Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Tears were streaming down her face now.

  He hated to see her cry. He hated to argue. He couldn’t take it anymore.

  He rushed by her and raced outside in a fury. To peace. To safety. To one of the only things he understood: the woods.

  Chapter 10

  FBI Agent Jack Ward was scared. Kneeling at the edge of the woods just 50 yards from the assigned possible exit point, the FBI Agent watched a dark house. Jack felt some comfort in the pistol he had pointed in its general direction.

  He wasn’t supposed to be doing this kind of work, and he couldn’t catch his breath, he was so nervous. His hands shook, and he tried to control them, gripping the pistol tighter.

  As mosquitoes buzzed by his face, he shook his head to keep them off. He’d remember to bring bug spray next time. If there ever were a next time.

  Oh, he’d also keep a pair of camouflage pants at work, just in case he was ever needed again. Tonight, he had gotten his pressed, starched khaki trousers muddy getting into position.

  He hated fieldwork, what little he had done. He was an English major and had been hired by the FBI to review reports, write press releases, and work on updating the local-office website when new suspects were wanted.

  Writing was a skill that none of the other FBI agents in Knoxville could do worth a damn, and it was up to Jack Ward to keep them from looking stupid.

  They just couldn’t write well. Not even close, so Jack spent hours cleaning up their grammar and poorly written reports.

  A mosquito buzzed his ear, and he slapped at it.

  Why was he out here? This wasn’t part of his job.

  But like his field officer said, though, “Just for a night.”

  They were short a man, unfortunately, but at least this could go in Jack’s exaggerated “been there, done that” file of bullshit FBI stories he regularly told.

  He loosened his grip on the pistol. Tonight’s story would be a good one. Their suspect had a long list of registered and unregistered weapons, including assault rifles.

  Worse, he had extensive military training and an anti-government view that left a realistic possibility of armed resistance. Although the night was chilly, Ward found himself sweating in his itchy dress slacks.

  He wiped the sleeve of his blue nylon jacket across his sweaty forehead. The jacket was one of his favorite bureau possessions. It was blue with “FBI” across the back in big, yellow, capitalized letters. It was like the ones in the movies, and it had gotten him laid once.

  He wore it every chance he got.

  A mosquito or something crawled in his ear, and Jack shook his head violently before using his finger to dig it out. In the process, he nearly dropped his pistol from his sweaty right hand. Shit, he wished the entry team would hurry up.

  In the front yard, a four-man stack of FBI agents dressed in black SWAT gear moved nervously toward the front door. The blue 1996 four-wheel-drive truck, license plate TRV-668, and 1997 red Lumina, license plate VUN-142, were both parked in the driveway.

  That meant both suspects were home.

  The point man, distracted by having to cover the front door and the window beyond it with his submachine gun, never noticed a thick pine branch in his path on the ground. His stiff black boot landed squarely on it.

  The wood snapped loudly, making every one of the agents flinch as if they had been fired at. The point man froze in his tracks, causing the second agent to slam into him. The team lost its composure.

  “Damn it, Vinny,” the third man, and assault team leader, harshly whispered. “Just go. Go!”

  Chapter 11

  The crickets stopped chirping. That was odd, Anne thought. She couldn’t sleep, but to be fair, she rarely could after she fought with Bobby.

  As she had debated what to do about him, the crickets had been driving her insane. She really felt she should stick to her guns and get Bobby to go see Dr. Blevins again.

  Suddenly, the crickets stopped.

  She wondered what had silenced them. They were so loud and annoying typically. Must be something walking near them, she thought. Maybe a raccoon or possum. Possibly a deer.

  Their rural home sat surrounded by game-filled woods. She lay there thinking about how she could help Bobby. He had some serious issues, problems she had once thought she could solve. But, with more and more thought, she just didn’t know.

  A branch outside snapped. It was loud and only something big would have done that. Her heart skipped a beat, and a bit of fear edged into her mind.

  Damn it, why was Bobby outside pulling one of his “I’ll sleep in the woods tonight” affairs. Reaching over, she slid open the nightstand’s drawer and pulled out a heavy revolver, yet another weapon Bobby kept throughout the house.

  Her hands trembled as her imagination took over. Could it be a bear? One had been seen weeks earlier, down from the Smoky Mountains.

  Or maybe it was a burglar?

  But why would someone break in at night instead of during the day, when both she and Bobby were working? Maybe they wanted to hurt her...

  She slipped out of bed and crept down the hall toward the back door, clutching the pistol. Her nightgown dragged along the carpet. Calling the sheriff was not an option since he was twenty minutes away and probably in bed.

  She tried to calm down. Bobby had told her the best thing to do in such a situation. She moved into position.

  Then, she heard them. There were voices right outside the front door. Her heart throbbed against her chest so hard that it hurt. Her breathing was rapid, out of control. She wanted to cry or scream or run.

  But, Bobby had once told her what to do in one of his many “just in case” sessions. How was it she was supposed to position herself? Oh yeah, she was supposed to kneel, Bobby had said.

  She knelt four feet from the front door and aimed the heavy gun. Looking down the sights of the pistol was impossible in the darkness. That thought scared her more.

  Taking a couple of deep breaths, she remembered Bobby had said that cocking the pistol made it easier to pull the trigger, thus resulting in better accuracy.

  She adjusted her kneeling position, placing her left knee forward and supporting her body on her right leg. She steadied her left elbow on her left knee and felt comfort with the increased stability.

  She had always hated guns and now hated the fact she felt relieved to have the heavy, deadly machine in her hands.

  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 fo
r 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.