Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter
15

Flying
now toward Knoxville on the same private jet, Whitaker tried to control his
anger. After hearing about what had happened in Tennessee, besides Bobby
Ferguson being gone, he cursed himself for depending on FBI goons.

I
swear they’re really nothing but office personnel these days, he thought. Whitaker’s
men weren’t college educated, and he cared far more about how much they could
bench press and how tight their groupings were on the range than whether they
cussed or told insensitive jokes.

The
shootout and death in the FBI raid on Bobby Ferguson’s house had left a clue
for the world, at least for those smart enough to connect the dots.

Allen
Green was smart enough, but he was under complete observation, twenty-four
hours a day. Besides, he’d been fired from
The New Yorker,
and no one
would hire him now.

He
now lacked “integrity” in the eyes of most of the world, and many suspected,
including the New York Police, that he’d started the fire at his apartment to gain
more attention or notoriety. Or, whatever the hell he was seeking.

A
typical
unsuccessful writer
with a midlife crisis, they probably thought. Whitaker grinned at how well he’d
handled it.

An
undercover agent working for Whitaker had tried to tempt Allen already. The man
had posed an editor for a British newspaper and contacted Allen, saying he
actually believed Allen’s original story. And had been researching the matter
himself. Furthermore, the “editor” had offered $100,000 if Allen would share
the true story of what happened.

Finally,
the editor had said that if the story proved true, the parent company would
hire him as a senior reporter with a great salary. It was another chance for
Allen, or so it appeared.

But,
Allen had wisely turned down the offer and said he had made the entire story
up. It wasn’t true. And in the process, Allen had unknowingly extended his
life.

So
how big was the threat, Whitaker wondered?

What
was the possibility that Nick Woods could damage or destroy Whitaker’s
organization? True, he could shoot better than ninety-ninety percent of the
world, but he lacked any education, wealth, or powerful friends.

Plus,
he’d left every single weapon he owned in his home. In addition, the FBI had immediately
contacted his bank and frozen his accounts, which were meager anyway.

So,
Nick Woods had no money, no vehicle, no friends that mattered. And just to be
safe, every single construction worker was under surveillance, as well.

Whitaker
had expected for a car to be stolen or a minor robbery to occur as Nick made
his way out of Grainger County, but it hadn’t happened. Without a trace, Nick
Woods, the master sniper, was gone.

What
would I do if I were him, Whitaker wondered. An all-points bulletin had been
issued nationwide for the name Bobby Ferguson and alias Nick Woods, and a
recent surveillance photo had been distributed across the country.

If
Whitaker had ever owned a conscience, he’d have felt like shit for distributing
a nationwide APB that a “Bobby Ferguson” was a serial child molester, not a
renamed former Marine that had honorably served his country. But, the child
molester approach always garnered more attention from police departments and
other agencies, as well as media attention.

Truthfully,
Whitaker finally acknowledged, he was worrying too much. The odds were stacked
too high against Nick Woods. He was done. It might take a couple of days, or a
week or two, but he’d be caught.

He’d
get pulled over or have some cop walking a beat rouse him from some alley and
recognize him. He might hurt an innocent cop or two, but their radios would
bring his death.

And
if they took him alive, Whitaker would make sure he didn't live long. Even if
it had to happen in the depths of a prison, Nick Woods would be eliminated.
Whitaker couldn’t allow the man the opportunity to go to the press again.

Whitaker
laid his head back against the plane’s seat and closed his eyes. It had been a
long two days, which had kicked off with the publishing of the story.

Then,
there had been the questioning of Allen, the visit of Colonel Jernigan, and now
the flight to Knoxville to oversee the chase.

But,
the stress was a small price to pay, he thought. It was nothing in the big
scheme of things, and that’s all Whitaker cared about.

Chapter
16

Nick
Woods was deep in a thicket, walking down a worn deer trail. Just an hour
before, he had seen Anne motionless body, lying in the wet grass.

Nick
tried to come up with a reason as to why his house had been raided by the feds.
He was looking for any plausible motive, which wasn’t based on conspiracy
theories.

Maybe
someone had committed a crime in Grainger County, and they’d got the addresses
mixed up?

Shut
up, Bobby, the old Nick said, returning. You know why they came.

But
he didn’t. He hadn’t talked. He had told no one about the number of Soviet
Spetsnaz killers he had bagged in Afghanistan.

Then,
it hit him. He stopped walking. Only one man outside the CIA other than himself
knew the truth. Captain Russell Jernigan, if that was even his real name. That
motherfucker spilled the beans, Nick thought.

Nick
had always distrusted the man. For Jernigan, the entire episode in Pakistan had
been a game. More than likely, Jernigan had never killed a man or he wouldn’t
have been that way. Or maybe he had, but he’d definitely never been on the
losing end of a firefight where a friend or acquaintance didn’t walk away. Or
walked away, but only on crutches.

Nick
knew war wasn’t a game. It wasn’t about containment or falling dominoes when
rounds were skipping rocks into your face and you were screaming for your mother.

He
could hardly remember the details of Jernigan, what he looked like, or where he
might be, but it didn’t matter. Because now, he had a target.

Nick
clenched his fists, swallowed down anger, and headed toward his cave.

He
found it with ease though he hadn’t been to it in years. It was hard to
believe, but Anne had actually begun to heal him. Along with the medication, and
the lying doctor.

“Bobby,
there isn’t anyone watching you,” the doctor would say at every visit. “What
makes you think that? You’re just sick.”

Nick
had always thought the doctor was one of them. Trained to know what to say that
was most effective for veterans like him, who had been sold out by their
government.

In
fact, Nick had thought initially that Anne was one of them. Just to calm him
and keep him quiet. To make him soft.

And,
it’d worked. He’d changed from a murderous man intent upon finding out who had
sold him and his partner out in Afghanistan, to a paramilitary nut on a hill
content with being left alone, to finally a married man who shot for old time’s
sake and was just a touch paranoid.

Now,
he knew that Anne wasn’t one of them. They’d killed her. The thought made him
shake with rage, as did the fact he had ever doubted her sincerity. He paused
to swallow down tears.

Get
in character, Nick. They used to say that in the Corps all the time. You had to
stay focused. Without emotion most of the time. Especially in war.

Standing
outside the cave, he wished he had a flashlight. He wondered why he’d never
thought of that. That he might have to find this cache in the dark.

Then
he remembered. Because more than likely, he’d be in the house at dark, and he
could have held off an army there. Held it off until he decided to retreat
through his tunnel. The thought of the tunnel underneath his house made him
think of Anne.

If
she had known about that -- God, she would have left him. He smiled. She was a
hell of a fighter. Shit, she had to be to partially tame him.

He
closed his eyes and remembered her gorgeous face. Her passionate kisses. Her
rage when he upset her. It took all Nick had to fight back more tears.

Alright
now, Nick, get your head in the game and get in character. Do you love Anne?
Then find out who the murderous bastards were behind her death. Find them and
help restore honor in this country.

That
is what Anne would want.

With
that thought, he got on his hands and knees and crawled into the black hole of
his cave. It was damp, and the air was thick. It reminded Nick of the smell
that always permeated around Camp Lejeune in the swamps: stagnant water and
rotting wood.

He
couldn’t see a thing. His hands groped through wet dirt, and he hit his head on
a rock outcropping along the ceiling.

He
was scared shitless, worrying he’d grab a snake or run into a bobcat waiting at
the end of the cave. His head went through a spider web, and he spit and
knocked at his face, nearly stopping and backing out.

Hatred
and training took over. He had to do this for Anne. If it was meant for a
copperhead or bobcat to be in here, then so be it.

The
fatalistic instinct he’d always relied on during combat was returning. It kept
you sane, making things easier. Play smart. Play the odds. But in the end, fate
often decided where rounds struck and which targets were hit.

Nonetheless,
you kept moving as the bullets went by you, or you died. Period. And once you
understood and believed in fate, courage came easier.

Besides,
with Anne gone, he had little to live for.

So
he pushed deeper, fear keeping his heartbeat at a dangerously high rate. After
he’d crawled for what seemed like miles, but what he knew to be twelve feet, he
found it. An opening on the right side of the cave that was about a foot higher
than the tunnel he now crawled through. This higher portal was designed to keep
his equipment dry.

He’d
spent years digging the tunnel with a Marine e-tool. It’d taken weeks to dig in
the uncomfortable small space, but now it had finally paid off. He reached up
into the side hole and immediately felt canvas.

It
was a green military issue backpack, stuffed full of things he’d once thought
he might need in a survival situation: a couple sets of civilian clothes, heavy
climbing rope, duct tape, a small flashlight, extra batteries, a green wool
blanket, an unloaded .45 pistol, three empty magazines, two boxes of .45
cartridges, and cash. Lots of cash in small denominations.

He
dragged the pack out of the cave as fast as he could and took a deep breath of
fresh air. Damn, it felt good to be out of that cave. In the darkness, he laid
the pack upright and opened it. Thankfully, the straps appeared to be fine.
He’d always worried they might dry rot, but apparently, the semi-dry cave had
worked.

Inside
the pack, a green sealed bag met him. It was rubber and tied at the top by a
wrapped and knotted string. The classic Willie-Pete bag, as Marines called
them, the “WP” standing for “water-proof.”

They
were a Godsend for infantrymen. They helped your pack float if you needed to
cross a deep river and kept your clothes dry regardless of how hard it rained.

Untying
the strings, he opened the bag and found another identical one. Also sealed. He
opened it, maneuvering his fingers past the clothes and supplies in search for
his pistol.

He
found it and pulled it out. It took longer to find the two pistol magazines and
flashlight. Then, after locating a box of cartridges, Nick started to load each
magazine. He used his mouth to aim the mini Maglite.

He
was pretty sure he could load the magazines in the dark correctly, but he
wanted to make certain he didn’t force a round in backward. That might be bad
in a gunfight.

He’d
left the magazines unloaded because he’d always worried keeping them crammed
full of bullets might weaken the springs over many years. And if the springs
were loose, then his gun might jam. And if your gun jammed, you died.

After
loading the three magazines, he pulled one more cartridge out of the box and closed
it. He put the box of cartridges back in the pack and turned the flashlight
off. He then stuck the single round between his teeth and worked the pistol’s
slide back and forth. It slid easily and felt smooth. Dependable.

He
then aimed it through the woods and pulled the unloaded gun’s trigger. The
hammer fell crisply. The function check completed, he fed a magazine in the
pistol and worked the slide once more, feeding a round in the chamber.

Then
he dropped the magazine, pleased with its easy release, and took the round from
his mouth. He loaded this last round into the magazine, giving him eight rounds
of .45 ammo in a firefight instead of seven.

Finished,
he checked the safety lock and stuffed the pistol, now cocked and locked, into
his waistband behind his back. Using his left hand, he stuck the two extra
magazines into the left side of his waistband, bottom up, so the lip at the base
of the magazine would keep them from sliding down.

He
picked up the flashlight and used it to look in the pack for his money. He
found the thick envelope within seconds. It was a nine by twelve mailing
envelope, encased by three plastic bags. It held $10,600.

He’d
started with $200 in twenty-dollar bills hidden in his house after he was
discharged. Then, he’d set aside a twenty-dollar bill each week for ten years
before finally stopping with Anne's help.

He
removed one hundred dollars and placed it in his wallet. He put the envelope
back in the pack, at the bottom, and sealed the whole thing up. He figured
anyone trying to rob him would ask him for his wallet, not his pack.

He
wished there was some food in it. He was hungry after the late-night run to his
house and the evasion through the woods. But, he’d decided not to put food in
it on purpose, even sealed military issue MRE’s, for fear that animals might
smell them and chew into his pack.

Well,
that’s what he had money for. He hoisted the heavy pack and welcomed its
weight, for its contents were his only chance of getting away. The weight
brought back old memories of long night marches. Pain too impossible to
describe unless you’d actually been on one.

He
adjusted the straps, bounced up and down to get it seated, and then adjusted
the straps one last time. He placed the flashlight in his left front pocket and
readjusted the pistol on his right hip. He was ready. He headed off through the
woods.

He
saw the highway about an hour later. He thought it might be about that long
because he hadn’t looked at his watch at either the cave or immediately
following the shootout. After leaving the cave, Nick had been debating whether
to take the road or stay in the trees.

The
argument between the sheriff and the FBI led him to believe there wouldn’t be
roadblocks all across the county. This had to be an illegal operation or why wouldn’t
the sheriff be involved?

Although
he figured the roads weren’t blocked, Nick suspected they were on his trail. If
he were them, he’d have some dogs following, too. An inexpensive yet effective
operation.

It
wouldn’t draw much media or public attention. But, if they set up roadblocks
and stopped every resident on every major road, then the newspapers and TV station
reporters would be going nuts in no time.

His
decision made, he walked up on the road. He had to hope the next car or so (going
either way) wasn’t a police officer. But, he had to get out of the county fast,
and that meant taking bold risks.

He
was surprised they didn’t have a helicopter after him yet. They must have been
certain they’d get him in the house. Damned fools must not have planned any
other contingencies, he thought. They just saw his truck and moved in, without
even having the home under any kind of surveillance to confirm he was there.

They
wouldn’t last long in war, where a thing called Murphy’s Law had put many a man
in the ground.

Headlights
coming from behind him illuminated his path. He kept walking. He knew from his
experience in giving rides that you never picked anybody up that was looking
for a ride. So he kept walking, but let his shoulders sag some, real tired-like.
He added a bit of a limp, too. The car flew past him without slowing or
swerving out of the way. Nick wasn’t even sure if it saw him.

Then
he saw headlights approaching from his front, from way off. There were three
sets of them. Two cars and one truck passed without a thought. Then two more sets
of lights appeared from behind him. He resumed his tired, weary gait.

The
front vehicle was slowing as it approached. He could tell by the squeal of the
brakes that needed to be replaced. It went past him, its right signal warning
the car behind it to slow down. It was stopping.

It
was a truck. A Ford, mid-eighties, with rust visible along the corners of the
fenders. Nick sped up and caught the look of the man in the truck. He looked
old. Probably sixty. Sure that the man was okay and not some agent, Nick
dropped his pack and hoisted it into the bed of the truck. Depositing it with
relief, he readjusted his pistol in the darkness and climbed into the truck,
thankful country folks were so warm hearted.

“Howdy,
there,” the driver said.

“Howdy.”

“Where
you headed?”

“West,”
Nick said with a smile.

The
old man, his face covered with grisly, unshaven gray hairs grinned back. “You
running from something?” he asked good-naturedly.