Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  As the walls begin to spin and go black, the two medics were the last thing Allen saw. He heard the source say, “Here he is, help him,” in an urgent voice to relieve any onlookers.

  Allen heard a woman say, “Oh my God,” but the paramedics were loading and strapping him down. They had it under control, the bystanders assumed, so no one pulled out their cell phones.

  Allen’s source and the other two men split up and disappeared in the confusion.

  The paramedics checked his pulse as they rolled him toward the door and told everyone watching that Allen would be fine.

  No one that saw the incident bothered to call his office, the hospital, or the police.

  Chapter 7

  Allen Green awoke, dizzy and disoriented. His mind was groggy, like a hangover, but worse. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.

  Opening them again, he realized the room had no windows. As he fully gained consciousness, Allen realized he was in an empty, concrete cell.

  He was lying on a green, military-issue cot, and the only light in the room came from a single bulb built into the ceiling and enclosed behind wire.

  Belatedly, he noticed a man built like an NFL linebacker sitting in a metal folding chair reading a Muscle and Fitness magazine. In his blue jeans, the man’s upper legs had that deformed look only big weightlifters have.

  The man’s face even looked tough. His jaw jutted forward like the front of a train, blocky and solid. The face was wide and hard as if it had been carved from granite.

  His eyes, small and intense, appeared cruel. He looked up, bored.

  His eyes narrowed, seeming to imply how ridiculous it was he had to stand guard over a person as pathetic as Allen.

  “Glad to see you’re up,” he grunted. “I’ll get Whitaker.”

  He walked over to an iron, windowless door, knocked three times, and exited once a series of locks snapped open. The door slammed, thick and heavy, like a vault.

  Allen tried to remember how he got here. It was hazy. He was pretty sure he’d left Jacksonville, North Carolina, for New York, but wasn’t certain. He also thought he’d published the story about American snipers killing Soviet soldiers, but he was not sure now.

  He sat up and rubbed his eyes, which strangely had no sleep in them.

  The door opened, and the muscle man that had been reading the magazine walked in. Another tall man followed him.

  This man wore business attire: khakis, long-sleeved button up shirt, and brown dress shows. The tall man took a seat in the metal chair previously used by the linebacker. Allen took the well-dressed man to be Whitaker.

  Whitaker crossed his right leg over his left leg, looking like a CEO ready for a good game of chess. He stared at Allen, mute.

  Allen took advantage of the time. As a reporter, he was used to noticing small details, and he had a feeling if he lived to see the outside world again, he might want to remember the face.

  Whitaker, in a single word, was ugly. He was tall and built, but had more of a runner’s body than a lifter. He looked like he could run back-to-back marathons.

  But despite a tall, in-shape body, his face looked out-of-proportion. The nose was too big, the eyes too far apart. He was, in a word, ugly.

  After what felt like at least thirty seconds, Whitaker rubbed his jaw and spoke.

  “Allen,” Whitaker said, “you have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

  Allen could tell he was definitely Ivy League educated.

  Allen was still groggy but wasn’t in the mood to argue.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Allen, I’ll be directing this conversation,” the man said calmly.

  “Who are you?” Allen asked, anger in his voice.

  Allen never saw it coming, as Mr. NFL linebacker stepped forward and threw an uppercut into his solar plexus. He fell backward, and his weight flipped the cot. His back slammed into the concrete, and his head followed, knocking against the floor. Stunned, he tried to shake it off, but before he could clear his thoughts, the man yanked him to his feet and sat him back on the now up-righted cot.

  Allen gasped for breath, unable to breathe. Tears fell from his eyes, without him willing it. He’d never been punched before, having lived a guarded, sophisticated life in the New England area. Hell, he had been an only child who had always attended the best private schools.

  He whimpered as he tried to breathe.

  Mr. Linebacker, maple-legs, sneered in contempt at his weakness.

  “Allen, now you need to calm down,” Whitaker said in the same sophisticated voice. He talked as if they were chatting and sharing drinks at a wedding reception.

  “As I was saying,” he continued, “You have no idea what you’ve done or the world of shit you’ve created with that little article of yours.”

  Allen sat mute and wiped the tears from his eyes, suddenly embarrassed by his inability to handle pain.

  “With just one article, at that,” Whitaker said. “Thanks to your work, we have confirmed that a double agent in Moscow has been abducted, and we’ve lost contact with five other agents inside Russia. Six CIA field agents, Allen. Do you know how large a chunk of national security that is?”

  Allen’s brain was clearing up, and he was beginning to catch his breath. The article and the way he had been snatched from his office were coming back to him. He remembered the article, but could not figure out how it translated into six field agents being nabbed.

  Not being one who was afraid to ask a question, he asked, “What do you mean?”

  “You moron,” Whitaker said. “The double agent you said was arrested was never actually arrested. You had your facts wrong. And that man was our most important double agent inside Russia. And now he’s gone, as are five others.”

  “Oh,” Allen said.

  “Allen, we need you to think, and play this smart,” Whitaker replied. “We need you to work with us, starting right now.”

  Whitaker grinned, a slight and controlled smile that was a bit awkward, if not creepy.

  “The choices you make from this point forward,” Whitaker said, “matter very much now. You see, we have lots of collateral damage to clean up. Your choice is either a life of cooperation and silence or a string of bad coincidences.”

  Allen roared at Whitaker: “You ever heard of protected sources or the First Amendment, asshole? Journalists never give out their sources. You should know that --”

  The linebacker stepped forward and cocked his fist before Whitaker grabbed his arm. Whitaker smiled as the linebacker stepped back.

  Allen expected Whitaker to say, “There’s no need for that,” or, “We don’t want to have to hurt you.” That’s always what happened in Hollywood.

  Instead, Whitaker pulled out a small cell phone from his pants pocket. As he punched in some numbers, he nodded to the linebacker, who left the room.

  Allen heard a voice on the phone answer and say, “Yes?”

  “Do it,” Whitaker commanded before hanging up.

  Mr. NFL Linebacker returned to the room, carrying a hand-held police scanner. He turned it on, and it took several minutes of routine chatter before it became clear how the phone call and police radio were related.

  A dispatcher reported a fire had been called in, and read off an address.

  It was Allen’s apartment address.

  “You mother-fucker,” Allen said.

  Mr. Linebacker stepped forward and repeated his earlier punch, but harder. As Allen fell back again, he felt rather sure his sternum might have cracked this time. Again, he was hauled back onto the cot far before he was ready. And again he cried though he tried to hold back the tears.

  He managed to say between gasps, “You know,” deep breath, “nearly a hundred people,” deep breath, “live in that apartment complex.”

  “Allen, two-hundred and eighty million people live in the United States. You still aren’t following that whole national security theme I mentioned earlier. More than likely, your most secret notes, e-mails, e
ncrypted data on your hard drive, etc., was in your apartment, not at the office.”

  Whitaker reveled in Allen’s gaping mouth.

  “And don’t worry about the fire safe, you can be confident we have a firefighter looking for it. Oh, and by the way, at your office right now, a warrant has been handed to your editor and we are seizing your computer, files, desk and contents of your locker. We’re also starting interviews with your fellow employees.”

  Whitaker chuckled. “You know, Allen, you really shouldn’t store pornography of little girls on your hard drive.”

  “You know damn well I’m not a pedophile,” Allen yelled as he jumped from the cot. He never even got to his feet. A flurry of punches, elbows, and knees from the Linebacker left him in a heap on the floor, blood flowing from his nose, mouth, and a cut on the right side of his face.

  On the scanner, frantic voices screamed for ambulances. Firefighters were trying to rescue people from the second floor, where they were trapped. The fire continued to grow in intensity, and desperate calls to other fire stations were being made.

  “Now, Allen, you being a divorced man with no kids, it’d seem we wouldn’t have much leverage on you. But, we know you are kind of fond of Jennifer, right?”

  Allen flinched and immediately regretted it.

  “I’m sure you know she’s off today, but did you know she’s shopping right this minute on Sixth Avenue? Let’s get down to business before another accident happens and she gets hurt. First, where’d you get your information?”

  Allen gritted his teeth. He debated holding out.

  You were taught from day one in journalism school to never give out your sources. They were your leverage, your hidden weapons.

  “Allen,” Whitaker said, “this involves more than you and Jennifer. Those who stand up for you -- your friends, your editor, and whoever else may be out there -- their lives are going to get uncomfortable, too. You have to help. Only you can stop this right now.”

  It felt like a nightmare. Allen had never believed in conspiracies. Yet now it seemed he was caught up in one.

  They indoctrinated you in college about a free press and the fact that these things didn’t happen. But, the prick Whitaker sat there smiling, his hands clasped together on his knee. A real pompous ass.

  “While you’re thinking,” Whitaker said as he dialed a number into the phone, “let’s check on Jennifer.”

  “No!” Allen screamed, not even meaning to.

  He was amazed at how easily he broke. He despised their strength.

  In a low voice, his head bowed down and tears still streaming from his eyes, Allen Green told them Colonel Russ Jernigan’s name. He explained how he had managed to scoop the story. And he listened to their instructions for damage control.

  Chapter 8

  Whitaker flew by private jet to Jacksonville, North Carolina.

  Colonel Russell Jernigan was Whitaker’s next target, and he arrived outside the Marine base just a bit over two hours after his talk with Allen Green.

  Back in New York, Allen was now under surveillance and in the process of admitting to his editors that he had fabricated the entire story.

  The New Yorker was doing damage control -- major damage control. The magazine sent out a press release to announce the mistake, prepared a retraction for the next edition, and decided with almost no deliberation to fire their once trusted reporter.

  Within two hours, Whitaker knew Allen would be arrested by the New York Police Department for multiple counts of child pornography charges. The explicit, illegal images had been placed on his work computer by a sophisticated hacker.

  How those charges panned out would depend on Allen’s conduct.

  Whitaker wasn’t sure if Colonel Russ Jernigan was the cause of the leak, but he wasn’t taking chances. Jernigan was a coward, so it seemed odd he would dare talk about it.

  There was a good chance Allen Green had told him Jernigan’s name to protect his real source. That man would have known Jernigan’s name, and that man wasn’t a coward. Worse, he had a grudge.

  Whitaker opened his cell phone and called his boss in D.C., deciding to play it safe. He wanted the FBI team stationed in Knoxville to take the only other potential source into custody. Just in case.

  This story had to be shut down immediately, and Whitaker was just the man to do it.

  Chapter 9

  Bobby Ferguson carried out his earlier thought at the construction site and purchased flowers and a bottle of wine on his way home.

  He had been looking forward to the night with Anne the entire day. But, his mood changed immediately when he saw the green Honda Accord following him.

  It wasn’t your typical, undercover police sedan, but that’s what really worried Bobby. If he were in charge of surveillance, he wouldn’t use a typical police sedan either.

  The car was driven by a woman who used her cell phone to make several calls, Bobby saw. She had followed him 6.7 miles after he noticed her before she turned into a service station.

  Bobby managed to scribble this on his palm while driving. In the depths of his mind, he thought he remembered the same car and woman following him a few days before.

  If it was the same woman and car that he had noticed a few weeks earlier, then she had changed her pattern. She hadn’t stopped at the service station the last time.

  He needed to check his journal, a thought which preoccupied his mind when he arrived home. As he walked from the driveway into the house, Bobby gingerly carried the roses and wine like a loving husband but his mind was no longer on Anne.

  At the door, he glanced behind him to make sure no one was watching him from the woods. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  He unlocked the door and heard Anne in the kitchen, the water running. She was probably doing dishes.

  “Hi, hon,” he said, as he headed straight for his bedroom.

  He needed to update his journal fast before he forgot even a single detail about the car or the woman behind him. And then he needed to find the last entry about the similar car and woman to confirm whether it was the same person.

  In his bedroom, he laid the roses and bottle on the bed and yanked open his socks drawer. He glanced behind him to make sure Anne wasn’t there -- it was too far away to hear if the water was still running -- and pulled out a black, hardback book, which was hidden under a false drawer bottom.

  He flipped through the pages, toward the back, skipping over his hastily scribbled manuscript. Each entry was dated, describing every contact he observed, even those that didn’t cause alarm.

  At the top of each entry, a heading identified either a vehicle or person. Bobby had underlined these headings to help keep them straight.

  He scanned page-after-page of vehicles and suspect descriptions. He flipped and turned, flipped and turned, and was just about to give up -- it had been long enough for Anne to come see what he was doing -- when he found it.

  “Green car.” The entry was dated Oct. 5, which was thirteen days earlier.

  The entry read, “Honda Accord, green, probably four or five years old. No identifiable dings, scratches, or bent fenders. Female driver. Blonde. Too far back for better ID.”

  It was the same car and woman. He was certain now.

  “Bobby, what are you doing?” Anne snapped.

  He flinched, hard.

  “Nothing,” he said, turning and trying to play off the fact she had caught him doing something. “Just checkin’ my shootin’ journal to see how much powder I been puttin’ in them one-hundred and eighty grain, thirty-aught six rounds.”

  “Bullshit,” she said walking toward him. “Let me see.”

  He pulled the journal back, out of her reach.

  “It’s nothing, Anne.”

  “Let me see,” she said, becoming angry.

  “Damn it, Anne, I don’t need this.”

  “Give it to me.” She reached for it and grabbed it from him. It only took reading a couple of entries to
confirm her suspicions.

  “I can explain,” he said before she could say a word.

  He could tell she wasn’t listening.

  “Anne, I just proved it,” he said.

  “Proved what?” she asked. She looked deflated and on the verge of tears.

  He felt powerless, like a desperate man in a sinking boat. He had to get her to understand. He started babbling in a last-ditch effort.

  “Today, driving home, I saw this car. A -- a Honda Accord. Green. Anne, I remembered it, and I checked this book to make sure, and it followed me thirteen days ago. Look, I can show you.”

  He grabbed back the journal, flipping clumsily for the page the entry was on. He couldn’t find it. He flipped back and forth. The pages all looked the same.

  Where was it? Then, he remembered to find the date. As he searched for Oct. 5, he didn’t even hear her first few words.

  “No,” she said, louder. “Let me show you something.”

  “But, Anne, not only was it the same car, it turned off at the Conoco service station to vary its pattern. It didn’t do that the last time. You know, thirteen days ago.”

  “Bobby, it’s nothing. Can’t you see?” She was getting too loud. “No one is after you. People have routines. I see the same cars on some days too. There’s only one main way to get from Knoxville to here. You know that.”

  “Anne.” He didn’t know what to say. Why couldn’t she see? “Look, think about --”

  She cut him off. “Bobby, guess what I found taped under the sink today?”

  He remembered the .380 pistol he kept hidden in the bathroom and could see the end. Panic filled him.

  “I was going to ignore it,” Anne said. “I thought it was nothing. But, this is more proof. Proof that you are not well.”

  “I’m not going back to see no damn doctor,” Bobby roared. It came out louder and more violent than he meant.

  “You’re scaring me,” she whimpered, now crying. “Can’t you see I love you? You need help.”