landscape. There was a state-trooper vehicle, three unmarked cruisers
with flashing strobe lights on their dashes, and a large armored FBI SWAT
vehicle.

A
siren roared in the distance as all heads turned in the hope that it was the
ambulance. It was not. The local county sheriff skidded into the driveway
slinging loose gravel. He jumped out of his car and shouted to the nearest body,
which happened to be a woman dressed in an elegant skirt and blouse.

“Just
what in God’s name is going on here?”

Then
the sheriff saw Anne, who he knew. Three people leaned over her. The three were
standing now and someone pulled out a white sheet to cover her.

From
inside the tree line, a sweating and out of breath Bobby Ferguson watched the
scene. He had almost burst from the tree line until his ears caught words of
anger between the sheriff and some guy dressed in a suit.

Bobby
knew if Sheriff Bo Jensen wasn’t privy to what was going on, it meant feds.

Then
he saw the trio kneeling over a prone body. He recognized the nightgown and
nearly dashed from the woods, but a voice from the depths of his conscience told
him to stay put.

He
watched all the agents as they stood around and took photos. He noticed one bleeding
agent had been shot. She’d hit one of them though he’d likely live.

Around
the perimeter, agents put up yellow police tape. He then saw an agent spread a
white sheet over her.

He
nearly lost it. Anne. Dead? It couldn’t be.

He
tried to control his anger, but a deep rage coursed through him. His
unpracticed, near extinct discipline, barely kept him from rushing out. To maul
the assholes on his land.

He
felt the rush of adrenaline and the cold thoughts of a killer. He clenched his
teeth and felt tears roll down his face.    

No,
he nearly screamed! She was his anchor. His foundation.

He
looked at the soft agents in his yard. In suits and fucking sedans. Those
fuckers don’t know war, he thought. I’ll show them fucking war.

He
hit himself in the face, hating the tears. Hating the situation. Hating the
feeling of helplessness.

He
shook his head, digging his fingers deep into the hard dirt. I need to control
myself, he thought. I’m a sniper, not a maniac. I need to get somewhere and
think this through. Find out who’s behind it.

And
with that, Bobby Ferguson crept back into the woods and the dark night air.
Unfortunately for a lot of people, Bobby Ferguson was formerly known as Nick
Woods.

And
Nick Woods was one of the greatest snipers this country had ever produced. Nick
Woods was the Marine Sniper that had bagged his limit of Soviet soldiers in the
hills of Afghanistan.

Unfortunately
for Whitaker, the FBI from the Knoxville branch had failed to bag Bobby
Ferguson in their raid. And the very dangerous and skilled Nick Woods had lost
his anchor in the process.

Chances
were better than great that a lot of blood would soon be spilled.

Chapter
14

For
Whitaker, picking up Colonel Russ Jernigan proved a cinch.

An
undercover police cruiser with a North Carolina Highway Patrolman sat waiting
on the tarmac for Whitaker and his henchman when Whitaker’s plane landed. The
cruiser pulled up right next to the taxi-ing jet, and Whitaker and Tank, the
man termed Mr. Linebacker by Allen Green, climbed in. The officer switched on
his lights and squealed out of the airport toward Camp Lejeune.

Not
a word was said during the drive. The Highway Patrolman was rightfully
intimidated, and Tank was contemplating the upcoming action. He lived for the
opportunity to hurt those that needed hurting.

Meanwhile,
Whitaker had too much on his mind to talk. The story by Allen Green was a
potential catastrophe of Herculean proportions. He attempted to plan the next
steps, but there were far too many unknowns. As much as he hated it, it looked
like he would be playing this one by ear.

The
guard gates of Camp Lejeune broke him from his thoughts. The patrol car avoided
the Marines at the gate by turning into a driveway before it. The road led to
the visitor’s building parking lot, where visitors who lacked military ID’s
could get passes onto the base.

Waiting
for them in the corner of the parking lot was a Major in camouflage utilities
and an enlisted Marine. Two military hummers were parked behind them. Whitaker
and Tank exited the vehicle without even a thanks to the trooper.

The
Major nodded to Whitaker as the three approached.

“Long
time no see,” he said.

Whitaker
replied, “You’re right. It has been a long time, but we need to move fast.”

“Sure,”
the Major nodded. “We’ll tell the guards you’re with us. Go wherever you need
and stay on the base as long as necessary. If MPs pull you over, call me on my
cell phone. When you’re done, leave the hummer anywhere you’d like, either on
or off base. Just call me, so we can retrieve it quickly.”

Whitaker
smirked, impressed. “I owe you.”

The
Major smiled, knowing a debt repaid by Whitaker took one far in life. It was
worth endangering his career by breaking more ordinances and rules than he
could name.

The
Major jumped in his hummer with his enlisted driver, and Whitaker and Tank
climbed in the other one. As they had been told by the Major, Whitaker and Tank
were waved through by the Marine MPs without a single question or glance, which
was quite a feat in the post-Sept. 11 world.

The
Major sped away and left them to their business, which he knew better than to
ask about.

The
whole interview with Colonel Russ Jernigan took less than two hours and was
uneventful. Tank had driven Whitaker to Colonel Jernigan’s office, where
Whitaker had gone in and told Jernigan they needed to talk. Not asked, just
told. Jernigan had willingly left without a scene though he had looked a little
pale and nervous to his fellow Marine officers.

They
had driven Jernigan off base to a motel in Jacksonville. By that point,
Jernigan had really grown concerned. The complete silence during the trip
hadn’t helped.

Inside
the room, they had “questioned” Jernigan, which of course meant Tank got to
throw some punches and spill some blood. As the pain and pressure built up,
Whitaker started to believe Jernigan had spilled the information to Allen Green,
despite his constant denials.

Jernigan
was just too nervous and guilty looking for Whitaker’s liking.

But
then Whitaker’s phone rang and the need for questioning ended. Whitaker learned
that the FBI had raided Bobby Ferguson’s house the night before, or Nick Woods
depending on which name you preferred, and he was gone.

That
made it certain that Nick Woods had talked to Allen, not Colonel Jernigan. And
it meant Allen Green has very wisely deceived Whitaker and given up the decoy
name of Jernigan instead of his true source.

Nicely
played, Whitaker had to admit.

Whitaker
apologized to Jernigan for the “misunderstanding” and headed back to the
airport. He and Tank were headed to Knoxville. They had a manhunt to lead
before Nick Woods got too far away.

Jernigan,
though bloodied and nearly at his breaking point, felt only relief that the
call had arrived when it did. He had been mere moments from telling them about
the night at Leatherneck bar. And if they discovered the truth, they would have
certainly killed him.