Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  The Strike Team members lounged about with the ease of hardened veterans who'd learned to master the hell of hurry up and wait years ago. The men joked, laughed, and bitched, but thought little of the mission. Nabbing one man, with no support element, no training, and likely unarmed? That had the word “cakewalk” written all over it.

  Just moments after the NSA guy cracked the precise location of Allen Green, Whitaker contacted his team leader. After asking a few questions, the Strike Team Three Commander walked out of an office, looked down at his notes one more time, and then said, "All right, guys. Let's load up and get on the road."

  And with that, the men broke from their groups and climbed into their heavy vehicles, which were souped-up and modified in the front so they could ram obstacles without fear.

  Chapter 54

  A freakish silence shrouded the forest. Nick Woods had dropped to the ground hard, after stalking for hours from the ambush site. But, he hadn't worried about the noise because if he'd been in some sniper's scope, then silence didn't matter.

  Nick had landed hard, and the sound of his body smashing leaves and sticks had sent birds scattering and squirrels up trees.

  Now, he lay still, panting. His heavy breathing came not from exertion but from fear. He had no idea how close he'd just come to dying, but his gut told him it was within milliseconds.

  After all, the woods in front of him allowed roughly two hundred yards visibility -- behind him was thick brush and cover. For a sniper, two hundred yards was spitting distance. Hell, even a good rifleman without a scope could drop a man at this distance, even using a worn-out, standard-issue assault rifle.

  But for a sniper with a scope and finely tuned rifle, you were talking about being able to hit something just a bit bigger than a half dollar. A good one would hit within two inches at two hundred yards.

  So, assuming a sniper waited out there watching for Nick, he'd probably have wanted to drop him immediately as he exited the thick cover. And that's exactly what Nick had done when he got the feeling of being watched. Which meant the opposing sniper had probably already let half his breath out and had been taking the slack out of the trigger waiting for it to surprise him. Which meant Nick had been milliseconds from death.

  A perfect shot. An instant death.

  Nick knew he was in a terrible situation. The sniper would be perfectly concealed in a ghillie suit that provided excellent visibility. He'd be behind some light brush or leaves, hidden in depth behind the moving foliage.

  Nick lay between a couple big trees, and while he knew his rear was secure, he also knew he couldn't move forward. Had the sniper been able to see even a bit of Nick, the man would have shot already. After all, his surprise had been blown by Nick, even though the man hadn't done a thing wrong.

  Nick glanced behind him to confirm he had at least ten yards before he could make it back into the dense cover of the swampy thicket. While Nick didn't know where the sniper was located, he felt certain that there'd be no way he could go ten yards without exposing part of him, which the man would immediately blast. It's exactly what Nick would do -- in fact, it’s exactly what Nick had done in some of the sniper duels he'd survived in Afghanistan.

  Once surprise was gone, you wanted to wound the other man and frustrate him. Force him to try to patch himself up, so you could either move into a position with a better view or hit him again while he attempted to stop the bleeding.

  So, Nick couldn't go backward. That was for sure. And he couldn't go forward or move to either side. To do so would be risking exposure and getting winged by a man who would be driving nails at this distance with a grin on his face.

  A risky move would be to jump up and try to dart back to the thicket. That had a small chance, especially if he rolled one way or the other, but at this distance, the sniper wouldn't need to hold his breath or work hard to make a great shot. The roll would simply alert his opponent and increase the risk, and just trying to get up would be as equally fatal.

  Nick figured the man was aimed in on the spot where he'd hit the deck. Waiting to see some movement he could blast. If Nick rose up, it'd just be a quick trigger pull, and that'd be it.

  Great job, Nick, he said to himself. You're about to get bagged by some sniper who's probably embarrassed at how easy this is going to be. Hell, there were fat, out-of-shape police snipers who shot twice a year who could handle this situation with ease.

  Since he couldn't move, Nick had one thing left to do. And he'd soon find out who the tougher, more patient hombre was.

  Chapter 55

  Nick lay on the ground, listening. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he'd guess it'd been at least two hours. The birds and squirrels had calmed back down just minutes after he dove to the ground, and he'd kept his head lowered for the first twenty or thirty minutes.

  He knew from long experience that keeping your head up while in the prone would quickly lead to neck cramps. He also knew his opponent wouldn't move in the first few minutes until he was certain Nick had gone to ground.

  Thus, Nick had kept his head down, but he’d strained for all his might to keep his hearing super alert.

  After waiting roughly twenty or thirty minutes -- he refused to look down at his watch -- he lifted his head as slowly as one might raise the flag at a particularly moving memorial ceremony.

  Nick wished he had his old ghillie suit. Not only would it hide him far better than his camouflage uniform and boonie hat, but it also had a reinforced, padded front to it. This made laying in the prone more comfortable. And as Nick shivered in the cool autumn air, he remembered it also helped keep you warm.

  But Nick needed to focus. He pushed the thought of a more comfortable ghillie suit out of his head and pulled his rifle toward him, adjusting the knob on the top of the scope to two hundred yards.

  He lifted his head and looked toward his front. He worked his head from left to right, moving it slowly and carefully scanning the underbrush and deep shadows. It took him ten minutes of close study to confirm he could see nothing that looked out of place.

  But he hadn't planned to see anything out of place. If this guy was any good, and if he had a ghillie suit on, then he couldn't be seen.

  Nick needed to memorize exactly what the area to his front looked like. He felt sure the sniper would soon be crawling toward him, and it'd be difficult to pick up his slow movement.

  Nick's best chance was to see a difference in the way things looked, and the moment he did, he planned to put a bullet right into the space.

  However, no sounds reached him, and no shadows changed. Minute-after-minute passed, and Nick felt impatience and doubt creep up on him.

  Maybe he hadn't felt someone looking at him? And maybe laying here, with his back to the thicket was a guaranteed way to die? Couldn't more men be on his trail, maybe even with silent trailing dogs? And one of their handlers would step out of the thicket and see their target lying there, facing the wrong direction. A double-tap to the back and that'd be it.

  But the feeling had been so real of being watched. Could he have imagined it? So many times he'd trusted his gut, and it'd almost always been right. And it was only when he'd ignored his gut that he'd lost. Like allowing Anne to wear down his awareness, or “paranoia” as she called it.

  The minutes turned to hours, and Nick felt his body begin to cramp. Two hours is a long time to do nothing, and Nick was far older than he'd once been. He was also severely out of practice of the painful hell required of snipers.

  Simply trying to stay semi-alert and focused was difficult, and his mind drifted to Anne as the tactical situations left his mind -- hell, there were no tactical scenarios, just wait till the other man moves; the first man to move loses.

  He hadn't thought of her much the past few days. It had been total mission focus from almost the moment he'd read about Allen Green in the newspaper and hauled ass up to New York to save his life. Nick wondered if Anne would approve of his shooting of the FBI Agent and the Marine Colonel, both o
f whom had caused her death.

  Was his opponent thinking of a girl, too? Was there even a sniper foe out there? Nick also wondered if Allen Green would freak out later tonight when Nick wasn't at the pick-up point.

  Well, one thing at a time, he thought. First, he needed to survive this conundrum, and even pulling this off would take all the discipline and tenacity he could muster.

  Nick could hear nothing, but he wondered if he'd be able to hear a good sniper crawling two hundred yards away. The leaves were fairly dry, but a good man would move so slowly that the crushing of them would emit almost no sound.

  Nick wanted to look down at his watch about as much as he wanted to get off the cold ground. He figured if he looked at his watch, he'd give himself another fifteen minutes.

  But looking down would not only take his eyes off the area, it would also create movement. In addition, it would demoralize Nick since he felt confident less time had passed than he'd imagined. And if he did look at his watch, he really would set a time to get up and get moving. And such an idea, while tempting, welcomed a swift death. Thus, Nick pushed the thought from his mind and decisively concentrated on the job at hand. Get in character, Nick commanded himself.

  The sniper across from him was no doubt dealing with the same thoughts, and Nick just needed to be more disciplined than him.

  Minutes passed, turning to hours. Nick needed to piss. He needed to scratch several mosquito bites, especially one on the back of his neck, but he fought these distractions and cursed his weakness. The urge to piss became so painful that he could no longer hold it, and so he pissed where he lay. Without undoing his pants. Without moving. The warm mess felt bad enough, but as it crept along the ground and up his stomach, the urge to get up nearly overpowered him.

  Could any man other than himself lay this long? He didn't know the answer, but if the person was in a hide with food and water accessible, and piss and shit bags, then the answer was certainly "yes." However, if the man wasn’t in a hide and had just been sent on a quick reaction-type mission, then there wouldn't be a good hide or piss and shit bags or candy bars. That man would be beyond the breaking point by now. And with any luck, that man hadn't seen as much shit as Nick had, and would thus be weaker.

  Nick considered that thought. Had any snipers in Afghanistan these days, or in Iraq, been in as tough a situation as he and his sniper partner had been in against the Soviets?

  Nick figured the answer was "no." No way had any of them operated against a highly trained group of Spetsnaz, who had air support and infantry companies supporting them along with mobile units, including tanks and armored jeeps. And in the end, the Spetsnaz and Soviet forces had even been provided perfect intel from the U.S. government itself, who had sold him and his partner out.

  No. No way had this man been through what Nick had been through.

  Suck it the fuck up, Nick. Suck it up for your sniper spotter. Suck it up for Anne. Suck it up for Allen Green. Suck it up, so you can take out whoever's behind it all.

  And suck it up Nick did. He didn't move. He fought off the urge to sleep. He drove away the temptation to scratch. To stand. To scream that he gave up and he couldn't take it anymore.

  And hours after he went to ground, and hours after pissing himself, he noticed a spot two hundred yards away look a bit different. Darker than it once was.

  Nick brought his rifle up moving as slow as he could and got his eye behind the scope. It took him more than twenty seconds to find the same location in the scope and as he scanned it in the detail of 10X magnification, he began to doubt he'd seen any change.

  But as he lay there staring at the dark blob behind loads of leaves, he saw it move.

  He smiled, thanked his old drill instructors for being such assholes, and fired. The shot rocked the quiet day, and the target jerked and yelled before immediately ceasing. Nick worked the bolt, ejected the round, and rammed a new shell home. He moved the reticule back on target and fired again. Again the greenish shadow moved and screamed louder, unable to bite down the pain anymore.

  Nick worked the bolt again and leaped to his feet. He ran, stumbling at first from legs that were stiff, toward the man. He arrived winded and approached carefully, looking around for an accompanying spotter with the sniper.

  But just as his gut told him someone was watching him, so, too, it told him that the man operated alone. Partly, he figured it was because whatever snipers were available would be split up to cover various evac routes. And partly it was because Nick figured whatever unit was out there, they couldn't have that many snipers available.

  After all, none had been in New York when he went to pick up Allen Green. And only one, if any, (he'd seen none) had been back at Col. Jernigan's home.

  Nick slowed his pace to a walk, aimed at the man, and covered the final distance. Blood soaked the ground below his opponent and dripped from splattered leaves waist high.

  It's nasty getting hit by a high-powered rifle, Nick thought.

  The sniper appeared to be dead. He'd rolled on his back and no longer looked camouflaged.

  Nick jogged the final few steps and pushed him with the toe of his boot. Nothing. He's dead, Nick thought, and checked the area again to make sure the man didn't have any friends.

  Nick then searched the man, grabbed his wallet, and stole his Beretta 9 mm pistol, along with both magazines. He'd traveled fifty yards before he stopped and jogged back to the body. He then smiled and stole the man's ghillie suit, placing it in the crook of his arm.

  Nick knew from prior experience that the blood would turn dark and not hurt the effectiveness of the suit.

  Chapter 56

  Two men from Strike Team Three sat outside the Holiday Inn in Jacksonville, N.C.

  They watched Allen Green's room though they didn't know the full story as to why Allen Green needed to go down. All they knew was that some guy named Allen Green was selling secrets he’d obtained from a few Marines inside Camp Lejeune to the Chinese.

  Strike Team Three intended to hit Allen Green's room at 3 a.m. There was no better time for a night strike. Too late for the night owls to be up and too early for the early birds to have risen.

  The team would stack quietly and hit the door with a battering ram -- no warning, no knock-ee, knock-ee.

  Two support members would trail the eight-man strike team and wait on the balcony. They'd be wearing khaki's and polo shirts equipped with Glock pistols on their hip. Anyone who opened their door to investigate the noise would be approached by an angry "cop" flashing a quite-real looking badge and commanded to stay in doors for their own safety and to not bother calling the cops. The situation was under control.

  Inside the room, Allen Green would be either taken alive -- bound and gagged -- or riddled with bullets from silenced MP5s. His choice. Neither Whitaker nor the team members cared.

  The time was just after 10:15 p.m. and the two Strike Team Three members watching Allen's room had been bored for nearly two hours now.

  The team member in the driver's seat said, "Did I ever tell you about the best blowjob I ever got?"

  "Yeah, you did. When we were doing that surveillance up in Buffalo, New York. Her name was Sarah, and you were on a plane,” the other team member replied robotically. “Stepped into the lavatory together."

  "Actually, it was Sandy, but yeah, that was it."

  The team member in the passenger seat heard the disappointment, but what the hell. He didn't want to hear the story again, but now he hated the awkward tension he now felt in the car. Maybe he should have pretended he'd never heard the story. Then, he saw the curtain in Allen Green's room move.

  "Hey, hey, hey. What do we have here?" he asked.

  "What is it?" the team member in the driver's seat shifted forward.

  "The curtain moved in his room --"

  But before he could say more, the light turned off, and the door opened. Allen Green checked the lock and stood in the walkway up on the second floor.

  "Call it in," the driver sai
d.

  And while the call worked its way up to the team leader, they saw Allen stride down the walkway and down the steps.

  Chapter 57

  Allen Green drove the entire way to the pick-up point full of mixed feelings. On the one hand, Ken Leonard from The New York Times had written a great article the night before. Doubt continued to spread among the public and the authorities.

  On the other hand, Nick Woods should have been at the rally point waiting just in the trees on night number two. Now, it was night three, and Allen couldn't shake the feeling that something bad had occurred. It was so frustrating because they were so close to busting the conspiracy wide open and getting their lives back -- even though Nick said they'd never truly have their lives back. Allen disagreed with that, but regardless, that was beside the point.

  They were so close to their safety and freedom again, yet it seemed something had happened to Nick. Allen lit his second cigarette of the past ten minutes and attempted to push the fear out of his mind. Maybe he should just keep driving if the signals weren't in the roadside tonight.

  He had nothing in the hotel room that mattered. Maybe they were after him now. He felt a cold chill work its way down his neck. Nonsense. He'd been around Nick too long and was growing too paranoid.

  He drove on, turning the radio on and pushing the thought from his mind.

  Behind him, Strike Team Three scrambled to gear up. The two men who'd been monitoring his room followed from a safe distance while the rest of the team grabbed weapons and loaded into vehicles from a nearby hotel.

  They had been waiting in a hotel room while their team leader sent a call in to Whitaker telling him their target was on the move. Whitaker digested the news and instructed the Strike Team Leader to follow the man and take him down at the first chance they got.