Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Allen blew out a lungful of smoke. “What if he enters a side door and thus doesn’t leave out the front door? Or what if a crowd is exiting at the same time and he’s among them? You know, maybe you won’t be able to get off a shot. And frankly, I’m worried about the five o’clock thing. That’s a maximum number of people out driving and walking about. Lots of eyes and ears are going to be open, and we’re going to be leaving in some piece of a shit van that will be missing its back window?”

  Nick hadn’t considered that. “You got any better ideas?”

  “Not right now,” Allen groaned. He stood, walked over to the sink and ground his cigarette in it. He rinsed off the black stain from the white porcelain and dropped the cigarette into the small hotel trashcan. Lighting another one, he thought of a better idea.

  “I got it,” Allen said. “Let’s call him from a cell phone and ask him to come down to the front of the building.”

  Nick nodded. That was good. Why hadn't he thought of that? Allen was trying not to grin too much, using his cigarette as a prop, but the sides of his mouth gave him away.

  “That’s a damn fine idea,” Nick said. “Plus, that allows us to control the timing of the shot, we can do it in the morning at about ten or so, and it will keep him standing still, as he looks around for whoever called him.” Now smiling at Allen, he said, “You’re going to go a long way toward keeping my sorry ass alive.”

  “As long as you do the same for me, we’ll call it even,” Allen said.

  Nick walked over to his pack and pulled out a worn, gray tee shirt to run in. Across the room, Allen was sitting on the bed, ignoring his Tom Wolfe novel and watching Nick. Nick pulled his shirt off. Allen was trying to size Nick up, to look at his build, his muscle density, and the way he moved, judging him like a gambler would a fighter about to step in the ring.

  Nick had a wiry, lean build and moved cautiously, in a smooth way, like he was carrying a tray of full wine glasses at all times. Allen figured it was some kind of sniper thing, since the toughest men he knew generally fell into two categories. The thick weightlifters -- cops came to mind as an example -- moved like elephants, puffed up and massive. While the small, gangster types strutted around like roosters, staring down and sizing up those around them with complete disrespect, fully confident the pistols and Mac 10s they were packing would protect them.

  But, Nick was different. His manners and movements were more like those of a priest; no, a monk. One of those Shaolin types. A humble, easy-going look that always appeared balanced and smooth. It was the kind of look and attitude that wouldn’t get many looks from other men or cause many fights in a rough bar.

  As Nick turned toward him and pulled the gray shirt over his head, Allen noticed a thick line of scar tissue on Nick’s right shoulder. It was at least four inches long and had the rough look of being treated by some miserable army doctor. Hell, Allen had seen smaller scars on men and women who had lost limbs during vehicle accidents and had them reattached. He guessed the scar came from a gunshot wound that had been followed with lots of reconstructive surgery. One thing was clear, there was no scar tissue on his back, which meant the bullet had lodged in Nick. Probably had to be dug out, Allen guessed.

  And as Nick’s shirt came down over his arms, Allen saw just a glimpse of a scar on Nick’s chest. It was round and about the size of a quarter. As the shirt came down over the wound and Nick began to take off his blue jeans, the quarter-sized wound took shape in Allen’s mind.

  Nick’s legs showed a smattering of jagged, healed wounds below both knees (mortar round, if Allen had to guess),

  But Allen couldn’t shake the thought of that scar on Nick’s chest. He remembered the location, centered where many cons plant chest tattoos. And as Allen convinced himself it was some kind of marking or tattoo, he finally realized what he had seen.

  Nick pulled on his shorts and tied his shoes while Allen tried to argue himself out of what he had seen. But the harder he tried, the more convinced he became.

  The image on Nick’s chest was burned into his mind now, and it infuriated him. The symbol -- one of Hitler's second most recognized symbol after the Swastika -- represented evil, and Allen felt a deep anger flare up inside him. It would be simple to just let it slide or forget about it, but he couldn’t. No New Yorker would. Hell, what was the worst Nick could do? Beat him into a pulp? Kill him?

  Nick was folding his blue jeans and stuffing them into the pack when Allen finally found his voice.

  “What was that on your chest?”

  Nick stopped and looked up at Allen. “What?” he asked, having not heard Allen’s quivering statement.

  Allen thought Nick was being a smart ass. Shaking, from both fear and rage, he managed to stand, a small, diminutive man in his 50s. “I said, ‘What is that on your chest?’”

  Nick didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew the little nut needed to quit reading whatever the hell was in that book he had. The man’s tone and accent really pissed him off, and he wasn’t afraid to beat a small man’s ass if he had to.

  He’d give the twerp a chance to cool out. “What do you mean what’s on my chest?”

  “That symbol you’ve burned into your chest. Don’t deny it. I saw it, you racist motherfucker,” Allen said, spitting a little and looking quite pathetic to Nick.

  “Oh, this?” he asked, pulling up his shirt and showing off the burned scar, the SS.

  “Yeah that,” Allen said, practically yelling. He felt sweat forming in his clenched fists.

  “What about it?” Nick asked, still perplexed.

  “Oh come on, you stupid bastard. You know what.”

  “Uh, no, I don’t,” Nick said.

  “Bullshit, where’d it come from?”

  “Oh, Germany.”

  “No shit,” Allen snapped. “And what’s it stand for?” he asked, no longer an eloquent reporter from New York.

  Nick now finally understood, but Allen’s assumptions really pissed him off. “You know, you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. You think this symbol is some kind of racist trash, don’t you?”

  “No fucking shit,” Allen said. “There’s a few million Jews who can attest to that.”

  Nick looked down at the symbol again, the straight distinctive lines, SS, and still felt proud of the tattoo.

  “Listen here, dumb ass,” Nick said through his teeth, about to lose control. “I’ve never even met a Jew. The symbol stands for Scout Sniper, the term the Corps uses to refer to its snipers.”

  Nick closed his mouth, inhaled deeply, calming himself before continuing.

  “I earned the title of Scout Sniper, so I burned this in my chest, just like most Marine snipers do. Why this symbol? Because the German military revolutionized the art of warfare, conquered half the world, and extensively used snipers. And as they began to lose the war, their army provided an example few can match.

  “The Marines to this day study the German’s tactics of World War II. Their Blitzkrieg tactics, their squad sizes, their delegation of command. And for me, having this burned into my chest reminds me that … I don’t know, it reminds me I need to be the toughest man on earth, that I need to be training at all times because if I don’t, I’ll pay for it. Finally, that even the best can lose, as Germany did.”

  Allen was at a loss of words. It was such a simplistic reason and probably true. He knew he should just apologize, but he was still too angry and flustered.

  Nick stepped closer and slapped Allen easily on the face. “Hey big boy, thought you were going to go to the mat with me there for a second.”

  Allen smiled, embarrassed, still scared, still mad. He tried to figure out a way to apologize, but Nick cut him off.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Nick said. “You’ve got some driving to do, and I need to do a little run.”

  Chapter 40

  Whitaker was back in Washington in Senator Ray Gooden’s office. It was only the third time Whitaker had reported to his superior’s office.
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  Doing so was risky for Senator Gooden.

  Following Whitaker’s easy escape out of the ghetto after gunning down the officer, he had felt lucky to be alive. However, his delight quickly transformed into outrage and embarrassment for forgetting to call headquarters.

  He had wanted to order the hit on Allen and Nick while they were meeting in New York, but then the cop had pulled him over and distracted him.

  Now that anger was growing into a sinking feeling of fear. Allen Green and Nick Woods combined were worthy adversaries with their unique, complimentary talents.

  Senator Gooden sat behind his magnificent, boat-sized, mahogany desk reading a stapled packet of papers. He seemed unaware Whitaker was standing in front of his desk, at a modified parade rest. Whitaker had been in this position for nearly ten minutes, and that was after a thirty-plus minute wait in the reception area.

  Yes, Senator Gooden was pissed, Whitaker knew.

  Gooden was a small man. About five-five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, he sat in a small chair to understate this fact. He was well into his sixties though he still had a full head of hair. It was gray and combed to the left, the classic Washington look. He wore circular glasses and was always meticulously dressed and groomed.

  Today, his coat was off, and Whitaker could see a gold cuff link on his right shirtsleeve. Just above his left wrist sat a sliver of silver from a watch. Whitaker knew it was a Rolex, no doubt a gift from some corporation.

  Indeed, Senator Gooden’s friends were many. And his enemies were dead. Either politically or literally.

  In fact, the mysterious death of a democratic opponent for Texas senate had mired Gooden for years. The opponent had been more than twelve points ahead in every poll with the election just two days away when his plane crashed soon after takeoff following yet another successful fundraiser. An investigation found faulty wiring, which oddly had not been found in a preflight inspection conducted two hours prior to taking off.

  During that campaign, four major newspapers had endorsed his opponent. Since then, the number had continued to rise, regardless of the opponent. Senator Gooden was hated. By the press. By his opponents. By the majority of the people across the country, just not in Texas.

  And yet he kept getting elected. Everyone knew how dirty he was. He had taken illegal campaign contributions. He had twice been investigated by the Senate Ethics Committee for conflict of interest. But, with every opponent since candidate Bob Kile, who died with his wife, four aides, and two pilots in a fiery flash just outside of Houston, Gooden had easily been re-elected.

  The tactics were as brilliant as they were barbarous. Nude pictures of daughters or wives of rivals leaked to media outlets. Strange investigations by the IRS were launched. Unexplained endorsements for the Republican Gooden would emerge from Democrats who had spoken poorly of him. Gooden believed a little dirt and leverage could win any political battle. To date, he’d been right. And even with all the ugliness in his past, he was as powerful -- or more so -- than ever.

  Texas politician Gooden was ruthless, no doubt, but this corruption did not compare to Senator Gooden, the defender of democracy, the mastermind of Whitaker’s illegal unit to fight terrorism.

  There were years and years of history of illegally funding struggling minority groups around the world with weapons and money. The mujahideen in Afghanistan, when the Soviets were there and before it was even legal U.S. policy. And the Northern Alliance against the Taliban following the Soviet departure.

  The Kurds in the Middle East. Most surprisingly, the Chechens against the now democratic Russians, until the Chechens had resorted to barbaric terrorism in Moscow. Nevertheless, Gooden still believed the Chechens should be funded to keep the Russians from becoming a strong U.S. opponent again.

  Whitaker knew enough dirt on Senator Gooden to bury him, but he didn’t have the guts to spill it. Senator Gooden was no different than a mob boss. He would get you, even if he were in the confines of prison.

  The man finally laid the paperwork down and locked his fiery eyes on Whitaker.

  “Good afternoon, Senator,” Whitaker said.

  “The hell it is,” Gooden snapped. “You want to tell me what happened in California?”

  “As you know, we had a little situation.”

  “No shit. And why did we have a situation?”

  “Because --”

  “I’ll tell you why,” Gooden snarled. “Because you had to go out there on some kind of damn stunt. Had to lead the troops, huh? Great. Now your face is on a videotape, courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  Whitaker swallowed hard. The thought of a camera in the police car never crossed his mind, though he knew they were standard in the police departments of major cities. Shit.

  “Give me a report on Nick Woods,” Gooden commanded. “I assume you’ve found him?”

  “Unfortunately, we haven’t.”

  “Unfortunately, I know that,” Senator Gooden roared back sarcastically. “I think there’s something else you want to tell me about that situation, isn’t there?”

  Whitaker wondered how his intel was so good. Were there other units like Whitaker's under Gooden’s belt?

  “I asked you a question,” Gooden chided.

  “As a matter of fact,” Whitaker said. “We’ve lost Allen Green.”

  “No fucking shit,” Gooden roared. “Don’t you think I would’ve liked to have known that?”

  “Of course, but I’ve -- ”

  “I don’t want to hear it. You can’t find Bin Laden. You can’t keep a tail on Allen Green, some stupid, liberal writer from New York. You go off like a cowboy and waste a cop, and still don’t take care of the Hands of Death -- the very reason you went out there.

  “My accountant says your funds are getting preciously thin, and those Hands of Death thugs continue to undercut us out there. My patience is wearing thin, Whitaker. You’re quickly coming to a point where I’m leaning toward terminating your command.”

  Chapter 41

  In Knoxville, the weather was clear. Still a bit cool, but sunny and beautiful.

  Nick sat inside a once plush, 1970s full-size van, watching the building where FBI Special Agent Jack Ward worked through the scope of his .308 rifle.

  The window of the rear door of the van had been knocked out the day prior, and Nick and his rifle were about five feet from the opening, deep in the shadows of the curtained van.

  Nick waited in the seat of a captain’s chair, kneeling, with the rifle perched across the back of the seat for support. With Nick’s head cramped against the top of the van, it was a shitty position, but he was only shooting 260 yards.

  With the building’s doors sharp in his scope, all he could do was wait. Two days had passed since his spout in the motel room with Allen over the SS symbol burned into his chest, but that was long forgotten. Though he knew he was only moments away from taking the shot, he found it hard to concentrate.

  Behind him, Allen was smoking his third cigarette in five minutes. Allen kept thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Someone could walk by the front of the van and look in, Allen thought. Or, the employee waiting to take their parking ticket might not be in his booth when they made a break for it after the shot.

  He’d probably be taking a piss, Allen worried. Well, it didn’t really matter now. Allen had already called Jack Ward from a recently purchased, disposable cell phone.

  And there you had it: Allen Green, an only child raised wealthy by a dope-smoking mom, was about to take another serious step back from his climb to the top. He'd already dropped from award-winning journalist to accused child molester. And now he was about to become a co-conspirator in the brutal assassination of an FBI agent that was involved in a controversial shooting. Allen figured that profile would warrant a short, sharp obit in The New York Times, which oddly enough had always been one of his goals.

  Usually, only about three or four people had short articles on them in the Times following their death. Famo
us politicians, scientists, sometimes writers. Allen wanted to be one of those writers.

  Well, he thought, if you can’t make it in the front door, go around to the back. The satire did little to cheer him.

  Nick, still behind the scope, wasn’t worried like Allen. In fact, Nick was far from worried. He had that feeling you get before you knock on the boss’s door to ask for a raise or to say you aren’t going to work another Sunday or Friday night. He knew he needed to carry out this shot, but it was like finally knocking on the door. You had to face the boss.

  Nick figured he could pass on shooting Jack Ward and live the rest of his life on the run. Maybe find him a cabin somewhere. The covert unit would probably stop looking eventually.

  But, like the cruel bastard of a boss who pushes some employees too far, Nick knew he had to go through with this confrontation. After all, this boss was responsible for Anne’s death.

  Yeah, he’d knock on the door all right. And if he got fired or killed in this situation, so be it.

  Any doubts he had about knocking on the door were completely erased when Special Agent Jack Ward stepped through the glass doors and onto the sidewalk. He looked pissed, turning his head from left to right to meet whoever it was who had just called and demanded to meet him outside. Alone.

  Nick knew the insolent piece of shit had twice told Allen on the phone that he was in “Administration” and anyone with a tip about a crime needed to talk to “Investigations” -- not him. After Allen insisted he would only pass along documents to Jack Ward had the man finally relented. A real coward, thought Nick.