Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  He smiled at her memory and wished she hadn’t been taken so soon. Or, “shot in self defense” if you wanted to believe the bullshit police report from the FBI.

  He didn’t believe it, and in the end what the report said didn’t really matter: Nick had gunned down the pencil pusher who’d killed her that night.

  Nick pushed this bloodshed -- that brutal, ugly rifle shot -- from his mind, just as he’d pushed the screams from Afghanistan out of his mind moments earlier.

  As Nick headed toward the double doors of the gas station, motion brought him fully to the present. A gray, unmarked police cruiser pulled into the gas station, slow and unthreatening. But Nick still paused, unsure. And suddenly he was aware that he had stopped mid-stride and stood transfixed on the cruiser.

  The driver seemed to be watching him from behind the tinted window. Nick stood frozen, watching the car. Unmoving. He looked guilty as hell, and he knew it, and yet he didn’t care.

  No question, he was guilty as hell. He had no concealed carry permit and he had two loaded weapons on him, not to mention the locked and loaded long guns in the Jeep. And once they found his rucksack with the thousands of rounds, the grenades, and the Claymore mines -- all stuff he’d bought off a man he strongly suspected typically armed drug cartels and militias in the Midwest -- he’d be completely toast.

  Not that they’d ever get him in cuffs. Nope. No siree.

  They’d either kill him or he’d kill them first. Nick Woods didn’t trust cops, federal agents, or even the service members defending the flag. All of them had worked to either sell him out or put his ass in the ground, so he’d trust the cold steel on his hip and not another damn thing. (After all, how could anyone know whether their intel was accurate and truthful? Nick had sure been misled enough times as a young Marine, and so had hundreds of men who had come after him.)

  Nick considered drawing and rushing forward and blowing the man’s head off as he watched the officer through the tinted driver’s-side window. Nick couldn’t let him get on his radio, so if the man made one move toward the radio in the console, he was a dead man. He was only twelve feet away and Nick couldn’t let him call in the cavalry.

  But then the man did the damndest thing ever. He turned the car away from Nick, so slow that the movement bordered on bizarre. Still stranger, the man raised both hands up, palms forward, in the motion of surrender. It was the damndest thing ever, and Nick kept his eye on the man with his peripheral vision and scanned the woods beyond the cruiser.

  He saw nothing, and though the hair on his neck hadn’t stood up, Nick wasn’t the type to take chances. He yanked the pistol from his hip so fast that it was a blur. A motion practiced so many thousand times that it would take a slow-motion video to pinpoint each individual movement.

  But now the man’s head was centered in Nick’s sights and a woman was screaming. Folks scurried and hid and frantically dialed cell phones. Nick saw this movement around him, but kept his focus on the man in the cruiser. He could feel all the eyes on him and his mind raced, wondering how fast the 911 calls happening all around him would get the local boys on the scene.

  He’d want his M14 for them -- take a few out before running for it into the woods. Otherwise, they’d just pit-maneuver him on the interstate with their powerful pursuit cars.

  As Nick considered his moves, he noticed the man was saying something behind the tinted window. He strained to hear and picked up the man saying his name.

  “Nick Woods, it’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

  Nick leaned forward a bit and saw fear and pleading in the guy’s face, and he heard the words again, clearer this time: “Nick Woods, it’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

  Nick advanced toward the car -- fast and agile for a man who looked too country to be a runner. But a runner Nick was. And he was damn near a ninja, too. A martial arts addict, he could jump and roll and strike and kick with the best of them.

  And now he stood at the window, his pistol six inches from the glass and the man’s head. The man looked beyond frantic now.

  “Don’t shoot,” he screamed. “Don’t shoot. I need to talk to you. Just talk.”

  Nick grabbed the door handle with his left hand while keeping the pistol in the man’s face. He ripped the door open, moving his pistol out of its arc, before stepping in closer and placing the pistol against the man’s forehead hard enough to drive him on his back. Nick was now leaning in the car, the pistol pressed with all his might against the man’s cranium.

  “Motherfucker, you squirm one inch and I’ll blow a hole so big out the back of your head that the mortician will have to attach a bowl to keep the embalming fluid in. Now, you have ten seconds before I drag you from this car and throw your ass in my Jeep. What do you want? Why were you looking at me? How did you know my name?”

  “Nick,” the man said, struggling against the console in his back and the pistol being pressed hard into bone. “I’ve just come to talk with you.”

  “Talk,” Nick said, not letting up.

  “My name doesn’t matter, but I volunteered to make contact with you. Nick, we need your help.”

  “Last time you all needed my help, you sold me and my partner out five hundred miles inside Afghanistan. Forgive me if I’m a little hesitant to sign up again.”

  “That was a rogue operation run by a dishonorable man. You have to trust us on that.”

  “I’ll decide who I trust,” Nick said, remembering the shredded body of his spotter. And then flashing to the sight of his wife lying dead in the grass, her white gown ruined by blood and mud.

  “Nick, let me up and I’ll call the police off before they get here. Whether you accept our offer or not, you don’t need to be on the run again. You don’t need any more dead cops to your name.”

  Nick considered the idea, and realized he either needed to blow the man’s brains out or take him hostage. Either way the clock was ticking and the cops were certainly racing on their way to the gas station.

  “Get up and don’t try anything stupid,” Nick said, grabbing the man by his throat and jerking him up. They exited the police cruiser awkwardly, both men aware of the loaded gun and the danger each posed to the other.

  They stood now -- the man with his hands up; Nick with his pistol covering him.

  “Everyone, calm down,” the man said, looking toward those around him. “This is simply a training exercise. An anti-terrorism drill. There is no need to panic. My friend here is playing the part of a quote terrorist.”

  He looked back at Nick and said, “Let me get my phone out of my jacket pocket and I’ll get the cops called off.”

  “Move damn slow,” Nick said.

  The man, who wore a black suit and looked about thirty, reached inside the jacket and slowly pulled out a cell phone. He dialed three numbers, which Nick assumed was 911.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am a member of Federal Task Force Apache. Code Number 894673-736492.”

  He paused, then said, “Yes, ma’am. Please call Gen. Compton to confirm, and then please call off the responding units before we have any blue-on-blue accidents.”

  The suited man closed his phone, pointed to his inside coat pocket, and said, “May I?”

  Nick, .45 pointed at his center mass, said, “Slowly. Damn slowly.”

  The man replaced the phone and said, “If you’ll let me lock the car, we’ll take a ride in your Jeep and talk.”

  “Car doesn’t need to be locked. It’s a police cruiser. Nobody’s going to touch it.”

  Nick waved the pistol toward his Jeep.

  “Let’s go, hoss. And you better pray I don’t decide to shoot you between here and there.”

  They walked to Nick’s Jeep Grand Cherokee and the man opened the passenger door, slowly climbing in and sitting down. Nick followed and stayed behind him, about four feet away. Just enough distance to make sure the man didn’t get cute and try something stupid.

  “You got any weapons on yo
u?” Nick asked.

  “Hell, no,” the guy said. “We were afraid that would set you off.”

  Nick could tell he was telling the truth.

  “Any cuffs?” Nick asked once he was seated and buckled in.

  “I’m not a cop. I work for the government.”

  Nick never hesitated, expecting that very answer. With no give away, Nick swung the pistol and cracked the man in the head with its barrel. The strike knocked him out, his head falling forward and body slumping. The seat belt kept him in place, mostly, and Nick pushed his right arm in and closed the door.

  Nick holstered his pistol and smiled to those watching, none of whom were sure whether this was a prank, the real thing, or just a realistic training exercise.

  Nick smiled. “Nothing to see folks. He’s just a good actor and playing along. I love these rubber guns, they look so real. Ya’ll have a good day.”

  By the time the agent woke up, Nick had driven a short distance to the next decent-sized town, rented a room at a rundown hotel, and carried the agent inside, binding his arms and legs to a chair.

  “About time,” Nick said when the agent came to.

  While the man had been knocked out, Nick had made preparations for an assault, though he didn’t anticipate one. No police or government personnel had followed him or tried to stop him once he hurried out of the gas station, so it looked like the agent was telling the truth.

  Nick had already learned the hard way a couple years ago that when the government really wants you, there’s not a hell of a lot you can do. In that instance, they had brought out the drones, teams of special operators in Blackhawks, and who knew what else.

  Still, serious preparation had saved Nick’s neck on more than one occasion, so he had placed a C-shaped Claymore mine four feet from the door, dragging a dresser behind it to help protect him from the backblast in such an enclosed space. The wire from the Claymore ran back to a bedpost, which he’d knotted it around so no one would trip on it and knock the Claymore down. Or worse: twist it around so that it aimed away from the door and toward Nick and the agent.

  The clacker for the Claymore lay on the bed, along with Nick’s M14, shotgun, and pack. The pack itself was crammed with magazines, shotgun shells, and other necessary gear.

  Nick sat on the bed next to the gear, sipping on a Mountain Dew he’d bought at a vending machine from the hotel, near where they kept the ice. Besides getting the Dew, he’d also taken his much-needed piss that he’d missed out on at the gas station, which was the number one reason he’d stopped there in the first place. He still didn’t have his Snickers bar yet, but he always kept stowed away in his pack a good dozen or so packs of peanut-butter-and-cheese crackers. He was nearly finished scarfing down a pack of them when the agent awoke.

  The man had a hell of a wound on his head, and blood had coagulated in his hair and run down and ruined his suit. But that was the least of the agent’s problems, Nick hoped the man knew.

  “You wanted to talk, let’s talk,” Nick said. He downed the final cracker and then hoisted the M14 and aimed it toward the agent.

  The man shook his head in a feeble attempt to fully wake up, and he pulled his arms against the ropes with a strain. Nick knew his arms had to hurt like hell. Nick had tied them behind the agent so tight that he’d need to loosen them in ten minutes or so to get the circulation flowing.

  Right now, the ropes were tighter than a tourniquet.

  The man swallowed hard and gave up on straining against the ropes. Nick figured the man’s mouth was so dry that he probably could barely swallow. Nick considered grabbing a plastic cup by the sink and giving the man some water, but decided against it.

  The man seemed too shocked to say anything and Nick wondered if he honestly thought this meeting was supposed to have gone down across a table at a Waffle House. Maybe share some coffee and buttered toast and just be the best of friends.

  Fat chance.

  Nick rose from the bed, spun the weapon, and butt-stroked the man in the head. About half-power. He wanted to get his attention, not fracture any facial bones.

  “Listen up, hoss. This isn’t a fucking game. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them. If you delay answering them, or if I sense you’re lying -- believe me, I’m good at reading faces -- or if I just get bored, then I’m going to wrap a rope around your neck and garrote your ass.”

  Nick saw a flash of terror cross the man’s eyes. He figured the man had read Nick’s file, and knew about the time he’d killed a hotel manager with 550 cord. With the man’s full attention, Nick began.

  “How’d you know my name?”

  The man, a baby-faced guy who looked fit and squared away in his suit, said, “I’ve read and memorized your file. I was the only one who would volunteer to approach you.”

  “Why were the others afraid?”

  The man looked incredulous. He looked as if he was trying to find a way to soften his answer. Nick didn’t want softened answers.

  “Just say it,” Nick said.

  “Everyone thinks you’re crazy.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No. I think you’ve reacted exactly as I would have, given everything you’ve been through.”

  “And you still believe that?”

  The man -- two nasty wounds to his head, an M14 aimed at him, and his arms probably numb and tingling -- clearly had some doubts now. He looked off and swallowed.

  “I may have been wrong,” he said. He looked and sounded scared shitless.

  Nick knew the feeling. He’d felt it the first time he and his spotter had crossed over into Afghanistan from Pakistan. The Soviets had thousands of troops there and neither Nick nor his spotter could speak the language. They only marginally trusted the mujahideen they were to link up with.

  Nick stood and walked to the windows. He pulled a curtain back and scanned the parking lot. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. He slid it closed and sighed. Wow. What a mess he had on his hands. The loneliness of Montana didn’t seem so bad now compared to this.

  Nick returned to the bed and sat back down.

  “Earlier, you said ‘approach’ me,” Nick continued. “Let’s get to the bottom line so I can decide what to do with you. Why were you to approach me?”

  “We need your help.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “The CIA, of course.”

  “Spit it out. I’m tired of asking questions,” Nick said angrily. “Why do you need my help? Want to send me overseas? Get me to do some dirty work? Then sell my ass out again?”

  “No, sir. We need your skill set in Mexico.”

  Chapter 1

  Present Day Mexico

  A two-ton iron gate swung open from the presidential compound and an armada of vehicles roared out into the early morning dawn. Six armored Humvees -- the first three bearing 7.62 mm machine guns followed by three more hauling massive .50 caliber heavy machine guns -- led a convoy that included an additional twelve more SUVs crammed with Mexican troops in full battle gear. Behind all this firepower came the Mexican President’s armored limo, and then an additional twelve more SUVs packed full of troops.

  At the rear of the convoy, a tail element of six additional Humvees -- again three with medium machine guns and three with heavy machine guns -- protected the line of vehicles. Besides the twelve armored Humvees, twenty-four SUVs, and a hundred-plus hand-picked soldiers, six helicopters bearing snipers zoomed around the convoy, buzzing in toward threats and flying forward to confirm the route lay clear.

  In addition to these precautions, more than two hundred police officers were blocking off roads and screeching around Mexico City in front of the convoy with sirens ablaze, looking for the smallest hint of trouble.

  This was the state of affairs in Mexico these days. A country and government so threatened by a single drug cartel that moving the President around looked more like an act of war than a simple escort.

  But while the convoy may have looked the same to
day as it did any other day, this was no normal day in Mexico.

  President Roberto Rivera rode in the single limo, heading to a meeting that towered above being the most important event of his political career. After consulting with his advisers and several economists this morning, he knew the meeting could be the most important of Mexico’s history.

  President Rivera had unfortunately confirmed through several sources that his friend and strongest supporter had finally had enough. Juan Soto, despite being Mexico’s richest businessman, had decided that he could no longer live or operate his businesses within the confines of the war-ravaged country.

  Though Juan Soto loved his battered and wrecked homeland of Mexico, he apparently felt he could no longer risk everything by staying. That the country was lost and on the verge of complete anarchy.

  President Rivera rubbed his temples and shuddered at the thought that the billionaire might leave the country. Soto’s exit would mean he would sell off his numerous companies, and Rivera knew who the buyer would be: Hernan Flores, a fellow billionaire. But Flores and Soto were two completely different people.

  Juan Soto was a businessman: honest, ethical, and legit.

  Hernan Flores was a cartel leader: dishonest, evil, and dirty.

  Yet, President Roberto Rivera, even though he knew these things about Hernan Flores, could not say them. People who spoke the truth about Flores always ended up dead. And, there just wasn’t enough evidence to support the whispers amongst the people -- that Flores was dirty and working to topple the government and Rivera along with it.

  Not that Flores would want to be President. No, he would most likely install one of his cronies. Someone to overlook all the activities and allow Flores to sleep easier at night.

  Rivera’s resolve still reeled from the news. He couldn’t shake the growing anxiety that if Soto left the country, both he and his already shaking administration would be left standing completely alone. And would soon either topple or be pushed from power by the rampant intimidation and relentless pressure from Hernan Flores’s drug ring, the Godesto Cartel.

  Thirty minutes after departing the Presidential Palace, President Roberto Rivera’s convoy arrived at the headquarters of Juan Soto, an eight-story building in the heart of the city. The presidential convoy stopped at the front of the building and dozens of armed men leapt from the numerous vehicles and secured the area. A phalanx of hyper-alert men circled around the limo and when one finally opened the limo door, Rivera exited and moved quickly toward the front doors, thankful for the ring of submachine gun-toting men clustered tightly around him. Rumors of another serious assassination attempt had been growing, and Rivera didn’t want to relive another near miss.