Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  No sweat, he thought, opening up his cell phone. He would just have to ditch the car and call his unit for a quick pick-up.

  Chapter 36

  Nick Woods beat Allen Green to Luzio’s and selected a table near the back. The place reminded him of a Waffle House, a small rectangular restaurant with a long bar. However, this bar had stainless steel vertical ovens behind it rather than an open grill and used green as its primary color, instead of yellow.

  Nick’s waitress was a voluptuous Italian girl, probably in her early twenties. In a “Luzio’s” branded white tee shirt that fit way too tight and with her hair up in a youthful ponytail, she was hard not to check out.

  She took Nick back to a time before the brutal murder of Anne, before the horrors of operating in Afghanistan, before the Corps. Back to his high school days, when the place to go was a small ice cream shop in his home state of Georgia.

  There, it seemed some young hotty had worked at the local burger joint since the beginning of time. They rotated through, usually just for a summer or a single school year.

  Nick tried to clear his head. He didn’t need to be thinking about his high school days right now. This meeting with Allen could likely be one of his last moments on earth. It could turn into a modern day Alamo, with crack commandos firing wildly as they overran him.

  Well, he had eight rounds in the pistol, and two magazines of seven to add to the tally. He’d at least get a few of them.

  And perhaps a huge gunfight would draw the attention of the press, and they’d finally crush whatever organization was behind this thing.

  It would be a small victory for Anne.

  One thing was for sure. Nick wouldn’t have picked Luzio’s to meet at. It had only a single entrance and exit, which was about midway up the wall from Nick. Three sides of the building contained windows. All it’d take would be for one good sniper to pop him from a four-story apartment across the street.

  It wouldn’t take the sniper long for him to find Nick. He was one of only two white males in the place. Four other males were Italian and one other older male was black.

  Shit, you’ve really put yourself in a pickle on this one, Nick, he said to himself.

  He glanced down at his watch again. It had been twenty-three minutes since the phone call. Frustrated, he took a sip of his Mountain Dew -- it definitely wasn’t a time to be chugging a beer. He needed to stay sharp and alert.

  He saw Allen walking toward the entrance. He knew it was him before he could even make out his face. Allen Green walked fast and glanced around anxiously like a felon still wearing an orange jump suit.

  He walked in, looked around uncertainly, and focused on Nick. Nick waved him over.

  Allen had not changed much from the picture that Nick tore out of the newspaper. He had long hair that was parted to the left, though carelessly. It was brown with lines of gray intermingled.

  Nick guessed he was fifty. Sitting in front of him, Nick realized how small he was. Probably five-seven, maybe one hundred and sixty pounds. His hands looked soft, and his fingernails were round and even, almost manicured-like. He wore khaki pants, a button up long-sleeved shirt, and a dark suit jacket over that. He wasn’t the kind of guy Nick would strike up a conversation with back home; that was for sure. Too much like a lawyer, preppy and metrosexual. Nick preferred to hang around men who wore jeans and work boots.

  Allen realized as soon as he walked in that Nick was the mysterious caller with the Southern twang. This guy, whoever he was, was straight from the movies. Tall, lean, and serious.

  He wore dark blue jeans and a T-shirt.

  The man’s blonde hair was short, almost like a tuft on top, and even shorter on the side. Definitely the preferred haircut of cops and soldiers.

  The man’s blue eyes could have been handsome, but they were too grave and biting. His tee shirt showed a strong build, and his forearms, covered in thick blond hair, would have made even Popeye jealous. The man had to be a mechanic or something, given his forearms. His hands were sitting on top of each other, but Allen figured they were calloused like sandpaper.

  “Hey, there, have a seat,” Nick said, though he immediately realized it had sounded too country. He extended his hand.

  “Allen Green,” Allen said, trying to match his grip, but failing miserably. “Lying journalist and child molester. What can I do for you?”

  Allen saw that the man still looked serious. As if he didn’t even hear the joke.

  “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” the man said. “There’s some mean folks that intend to kill you.”

  Allen tried to show nothing.

  “Maybe I should order something to drink before our discussion gets too serious,” he said.

  “We don’t have time for that,” the man said. “We need to be leaving right now.”

  “‘We,’ you say?”

  “Yeah, ‘we,’ if you have any sense.”

  “Please explain.”

  “Look, that article in the magazine that you wrote? I know it was true.”

  Allen was intrigued now, but still cautious. Perhaps this was a test to see if he would admit the article was accurate, only to be killed later by one of Whitaker’s thugs. He had been warned, after all, by Whitaker himself.

  “How’s that?” Allen asked. “Even I admitted I fabricated the entire thing.”

  “I know it’s accurate because you wrote about me, that’s why.”

  “Really? What part?”

  Nick looked about him and leaned forward. “Does the name Nick Woods mean anything to you?”

  Allen nearly gasped. He knew his face paled. There was no controlling it.

  Nick Woods was the name of the sniper who had died in a “training accident.” That was a fact only Allen, his editor, and his publisher knew. They had wisely avoided publishing the name.

  “Alright,” Allen said, “I’m listening.”

  “Look, we don’t have much time. Read this.”

  Nick threw the article on the table that summed up the raid on his home. Allen picked it up, and his eyes raced back and forth across the page. He finished it so quickly that Nick wondered if he had actually read it.

  “I’m not sure,” Allen said, “what this has to do with you. Who is Bobby Ferguson?”

  “I was Bobby Ferguson until you wrote your article.”

  “I don’t follow,” Allen said, still confused.

  Nick looked toward the door and eyed a young man that entered. He was young, wearing a jacket that could be hiding a weapon. No obvious bulge indicating a pistol, but he glanced toward their table.

  “Look, I don’t have time to explain. I pulled off those missions you wrote about, was sold out, and managed to escape back to Pakistan, where I made sure lots of people saw me. Thankfully, I was smart enough to make up the name Bobby Ferguson instead of telling the truth.”

  “But, didn’t your family see your face?”

  “Look, mister. My family doesn’t keep up with the news the way they do in other parts. Now, we need to go, and quick.”

  “Exactly why did you come here?” Allen asked.

  “To warn you.”

  “No, what’s the real reason?”

  Nick sat there thinking. What was the real reason? Was it to warn this guy? Not entirely.

  “I’ll shoot straight,” Nick grunted. “I need your help. I don’t think you had child porn on your computer, and I know for damn sure that article was dead on. I lived it. But, I’m betting you’ve been visited by some nasty fellows. And, I’m betting they fucked with you, just like they fucked with me back in the ’80s. Someone needs to do something about this group. Who knows how many laws they’re breaking?”

  Allen never said a word, just smiled, a bit eerie-like for such a soft-looking fellow, Nick thought.

  Chapter 37

  Whitaker pulled off into an alley, driving deep toward its rear, not stopping until the bumper hit a dumpster roughly.

  He dialed his team leader’s number on his cel
l phone.

  “Yeah,” the man answered.

  “Where are you?”

  “We’re about three mikes out,” the man said, “mikes” being the military term for minutes.

  Whitaker punched up his GPS navigational system. “I’m at 369458,” he said.

  “We’ll be there in seconds, boss.”

  Whitaker slammed his phone shut, pocketed it, and ran toward the alley’s entrance. He withdrew his pistol from beneath his jacket and kept it by his side. Reaching the entrance, he glanced up and down the street. Nothing. No screeching police cars racing toward him. No sirens yet.

  Up the road, a white Land Rover came tearing around the corner, its back tires fishtailing as the driver whipped it around. The sports utility vehicle raced up to him and screeched to a halt.

  Driving the Rover was one of his best drivers, and Tank sat in the passenger seat with an M-4 submachine gun across his lap. It had a second magazine taped upside down to the thirty-round magazine already loaded. Sixty deadly rounds ready to go.

  Jumping into the back seat, next to his eight-man assault team leader, who also had an M-4 muzzle down between his legs, Whitaker could not keep from smiling.

  His men would have gone to any length to rescue their leader.

  “Good to see you guys,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  As the Land Rover wove its way out of the hotspot, the team leader searched various police frequencies on a scanner for the upcoming blitz of law enforcement.

  Whitaker ran his hands through his hair and tried to get his breathing under control. And, in the stress of the near-death experience and euphoria of having survived, Whitaker forgot to call headquarters back and direct his agents to move in on Nick and Allen.

  Chapter 38

  Nick was back in his big Caprice with Allen sitting up front next to him. Nick had wisely stored the car, with his gear and more importantly his rifle, before entering New York City.

  He figured finding parking would be a hassle and besides, the police were likely on the lookout for the green Caprice since the shooting in Oak Ridge.

  Following their meeting, he and Allen had flagged down a cab and rode straight to the storage site. Nick assumed traveling in one of the thousands of yellow cabs was a safer proposition than being caught on camera boarding trains and subways together with Allen.

  Nick had convinced Allen that he didn’t need to return to his apartment, and once they were in the privacy of the Caprice, Allen had told him his story.

  Of how some man named Whitaker and a huge giant of a man, built like an NFL linebacker, had scared the shit out of him inside of a concrete cell. Of how they’d forced him into admitting he had fabricated his article. Of how some hacker had dumped child pornography on his work computer.

  As the story was told, Nick recognized a deep anger in the soft-spoken, often satirical remarks of the New York man. It occurred to him that they had taken just as much from Allen as from him.

  Nick’s future had been with Anne. A few kids. A family. Stability.

  It was the same with Allen. They had taken his credibility, which was just as necessary for his future.

  Allen had nothing now. He couldn’t write news articles or continue his career. Worse, they had likely taken his Pulitzer Prize, as he had just finished painfully explaining. And with that loss, came the loss of time off for a couple of novels. Allen's dreams were over, just as Nick's were.

  And given that Allen was a cynical, divorced reporter dedicated to his job, there wasn’t much else out there for him. Now, they were both quiet in the Caprice, just watching cars and buildings fly past.

  Both were brooding, calculating their losses. It was growing dark, and they had been heading south, in a roundabout way as was necessary around New York.

  “Where are we going?” Allen asked.

  “To Knoxville, or its outskirts.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to say hello to a certain FBI agent.”

  “The one that killed Anne?”

  “Yep,” Nick said.

  “You intend to kill him, right?” Allen asked, glancing over at Nick, still unable to read him yet. Still not sure if saying “hello” meant spilling blood or just saying “hello.”

  “You betcha.”

  “You think he did it for money?” Allen inquired, a probing reporter again.

  “Nope,” Nick said.

  “So, it was an accident?”

  “Nope.”

  “It wasn’t an accident?” Allen asked, incredulously. “You're saying some paper-pushing FBI bookworm wearing khakis and dress shoes purposely killed your wife, so he could get suspended, get his picture in the paper, and deal with a shitload of scrutiny?”

  Nick glanced over at Allen. His eyes returned to the road.

  “I do not believe Anne’s death was part of the equation. I think those agents were just supposed to pick us two up. I would’ve likely been killed in a jail fight. Or, some convicted killer would have shanked me to knock off some years or gain some perk. They would have left her alone, I think.”

  “So,” Allen replied, “let me get this right. An FBI agent, who is scared shitless and just doing his job, accidentally kills your wife. And for that, you intend to kill him?”

  “That’s about the sum of it.”

  “You, a man who has served in the military and faced danger? Real danger. Who knows how shit can go wrong in the heat of battle. You intend to kill a fellow service member? A man just doing his job?”

  Nick said nothing and Allen wrongly assumed he was making headway.

  “Don’t you see it was an accident?” Allen asked. “And have you forgotten that she shot one of the other agents? He had every right to believe she was armed.”

  Nick's fists tightened on the steering wheel.

  “I would have shot her, too,” Allen said.

  Nick turned and looked at Allen, his eyes focusing on the wily reporter in the growing darkness. Allen met Nick’s look and saw something for the first time in Nick’s eyes that said, “Do not fuck with me.”

  It scared him.

  But, then Nick's eyes softened, back into the soft blue eyes that made him handsome. Nick smiled.

  “You wouldn’t have shot her, sport,” Nick said, his voice as calm as it had been before the look of anger.

  “Bullshit. It was dark. He was scared.”

  “You wouldn’t have shot her because you are a professional. You respect your discipline. You’re one of the best. That’s how you got your story. You worked for months on it. Maybe years. That’s why you should be getting the Pulitzer.”

  Nick shook his head in anger.

  “If that man would have paid his dues on the range and taken his job serious, he would have realized there was more to the job than drafting papers. But, he didn’t, and now she’s dead.”

  Nick paused, and Allen saw him grip the steering wheel again with probably enough force to break most men’s hands.

  “For God’s sake, Allen, he was supposed to be a professional. He was wearing a bulletproof vest, and he should have been in the woods behind that house at least one hour before the raid so his eyes could’ve adjusted to the darkness. But, he didn’t. He didn’t do any of that, including owning up to his mistake.”

  Nick cursed.

  “The son of a bitch then tried to plant a weapon in her hand. But you just wait. Nothing will happen to him.”

  Nick exhaled, trying to release some of the dangerous anger from his body.

  “In the military,” he continued, “if you accidentally kill someone from friendly fire, you get punished. This man will get nothing. Just wait and see.”

  Allen sat there trying to counter Nick’s argument. He had a point on a few facts, but enough to justify cold-blooded murder? Hardly.

  “What if we --

  Nick interrupted Allen.

  “Look, you are a pampered, pansy-ass. You were probably raised by parents who allowed you to make excuses. In
the South, especially out in the country, things are usually different. This man killed my wife. If he hadn’t, she would already be released. Anne would still be alive, waiting on me.”

  Nick shook his head angrily.

  “But, she isn’t. She’s dead. She’s dead because some scrawny wimp, who got beat up in high school, thought joining the FBI would make him tough. He joined, made it, but didn’t respect the game. You saw the article in the paper. He didn’t pay his dues on the range. If he had, and if he had been more competent, my wife would still be alive.”

  Nick paused as a police cruiser passed going the other direction. Once it disappeared from view, he continued, “At a minimum, the man is guilty of negligence. Negligent homicide will get you time, even by your excuse-making judges up here in New York. Whether you’re speeding and hit someone, or whether you get in a bar fight and pull a knife. You got the education, you probably know how many years someone would serve for negligent homicide. Or even a manslaughter charge.”

  Nick paused again, looking toward a parked car that he initially thought was an undercover police vehicle.

  Convinced it wasn't, he said, “Look, in the South we handle things differently. If you’re on the school grounds and someone steals your pencil, you dot his eye. Now, you can call this revenge or whatever you want, but it’s going to happen. If you want, I’ll let you out. But, I intend to bury this man and then bury Colonel Russ Jernigan, since he can’t keep his mouth shut.”

  “In case you forgot,” Allen snapped, “I was the one who got Jernigan to talk.”

  “You were just doing your job, trying to tell a story that Americans arguably need to know about.”

  “I started this whole mess,” Allen continued, “which makes me partially responsible for Anne’s death.”

  “You really think that?” Nick asked, looking over at him.

  Nick shook his head in disgust.

  “You’re wrong. This was started when someone assigned me and another good man to go pull off a dangerous mission for our country in a foreign land we weren't supposed to be in. Whether that was right or not, I don’t know or care. I take orders, or at least I used to. I never complained. I did my duty. So did my partner. And so did Colonel Russ Jernigan. But, Jernigan dropped the ball recently. Badly. He sold me out when he talked to you. At a minimum, he is guilty of dereliction of duty and conduct unbecoming of an officer. He let out our nation’s secrets and look what that did.”