Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Sold Out

  (Nick Woods, No. 1)

  By Stan R. Mitchell

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  Copyright © 2012

  Fifth Edition

  Cover by Danah Mitchell

  Edited by Desiree Kamerman and Emily Akin

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, see website below.

  Learn more about Stan R. Mitchell and his

  other works at http://stanrmitchell.com.

  Foreword

  To my amazing wife Danah, who believes in me even when I don’t.

  To my Mom and Dad. Thanks for all the love.

  To Mike Rose, Henry Greer, and Bobby Fisher (GySgt, USMC): Three men who taught a boy what he should aspire to become.

  To Capt. Eaton, United States Marine Corps, and Sgt. Major Hill, United States Marine Corps; two men who epitomized leadership and strength, and who made an unforgettable impression on me.

  To my fellow Marines, SSgt. Frank Kovach and SSgt. Jon Rumbolt, who helped me on a couple technical and tactical points with this book.

  And I would also like to thank Dave Conrad and Rodney Reed for their editing suggestions. All mistakes, of course, are mine.

  Chapter 1

  Allen Green, a seasoned reporter of thirty years, walked into the bar that night believing that locating the man he had tracked for months would solve all of his problems, and it was hard to disagree. After all, finding the man would provide Allen the final link in breaking the biggest story in journalism since Watergate in the ’70s.

  Allen could almost taste the acclaim and recognition that would follow. He would win the Pulitzer Prize, without question. (It was, after all, one of the biggest news scoops ever.) He would finally have the opportunity to be rich. Book deals would follow, prepped by juicy, prime-time TV interviews. Then, perhaps a multi-million-dollar screenplay.

  He knew when he walked into the bar that he was oh so close to his goal.

  If asked, Allen might deny he was seeking the Pulitzer Prize and say he was just doing his job. But that was a lie. A big one. Allen wanted to break the big story, not because it needed to be broken -- he was past that naivety -- but because he was tired of shitty stories and shitty pay. His attitude was well earned: thirty long, hard years of breaking decent stories, but never gaining the deserved, national recognition.

  Leatherneck, the name of the bar, was in the testosterone-filled, Marine town of Jacksonville, North Carolina. The neon sign on the front window flickered, claiming it had the coldest beer in town. Allen didn’t know if it had the coldest beer or not, but it for damn sure might have the loudest music.

  Rock music roared loud enough to make its occupants temporarily forget the misery synonymous with the desolate, pathetic city. Well, almost loud enough, Allen thought with a smile, trying to come up with at least one positive thing about the town.

  As he walked through the dark and headed toward the back of the room, Allen’s eyes struggled to adjust to the blackness and the flashing lights. The place didn’t seem like the kind of bar his target would hit, but after finally locating the mysterious man’s house, he had followed him here one week ago.

  Well, it wasn’t that easy. He had trailed him about halfway here and lost him, worried he might blow his cover by following too close. Then, he had spent nearly two hours checking every parking lot in town looking for the man’s black F-150, license plate CBH-194. This wasn’t an easy task in a town disproportionately crammed with men, who all seemed to drive big trucks.

  For tonight’s stake out, Allen wore a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and military-issue jungle boots. His dress was a fashion no-no by New York standards, he knew, but that’s what most seemed to wear down here, except for the officers, who apparently favored collared shirts and khakis.

  Allen met the stare of many young, defiant Marines as he made his way to a rear table. He hoped he looked like a salty Gunnery Sergeant, or Gunny, as they were known in the Marine Corps because the only thing he planned to use if things got violent with these brutes was his cell phone. He’d be dialing 911 as fast as he could. Well, maybe he would bluff about his “rank” first.

  One thing was certain though, he didn’t intend to fight any of these mean bastards.

  At the back of the place, he took a seat at a table for four. He kept his back to the wall and prepared for a long night. The bar had about twelve or fifteen round tables and probably could hold a hundred thirsty Marines if a hundred ever succumbed to the “lure” of the “coldest beer in town.”

  It sure wasn’t much. Just a dingy, dark dump, with three pool tables and two pinball machines for entertainment. It could hardly compete with the strip clubs and dance joints sprinkled throughout Jacksonville. No, this was where you went when all you wanted to do was drink and forget, or drink and fight.

  Allen pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a chrome Zippo that bore a Marine logo with the words “DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR” in capital letters. The words were written above a hollowed-out skull and crossed M-16s. He’d bought the lighter at a local surplus store two days ago, along with the jungle boots he wore. As Allen lit the cigarette, he wondered if anyone actually believed in “death before dishonor.” He thought on that for a moment. Perhaps, some did. These military types were almost crazy in their patriotism.

  A Marine walked past him to the restroom. His black tee shirt proclaiming, “Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out,” stretched tight across his tank-like upper body. Allen dropped his chin a couple inches in a nod, imitating the dignified, Southern greeting he’d picked up while down here tracking down his target. He placed the lit cigarette in his mouth, letting it dangle down from his lips, tough-like. Christ, he was beginning to talk like them. He’d definitely been in the South too long.

  As he took a draw on the cigarette, he felt that familiar feeling of “everything’s going to be alright” sweep over him. He couldn’t imagine life without cigarettes. The breaks from the office, out in the cold, New York air. Fellow smokers talking about sex or the Yankees or the magazine’s editor, a real ass.

  He inhaled, and for the umpteenth time of the day, realized he’d never be able to quit smoking. Truth be told, half the time he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

  He laid the Zippo on the table, description side up so that it aided his disguise, and tried to relax. He needed to get in the zone. He’d already invested far too much in this story to come up short now.

  A bargirl waltzed up, her big breasts bouncing braless under a thin, white halter-top. She stopped, putting them about a half-foot from his face, and met his eyes with an inviting smile.

  “What can I do for you, Marine,” she yelled over the music, placing her hand on his neck and leaning over, revealing more of her chest than Allen ever wanted to see. Her breath reeked of cigarettes and who knew what else. She ran her fingers lightly across his neck and Allen nearly shuddered and jerked away. But he somehow stayed in character and leaned closer. He met her eyes, glanced down at her chest “lustfully,” and smiled. “Honey, there’s lots you can do for me, but let’s start with a beer.” He winked and knocked the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray.

  She looked him up and down, then smiled. “Okay, sugar,” she said.

  Poor girl, he thought as she strutted off. Shit, he’d had about as much of this “city” as he could take.

  J
ust a little longer, he reminded himself. Just a little longer. And then money and fame, but most importantly, money. Loads of it.

  The song ended, and another one, just as bad and just as loud, began.

  Allen Green needed another cigarette already. Careful to avoid antagonizing others who needed far too little antagonizing, he kept his eyes on the bottles of whiskey behind the bar. He hoped he looked lost in thought. The front door opened, and he glanced over, hoping it was the man he was looking for. It wasn’t.

  Three more young Marines strolled in, shoulders rolled back and cruel eyes scanning the crowd. Their blown up strut reminded Allen of roosters. Or maybe pit bulls. These three looked young. About sixteen, if he had to guess, but he knew they were at least 18 or 19. Old enough to cut you from head-to-toe without thinking twice or questioning orders, Allen thought. They were just what the government needed these days: mean boys unafraid to serve overseas.

  The server returned with his beer, which was some kind of draft in a plastic cup with an especially thick head. Well, they had to make their money somehow, Allen thought. He pulled out his wallet and handed the woman a five-dollar bill. She took it, and he half expected her to put it down her shirt. For a second, his hand lingered, waiting for some change, but she pretended not to see it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her being near him anymore, so he let it go and pretended to watch her walk off.

  Just a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer.

  And then big money. And fame. Allen Green breathed out a cloud of smoke and smiled at the thought. Yeah, all the months of searching were going to be worth it. He was going to locate his target, break open this story, and solve all of his problems. Of this, he felt certain.

  Chapter 2

  More than five hundred miles away, Bobby Ferguson sat relaxing on the couch in his living room. He was reading the latest issue of Guns and Ammo. His wife, Anne, sat next to him watching American Idol. He couldn’t stand the show, but enjoyed sitting next to her.

  He stopped reading an article discussing knockdown power of various pistol calibers and studied her. Her age was just beginning to show -- she’d cleared forty a few years ago – but she was still beautiful. With shoulder-length blonde hair and captivating, green eyes, she was quite a find. She sat there, completely engrossed by some goofy looking white guy, hair gelled in every which direction, singing some kind of something that passed for music these days. Bobby wondered how he had made it through school without getting his lunch money taken.

  He wanted to reach over and caress her. Maybe hold her for a few minutes. Try to remember that this home and this life with Anne was real. For years, he had assumed he’d never marry. Would never have a chance at peace or a family.

  He had actually once thought he’d spend his entire life in the Marines, the fraternity that thrived on manhood and toughness. In the land of boots and badasses, all forms of weakness were beaten out of you. And once you were no longer the new guy and had been forged into a warrior, it was an addictive lifestyle. A place where there was a clear goal and where life made sense.

  You killed yourself 24/7, training for war in ways no civilian could comprehend. And you did it in the hopes that you would survive the battlefield when war arrived because war always arrived. Usually, when you least wanted it.

  Bobby Ferguson had prospered in that pit of hell called the United States Marine Corps. He had breathed aggression and toughness twenty-four hours a day for four years straight. And all that training and anger had never left him even after he had departed, though he hid it as well as he could.

  He knew now that he had been too arrogant as a young Marine, and he shuddered at the thought that he had once believed he never wanted to be married. Not ever, he used to tell himself.

  But looking at Anne sitting next to him, he pitied anyone who didn’t know what he knew -- the joy of marriage, a normal job, and (mostly) deep sleep at night. Gone were the fears of deployments, air alerts, or missions into foreign lands.

  Bobby Ferguson loved his life now, with its slower pace and routine. Even after almost twenty years of being married to Anne, he still loved her as much as when he had fallen for her. Actually, more.

  There really was a life after the Corps, he thought. He had his guns. He had his woods that he liked to hunt in. He had his Anne.

  He returned his attention to the article, reading for several minutes before he heard a sound outside. His eyes snapped up, glancing to the door before he could stop them. The door was locked, and the deadbolt turned. The curtains, though, were pulled back, leaving the window wide open. He nearly rose to close them.

  He didn’t, though, knowing it would worry Anne. She might start keeping a closer eye on him again, or even start pestering him to return to the doctor for more medication. Laying the magazine down on the coffee table, he shook the thought of paranoia, relaxed, and looked back at Anne.

  “I love you, honey.”

  “I love you, too,” she said, momentarily breaking her eyes from the show.

  He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and ran his hands through her hair.

  “You going to bed?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said, hoping she’d follow, though he wouldn’t be upset if she didn’t. He was nearly finished with Stephen Hunter’s latest novel, “Pale Horse Coming,” and had stopped last night right before Swagger, the main character, and some gun fighters attacked the town.

  He stood, walked to the bathroom, and flipped on the light, pulling his shirt off and taking a look at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t lost much since his days in the Corps. He was tall and lean, and though his abs weren’t as firm as they’d once been, they were still noticeable even unflexed.

  His eyes glanced to the nearly unseen scar on the left side of his chest. Healed after all these years, it was barely visible and partially veiled by his thin, brown chest hair. But, it was there, and it rarely left his mind. Just two letters, which were burned into his skin by a coat hanger, same as you would brand a steer.

  The letters were “SS,” in the straight recognizable lines worn by Nazi Gestapo in World War II. It stood for “Scout Sniper,” and he winced as he recalled the pain that came from burning the letters on his chest. But even after twenty years, he was enormously proud of having earned the title of Scout Sniper -- one of the toughest titles to earn in the Marine Corps. And

  He peeked out the door and made sure Anne was still watching TV. She was. He bent down and quietly pulled open the right door under the sink. Looking up under the sink, he confirmed the presence of his .380 automatic pistol taped to the bottom of the sink. Relieved, he silently closed the door.

  He reached for his toothbrush and toothpaste. “I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” he thought. Construction just wasn’t as much fun in bad weather.

  Chapter 3

  Leatherneck was filling up, and about an hour after Allen Green arrived, his man, Colonel Russ Jernigan, entered the bar. Allen knew it was him the minute he entered, but opened his wallet to check a small picture he carried with him. The picture was of Colonel Russ Jernigan five years ago and had been pulled from an old, Marine-unit annual, which are usually made when a unit deploys.

  Allen confirmed the picture matched the man who had entered, then pulled a five dollar bill out to play off the peek inside his wallet in case anyone had been watching him. Cash in hand, Allen waved for the bar girl to bring him another thick-headed, barely cold beer.

  Now came the tricky part. He lit another cigarette to help calm his nerves. He was getting anxious and could feel his heartbeat pounding. This was odd. It had been years since Allen could remember being nervous as a reporter.

  Actually, come to think of it, the last time he had been nervous was back in 1979. He had landed an exclusive interview with President Jimmy Carter to discuss the hostage situation in Iran.

  Part of the anxiety tonight came from the months and months of work that were on the line. This man, Colonel Russ Jernigan, was his only hope of nailing down
the story -- not to mention that ever-elusive Pulitzer Prize and tons of money.

  He knew that since he was now fifty-three years old, this story was his last shot at the Pulitzer. There were just too many good reporters out there, able to run at the pace he had once been able to run.

  They were full of energy and drive, and they hadn’t been beaten down by life yet. Already, they were getting the better assignments. They were better looking, understood social media, and hadn’t stepped on as many toes as he had.

  Allen would get shit. Hell, there was a chance they could even transfer him to the business beat -- one of the worst assignments in the field of journalism and a guaranteed dead-end for your career.

  He blew a large cloud of smoke into the dark room. He needed this. With the award and the acclaim following his Pulitzer, he could shove off from the full-time work of reporting and begin writing non-fiction books. No more ridiculous deadlines. No more getting yelled at by fat-ass editors.

  Get your head in the game, he thought, as the bargirl returned. He paid for the beer and watched Colonel Russ Jernigan take a seat at the bar across the room. This was going to be delicate, at best.

  What the hell, he thought. If I blow it, I get to leave this shit-hole of a town and get back to New York.

  He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, pocketed the Zippo, and walked up next to Jernigan. He motioned for the bar tender, a young man with a hoop nose ring and purple hair.

  “Can I get some matches?” Allen asked, ignorant the fact he had a perfectly good lighter in his pocket. This was all part of the act, though.

  The eccentric man nabbed some from down the bar and laid them in front of Allen. Not even glancing at Jernigan, Allen struck a match, lit a Marlboro, and flipped his wrist three times, extinguishing it. He laid the smoking match on the counter and inhaled deep. He blew the smoke through his nose and did his best to look at ease.