Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Whitaker debated briefly in his head as to whether he should mention to the Strike Team Leader that their target might be meeting up with a dangerous sniper and former veteran, who'd bagged a bunch of people in his day and was still on the hunt. But in the end, Whitaker passed.

  He knew the Strike Team Leader was in an open room with the rest of the men, so everything he said would be heard by all. It certainly wouldn’t inspire confidence to hear about the talented Nick Woods right before what should be a simple strike.

  And there wasn't time to tell the Team Leader to step outside and call him, so he could brief him. Thus, Whitaker made the decision not to mention it.

  "Listen," Whitaker commanded. "Follow him, and the first chance you get where there aren't any witnesses, just take him out. I don’t care if it's an open road or a dark, deserted parking lot. Just make it happen and get out of there."

  "Roger that," the Team Leader said. Then, to his men, he yelled, "Let's go. We don't have time to screw around. He's getting further and further away, and we can't go speeding after him if we're armed for bear. Everyone, just grab pistols and ignore your vests or sub-machineguns. This should be easy. Now, let's go. Move. Move. Move."

  The six remaining Strike Team Three members and their Team Leader piled into their two SUVs and headed in the direction that their target -- or Allen Green -- traveled.

  Chapter 58

  Nick Woods watched the road in front of him. He waited in the kneeling position, leaning against a tree. He had the sniper rifle slung across his back and the bloody ghillie suit that he'd taken off the sniper balled up in front of him.

  He had his .45 pistol out and in his right hand, nice and ready. Extractions usually proved dangerous, and Nick didn't plan to take any chances. Besides his .45, he also had the 9 mm Beretta that he'd taken off the sniper stuck in his waist, just below his belly button.

  Right on time, he saw headlights headed his way.

  Allen Green drove down the road, his eyes searching the ground in front of his eye beams. And then he saw a branch where it was supposed to be.

  "Come on," he thought. "Please, RC can, where are you?"

  Then his headlights picked up the glint of a blue RC Cola can. And just beyond that, he saw the old red shirt laying in the gravel of the road's shoulder.

  Allen felt huge relief, the fear and stress suddenly gone. There was just something about the confident, hard Southern man that Allen had trouble putting into words.

  Allen cut his lights and slowed. But, as he pulled to the side, he noticed a vehicle behind him hit its high beams and roar toward him. And behind it came two more.

  Nick heard the convoy before Allen saw them. Nick's senses had been on full alert in the darkness, and his ears picked up the traffic coming his way.

  Nick immediately left the ghillie suit and sprinted up the road toward the coming vehicles, while staying within the tree line for its cover and concealment. As Allen had approached Nick’s pick-up point, Nick had kept his eyes shielded from the headlights in order to maintain his night vision. And then the other vehicles hit their lights on bright after Allen had slowed and cut his off, and Nick still worked to look away from the glare, hoping his adjusted eyesight might play some advantage if things got rough.

  Nick raced through the woods, limbs smacking his face and his boots slipping and sliding. He made it roughly fifty yards then darted out of the woods and into the grass alongside the road once he'd run beyond the vehicles.

  The three vehicles -- two SUVs and a business car of some kind -- lined up behind each other, and men burst out of the cars, guns drawn and shouting as they dashed forward.

  Nick ran, too. Toward them. From behind. He kept his eyes squinted, protecting his night vision. Thankfully, he only had the red brake lights to contend with, not the bright lights from the front of each vehicle.

  Whitaker’s Strike Team Three members all rushed to the right of each vehicle. It made sense from a tactical perspective. If they approached from both sides, then they'd be in each other's line of fire. In this formation, they'd be on line and could fire safely.

  Nick had closed to within ten yards, and they still hadn't heard him in their own noise. Then he saw Allen's brake lights go brighter as he pushed the brake. It was obvious that Allen planned to throw the car in gear and drive off -- he'd frozen for what must have been five or ten seconds, but that's what civilians do, Nick knew.

  "Shoot him before he drives off," someone yelled, and Nick saw pistols get raised their final necessary inches. Nick stopped running and started shooting.

  He couldn't see his sights, but he didn't need to. They were just six feet ahead. He pointed the pistol as if he were pointing his finger. It was just as he'd been trained, and he trusted his body to intuitively aim correctly.

  His shots rocked the night as only a .45 can, and as his rounds tore into the rear man. The team hesitated. They'd been told there'd be only one man, and Nick took advantage of their hesitation.

  He fired eight shots from the .45 in three seconds and dropped the pistol, yanking the Beretta out and firing off the entire magazine from the kneeling position.

  The men in front of him tried to turn, to maneuver around their screaming and bleeding buddies, but every time one got close to returning fire, they caught rounds themselves. The entire line of men was perfectly illuminated and blinded by the bright lights of the three vehicles.

  They were barely able to see a silhouette, and some pistol flashes, but their views were one-one hundredth of what Nick Woods saw.

  And Nick Woods fired until the pistol locked to the rear, out of ammo. Nick reached down, grabbed his .45 from the ground, and reloaded it with a second mag. And as men groaned, cried, or reached for pistols or other weapons, he walked among them and kicked their weapons away.

  “Looks like you boys picked the wrong team today,” Nick said. “And I figure real cops don’t bother shooting a man in the back who’s trying to drive away and presents no threat to them, so I’ll spare myself any regret for gunning you all down.”

  One of the men lying on the ground withdrew a radio to call for help. Nick watched in amusement, snickered at the futility of such a move, and stepped hard on his hand.

  There’d be no calling for back up for these boys.

  Chapter 59

  After the echoes of the gunfire ceased, Allen Green wanted to flee the scene immediately, but Nick instructed him to wait just a little longer.

  Nick ran to the woods and grabbed the ghillie suit he'd taken from the sniper.

  "I might need this," he said, throwing it into the car.

  "I thought you said you didn't have one," Allen said.

  "I didn't, but somebody decided to let me borrow it."

  Allen looked back over the seat and saw what looked to be dried blood on it.

  "I'll bet," he said.

  "Oh, before we leave, let's get all the money we can from these chumps," Nick said. "May need it."

  "We'll be leaving our fingerprints, though."

  "Won't matter," Nick replied. "You'll be writing this up as one of your press releases, right?"

  "True."

  The two quickly searched each of the men and wiped the inevitable blood they couldn't avoid off on the dry pieces of clothing they could find. Despite the sticky hands, it proved worth it. They found more than $860 in cash on the men, along with an MP5 and six magazines fully loaded in the back of one of the vehicles.

  "Not a bad night's work," Nick grinned as they stood outside the car.

  "Easy for you to say," Allen said. "You didn't have eight dudes aiming guns at you about to blow your head off."

  "The hell I didn't," Nick scoffed. "Who do you think they were aiming at after I started firing? Not to mention, a damn near perfectly hidden sniper nearly took my head off."

  "How'd you get by him?"

  "I'll tell you later. We need to get the hell out of here, grab our stuff from our room, and get out of Indian country."

  "And the
n what?"

  "First, a shower for me. Then you can update the media on what happened. With as many bodies being piled up, they're going to catch on soon that something pretty serious is going on. Now, call 911, and tell them there’s been a drug deal gone bad out here on the highway. And that there’s been lots of shooting.”

  Nick scanned the stack of men to confirm none was moving very quickly, then looked toward the field he’d thrown the weapons in. Yeah, none of them would get away or be able to shoot down some innocent cop when he arrived.

  After Allen made the call, they climbed in the car and sped off into the night. Allen waited until he was a few miles away to share the latest. Once he was confident they were clear of the incoming police units, he said, “I have some good news. A New York Times reporter named Ken Leonard has been writing up the story. Believe me, the press is coming around to seeing things our way, and I've been getting more e-mails from reporters I once knew."

  "That's great news, Allen. It really is, and it's an important part of what we need to get done. But just remember, in the end, this war will be won by bullets, not barrels of ink."

  "Don't be so sure," Allen said, pulling out a cigarette.

  Chapter 60

  Whitaker lost a lot of sleep that night. After losing radio contact with Strike Team Three, he'd tried to stay calm. Surely, a tactical situation made it necessary that they stay off the air. Surely, not all nine of his strike team members were dead. All nine? Could that even be possible?

  These were some bad motherfuckers. Delta Force. Navy Seals. Army Rangers. Marine Recon.

  One Marine and a soft liberal from New York taking them out?

  Impossible.

  With a wavering confidence, Whitaker had dismissed the thought. He understood the importance of upholding an aura of control and certainty.

  However, after three hours with no communication, Whitaker could take no more. It was after 2 a.m., and his team commander had broken every Standard Operating Procedure in the book. It seemed impossible that between cell phones, pay phones, and three vehicles, that the team leader hadn't found a way to contact him.

  Whitaker finally relented and called up his support men, ordering them to head out to the unit's last known location and report what they saw.

  They called twenty minutes later, reporting a huge crime scene up ahead. Dozens of police cars, ambulances, and night lights. Whitaker told them to turn around and avoid trying to get closer or drive down the road.

  "For Christ's sake," he hissed. "It's after 2 a.m., and you're a bunch of guys driving down a dark road, all of you carrying weapons. The last thing I need is for you all to be arrested and add to my problems. Get the hell out of there while you can."

  And then Whitaker had sat heavily in his office in Fredericksburg, Virginia. He poured himself a shot of Tequila and let his mind wander.

  Certainly, he was in deep shit. What would he do if he were Sen. Ray Gooden? Was there any way he'd keep the same man in charge?

  And that brought up an interesting dilemma. After all, Gooden would probably do far more than fire Whitaker. How did you fire someone who knew so much? Who'd overseen and taken part in shit-tons of illegal operations, and probably had files and files of hidden documents that could bury you.

  Whitaker glanced at his office door, ensuring it was locked.

  Tank was in his office and Whitaker wondered whether Tank would kill him. He questioned whether at this very moment Tank was getting a text from Gooden commanding him to take Whitaker out.

  Whitaker pulled out his .40 caliber Glock from its hip holster and laid it on his desk. Much easier to go for it while it lay there than trying to draw it out while sitting. But, would he open the door with it in his hand, should Tank knock?

  What if Tank merely had a simple question or message to relay? How weak would Whitaker look then? How long before his troops would start to talk, saying the old man had lost his nerve? This old war horse -- a paranoid loner who was good with a rifle -- had finally got the best of the ole' veteran commander. The man who'd hunted the Viet Cong like a mad man and led troops on nearly every continent.

  One loner and a journalist, for God's sake, had finally bested him. Whitaker shook the thought from his head.

  He stood, holstered his pistol, and unlocked his door. One way or the other, he wouldn't go out a coward.

  Chapter 61

  Allen Green and Nick Woods returned to their hotel room. Nick took a rushed shower, then they retrieved their hidden cash and gear and drove out of Jacksonville, N.C.

  Nick was beyond exhausted, nodding off before they'd driven five minutes.

  "Why don't you catch some sleep?" Allen suggested.

  "I may just do that, partner. I'm flat beat."

  "Any particular direction you want me heading?"

  "Just head south. We'll find somewhere far away from civilization and recoup a bit."

  "I need to stay near Internet access. This story is blowing up, and more and more reporters are e-mailing me."

  "That's fine. Just head south. We'll get another hotel room."

  A lot happened the next few days. While Nick rested up, and eventually got back to his running, calisthenics, and countless pistol and hand-to-hand drills, Allen worked his media magic.

  Based on the advice of a colleague from The Washington Post, he set up a website that detailed and catalogued everything he knew (and suspected) about the conspiracy. The tone of the website was one of a questioning doubter. Allen used it more as a, "If there's no conspiracy, then how do you explain this? Or that?"

  By then, news media had descended again into the Jacksonville/Camp Lejeune area. Nine more men killed -- one, an obvious sniper. Again, no real clues.

  Allen wrote on the website his version of what happened. The website claimed Nick Woods had acted in self-defense to protect Allen from a carjacking or abduction. Granted, it came across as crazy, but how else could you explain all those bodies, who, by the way, were armed and not found to be licensed law enforcement of either the state or federal government?

  The web hits started growing from day one, and Allen's site became both a media resource and a destination source for an increasingly fascinated public. By this point, even Nick could see the value of the information war Allen was waging.

  He begrudgingly accepted that Allen's methods were gaining them loads of allies, which translated to plenty of brains helping them with their strategy and even volunteers willing to hide them out or support them in any way they could.

  Nick appreciated the support but hesitated to trust any of them.

  "Someone in that list of e-mails you have is a plant," he said. "He'll show up and blow our asses away."

  "Precisely why I've told no one where we are."

  Things improved even more the next day.

  First, Allen received a message on his website claiming to be from the FBI stating they'd found some irregularities in their investigation into the shootings and believed some of what he was stating had merit. The FBI requested the two men come in for questioning and protection.

  Nick was dead set against this idea, and Allen was only marginally in favor of it. The idea seemed fraught with danger, and this group that hunted them seemed to have plenty of sources and connections.

  But, an even better idea emerged when The New York Times offered to have an artist sketch out the face of the man who'd gone by the name of "Whitaker." Allen wanted to pursue this opportunity, but Nick still worried that the artist could be followed, assuming he wasn't a plant to begin with.

  Nick and Allen reached a compromise when The New York Times offered to host a secure video-conference with the artist. Nick agreed to let Allen do that, but he insisted they start moving hotels twice a day instead of every day.

  "This is really burning through our money," Allen argued.

  "Beats having some of the guys from this group come busting down our door. We don't know what abilities they have to track us electronically."

  But, t
hose abilities had vastly deteriorated. The NSA was done letting Whitaker use their resources. Allen's website about a Marine hero and a reporter just looking for the truth had completely swayed public opinion.

  The story was so big that an opinion poll had been completed and now only 18 percent of the public believed Allen Green had ever looked at child porn or made up his original story. And as the public perception turned, the media piled on in Allen and Nick's favor.

  And as for Nick Woods, the public wanted him exonerated from the shootings he'd been involved in and granted military honors for his sacrifice in Afghanistan.

  Nick showed no concern for these realties. He remained convinced more blood would flow soon. But, Allen pressed on and soon had the sketch drawn up with the artist. Once it was completed, Allen promptly uploaded it to the website.

  And that's when things really started to go Nick and Allen's way.

  Chapter 62

  Whitaker stood before Sen. Ray Gooden's desk. Again, Sen. Gooden ignored him while he scanned through a half-inch report.

  Sen. Gooden finally paused, pulled down his reading glasses, and asked, "Why are we here today?"

  Whitaker thought of several smart-ass responses, but he figured humility should win the day.

  "We're here," Whitaker said, "because I've failed to either bring in or take down Nick Woods and Allen Green."

  "Well, that's certainly clear. A bit obvious, if you ask me."

  "Yes, sir."

  "But, it's more than that," Sen. Gooden said. "Exactly how many men have you lost?"

  "Too many, plus Nancy Dickerson," Whitaker admitted. Unfortunately for him, he knew the number exactly. Knew most of their names. Their dreams and aspirations. With units like his, men didn't come and go. These men had been there for years, and Whitaker knew them all.

  Sen. Gooden said nothing, letting these facts further sink in for Whitaker. Oh, he's good, Whitaker thought. He's good.