Using a worn phone book, he called a cab and headed to the grocery store. He bought lots of canned food and picked up a newspaper called The Oak Ridge Observer on his way out. He needed to look through its classifieds. At a minimum, he needed a car and other handy things, like a rifle.
After returning, he dropped off the groceries, called a different cab and headed to Wal-Mart. There, he bought shower shoes, sheets, and other necessities such as hygiene gear. He also purchased some shorts and running shoes.
He’d be running now that he could shower. Arriving back again, he showered and shaved and washed his jeans and shirt in the sink, hanging them on the top of the shower to dry. By then, it was late, and he was exhausted.
Fighting drowsiness, he forced himself to do fifty pushups and then some quick pistol work, working on his draw and the immediate action drills again.
He was getting quicker in his drop down after the first shot, and this pleased him. He continued, going through some of his hand-to-hand moves again. His upper body felt stiff from the earlier work, so he went even slower, watching himself in the cracked mirror for openings and mistakes in his fighting techniques.
Finished, he put the new sheets on the bed and set the alarm clock for seven a.m. Thankfully, it was just after nine p.m. so he’d get plenty of rest.
The alarm rousted him roughly. He clicked it off and debated closing his eyes and nodding back off. He didn’t have anywhere to be, but he had things to do. Hell, Anne’s killer was out there. Both the bastard in charge and all of those indirectly responsible.
He stood and went to the bathroom to piss. Finishing, he walked over to a pile of plastic grocery bags. He riffled through them and found the bag that held a six-pack of Mountain Dews. They were warm, but he didn’t mind. He stripped one from the plastic holder and opened it.
He walked back to the bed and sat, relishing the morning soda and the caffeine it provided. He took about ten minutes to drink it, the whole time procrastinating. Finishing it, he really lacked an excuse. So he dug through the bags for his new shorts, white socks, and running shoes.
He got dressed and grabbed his keys off the nightstand. Nick felt naked without his pistol, but he knew there was no way he could take it with him on the run and keep it hidden.
He walked over to his pack, jerked some duct tape off the roll, and taped the pistol, two magazines, and the envelope of cash to the bottom of a drawer in the chest-of-drawers. Satisfied, he left the room and locked it.
His shorts lacked pockets, so he took off jogging with the keys in his hand. His legs felt a little sore from all the walking and the leg work involved in throwing kicks as part of his hand-to-hand training, but the morning was cool and the run energizing.
It’d been probably two weeks since he had run, but he felt pretty strong. He’d always been a flaky runner since getting out of the Corps, running only two or three times a week for about two or three miles. Maybe as much as five miles on a really good day.
But running, like most physical things, were one of those things that came naturally to Nick. So as he passed the four-mile mark, he kept going. This was for Anne. And probably a lot of others that some piece of shit man had hurt (or would).
Nick didn’t have a clue who he was, but he knew his type. Probably the son of a military father, or maybe State Department. He’d be the kind of guy that committed so fully to the argument of service that it was scary.
No doubt, he probably thought everything he did was an acceptable loss, or worse, “necessary.” Nick remembered a guy named Whitaker he had met during his operations in Afghanistan. That had been a cold son of a bitch.
But Nick seriously doubted it was the same man. Covert ops chewed up people like Whitaker. And commanders such as him either died in the line of duty or had to fall on the sword when an op failed.
This new commander was probably overconfident. And, he had probably far overstepped his legal bounds. As the old saying went, “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” Nick knew it was true. He’d seen it too many times.
The guy, or possibly a woman (though Nick doubted that), was probably in the D.C. area. Or, perhaps Quantico. He’d have to be in one of those places to be in the intelligence loop.
He’d be a CIA operative, but there would be a Senator or Congressman who helped hide and fund the group he led.
Whoever the person was, he’d be formidable, with time spent in both the military and CIA. He’d be nearly untouchable, for sure.
But, no man was completely safe from danger. Especially if the predator didn’t care about his own safety. Nick ran faster at the thought.
Once he got back, he showered and stretched out his legs, certain he’d be sore tomorrow after such a hard run. He put on a clean pair of blue jeans from his pack.
The jeans were a little wrinkled since they had been rolled up tightly in the pack, but they were fine. Nick pulled on a clean T-shirt and his hiking boots, which bore a dusty look from all the mud he’d gotten on them the night he’d gone into the cave.
He then called a cab. He needed a ride to a grocery store where he could pick up vitamins, supplements, and protein shakes. It was a decision he’d regret.
Chapter 22
Allen Green’s life was finished.
He was unemployed after The New Yorker fired him. He was still a national news story for “making-up” his big Afghanistan story. And for the child-pornography charges.
Allen had attained one of his life dreams: he was now a celebrity. Unfortunately, this was not how he had envisioned it.
He had no one to confide in or seek advice from, and this further prevented him from having any idea of what he should do.
Allen refused to contact his girlfriend Jennifer because he didn’t want Whitaker’s goons watching her and knowing how much he cared for her. They’d only use her for additional leverage.
She’d left three messages for him, and he’d yet to call her back. It hurt, but he knew it was for the best.
Though it hurt to not talk to Jennifer and tell her the truth, the pain paled in comparison to the actions of his “friends.” Every single one had abandoned him. Not a single call from them.
At work, everyone had looked the opposite direction, avoiding Allen as he had boxed up his belongings. They were all a bunch of gutless sell-outs.
It had only been three days since the events spun out of control, and it seemed like a year. His arraignment for the child porn charges was thirty-seven days away. Allen figured that just about the time the media moved on and stopped reporting his story, the arraignment would come, and they would all be back, with plenty of photographers, too. Same as he used to do when he was a junior reporter back on the crime beat.
The child porn charges were bad, but the media were crucifying him. He was a disgrace to the industry, they said, not because he looked at kiddy porn, but because he hurt the profession with his lack of integrity.
He was a liar. He was the equivalent of scum. There was even talk that maybe some management at the magazine should be held responsible and forced to resign. This caused Allen to smile. Fuck ’em. None of them had backed him. He hoped they fell on their ass, too.
Allen recalled the quote by Benjamin Franklin during the early days of America’s independence, recognizing its wisdom and truth. Franklin had said, “We must all hang together, or surely we will all hang separately.” Apparently, his management was not well versed on history. Worse, they didn’t understand common sense.
During the hell of the last three days, a single thought had drowned all the pain and disappointment: revenge.
Allen didn’t know who was behind this, but he had obviously stumbled onto something massive or this wouldn’t have happened. He hoped they underestimated him. He fought the temptation to start immediately by getting on the phone and on the Internet in the attempt to nail down the truth, but he had to wait. They were watching him far too closely right now.
No, he would let them get lackadaisical. Start
to trust him. Drop the charges. And then, he’d either make a break for it or start clandestinely checking around.
They’d taken everything away from him and in doing so had created their worst enemy: A man who had nothing to lose.
Chapter 23
Nick Woods nearly lost it in the grocery store.
He had walked back to the magazine aisle, passing by a Knoxville News Sentinel, the main newspaper for the Knoxville area. The shooting at his house several days ago continued to make the front page above the fold.
Today’s headline read: “Agent wounded; woman killed in raid.”
Nick had read three paragraphs before finally pulling himself from it. His breathing was out of control, and anger surged throughout his body. He nearly lost it right there in the grocery store.
There was a large picture of his house and two smaller pictures; one of Anne and the other of some agent. At first, Nick figured that the picture was of the head agent in charge of the FBI.
But when he read the story after returning to the cab, he found out the picture was of the man who had killed his wife. The newspaper said the FBI agent pictured had been suspended and that an investigation was underway since Anne was unarmed when he killed her. Furthermore, the agent had been caught trying to plant a pistol in her hands.
Nick lost his bearing at that point. In the back of the cab, he crumpled the paper and began slamming his head on the back of the headrest in front of him. The cabbie had said, “Hey, man. Stop. Calm down. You alright?”
Nick wasn’t. All he said was, “Those bastards,” as tears rolled down his cheeks.
Back at the motel and back under control, he had straightened out the paper and finished the article. His anger was still fire hot.
An FBI agent, who had spent months and months learning how to defend himself, had killed an unarmed woman. And then, he had tried to cover it up.
In Nick’s eyes, it was unforgivable. The man had been trained by some of the best trainers law enforcement had.
The man had known about the raid and should have been mentally prepared. He would have known about everyone’s assignments and would have had the opportunity to ask questions before it began.
He should have been role-playing all of the what-ifs as he waited behind the house. And finally, his eyes would have been adjusted to the darkness, while Anne would have been running blind into the night. Not to mention, the man would have been wearing a bulletproof vest.
None of these advantages had been on Anne’s side.
She would have been surprised, outnumbered, and scared. For Christ’s sake, she was a woman. Barely 120 pounds.
The reporter from the Knoxville News Sentinel had dug up more facts on the agent in the three days since the shooting. The agent had missed the last three monthly required range days. And before those, he had missed the two prior to it, as well.
One out of six required days on the range in a two-year period. It was this fact that really wore on Nick. He had always hated hunters who didn’t respect the game they hunted. Who didn’t have properly sighted rifles. Who took careless shots at running deer and didn’t fret about wounding animals.
This was the exact same situation, except it involved an FBI agent. The man hadn’t trained hard enough, so that had probably amplified his fear. Might have even been the sole reason he had fired, in fact.
But Nick’s mind drifted back to the female angle. In the South, and probably the rest of the country, too, a man didn’t lay his hands on a woman. Period. Ever. For any reason. Even if she hit you or tried to kick you, you walked off.
There was never an acceptable exception to this rule. Certainly not in the South. And certainly not if you were a real man.
Nick recalled all the times he’d seen the news show some local piece of trash who had beat up his woman. Nothing made Nick angrier than when this happened. Nick would give anything to stomp the piss out of every wife beater in the country.
Not that any of them would have the guts to fight back. Men like that were cowards.
So, too, was this man. He probably couldn’t shoot well, so he worried about going to the range because he might get picked on or laughed at by other agents. Instead of improving and facing his fears, he had run and hidden like a coward.
Hopefully, the FBI would fire him and put him in jail. Because if they didn’t, Nick wasn’t sure he’d be able to control himself.
Chapter 24
Whitaker walked into a crowded room. It was a rented conference area at the Marriott Hotel in Knoxville, and his troops were assembled. Tank -- his big-ass right-hand man -- was with him, as he always was.
Whitaker wasn’t in a good mood. Senator Ray Gooden had called less than an hour earlier, questioning and threatening Whitaker for nearly twenty minutes. This was an incredible amount of time for his boss to talk to him.
Gooden served on the Senate Armed Forces Committee and usually used aides to pass along direction. Gooden always kept his distance from Whitaker, but he hadn’t today.
Whitaker had known when he accepted the job that he was the fall man in case the whole unit and its various operations were ever exposed. This was Senator Gooden’s project, and Whitaker was merely one of several men to lead it. Most likely, Whitaker wouldn’t be the last. Not as long as the crusty, old Texas Senator was kicking.
Whitaker’s troops watched as he ambled to the front of the table. They knew that Whitaker ambling was not normal. Definitely a bad thing. Whitaker practically sprinted places, never walked. And definitely never ambled.
They were all concerned about what he was about to say though likely some would deny it. He was likely to tell them to double their efforts or some other impossible task like that.
They had all heard stories about his service in Vietnam. How he had arrived as a brand new lieutenant and had nearly been fragged within three days. A record by all accounts. He volunteered his men for everything. Patrols. Ambushes. Guard duty.
When they were not behind their rifles, he volunteered them for work assignments. They burned shit. Filled sand bags. Cleaned machine guns on the line. All because he said they lacked discipline, and America had a war to win; and apparently, Whitaker had decided he’d win it himself.
They had hated him. Before his first contact, he had told the men and squad leaders that any man who didn’t pull his share of the load during a firefight would find himself on every dangerous assignment Whitaker could find. He had said that if they were not naturally brave, he would make them brave.
Those who showed an attitude or acted insubordinately were put on point during patrols by Whitaker. The one that hated him the most and had thrown the frag, a guy named Jones, had paid dearly for his hatred of Whitaker.
Jones had been leading the platoon across an open field one day, mentally and physically exhausted. Whitaker had kept Jones on point for six straight hours. If Whitaker’s superiors had known that, they would have likely court-martialed him. But they didn’t and never would because no one dared to cross Whitaker.
So, Private First Class Bill Jones, a wily veteran with just thirty-two days left in ’Nam, stepped on a mine that even a green replacement would have seen. But, Jones didn’t because he wasn’t paying attention. Not that any man could have been after six hours on point.
Even worse, Jones was dizzy with exhaustion from being put on the ambush squad the night before by Whitaker. Jones had also worked double duty the day before that, filling sandbags while the platoon was in the rear at a firebase, supposed to be resting.
Jones was practically a heat casualty when the event happened. So trudging along, fighting the urge to turn and gun down a boot lieutenant, Jones had stepped on a mine pitifully hidden by a nine-year-old Vietnamese boy.
Some in the platoon swore Whitaker smiled when the blast spewed blood and bone into the air like a geyser. Whitaker had simply called a medevac helo and then had the audacity to tell Jones as he lay on a poncho stretcher, “Son, your country appreciates your service.”
The story went that Whitaker had smiled like a madman when he said it.
Strangely though, the platoon members eventually grew to respect Whitaker, despite his maniacal reign. They became better than the other platoons. Even tighter, because they had to endure more.
He actually became a good leader, finally learning to take care of his men and not to volunteer them all the time. None dared to smoke dope, and they began to buy into Whitaker’s philosophy: a badass platoon that fought daily would take fewer casualties in a firefight than a shitty one that made one bad contact with the enemy.
Whitaker’s platoon was lethal in combat. They would pursue the enemy with an intensity befitting the best Special Forces troops. They walked a bit prouder because they knew they bore a heavier load. Twice, their platoon, leading the company as usual, wasn’t ambushed because of their intensity and alertness. Instead, the Vietcong had ambushed trailing platoons that were walking and talking, some even wearing headphones.
Eventually, soldiers were requesting transfers to Whitaker’s platoon. The platoon had earned the much-deserved reputation as the best platoon in the battalion, and if you were a draftee who wanted to do some good and come home safe, you wanted to be with Whitaker.
Whitaker flourished. He fought the war with such intensity that before long, he went from a platoon with twenty-three men to a company with more than a hundred men. He returned to America after his tour was up, but ultimately, Whitaker missed Vietnam and couldn’t handle the hippies.
Frustrated, he returned. He worked in Saigon in intelligence. He re-enlisted and extended his time and finally got to fill in as a battalion commander while only a Major.
The power was incredibly addictive though Whitaker was only battalion commander for three weeks. Seeing there were few opportunities for command and knowing he was not cut out to wait to earn lieutenant colonel and command a battalion, Whitaker sought other opportunities.
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