Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (8 page)

From
his time as a boy (with a tough, stern Dad) to his time playing football, he
had always an affection for toughness. No, it was not toughness. It was pride.
It was saying what you thought, even if that meant taking a good ass whooping
instead of wisely backing down.

And
with that thought, he retraced his steps from last night. He had some hunting
to do.

The
deck was stacked against him big time. It was a long shot, but he’d made a few
long shots in his day.

Someone,
or some group, had come after him with a plan, and now it was time to strike
back and remind them that two sides could bring the pain. That once you start a
fight, you lose full control of what will happen.

Your
opponent can move and strike back, and that’s precisely what Nick Woods would do
now.

Chapter
19

It
was dark, and Nick was in the woods again.

The
day had proved uneventful. He’d left his pack in the woods, bought some food at
the gas station after his two-hour morning practice session, and gone back into
the woods to eat. He’d stayed there until after five, confident at that point
that if there were roadblocks or patrols, they’d be giving up or at least lessening
their force.

Everyone
has to sleep and eat at some point. And usually with manhunts, you went all out
in the beginning, pushing your folks until they could barely stand anymore,
then you started thinking about rest and long-term capabilities.

At
five, he’d grabbed his pack and headed for the gas station again. Upon
arriving, he’d hid it in some bushes and stood outside the building, leaning on
it waiting for the right person. Nick had waited twenty minutes, counting six
cars filling with gas, and then that person had shown.

Again,
it was an old man, and again the man drove a truck. Nick had approached the
senior and offered him sixty dollars to drive him to Oak Ridge, a nearby city
just a good hour away.

The
man, who relied on Social Security, had quickly agreed. Nick grabbed his pack,
threw it in the back of the truck, and hopped in.

This
second man had been a real talker, unlike the one from the night before. He’d
lost his wife to cancer, and his only son had moved to the big city (or
“seety,” as he called it) and rarely visited.

The
big “seety” was just Knoxville, hardly a true big city, but Nick had listened
respectfully. Nick had answered some of the man's questions, making up stuff as
he went. But mainly, he kept the man talking about himself or his son.

Above
all, Nick knew it was important the man not find anything memorable about his
situation, and part of how he kept that from happening was by making certain
his situation didn’t seem strange.

Thus,
Nick chatted with the man, keeping up the guise that he had nothing to hide.

While
the man droned on, Nick had been thinking. Unless he was totally mistaken, he
figured that in some media outlet somewhere, the story involving him and his
spotter’s work in Afghanistan had been published recently.

He
had the old man drop him off at a shabby motel in Oak Ridge. Nick didn’t even
see a name for the place, just a red lit vacancy sign in the window of the
office. Perfect. He handed three twenty-dollar bills to his driver and then met
the old man’s eyes with a stern, serious look.

“Sir,”
Nick said. “I’m going to be real honest.”

The
man suddenly looked worried, more than likely preparing for the worst. Was Nick
some kind of criminal, Nick could see him thinking.

“I’ve
had some trouble with the law, and I’m running from the police.”

The
man’s face tensed, and Nick could feel him taking in his features, etching them
in his mind for when he had to describe his passenger. Shit, Nick thought,
maybe this idea had been stupid. Well, he couldn’t give up on it now.

“Basically,”
Nick said, “a man I thought was my friend got to fooling around with my wife. I
found out about it, and well, you know, had words with him, so to speak. It was
a little worse than I planned, and he had some injuries. My wife kicked me out,
and the law wants to throw me in the pen for assault charges.”

The
man looked relieved to hear such a trifling story.

“Sounds
to me like he had it coming,” the man said. “It figures that a man who’d cheat
on his friend’s wife would try to deal with his problems through the courts.
Gutless bastard. You just hang in there, son. God will take care of you.”

Nick
met the man’s eyes again and nodded thoughtfully. The man seemed to have bought
Nick’s acting.

“Sir,
you have a good day,” Nick said. And with that, he grabbed his pack from the
man’s truck and headed into the office of the motel complex.

Chapter
20

Back
in Washington, in his Pentagon office, Whitaker sat with his legs propped on
his desk. He was pissed. It had been two days since the raid, and they hadn’t
found Nick Woods.

While
he didn’t know where he was, what he did know was that Bobby Ferguson was dead.
Some of his men had tracked Bobby after the local and state police had cleared
out and found the trail leading into his cave. And in the cave were heavy drag
marks.

So,
Bobby had reverted back to the old Nick and in retrieving his cache had become
the highly touted Nick Woods. Sniper legend among CIA insiders. Unknown Marine
among the military community.

Now,
Nick had been alerted. And, he had disappeared. Just like that.

As
soon as Whitaker had received the call from the FBI reporting that Bobby Ferguson
wasn’t at home, he had scrambled his forces.

Every
available person in his organization not already assigned, even those that had
recently entered retirement, had been called up. Thirty-one of his undercover
people, varying in age from twenty-two to sixty-six, had closed in on Grainger
County.

They’d
tried every known trick. They had sat in restaurants, driven along back roads,
and asked clerks in gas stations about a friend that had broken down and was
traveling on foot.

Waiting
for the call that Nick had been spotted by these undercover agents were three
eight-men strike teams parked strategically throughout the county in undercover
work vans. Whitaker's boss had asked the FBI to assist in the light work since
they were definitely involved now.

Since
they had already been shot by one of the “Ferguson family,” they were more than
happy to assist. So the FBI watched friends, family, every known acquaintance
of Nick’s. Whitaker didn’t expect Nick to make such a mistake of contacting any
of them, but he had to play it safe.

Still,
nothing. From anyone.

Besides
the bad news that Nick Woods hadn’t been at home, a woman had been killed, and
the media were asking questions about the hastily planned raid that reportedly
caught some FBI agents off guard.

That
infuriated Whitaker. It presented a definite dot on a map. In his line of work,
there were always dots.

No,
not dots, small blips. The blips were always scattered, separated by hundreds
if not thousands of miles. They spanned counties, states, and continents, and usually
seemed unrelated.

Allen
Green had somehow connected a few blips. Somehow he’d figured out that American
troops had hunted down Soviet troops.

Allen
had brilliantly connected the blips, or dots. And even figured out that America
had then sold out its own men and given away their location to the Soviets.

Of
course, he was wrong about the snipers being killed and the small detail about
the mole being arrested, but that was to be expected when you were dealing with
small blips on the radar screen.

Allen
Green presented a great threat. He was a respected journalist and no doubt had
friends and colleagues who would never be convinced he invented the entire
story. Or that he was a pedophile.

After
all, how could a man with a decade’s-long record of integrity truly be such a
criminal? His friends were reporters, and eventually, it’d start to wear on
them how they’d misread Allen.

They
might even decide that they hadn’t misread Allen’s character. That perhaps something
else was going on, which was far more devious.

This
was exactly why Allen Green was under surveillance 24/7. Not to mention, tech
folks were tracking e-mail traffic among media personnel in New York, as well
as each and every phone call made by Allen.

Eventually,
as time went by, Allen would have to be killed. Of that, Whitaker was certain.

That
was the lesson from this situation.

Whitaker
had failed to eliminate Nick Woods when he was in Afghanistan. After Nick Woods
and his spotter had completed their primary mission of taking out the majority
of an elite Soviet Special Forces unit, Whitaker had sent the two men on
worthless operations.

Each
operation allowed false information to be fed to possible moles inside the CIA.
It was hoped the moles could be ferreted out.

And
sure enough, it had worked. They had soon found their mole -- a huge victory in
itself. And to wrap things up nicely, they had leaked the coordinates of Nick
and his spotter on the next mission.

They
had hoped the Soviets would tie up the loose ends of Nick and his spotter, and
the Soviets certainly tried. They had gone after the two Americans like madmen.
More than a hundred troops, backed up by mortars and Hind gunships.

An
entire operation merely to get two men. The Soviets had bagged Nick’s spotter
and wounded Nick, as well, but he had escaped their cordon and worked his way
back to the embassy in Pakistan.

Whitaker
was confident Nick knew he had been sold out. As part of every op, Nick and his
spotter were given coordinates of where to be picked up. Not just one set, but
many, in case they couldn’t get to the primary pick up point. Or, in case the
primary pick up point was compromised by the enemy.

But,
Nick had avoided the three primary points and two other alternates, all within
ten to twenty miles of his mission site. Of course, Whitaker had leaked each of
the pick-up points to the mole, hoping the Soviets would bag Nick at one of
them and end the mission for good.

But
instead, Nick had traveled more than a thousand miles to Pakistan over a period
of weeks. All while being wounded.

Whitaker
had been so certain that Nick and his partner would be killed or captured that
he hadn’t had anyone watching the embassy. He’d closed down the operation and
sent all his forces back to America, figuring that there was no way that Nick
or his spotter would get away from the battle-hardened Soviets. Not when the
Soviets had the specific location of the two men.

But
letting down his guard and making that assumption had proved a huge mistake.
Weeks later, Nick showed up to the American embassy in Pakistan dressed as a
civilian.

He
made a demand to the Marine guard at the door that he wanted to meet with the
American ambassador, and by the time a leak in the embassy informed Whitaker of
the situation, he could hardly have Nick picked off.

Thankfully,
Nick had been smart enough to create a credible story of being a missionary
kidnapped from Pakistan and dragged into Afghanistan. Then, once he was no
longer closely watched, he had escaped.

Nick
had told the embassy he was named Bobby Ferguson, and though they could find no
record of him, his English was impeccable and they assumed he had been too traumatized
to correctly remember his name. He certainly knew American history and
geography, and they figured if they just got him back to the states with a
psychiatrist, he’d be fine.

Whitaker
had already reported to the Marine Corps that Nick Woods and his spotter had
died in a training accident while conducting treacherous mountain operations.

The
press never caught wind of the abduction and heroic journey of Bobby Ferguson.
Partly it was because reporters cared little about missionaries and their
religious zeal. And partly it was because no one in the media cared about
Afghanistan prior to the attacks of September 11.

Thus,
Nick’s story of being a missionary had proven to be brilliant and kept him off
anyone’s radar screen. Quite impressive for someone untrained in the art of
covert operations.

Whitaker
had always debated when to take Nick out once he returned to the states. Nick
had somehow understood he’d been thrown into something over his head, and had
gone along with giving up his old life.

Nick
Woods was dead, and his family would get the $200,000 in life insurance they
were due. Nick agreed to avoid his hometown -- at least for ten or twenty years,
and then, only in disguise -- and to begin his life anew under the name Bobby
Ferguson.

Nick
had been told by one of Whitaker’s handlers that he must avoid going home in
order to stay under the radar of Soviet KGB agents, who might eventually find
and identify him.

“The
Soviets still want your hide for all the men you killed,” the handler said.
“Not to mention, you helped turn the tide of war against them almost single-handedly,
so they’ll be looking for you for years and years. If I were you, I’d stay on
the run or keep a low profile.”

Whitaker
knew he had to take Nick out at some point. It had to be done, but it wasn’t
that simple. Nick was a nut, and he was good.

And
Nick realized -- somehow -- what Whitaker hoped he wouldn’t: that his greatest
threat wasn’t the KGB, but the CIA hoping to tie up a loose end.

Initially,
Nick had placed dynamite all through the house. All primed to go off for the
sole reason of causing a scene because Nick was smart enough to know that he
couldn’t possibly stay alive.

No
one could live forever if expert killers were after you. No one kept their
guard up that well.

But,
you could cause a scene, and Nick knew that if a house exploded, they would
come. Local law enforcement. The media with their dangerous cameras and
questions. And, they’d find numerous bodies in the house.

Whitaker
had debated taking Nick out on the road in a classic “hit and run” or
something, but Nick had approached the sheriff and told him there were people
sending threats to him. So, if he’d died within the first few months, there
would have been at least an investigation by the sheriff, which wasn’t a problem.

But,
if the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation got involved, it could have gotten
ugly. Especially, if the FBI decided they would provide assistance.

And
who knew how many documents Nick kept in safe deposit boxes that Whitaker didn’t
know about.

Nick
was crazy, and they knew by his behavior that he was doing everything in his
power to prevent his death. And they’re worst fear was that ultimately Nick
planned to take down the men behind the murder of his spotter and best friend
in Afghanistan.

Whitaker
and his men had waited for Nick to take his guard down. To stop carrying two
pistols and a knife. To stop watching his mirrors as he drove to work and
living a life utterly without a pattern.

Even
driving to his job, Nick changed his patterns. Sometimes he would go in to work
two hours early and on other days, he would show up five minutes late. He even
took different routes, one of which added 24.6 miles and thirty-three minutes
to the commute.

The
man was a nut. A hard target. Psychotic. But, above all of that, he was just
good.

They
had left him alone while keeping him under surveillance, just in case he tried
to leak the story.

Then
something totally magical happened. Nick had met Anne. They had watched the two
with interest, and Anne had saved Nick’s life. She had tamed him and made him
into nearly a normal man, one that could be taken out, no doubt.

But,
Whitaker had changed his mind in one of the few instances of sympathy he’d ever
had. Whitaker decided that Nick had served his country well by turning the tide
of the war in Afghanistan, being used as a pawn to stop a dangerous Soviet Spetsnaz
unit, and discovering a painful mole. Even when he found out the real truth of
how he’d been sold out, he remained mute.

A
true patriot, if ever there was one.

For
sure, Nick could have started probing and looking for who had set him up, but
he hadn’t. He’d understood that he’d been caught up in a game much bigger than
himself. Much, much bigger. Or perhaps, he never did anything, because he
realized how little he could achieve. Or maybe he couldn’t confirm well enough
in his own mind that he’d been sold out.

Either
way, Anne had finally closed that door for good by falling in love with the
distant, stern man, and wearing down his crazy behavior.

But,
now Whitaker knew he was in a world of shit. Nick’s single guiding force, his
rudder in life, had been brutally killed.

Whitaker
had no idea how the death of Anne would affect Nick. Currently, three of the
nation’s top psychologists were evaluating Nick’s type of behavior in a
“hypothetical” situation.

Worse
than not knowing what Nick would do, several FBI agents were asking questions
internally about the extremely odd, last-minute assignment they’d been given.

One
of their men had been hit and was wounded badly. In addition, these men had no
reason to keep quiet. Whitaker imagined every one of them getting phone calls
from media outlets literally at any moment.

All
Whitaker needed was one of them to explain to some reporter how odd the raid
had been. How none of them had heard about their target and how the place
hadn’t been scoped by some snipers to make sure Nick, or Bobby Ferguson as they
knew him, was inside.

The
director of the FBI had called and reamed out Whitaker’s boss. The raid had
embarrassed the FBI, and its director was furious.