Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  “I tricked him,” Allen said. “I got him drinking to loosen him up. Never even told him I was a reporter. I really pushed the limits of respectable journalism. Trust me on that.”

  Nick glanced at Allen and smiled.

  “You got excuses for everything, don’t you? I bet you think it’s not a thief’s fault if he steals, it’s the bad environment he was raised in.”

  “Okay,” Allen said, deciding to not argue about politics with such a simpleton. “You kill this agent in Knoxville, then you kill this Jernigan guy because he talked to me. Then what?”

  “I’m not real sure,” Nick said. “I figure you can help me on that, but I’m thinking I come back and nab the FBI special agent in charge in Knoxville. I’d like to have a little chat with whoever he or she is and find out who gave the orders to raid my house.”

  “And, if it’s the director of the FBI?”

  “Then, I’ll take a trip to Washington.”

  “You don’t really think you could get close enough to kill him, do you?”

  “Who said anything about getting close? I'm a sniper.”

  “But, that breaks your chain. That doesn’t even get you whoever is behind this,” Allen said.

  “Yep, that’s why I need your head, your sources, and your research skills,” Nick said, looking Allen in the eyes again. “And your determination,”

  “Why don’t we just publish the truth? Hide out somewhere? I know lots of reporters. I can get you interviews. We’ll put you in front of lots of cameras. Get an investigation started. Put you in the witness protection program.”

  Nick grinned at Allen.

  “First of all, whoever is behind this was able to pull off an FBI raid on my house on short notice. They will find us, regardless of where we are. But, even if they couldn’t, we’d still lose. You are smart enough to know that every operation has a fall man. I’m betting this one would, too. So, we shut down one unit or organization, or one tier of it. We still don’t take out the brains of the operation, and another unit pops right back up. Doing all kinds of bad deeds.”

  Nick kept quiet for a couple of minutes. He rarely talked as much as he had, but he knew he needed to get Allen on his side.

  Allen turned toward Nick. He tried to read the strong face.

  “I’m not sure I’m buying that you need to kill this FBI agent, who got the shit scared out of him. Hell, he’s probably hardly slept since killing your wife.”

  Nick looked at Allen, started to speak, then fell silent. He thought for a few minutes to try to work out an argument. The silence became uncomfortable for both men. He debated turning the radio on but had no idea what kind of music Allen liked. Didn’t feel like asking.

  “Well?” Allen asked.

  Nick looked over at him again. Damn, this guy was going to get on his nerves. “Okay, you win. It’s not totally about Anne. Your FBI agent, who is hardly getting any sleep, is going to die because he’s a pawn. He’s caught up in something much bigger than himself.

  “I’m going to use him to make an example of him. You see, snipers operate out of fear. If you start killing men, you begin to get inside the enemy’s head. Which is why all too often, a couple of snipers, who should be easily overrun by a large group, rarely are. Why, you ask? Because of fear. If ten men think they are going to be the next to die, and even if only one of the ten will die, usually, they won’t budge. They sit frozen with fear once they see someone’s melon split wide open just a couple of feet away.

  “That’s the difference between regular combat and sniping. In combat, there is chance. Sometimes, even luck. So ten men attack even ten other men. Maybe even twenty men. Why? Because there’s a chance each may live. Thousands of rounds are fired. Few are hit, and still fewer die. Both luck and fate are involved. Really, it’s percentages. You know, we got to take this hill or beach, and we’ll probably lose twenty percent. Well, when you’re the one carrying that rifle that twenty percent is never you, so you fight even though you’re scared shitless.

  “But, that’s not the case against a couple of snipers. Each of the ten knows damn well that the sniper will kill one of them. No chance involved at all. It’s all calculated, practiced skill. Science, if you will. A shot will be fired, and one man will die. No doubt about it. He won’t be wounded or maybe just lose a leg or arm. No. Somebody is going to take one through the chest. Or maybe the head, depending on the range.

  “So, this agent is going to die. And when he does, somebody who is responsible for killing Anne is going to say, ‘Oh shit. Nick Woods is not only still alive, he’s hunting again.’

  “And this somebody will try to rally his troops. Tell them they have every edge. Nothing to fear. All that bullshit. And then another man, Colonel Russ Jernigan, is going to die.

  “And then it’s going to begin to eat at them. They’ll sleep less and start to think this shit isn’t so fun when you’re on the losing team. And their leader will try to rally them, but it will start to seem fake. Like he’s trying too hard. Or, maybe he’s never had to rally them before. And then the threads of the organization will start to unravel.

  “And with luck, this leader will start making mistakes. Or, at least some moves we’ll notice.”

  Allen didn’t know what to say. As much as it pissed him off, he found part of the logic convincing. Still, he didn’t think the agent needed to die. He debated his choices. He could ask Nick to let him out, and then send a warning to the man.

  Nick, glancing over at Allen, had a guess or two about what he was thinking. “Hey, partner,” he said.

  Allen looked back at him.

  “You’re still not sold on all this, so let me give you two more reasons. If that still doesn’t cut it, I’ll let you out and you can live on the run. Or, face up to those child pornography charges. Serve some hard time. Become bed buddies with some stinking, three-hundred pound felon in the penitentiary.

  “The first reason you need to help me is because you know now. You know about this group. You know how illegally they operate. They’re so above the law that it’s scary. But you can’t plead ignorance anymore. While I know ignorance is bliss, you and I have a moral responsibility to stop whoever is behind this group. They're evil. Plain and simple. Almost certainly operating without Congressional approval, maybe even without the President’s. Probably just one man behind them. And, as you know, you have to fight fire with fire, so we’re going to have to do some things that morally, we might wish we hadn’t had to do.

  “That’s your high ground moral reason. But, there is one more. Believe me, revenge is sweet. Why do little twerps, finally pushed to the limit by some bully, pull out a knife and stab and stab and stab, even after the only thing under them is a corpse growing colder? Because it feels good to finally get even with someone who's tormented you and hounded you for years.

  “Don’t you see, Allen? It’s too late. The bully has already clobbered you. Bloodied you, but good. He fucked with you and thinks he’s above the law. Arguably, he is. And if we don’t do something, he’ll fuck with Jennifer and anybody else you care about, too.

  “Now, the choice is yours. You know you have to pick up that knife and start stabbing him, or he’s going to keep coming back. Some asshole named Whitaker will watch your every move until the day you die. He will threaten you and be in your head every second of the day. You’re going to be miserable.

  “He may even make you do something against someone else because he owns you now. You’re going to have to stay away from Jennifer, and from your writing and reporting. So, I’m saying, ‘Pick up the knife, Allen.’ Don’t be the bitch on this one.

  “Let’s go do these guys. And, I promise you this. Whether we win or lose, live or die, I'd rather die as a man standing up for himself than allow fear to rule my life.”

  Allen glanced over and met Nick’s eyes. Nick smiled. Allen felt pretty sure he was looking into the eyes of either a crazy man or one of the best combat veterans the country ever produced. Maybe both.

&n
bsp; Regardless, the country boy from the South had convinced him. He was in.

  Chapter 39

  Allen and Nick sat camped out at the Holiday Inn in Knoxville. Allen had taken off for the public library, intent on doing all the necessary research on the FBI office in Knoxville. Nick had said he needed to do some calisthenics and weapons drills. Allen could only vaguely guess what that was.

  Inside the library, Allen made short work of his research. Like any decent reporter, he began with a phone book. A cursory search revealed the FBI office location at 710 Locust Avenue and its phone number. He jumped onto a computer and searched for the address.

  He found directions to the office and printed satellite aerial photos of the surrounding area.

  Back in the hotel room, Nick had showered after his brutal workout. He knew at some point he would have to get Allen involved in exercising, too, for his own sake. However, that could wait, at least until after this hit. Now clean and cool, Nick was on the floor, lying down.

  He was dry-firing his unfamiliar .308, getting more comfortable with the trigger and scope of the rifle he'd bought out of the classifieds section. He was executing his seventy-third practice “shot” when there was a single knock on the door -- the signal that it was Allen.

  Nick took no chances. He lay down the rifle, pulled out his .45, and got behind the bed.

  “Come in,” he said.

  After sliding the key card into the slot and entering the room, Allen hastily said, “Alright, damn it. Put that thing down. No one is behind me.”

  Nick smiled, holstering the pistol. “Sorry,” he said.

  “I found the mother lode,” Allen said. He dropped off some printed copies of his research onto the nearest bed.

  “Great,” Nick said, picking them up.

  “I had an idea, too,” Allen said.

  “What’s that?” Nick grunted, shuffling through the papers.

  “We need to do an interview with the local paper after the shot.”

  “Say what?” Nick looked up at Allen.

  “Yeah, we need to do an interview with the local paper after the shot.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Trust me. It’s the power of the press. You have to at least acknowledge that we could fail. That we could be killed without finishing the job, right?”

  “True,” Nick reluctantly agreed.

  “Exactly. We need to get as much of the story out there as we can. Just in case that happens. This murder will give our story further creditability.”

  “Yeah, but it will get our faces out there, too.”

  “Oh, come on. Our faces are already out there. You’ve got a nationwide all-points bulletin on both of your names. And, I’ll have the same on me when I don’t show up for court on those child porn charges here soon. Not only does this provide some insurance in case we fail, it’ll also hinder our enemy’s movement. Think of it. Ten or twenty of the nation’s top reporters asking questions at the Pentagon and military bases throughout the country. Regardless of how ridiculous the story, the reporters will start digging. Believe me, I know these reporters. Even something this outlandish will draw interest. And once that many start digging, then it'll be impossible for the group to blackmail that many people.”

  “Maybe,” Nick said, measuring the idea.

  “One other thing.”

  “What?”

  Allen pulled out a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket. He held it out to Nick. “That lady you killed in Oak Ridge?”

  “I don’t want any more details,” Nick said, eyeing the paper and refusing to accept it. “I’m not happy I had to do that. But she pulled and was going to execute me right there. That’s the way my hand was dealt.”

  “No, you can sleep well from here on out,” Allen said. “She was definitely a fraud.”

  Nick snatched the paper, scanning the printed news article. The article quoted several FBI agents who said Nancy Dickerson was not an FBI agent. Nor had she ever been.

  Allen saw that Nick’s relief was obvious.

  “At least now I know I wasn’t making up in my head the fact she attempted to murder me,” Nick said.

  “Yep,” Allen responded.

  Nick wasn’t sure what to do. He suddenly felt as if a major load had been lifted off him. He had assumed she was one of Whitaker’s agents since she fired first, but a nagging thought had kept telling him that perhaps she truly had been an FBI agent. And that perhaps she had either panicked out of fear or seen the pistol by his side.

  It might not matter to some, but it mattered greatly to Nick that the woman hadn’t been a real FBI agent after all. That article was definitive proof that Nick had acted solely in self-defense, and that made meant a lot to him.

  He already carried enough regrets.

  Two hours later, Allen and Nick were still in the hotel room. Allen was reading “A Man in Full,” a novel by Tom Wolfe, on the bed farthest away from the door. The near perfect phrases from Wolfe never ceased to impress Allen. Allen was a fine writer, but Tom Wolfe was great.

  Across the room, Nick was kneeling in front of the motel’s cheap chest of drawers, looking over the aerial photo Allen had downloaded from MapQuest. He was studying the picture, looking for the right answer, finding trees, rooms, and parking garages where he could shoot from. It had taken him more than an hour, broken up by sets of pushups and sit-ups, but he had found the best answer.

  It was hardly perfect. Just a parking garage located what looked to be two hundred yards away. Nick did not know how high the walls in the parking garage were, but he guessed them to be about four feet high. The simplest proposition would be to park, walk up to the wall, and wait until FBI agent Jack Ward left the building.

  Nick could leave the rifle leaned against the wall, hidden behind his body. To most, Nick would just look like someone getting some fresh air. He could smoke a cigarette for an added effect.

  That was all fine and dandy, Nick thought, until he had to make the shot. Then he would have to raise his rifle and get behind the scope. Somebody would certainly see him then.

  Well, that option wouldn’t work. At least, not within the safety parameters Nick demanded. Sure, if the timing was right, he might be able to take the shot with no one noticing him on the second level of the garage. But, that would require some luck.

  Actually, if Jack Ward left the office after five, as Nick suspected he would, then it would require some divine intervention to have no one on the second floor, either walking to their car or driving down to the first floor exit.

  Too many people left work at five for Nick not to be noticed.

  A better idea hit him. They could steal a van, one of those ’80s, full-sized ones -- the type with hardly a window on either side. They could park its rear bumper against the wall, have a back window removed, and Nick could fire from inside it. The van would allow him plenty of safety and concealment. He could take the shot and have Allen play chauffeur as they left the parking garage.

  Relieved, he stood. His knees hurt from his long study of the photo. The recent intense running hadn’t helped much. These aches reminded Nick that he hadn’t run in what, two, three days? He’d have to take care of that. Maybe he’d have Allen drop him off downtown, so he could run through what was now his AO, or Area of Operations.

  “Hey, Allen,” Nick said.

  Allen looked up from his novel, lifting his head the slightest bit in the look of a “yes?”

  “I got something you can do,” Nick said. “I need you to take me downtown and drop me off. I’m going to do my run for the day, as well as check out this one location from where I might shoot from. While I’m doing that, I was wondering if you could get a map and find three routes from, uh, from …” he couldn’t remember the name of the garage. He walked over to the printed “MapQuest” photo. “From the James White parking garage to some mall inside of town. Just pick one.”

  “Okay,” Allen said. “But, why a mall?”

  “Because it has a hu
ge parking lot there that stays relatively full. My green Caprice shouldn’t be noticed.”

  “Well, I can just look at the map and pick three routes. And, didn’t you already work out today? Why do you need to run?”

  Nick realized Allen had a lot to learn about the craft of war. He remembered he should be patient since he needed Allen and since his last argument with Anne might have been different had he not lost his temper and stormed out on that fateful night.

  “Look,” he said. “Yes, you could pick out three routes from the map, just as I could. But, the map only tells you so much. You know, distance and size of the road. You may pick what you think are the three best routes from the map and then find out there’s traffic lights or busy intersections on one of them that you didn’t know about. Hell, there may be construction, or a two-lane road may actually only be one.

  “So, what I’m asking is for you to pick five or six routes from the garage to whatever mall you choose. Once you’ve picked them, I want you to drive them all and narrow the list down. After you’ve narrowed the list down to three, I want you to drive each of them several times, until you’re comfortable with them. Until you know them. Then, start driving the side routes of them.”

  Allen nodded, thinking Nick did indeed make sense on some things.

  “And,” Nick said, “I’m going to run because I need to, and because I want to see the shooting location. You know, do a little recon.”

  Allen smiled, pulling a cigarette out from a pack. He lit it, sitting on the bed. “How will this plan of yours end up working?”

  “We’ll steal us a van,” Nick said, “one of those old full-sized ones that doesn’t have windows. We’ll park on the second or third level, whichever is best for the angle of the shot, knock out the back window and back it in so that I can see the front of the building. You can be napping or whatever in the back with me until around five or so when Ward leaves. Hopefully, I’ll be able to ID him quickly and get a good shot off. Then, it’s up to you to get us out of the parking garage on whatever route you pick. Just remember, traffic will be a bitch at five since it’ll be rush hour.”