Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  On the other side of the cabin, Allen Green prepared to execute his part of the mission. He clicked the MP5 off safe and into semi auto. He checked his watch, confirmed it was time, and choked down his remaining anti-violence feelings.

  Two months ago, he wouldn't kill a fly. Today, he'd be firing a military-style submachine gun at two humans, in what he was pretty sure would fall into the felony category of premeditated murder.

  Allen controlled his breathing as best he could and swallowed down his anxiety and fear. He aimed at the side of the cabin and pulled the trigger. The MP5 fired, roaring loud in the quiet afternoon, but Allen appreciated the lack of kick the small 9 mm round created. He paused just a second, then returned to the sights and fired again.

  Round after round through an entire mag, he peppered the side of the cabin. And when the MP5 clicked empty, he reloaded and began anew.

  Inside the cabin, Whitaker read the latest edition of The Economist, while Tank flipped through a dog-eared copy of Hustler. Both scrambled for cover when Allen's first shot shattered the afternoon silence. They recognized the sound and knew it wasn't a car backfiring or a balloon popping or a firework exploding. They also picked up the caliber from the sound, as well as the thud of the round hitting the wall of the cabin.

  And as they rolled behind cover and retrieved weapons, they also calculated the gap between the sound of the shot and the impact of the bullet. This happened instinctively without conscious thought or effort. Years of range time and combat provided them with more data than two dozen inexperienced civilians would have picked up in twice the time.

  "He's at the rear of the cabin," Tank stated.

  "Probably fifty yards away," Whitaker added.

  "Agreed. Let's hit the front door before they rush us or burn us out."

  Whitaker nodded, scrambled to his feet, and darted to the door, as more rounds smacked the cabin. One bullet shattered a window and buried into an interior wall. Tank raced after him, his body leaning forward and low.

  The two men burst through the front door opposite the direction of the incoming fire. Whitaker and Tank scanned their sectors in the front yard and felt relief to see no stacked troops preparing to assault the cabin. They paused only a second before stacking up and moving along the wall toward the rear.

  Meanwhile, hidden from them, Nick Woods watched the two men through his scope. He smiled, delighted his plan had worked so well. Nick's scope rested on the second man to exit, the one in the rear of the formation and the only one he could see. He assumed it was Tank. The man stood at least 6'5" or 6'6". The two moved toward the end of the wall, and Nick forced down the pressure of how little time he had to make his shots.

  Time slowed. He squeezed. The rifle fired.

  It roared through the woods, easily twice as loud as Allen Green's MP5. It fired a round twice the size of Allen's submachine gun, which shot merely a pistol bullet, and the heavy round ripped through Tank. It clipped his spine, exploded his heart, and tore a three-inch hole out of his chest. The wobbling bullet hit Whitaker, too, going nearly an inch deep in his back.

  Whitaker felt like he'd been hit by a red-hot, fire poker, which had been swung by some power-hitting Major League Baseball player. But as the pain burned and the sound of the shot reached him, he acted. He spun and elbowed the stumbling Tank out of the way.

  Instinct told him Tank was dead. Tank’s legs had given out, and snipers didn’t miss at this range.

  Whitaker raced for the door while Nick rushed to reload and get back on target. Both just made it.

  Whitaker darted through the door as Nick yanked the trigger. Although Whitaker made it inside, Nick scored a brutal shot to Whitaker's side. Blood exploded against the side of the cabin and both Nick and Whitaker knew he would die without immediate medical attention.

  And without question, both knew it'd never come.

  Nick reloaded, eased from cover, and exited the woods. Allen ceased firing after hearing the two loud shots.

  "Did you get them both?" Allen yelled from his position.

  "Sort of. Stay in the woods out of sight and work your way to me."

  Inside the cabin, Whitaker looked at his bloody side. He felt the burning in his back, the blood flowing there, as well, and he knew shock was his worst enemy right now. He threw his M4 on the couch and limped to the bedroom. He kept his right arm pinned to his side, desperate to slow down the bleeding.

  Whitaker ripped the comforter off the bed and grabbed the sheet underneath it. He yanked it off the bed and cut a one-foot wide strip of it with his knife down its entire length. He wrapped the sheet around his side -- across his full body -- four times and then stuffed it inside itself, as you wrap a towel around your waist. His back bled, but that didn't matter. Whitaker thought for a second, realized he had no one to call for support or reinforcements, and accepted his fate.

  He moved back to the living room and retrieved his M4. He positioned himself in the corner and waited in a kneeling position, his rifle across his knee.

  The door to the cabin remained open, but he didn't want to chance walking through the opening to close it. The sniper may have relocated himself to cover the door's opening and, more importantly, the space that was visible inside. Besides, locking the door achieved nothing. They'd either breach the door or burn him out.

  Whitaker flexed his fingers on the weapon and tightened his arm against his side. He'd been in tough positions before. He wouldn't go down easy.

  Chapter 74

  Allen Green knelt next to Nick Woods. Nick watched the open front door of the cabin from a kneeling position behind a tree, his rifle slung and his .45 resting easy in his hand aimed in the general direction of the door. Now, just thirty yards away, he preferred the semi-auto pistol over the bolt-action rifle with its over-magnified scope.

  "How do we know he won't hit the back door while we're both up front?" Allen whispered.

  "We don't," Nick said. "But if he does, he won't get far, and we'll be able to track him. I hit him good. Look at the wall there. And if I were him, I'd stay inside, hidden. Ready to whack whoever comes in."

  "What do we do?"

  "We burn him out," Nick said. "Finally, all your smoking is going to pay off."

  The two stayed on the side of the cabin, keeping an eye on two curtained windows as they quietly stacked limbs and thick branches against the side of the cabin. They moved silently, and since the curtains never moved, Nick assumed Whitaker continued to wait inside. Unless he'd run out the back, but Nick doubted that. The man was probably building up a position, Nick guessed, unless he'd been hit harder than Nick thought, in which case he was playing field surgeon on himself.

  Nick and Allen built a leaning fire shelter in just a few minutes, and with a pile of leaves at the bottom, it lit and spread quickly. The dry branches and limbs caught fire and ignited thicker limbs. The side of the cabin smoked, and both knew the cabin would catch soon.

  "Let's stay together," Nick said. "He's still dangerous and armed to the teeth."

  They moved to the front of the building, both covering the door -- Allen with his MP5 and Nick with his .45 pistol. The fire spread and they soon heard coughing from inside. Minutes passed, and still he remained inside.

  "Come on out," Nick yelled. "Tell us who your boss is and we'll let you live."

  Whitaker fought tears and tried to filter the air through another piece of sheet he'd cut. He lay on the floor trying to stay below the smoke, but it barely helped.

  He considered his options again, for about the hundredth time in the past ten minutes. He could run out the back, but he wouldn't make it far. His side still gushed blood and fatigue wrapped its arms around him like an evil mistress lusting for a soul. Whitaker wanted to succumb to her. To rest his head on the floor and surrender to peace and rest.

  The room blurred and became unfocused, and Whitaker smashed his M4 against the top of his head. The pain drove off the evil bitch trying to seduce him and brought him back to reality. To pain. To the
impossible situation before him.

  He shook his head and tried to think clearly. He remembered he couldn't run. He coughed on the smoke and realized it was now or never. It would either be a warrior's death or the kind of movie-like ending you only dreamed of: the main character emerging from certain death as an unstoppable hero.

  Whitaker climbed to his feet. His legs wobbled, and doubt assailed his mind. This wouldn't work, he thought, but then he fought down the pessimism. Come on motherfucker, he said to himself. He whacked his rifle against his forehead and roared as he stumbled through the door.

  "Ran-gers!" he yelled as he exited the cabin, angry hatred on his mind.

  Nick Woods heard the yell and saw the tall, blood-soaked man burst through the smoke like some kamikaze-charging, doped-up samurai. He admired the man's courage and determination and thought in another time on another day, he'd have been honored to serve under this man. But then he remembered his spotter in Afghanistan, blown to bits. He imagined dozens of broken laws. Saw Anne's body in the grass.

  And Nick's heart turned from admiration to righteous vengeance. Whitaker's M4 angled toward Nick and began firing on automatic. Nick saw the fire and flash from the barrel and felt the air turbulence of bullets as they zipped by, snapping in his ear like a bullwhip.

  Nick fired a pointing shot in Whitaker's direction with his .45 that missed, even at the short distance of six feet. But Nick's body never paused and moved to the kneeling position where he two-handed the pistol and fired some more. Yet Whitaker's weapon still tracked toward him, spewing out molten death, and Nick rolled to the side.

  Whitaker saw Nick and moved his weapon toward him, his finger curled around the trigger, the weapon providing comfort as it recoiled back and forth on automatic. Live or die, he'd take Nick with him. The M4 moved to Nick's head, and Whitaker smiled as he imagined seeing Nick's head explode.

  But just as the weapon got on target, Nick's head moved. Whitaker lost Nick for a second between the smoke in his eyes and the speed of Nick's movement. Then he felt the first slam in his chest. Like a horse kicking him. He felt it again and realized Nick had ducked to the kneeling position.

  Another jolt pounded his stomach, and he knew death was no longer an "if" but a "when." But he wanted to take Nick with him worse than anything in the world.

  This hero bastard who always did right and believed in honor and black and white. And as Whitaker's weapon tracked to Nick's path and his subsequent roll to the side, he knew he had him. They'd leave this world together, and Whitaker would have the pleasure of knowing his organization could survive in the wake of Nick's death. America needed men like Whitaker. Men who weren't afraid to break the law to protect its people.

  Behind Nick, Allen watched the whole sequence in sick fascination. Whitaker firing, Nick dodging by kneeling and rolling. Each time just a split second ahead of Whitaker. But Nick fired a pistol while Whitaker wielded an automatic assault rifle with a stuffed-full magazine and a body doped up on death's adrenaline.

  Allen realized Whitaker would get Nick at the end of his roll to the side. He knew from Nick's drills that he had not practiced a move that would help him avoid this situation and only those hours of practice and their resulting speed had spared him thus far.

  Then Allen remembered the MP-5 in his hands. He pushed the weapon to full auto and fired from the hip as he brought it up. Twenty 9 mm rounds poured through it into Whitaker's body and still Whitaker tracked Nick's movement.

  Then Allen thought of the brain and knew only a head shot would end this brutal, dark death dance. He pointed at Whitaker's head and noticed the sights automatically lined up -- German ingenuity knowing no bounds. Allen fired ten more rounds, each sickeningly on target, wrecking teeth, bone, and brain matter.

  From the ground, Nick knew the bullets hammering into Whitaker's face had saved his life. He reflected on how close death had come to him again as he held an empty pistol and watched Whitaker's riddled body fall to the ground.

  "That man took a lot of killing," Allen huffed, out of breath and visibly rattled.

  Nick lay looking at his pistol, its slide locked to the rear on an empty magazine and started shaking. It looked absurd, he felt certain, but he couldn't stop himself. He often got the shakes after intense combat.

  "You okay?" Allen asked.

  "I owe you," Nick said, looking up at Allen.

  Allen saw respect in the look and felt a pride in his killing of Whitaker that would have sickened the old Allen of just six months ago. He smiled.

  "Told you that you'd enjoy it," Nick smirked. "Remember?"

  Allen thought back to the car and the bully and pawn speech.

  "Give me a cigarette," Nick said, reaching up, his hand still shaking.

  "You don't smoke," Allen said.

  "Special occasion. Now give me a damn cigarette before I kill your suddenly cocky ass."

  Allen laughed and dug out a cigarette. He lit it for Nick, and the two smoked while the cabin burned and Whitaker bled out, brain dead and paralyzed.

  Allen took a seat next to Nick, who had stood and sat down on the porch. The two sat like that for several minutes, listening to the cabin crack and pop as it burned stronger and stronger.

  "What's next?" Allen asked.

  Nick blew out smoke. "We go after his boss, whoever that is."

  "Got to be the head of the CIA or someone in Congress. Maybe the President?"

  "Doesn't matter," Nick said, serious.

  "You must be joking."

  "Nope."

  Allen watched Nick take another drag and realized he wasn't joking. Then Allen started laughing. "You're serious?"

  Nick took another long drag of his cigarette.

  "You realize," Allen said, "that even with all my sources and reporting friends, I could spend years and never find out if it was the head of the CIA, someone in Congress, or the President? And then once you find out, you've got to somehow kill them. You're certainly not going to get them indicted or incarcerated in jail."

  Nick sat thinking. Allen shook his head in disbelief.

  "You're nuts."

  "What else do I have? They took Anne."

  Allen lacked a response to that. His cell phone rang. Both men jumped, and before Allen could recover, Nick was loading a mag into his .45 and looking around.

  "I thought there wasn't cell phone service here?" Nick asked.

  "There's not."

  "Who has your number?"

  "No one. Never called anyone on it. It's one of our cheap pre-paid cell phones that we bought."

  Nick looked up at the sky and imagined a satellite looking down on them. "Answer it," he said gruffly.

  "Hello?" Allen said.

  "Put the phone on speaker," Texas Sen. Ray Gooden said. However, Nick and Allen had no way of recognizing the man's famous voice. A computer program altered and digitized it into a deep-sounding bass.

  Allen pulled the phone down and fiddled with it until he figured out how to put the unfamiliar, cheap phone on speaker. The moment he did, Sen. Gooden continued.

  "Well done, men. I've watched the whole thing go down, and I must say you performed well."

  Nick snatched the phone from Allen and said, "We're coming for you, you no good, son of a bitch."

  Sen. Gooden laughed into the phone, and it sounded especially evil in its altered state.

  "Let me give you a quick reality check," the voice continued. "Right now, three drones are circling you both. They carry among them half a dozen Hellfire missiles. Their operators are veterans of Afghanistan. Quite good operators, really. Have killed dozens of al Qaida sympathizers and terrorists in Northern Pakistan."

  Nick and Allen searched the sky.

  Gooden laughed again. "You can't see or hear them, you idiots. How else would they work so effectively if you could? But, if you managed to outrun them, I have two hundred men from Delta and SEAL Team 6 staged twenty miles away in helos."

  Allen, the bold reporter again, yanked the phone from Nick
. "You wouldn't fire a Hellfire missile in the States. Even you're not that stupid."

  "Indeed," Gooden said. "But military aircraft have been known to crash during routine training ops. I'm sure that's all that happened. The pilot parachuted safely, of course. But that's assuming it's even noticed. You've forgotten that you're miles from anywhere. I doubt it'd even be noticed before our teams policed the area and removed any identifying missile pieces."

  Allen lowered the phone while Nick searched the sky.

  "Now," Gooden continued, "you've heard Option 1. Either a fiery death or a fun traipse through the woods pursued by heavily armed commandos and helicopters loaded with all kinds of sensors, like infrared, as well as machine guns and rockets. So, Option 1 is death. Guaranteed. Certain. Swift. Would be over in less than an hour, assuming you dodge the missiles, and frankly, I'm okay with this plan. Even prefer it actually. It's safer for me since there'd never be any leaks or chance for the truth to emerge. Option 1 is far safer for me. And America."

  Nick dropped his eyes from the sky and met Allen's. Neither said anything.

  "Good. I see I've got your attention, and you're finally listening."

  Nick shook his head in defeat, searching for an angle out of the dilemma. Behind them, the cabin burned fiercer, popping and crackling.

  "Option 2 is more pleasant. Our drones fly home, their pilots bored and frustrated. Our Delta and SEAL operators return to base, pissed about another false alarm. And you two live.

  "Allen, you'll be famous. The two of you successfully took down an out-of-control Homeland Security/CIA leader and his right-hand man. Since Nick will avoid the spotlight, Allen, I imagine you'll become a sensational hero. Best of all, you fired the final shots that took down Whitaker. All charges against you for kiddy porn will be dropped and proven fraudulent, you'll get your job back, and sell several million copies of a book retelling all of this. Minus this small part we're discussing right now, of course. More than likely, your ex-girlfriend Jennifer will enthusiastically take you back. Women do have a thing for rich, courageous heroes. Trust me, I know.