“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.
Nick tried to read him and decided to play it honest. “Yep. You might say that, but don’t you worry. Just need to get away and think awhile. Me and my wife are having some problems.” It was an answer not too far from the truth.
Chapter 17
The old man got him as far as Rutledge, a small town barely twenty miles from his house. A pitiful distance away really, but outside immediate danger and probably far enough away for Nick to consider himself safe for the night.
Nick debated handing the man some money and possibly asking him to be quiet. To never mention this to anyone. But that seemed too much. It would only increase the man’s interest. Might convince him that Nick was a real criminal.
So in the end, Nick had opened his wallet, careful to keep it tilted so the man couldn’t see in it, and said, “Partner, I owe you, but I’m a little short on cash.”
The man smiled, full of wisdom, and said, “I’ve been there son. I’ve been there.”
Nick tipped his head in a grateful nod and closed the door, which squeaked loudly. Unfortunately, the old man had dropped him off at a gas station. Thankfully, it was empty except for someone at the counter, but that was still more attention than Nick needed.
He figured the feds would have someone out asking questions tomorrow. You just didn’t see many men with packs and on foot out this way in the country. At forty miles, it was just too far from the interstate for any real traveler making his way by foot.
Oh well, thought Nick. He shouldered his pack and began walking up the road. He looked down at his watch. 11:33. He was tired. Drained. Too much emotional and physical exertion combined with his old construction routine -- early to bed, early to rise.
He walked west along the road. When he got far enough that he was certain the gas station attendant couldn’t see him, he ran off the road and through a field toward some woods.
Reaching the woods, he fought past the limbs, brambles, and vines. It was a thicket, much thicker than the open woods behind his house. He pushed about fifty yards deep, looking for a place to call it a night.
He found enough room to lay down finally, an old deer bed, and unpacked his poncho liner. He lay down. He’d forgotten about his pistol and the magazines until the ground pushed them into his back.
Groaning, he removed them and laid them by his side. He fell asleep within minutes.
Chapter 18
Nick had no idea where he was when he awoke. It was daylight. He was deep in a carpet of trees, wrapped in his blanket. His mind tried to unravel it all, and then he remembered.
He sat up, sad now. Alone, with Anne gone, he felt the forces of misery press against him.
She’d been with him for those perfect eight hours of sleep, his exhaustion having pushed the thought of her death from his mind. Damn, he was going to miss her for a long time.
He cursed himself for letting her in and for being the cause of her death. For letting her convince him his paranoia was unneeded. Damn it, he could have kept her alive if he had been stronger.
He’d argued for putting in a gate at the end of their driveway. Sensor detectors along his property. He’d even hoped to fence in the property to let a few Dobermans or German Shepherds roam about freely.
He unwrapped himself from the poncho liner. He saw the pistol by his side lying on the ground with its magazines lying next to it. He pulled his legs from out of the blanket and groaned at the feel of sweaty socks.
He’d left his boots on through the night like a dumb-ass recruit, and his feet had gotten sweaty. Already, his feet tingled, the burning pain of athlete’s foot just around the corner.
Before doing anything, he looked around him and listened for a full two minutes -- he used his watch as a guide. Nothing. Quickly he took one boot and sock off -- his right foot -- and allowed the foot to air out. He picked up the .45 pistol, feeling safety and power in its heft.
With adept ease, he dropped the magazine then removed the eighth round from the chamber. He laid both on the ground and extended the pistol toward a large pine. Aiming, he pulled the trigger, dry firing it. He worked the slide and repeated the dry firing, this time with his eyes closed.
He was trying to feel the trigger pull. Learn when the hammer released. To get familiar with the pistol he hadn’t fired in years. He dry fired it thirty times, feeling somewhat better about his skill with it.
The old 1911 .45 was no different than the thousands that had been used against the Germans and Japanese in World War II. They had the knockdown power of a bulldozer and had been used far into Korean and Vietnam though now they were being phased out by 9 mm Berettas.
Berettas had more safeties, held more rounds in case you missed, and didn’t kick so hard. Pathetic reasons, in Nick’s opinion.
Fucking Army’s been in the shitter for a long time, he thought.
He laid the pistol down, pulled out a fresh pair of socks from his pack, and covered the bare foot with a clean sock. It always felt so good to put a clean, dry pair of socks on. One of the few joys of being in the field as an infantryman.
He then put his right boot back on. Rebooted, he then untied and removed the boot and sock on his left foot. As it began to air out, he picked up the unloaded pistol again.
He pointed toward the same pine and acquired it in his sights. He cursed himself. Damn it, don’t look at the target (or tree in this case). Focus on the front sight.
He lowered the pistol then raised it quickly, aiming at the pine. This time, his eye focused on the front sight and kept the pine fuzzy, or unfocused. He knew, as all good marksmen know, that the secret to accuracy was a focused front sight, with both the rear aperture and target out of focus.
It was a damn difficult thing to learn and even more difficult to master. If you were really good, you’d remember the advice when you got the shit scared out of you in a firefight. You would notice the front sight and not what your target was doing when you pulled the trigger.
Nick had done both, and better things had occurred when he’d barely noticed his target and remembered to focus on his front sight.
He sat there and practiced aiming, role-playing various scenarios. He remembered the saying, “The more you sweat in peace the less you bleed in war.” They used to say it daily in the Marine Corps, and Nick believed it.
After all, he was living proof of it. Just ask a few Soviets who had managed to “meet him” and survive their time with him.
He finished practicing. These days, few understood the importance of practicing without firing shots, or dry firing as it’s called. Of learning not to anticipate a gun’s kick. Of having to imagine a shot being fired.
No, shooting fast and with one hand on a range with live rounds was way more fun. And less work. It also took less time in the hot sun or wet rain to fire 30 rounds than it did to dry-fire 60 times and then fire 30 rounds.
These days, it was more fun to play Nintendo or Xbox than train for war.
He put a clean sock on his left foot and quickly tied his boot.
It seemed like déjà vu playing the one boot game. Another old infantry trick. It was a rule a wise man never broke. One boot took less time to put on than two, and you always had to anticipate contact with the enemy at any time. With that thought, Nick took a quick look around him again. Still nothing.
He debated doing some push-ups but held off until he was where he could shower. He’d have time for that. He packed up his poncho liner and cinched his pack. Now, only his pack, pistol and magazines were lying at his feet.
He picked the empty pistol up and held it at his side. He then performed a close-encounter drill.
The exercise assumed someone had gotten too close to you. So, you stepped back
with your right foot, while pushing an imaginary person back with your left arm. At the same time, you leveled your pistol at the target while keeping it by hour hip, where it couldn’t be grabbed.
It was one of the few instances Nick would fire a pistol single-handed. He practiced the close encounter drill fifty times since this drill was an important one.
Finishing, he placed the empty pistol in the small of his back. He checked his surroundings again and satisfied he was still alone, he prepped to practice some withdrawal drills.
He slowly withdrew the pistol, aiming it with both hands. He replaced it and withdrew it again, this time a little faster. He practiced this drill one hundred times because it was by far the most important.
He could never be too fast on the draw though he could be damn sure too slow.
By this time, small beads of sweat covered his brow, and his right hand burned in a few spots, the classic early warning of blisters. He reached down to the side of his pack and grabbed his canteen.
He took ten good swallows -- he counted -- and replaced it. Ten swallows, they’d always told him. You could run, fight, or swim after ten swallows without puking or cramping.
Any more than that, and you were pushing your luck.
Nick didn’t feel like doing the last drill. His stomach growled, and Nick imagined a couple biscuits for breakfast. However, he immediately cursed himself.
You little bitch, he thought. Toughen the fuck up.
With that thought, he began his next drill. He aimed the unloaded pistol at the pine, mentally fired, BOOM, then took a knee and mentally fired twice more, BOOM, BOOM. Again, he thought. He did it, “firing” a single shot at his target before taking a knee and firing twice more.
He only did this drill ten times. He knew he should practice it more, but his tactical side reminded him that he needed to stay at least partly presentable. Not sweaty and stinky.
He already needed to shave, and his shirt was starting to look, well like it had been worn for two days and slept in. He still resisted the thought of reaching down in his pack and changing into a new one. He was in the country, and few would care. Many in the country either farmed, hunted, or fished, and looks weren’t something folks in the country worried much about.
Resuming his training in the middle of the thicket, Nick thought his way through a firefight based on his current situation. It would be close and nasty, and few liked that, even him. Hell, that’s why he was a sniper.
But, still, it’d be close. No way around that.
They would either get the draw on him or perhaps he would get lucky and recognize them before they had pulled their pieces; either way, he could do the last drill, firing a single shot quickly at the nearest one’s chest, half-aimed, before dropping to a knee and firing two well-placed shots.
Ninety percent of the time, Nick would go with that option. In cities, there likely wouldn’t be any cover, so he would just engage and use pure aggression. One quick shot, followed by two controlled shots from the kneeling position.
Yet there could be cover, so he thought through that. Perhaps it might be a vehicle. Step one, get down or race behind it. Then return fire. Few could hit a nearby target running laterally. Normally, even he wouldn’t try.
He could find concealment. Concealment could be anything from thin desks to couches to walls. Concealment didn’t stop rounds like cover did. But, concealment caused most untrained people -- even cops -- to hold their fire because they couldn’t see their target. You had to be trained to shoot through concealment, and most cops weren’t.
Look for cover and concealment, he thought. Cover and concealment, he repeated, reinforcing the idea. The two bastions infantrymen sought. The two things that could keep you alive on any day of the week.
Satisfied with his morning pistol work, he reloaded the pistol and placed it and the magazines in his belt.
He’d cooled down while he thought through shooting engagements. Now he needed to practice his hand-to-hand. Before starting, he checked his surroundings.
Then he began, all of it nice and easy. He practiced various blows that, at best, would be considered dirty by most if used in a fight.
He threw eye gouges, shots to the nuts with low kicks and knees, throat punches, elbows to the temple, and double-hand slaps to the ears. He hated those.
Then, he practiced joint manipulation. At least, that’s what they’d called it in the Marines. He never liked the term. In Nick’s estimation, breaking arms, ripping shoulders out of sockets, and snapping fingers seemed to be a bit more than mere joint manipulation.
But, he didn’t know. He was just a simple man, and some piss-ant, college-grad could hardly title a section of a manual, “Fucking another man up with your bare hands.”
He did all his moves in slow motion. He hadn’t practiced as much as he should have the past few years, Anne having convinced him he was paranoid, maybe even sick.
Nick had always believed mastering hand-to-hand combat was about analyzing every possible situation a fight could end up in. It was hard to think when blades were flying and punches were connecting. And damn if a person didn’t do some stupid stuff in a fight.
But, as he’d become trained in fighting, he’d found that if you envisioned certain circumstances, you usually would react right.
So he began practicing his blocks, beginning with the counter to the overused right hand sucker punch. He went through his blocks, doing each ten times without exception, though in slow motion as he had his attacks.
His grumbling stomach reminded him of his hunger, and he nearly didn’t finish his regimen.
Nick, he thought, there are a lot of people not training right now. If you plan to own them and survive this, get back to work. Get in character.
They’ll soon wish that they had been training when they were hungry, too.
So, Nick began working on the ever important aspect of range in a fight. He practiced his footwork. Circling, stepping back and even stepping forward to jam an opponent. He then practiced his head movement and body movement to avoid someone’s attacks.
Though he hadn’t watched his time, either when he began or as he trained, Nick spent close to two hours working on his various techniques. By the time he’d finished, his whole body felt shaky from its lack of food.
But, the time had kept Anne off his mind and helped hone his slightly rusty skills. Now, she was once again occupying his mind.
Her smile. The feel of her bare skin. He remembered how exasperated she’d been when he taught her to fire a pistol. Looking back, he realized she’d probably let him teach her just so she could be with him, sharing in his one love besides her: guns.
Nick swallowed. He knew he wouldn’t cry. That Nick, or Bobby Ferguson, was dead. He realized he’d probably never cry again.
He had never cried while he was in the Corps. Even when he lost his spotter in Afghanistan. They made you into a machine.
He realized he’d never really lost that spirit, but just tucked it away while he was with Anne. He’d always been a machine since his first day at Parris Island though really it began before then.
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 h
ad 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.
Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) Page 6
