The whole interview with Colonel Russ Jernigan took less than two hours and was uneventful. Tank had driven Whitaker to Colonel Jernigan’s office, where Whitaker had gone in and told Jernigan they needed to talk. Not asked, just told. Jernigan had willingly left without a scene though he had looked a little pale and nervous to his fellow Marine officers.
They had driven Jernigan off base to a motel in Jacksonville. By that point, Jernigan had really grown concerned. The complete silence during the trip hadn’t helped.
Inside the room, they had “questioned” Jernigan, which of course meant Tank got to throw some punches and spill some blood. As the pain and pressure built up, Whitaker started to believe Jernigan had spilled the information to Allen Green, despite his constant denials.
Jernigan was just too nervous and guilty looking for Whitaker’s liking.
But then Whitaker’s phone rang and the need for questioning ended. Whitaker learned that the FBI had raided Bobby Ferguson’s house the night before, or Nick Woods depending on which name you preferred, and he was gone.
That made it certain that Nick Woods had talked to Allen, not Colonel Jernigan. And it meant Allen Green has very wisely deceived Whitaker and given up the decoy name of Jernigan instead of his true source.
Nicely played, Whitaker had to admit.
Whitaker apologized to Jernigan for the “misunderstanding” and headed back to the airport. He and Tank were headed to Knoxville. They had a manhunt to lead before Nick Woods got too far away.
Jernigan, though bloodied and nearly at his breaking point, felt only relief that the call had arrived when it did. He had been mere moments from telling them about the night at Leatherneck bar. And if they discovered the truth, they would have certainly killed him.
Chapter 15
Flying now toward Knoxville on the same private jet, Whitaker tried to control his anger. After hearing about what had happened in Tennessee, besides Bobby Ferguson being gone, he cursed himself for depending on FBI goons.
I swear they’re really nothing but office personnel these days, he thought. Whitaker’s men weren’t college educated, and he cared far more about how much they could bench press and how tight their groupings were on the range than whether they cussed or told insensitive jokes.
The shootout and death in the FBI raid on Bobby Ferguson’s house had left a clue for the world, at least for those smart enough to connect the dots.
Allen Green was smart enough, but he was under complete observation, twenty-four hours a day. Besides, he’d been fired from The New Yorker, and no one would hire him now.
He now lacked “integrity” in the eyes of most of the world, and many suspected, including the New York Police, that he’d started the fire at his apartment to gain more attention or notoriety. Or, whatever the hell he was seeking.
A typical unsuccessful writer with a midlife crisis, they probably thought. Whitaker grinned at how well he’d handled it.
An undercover agent working for Whitaker had tried to tempt Allen already. The man had posed an editor for a British newspaper and contacted Allen, saying he actually believed Allen’s original story. And had been researching the matter himself. Furthermore, the “editor” had offered $100,000 if Allen would share the true story of what happened.
Finally, the editor had said that if the story proved true, the parent company would hire him as a senior reporter with a great salary. It was another chance for Allen, or so it appeared.
But, Allen had wisely turned down the offer and said he had made the entire story up. It wasn’t true. And in the process, Allen had unknowingly extended his life.
So how big was the threat, Whitaker wondered?
What was the possibility that Nick Woods could damage or destroy Whitaker’s organization? True, he could shoot better than ninety-ninety percent of the world, but he lacked any education, wealth, or powerful friends.
Plus, he’d left every single weapon he owned in his home. In addition, the FBI had immediately contacted his bank and frozen his accounts, which were meager anyway.
So, Nick Woods had no money, no vehicle, no friends that mattered. And just to be safe, every single construction worker was under surveillance, as well.
Whitaker had expected for a car to be stolen or a minor robbery to occur as Nick made his way out of Grainger County, but it hadn’t happened. Without a trace, Nick Woods, the master sniper, was gone.
What would I do if I were him, Whitaker wondered. An all-points bulletin had been issued nationwide for the name Bobby Ferguson and alias Nick Woods, and a recent surveillance photo had been distributed across the country.
If Whitaker had ever owned a conscience, he’d have felt like shit for distributing a nationwide APB that a “Bobby Ferguson” was a serial child molester, not a renamed former Marine that had honorably served his country. But, the child molester approach always garnered more attention from police departments and other agencies, as well as media attention.
Truthfully, Whitaker finally acknowledged, he was worrying too much. The odds were stacked too high against Nick Woods. He was done. It might take a couple of days, or a week or two, but he’d be caught.
He’d get pulled over or have some cop walking a beat rouse him from some alley and recognize him. He might hurt an innocent cop or two, but their radios would bring his death.
And if they took him alive, Whitaker would make sure he didn't live long. Even if it had to happen in the depths of a prison, Nick Woods would be eliminated. Whitaker couldn’t allow the man the opportunity to go to the press again.
Whitaker laid his head back against the plane’s seat and closed his eyes. It had been a long two days, which had kicked off with the publishing of the story.
Then, there had been the questioning of Allen, the visit of Colonel Jernigan, and now the flight to Knoxville to oversee the chase.
But, the stress was a small price to pay, he thought. It was nothing in the big scheme of things, and that’s all Whitaker cared about.
Chapter 16
Nick Woods was deep in a thicket, walking down a worn deer trail. Just an hour before, he had seen Anne motionless body, lying in the wet grass.
Nick tried to come up with a reason as to why his house had been raided by the feds. He was looking for any plausible motive, which wasn’t based on conspiracy theories.
Maybe someone had committed a crime in Grainger County, and they’d got the addresses mixed up?
Shut up, Bobby, the old Nick said, returning. You know why they came.
But he didn’t. He hadn’t talked. He had told no one about the number of Soviet Spetsnaz killers he had bagged in Afghanistan.
Then, it hit him. He stopped walking. Only one man outside the CIA other than himself knew the truth. Captain Russell Jernigan, if that was even his real name. That motherfucker spilled the beans, Nick thought.
Nick had always distrusted the man. For Jernigan, the entire episode in Pakistan had been a game. More than likely, Jernigan had never killed a man or he wouldn’t have been that way. Or maybe he had, but he’d definitely never been on the losing end of a firefight where a friend or acquaintance didn’t walk away. Or walked away, but only on crutches.
Nick knew war wasn’t a game. It wasn’t about containment or falling dominoes when rounds were skipping rocks into your face and you were screaming for your mother.
He could hardly remember the details of Jernigan, what he looked like, or where he might be, but it didn’t matter. Because now, he had a target.
Nick clenched his fists, swallowed down anger, and headed toward his cave.
He found it with ease though he hadn’t been to it in years. It was hard to believe, but Anne had actually begun to heal him. Along with the medication, and the lying doctor.
“Bobby, there isn’t anyone watching you,” the doctor would say at every visit. “What makes you think that? You’re just sick.”
Nick had always thought the doctor was one of them. Trained to know what to say that was most effe
ctive for veterans like him, who had been sold out by their government.
In fact, Nick had thought initially that Anne was one of them. Just to calm him and keep him quiet. To make him soft.
And, it’d worked. He’d changed from a murderous man intent upon finding out who had sold him and his partner out in Afghanistan, to a paramilitary nut on a hill content with being left alone, to finally a married man who shot for old time’s sake and was just a touch paranoid.
Now, he knew that Anne wasn’t one of them. They’d killed her. The thought made him shake with rage, as did the fact he had ever doubted her sincerity. He paused to swallow down tears.
Get in character, Nick. They used to say that in the Corps all the time. You had to stay focused. Without emotion most of the time. Especially in war.
Standing outside the cave, he wished he had a flashlight. He wondered why he’d never thought of that. That he might have to find this cache in the dark.
Then he remembered. Because more than likely, he’d be in the house at dark, and he could have held off an army there. Held it off until he decided to retreat through his tunnel. The thought of the tunnel underneath his house made him think of Anne.
If she had known about that -- God, she would have left him. He smiled. She was a hell of a fighter. Shit, she had to be to partially tame him.
He closed his eyes and remembered her gorgeous face. Her passionate kisses. Her rage when he upset her. It took all Nick had to fight back more tears.
Alright now, Nick, get your head in the game and get in character. Do you love Anne? Then find out who the murderous bastards were behind her death. Find them and help restore honor in this country.
That is what Anne would want.
With that thought, he got on his hands and knees and crawled into the black hole of his cave. It was damp, and the air was thick. It reminded Nick of the smell that always permeated around Camp Lejeune in the swamps: stagnant water and rotting wood.
He couldn’t see a thing. His hands groped through wet dirt, and he hit his head on a rock outcropping along the ceiling.
He was scared shitless, worrying he’d grab a snake or run into a bobcat waiting at the end of the cave. His head went through a spider web, and he spit and knocked at his face, nearly stopping and backing out.
Hatred and training took over. He had to do this for Anne. If it was meant for a copperhead or bobcat to be in here, then so be it.
The fatalistic instinct he’d always relied on during combat was returning. It kept you sane, making things easier. Play smart. Play the odds. But in the end, fate often decided where rounds struck and which targets were hit.
Nonetheless, you kept moving as the bullets went by you, or you died. Period. And once you understood and believed in fate, courage came easier.
Besides, with Anne gone, he had little to live for.
So he pushed deeper, fear keeping his heartbeat at a dangerously high rate. After he’d crawled for what seemed like miles, but what he knew to be twelve feet, he found it. An opening on the right side of the cave that was about a foot higher than the tunnel he now crawled through. This higher portal was designed to keep his equipment dry.
He’d spent years digging the tunnel with a Marine e-tool. It’d taken weeks to dig in the uncomfortable small space, but now it had finally paid off. He reached up into the side hole and immediately felt canvas.
It was a green military issue backpack, stuffed full of things he’d once thought he might need in a survival situation: a couple sets of civilian clothes, heavy climbing rope, duct tape, a small flashlight, extra batteries, a green wool blanket, an unloaded .45 pistol, three empty magazines, two boxes of .45 cartridges, and cash. Lots of cash in small denominations.
He dragged the pack out of the cave as fast as he could and took a deep breath of fresh air. Damn, it felt good to be out of that cave. In the darkness, he laid the pack upright and opened it. Thankfully, the straps appeared to be fine. He’d always worried they might dry rot, but apparently, the semi-dry cave had worked.
Inside the pack, a green sealed bag met him. It was rubber and tied at the top by a wrapped and knotted string. The classic Willie-Pete bag, as Marines called them, the “WP” standing for “water-proof.”
They were a Godsend for infantrymen. They helped your pack float if you needed to cross a deep river and kept your clothes dry regardless of how hard it rained.
Untying the strings, he opened the bag and found another identical one. Also sealed. He opened it, maneuvering his fingers past the clothes and supplies in search for his pistol.
He found it and pulled it out. It took longer to find the two pistol magazines and flashlight. Then, after locating a box of cartridges, Nick started to load each magazine. He used his mouth to aim the mini Maglite.
He was pretty sure he could load the magazines in the dark correctly, but he wanted to make certain he didn’t force a round in backward. That might be bad in a gunfight.
He’d left the magazines unloaded because he’d always worried keeping them crammed full of bullets might weaken the springs over many years. And if the springs were loose, then his gun might jam. And if your gun jammed, you died.
After loading the three magazines, he pulled one more cartridge out of the box and closed it. He put the box of cartridges back in the pack and turned the flashlight off. He then stuck the single round between his teeth and worked the pistol’s slide back and forth. It slid easily and felt smooth. Dependable.
He then aimed it through the woods and pulled the unloaded gun’s trigger. The hammer fell crisply. The function check completed, he fed a magazine in the pistol and worked the slide once more, feeding a round in the chamber.
Then he dropped the magazine, pleased with its easy release, and took the round from his mouth. He loaded this last round into the magazine, giving him eight rounds of .45 ammo in a firefight instead of seven.
Finished, he checked the safety lock and stuffed the pistol, now cocked and locked, into his waistband behind his back. Using his left hand, he stuck the two extra magazines into the left side of his waistband, bottom up, so the lip at the base of the magazine would keep them from sliding down.
He picked up the flashlight and used it to look in the pack for his money. He found the thick envelope within seconds. It was a nine by twelve mailing envelope, encased by three plastic bags. It held $10,600.
He’d started with $200 in twenty-dollar bills hidden in his house after he was discharged. Then, he’d set aside a twenty-dollar bill each week for ten years before finally stopping with Anne's help.
He removed one hundred dollars and placed it in his wallet. He put the envelope back in the pack, at the bottom, and sealed the whole thing up. He figured anyone trying to rob him would ask him for his wallet, not his pack.
He wished there was some food in it. He was hungry after the late-night run to his house and the evasion through the woods. But, he’d decided not to put food in it on purpose, even sealed military issue MRE’s, for fear that animals might smell them and chew into his pack.
Well, that’s what he had money for. He hoisted the heavy pack and welcomed its weight, for its contents were his only chance of getting away. The weight brought back old memories of long night marches. Pain too impossible to describe unless you’d actually been on one.
He adjusted the straps, bounced up and down to get it seated, and then adjusted the straps one last time. He placed the flashlight in his left front pocket and readjusted the pistol on his right hip. He was ready. He headed off through the woods.
He saw the highway about an hour later. He thought it might be about that long because he hadn’t looked at his watch at either the cave or immediately following the shootout. After leaving the cave, Nick had been debating whether to take the road or stay in the trees.
The argument between the sheriff and the FBI led him to believe there wouldn’t be roadblocks all across the county. This had to be an illegal operation or why wouldn’t the sheriff be involved?
Although he figured the roads weren’t blocked, Nick suspected they were on his trail. If he were them, he’d have some dogs following, too. An inexpensive yet effective operation.
It wouldn’t draw much media or public attention. But, if they set up roadblocks and stopped every resident on every major road, then the newspapers and TV station reporters would be going nuts in no time.
His decision made, he walked up on the road. He had to hope the next car or so (going either way) wasn’t a police officer. But, he had to get out of the county fast, and that meant taking bold risks.
He was surprised they didn’t have a helicopter after him yet. They must have been certain they’d get him in the house. Damned fools must not have planned any other contingencies, he thought. They just saw his truck and moved in, without even having the home under any kind of surveillance to confirm he was there.
They wouldn’t last long in war, where a thing called Murphy’s Law had put many a man in the ground.
Headlights coming from behind him illuminated his path. He kept walking. He knew from his experience in giving rides that you never picked anybody up that was looking for a ride. So he kept walking, but let his shoulders sag some, real tired-like. He added a bit of a limp, too. The car flew past him without slowing or swerving out of the way. Nick wasn’t even sure if it saw him.
Then he saw headlights approaching from his front, from way off. There were three sets of them. Two cars and one truck passed without a thought. Then two more sets of lights appeared from behind him. He resumed his tired, weary gait.
The front vehicle was slowing as it approached. He could tell by the squeal of the brakes that needed to be replaced. It went past him, its right signal warning the car behind it to slow down. It was stopping.
It was a truck. A Ford, mid-eighties, with rust visible along the corners of the fenders. Nick sped up and caught the look of the man in the truck. He looked old. Probably sixty. Sure that the man was okay and not some agent, Nick dropped his pack and hoisted it into the bed of the truck. Depositing it with relief, he readjusted his pistol in the darkness and climbed into the truck, thankful country folks were so warm hearted.
Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) Page 5