Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  Nick smiled and said, "Sure they are."

  "I agree at first glance it seems like a trap, but I don't know. He talks in here about how he didn't know Whitaker had shot a cop or started to torture me."

  "Keep dreaming," Nick grumbled, completing repetition number ninety-eight.

  "He says this organization is pivotal to the war on terror, but it's gotten off track under Whitaker's leadership. He doesn’t want to sell out his buddies. Just Whitaker, who he calls a maniac."

  Nick finished his pistol drill and reloaded the weapon. He slid it behind his back and walked over to read the e-mail. The e-mail seemed legit, but that meant nothing.

  "Tell him we need proof he's telling the truth," Nick said. "Ask him to send three different photos of Whitaker, as well as a good one of this guy named Tank. If he's as close to them as he says he is, he should be able to get them or already have them. Units are usually tight. I had photos of all my buddies."

  "Great idea," Allen nodded. "I'll e-mail him now."

  Chapter 67

  Whitaker's phone rang, and he recognized the number as a Washington, D.C., area code.

  He flipped it open and said, "Go ahead," having learned a long time ago you never said your name when you didn't know who was calling. And sometimes even when you did.

  "Whitaker, this is Gooden. Change in plans here."

  "Go ahead."

  "This whole thing is spiraling out of control, and it needs to end fast. So, I've called in every favor I've got left with every friend I know in the NSA."

  "And?" Whitaker surmised.

  "They're going to do it. In fact, they're already doing it. They've got Nick and Allen's location pinned down somewhere in the mountains of East Tennessee. They're having more trouble this time, though. Allen has some tech guys from various news organizations, as well as some really talented hackers, working with him. You know how the hackers love conspiracies like this."

  "Can they get it?"

  "They say they can, but when they do, I want you and Tank nearby. Ready to strike. Otherwise, their hackers may pick up that we've pinged them, and we'll have blown our only chance. You know if they split, we'll have no way to find them again."

  "Where do you want us?"

  "The CIA has an unused cabin way up in the mountains in East Tennessee. It's miles from anywhere. Go there and wait. I'll text you the location. This might even take a couple of days they say, but you two stay rested up. I want you ready to move within minutes whenever we get their location."

  "Sounds like a plan."

  "Where you all headed right now?"

  "New York. We had every intention of nabbing Jennifer."

  "Jennifer? Who the hell is Jennifer?"

  Whitaker laughed. "Alan's sweetheart. We'd planned to use her as bait."

  Now Gooden was laughing, too. "You sick bastard."

  "I learned from the best."

  "Indeed, you did."

  Chapter 68

  "We got photos," Allen proclaimed.

  "You're shitting me," Nick said.

  "Nope, plenty of them. And there's even coordinates and a map of where the two are."

  "Get out of here," Nick contended, standing up from the prone. He'd been "snapping in" with his rifle -- at least that's what he'd told Allen he was doing -- but in truth he'd been just pulling the trigger and re-cocking it, completely lost in thought. He'd been missing Anne more and more, and he wondered what he'd do if he survived this mess. Even scarier, he wondered if he even wanted to survive it.

  Allen analyzed Nick's face as he climbed to his feet. No doubt about it, the days of waiting had taken a toll on Nick. He seemed grumpier and angrier than he normally did. And while he wouldn't say it, Allen knew he was missing his wife. And he knew more than anything else that Nick needed to see a counselor. The man had so many demons running through his head, and that was before Anne had been gunned down.

  Nicked stopped halfway to him. "What the hell you looking at like that?"

  "Nothing," Allen said. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. "Check out these photos. These are definitely photos of the guy named, 'Whitaker,' who interrogated me. And this is definitely the NFL linebacker-sized dude who was with him. It says in the email that this guy's name is Tank. And here's the cabin's location. It's near your old stomping grounds."

  The two spent a half hour looking over the photos. Zooming in and looking for any sign of manipulation. And then they began scoping out the cabin. The cabin lay outside Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and backed up to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Whoever had built it had buried it by itself literally ten miles from the nearest other dwelling.

  Allen spent ten minutes using satellite shots from Google Maps and Bing to study the cabin and the woods all around it. There was only one road to it, and it turned into a dirt road more than two miles from the cabin.

  "Awfully isolated," Allen noted.

  "It is."

  Chapter 69

  Whitaker and Tank arrived at the cabin exhausted. The planning of the abduction of Jennifer and all the driving toward (and back from) New York left them spent. And worrying about the likely end of their careers, if not their lives, had emotionally drained them.

  On top of all this, their senses had been working overtime, as well, because both knew deep down that their lives could be taken at any moment. They faced as great a danger from Sen. Gooden (maybe greater) than they did from Nick and Allen.

  They sat in the car, watching the cabin with slight unease.

  "Gooden said there'd be no one here, right?" Tank asked.

  "Right," Whitaker affirmed.

  "Then, let's enter weapons drawn just in case," Tank said.

  Whitaker nodded. They exited the vehicle, yanked out pistols, and glided toward the front door. Whitaker stood to the side of the door -- in case someone shot through it -- and used the code he'd been sent to unlock the key-panel lock.

  As soon as the door unlocked, the two burst into the room. Whitaker went right, and Tank cut left. They cleared the two corners of the room first and then turned away from the wall toward the inside of the room, which they both immediately recognized as a living room. They scanned the ceiling and moved on to the next room, the kitchen.

  Room by room, the two cleared the cabin silently. They checked the closets, the crawl spaces, and underneath the beds. The cabin had no attic, so without a word, they immediately checked for sensors, listening devices, and cameras. Forty minutes later, they felt safe talking.

  "Nothing seems out of the ordinary," Tank said.

  "I know, and that worries me more," Whitaker replied. "Hasn't been that long ago that we were both relieved of our duties, thrown to the side, and assigned tracking bracelets."

  "Good point."

  "Let's check the woods for a sniper. We move fast and zig and zag, so they can't get a clean shot on us. If one of us gets hit, the other runs for it if he's not close enough to take the sniper out. And don't go for the car. They'll be waiting for us to do that. Whoever survives the shot takes off at full speed into the national park and emerges days later as far away as possible. Maybe even a week. With a pistol, the survivor ought to be able to kill something to eat and extend the time he can hide out."

  "Sounds like a game plan. I'm ready when you are."

  Whitaker nodded and walked to the back door. Tank stacked against him, and he ripped open the door and sprinted away from the cabins and into the woods. They rushed from tree to tree, zig zagging and darting about like two mad men in the sights of someone's scope.

  Thirty minutes later, they ended their search of the woods around the cabin. No sniper or sniper teams stalked them from afar. Nor had they seen any sign of men crawling or lying anywhere.

  "What now?" Tank asked.

  "We see if the fridge is stocked with something stiff worth drinking."

  "I'm down with that," Tank said.

  Chapter 70

  Nick Woods worked his way forward. He wore the ghillie suit he'd picked
up off the dead sniper inside Camp Lejeune. As he'd known, the blood had dried and left some darker spots. It still blended perfectly, and it was a great ghillie suit. Its owner must have spent weeks and weeks on it.

  In the movies, sniper work is sleek and sexy. But the reality couldn't be further from the truth. It's slow, methodical, and painful.

  Nick moved slower than a snail, and his senses tried to pick up even the slightest thing that might be off. Both he and Allen had worried this could be a trap, but both also had a gut feeling that it wasn't. That this was what they'd been searching for so hard, and it'd been handed to them in quite the surprising twist.

  As a precaution, in case it was a trap and Nick was taken alive, Allen agreed to pack and leave the hotel room he'd been staying in. That way, worst case scenario, Nick couldn't give up his location even if tortured. Nick honest-to-goodness didn't know where Allen was heading.

  But, Nick couldn't think of that right now. His entire focus was on sensing anything that might be wrong. Sometimes it was a sound. Sometimes a shape. Sometimes a feeling.

  Yet nothing felt wrong at all. Nick felt more nervous in his hotel room than he did out here. But, he wanted to be thorough, so he crawled, slid, and scooted around the woods he'd approached from.

  Convinced it was clear, he started to work in a 360 around the cabin. A single truck -- a gray Toyota -- sat in front of the cabin, which was connected to civilization by a dirt road that was covered in leaves. Nick knew if it had been used much, it would have been muddied or hardened by dirt. But, it lay flat with the forest ground, lacking ruts and covered by leaves, a barely used trail to a barely used cabin.

  Nick also noticed the cabin had no power. Just a rough outpost powered by generator and without a satellite antenna in sight. That probably meant the place had no communication, but Nick couldn't be sure. These days there was cell phone service just about everywhere. Nonetheless, this was deep in the mountains and miles from a single-lane road, which itself was about fifteen miles from other homes. So, there was a chance the cabin had no way to communicate outside.

  Nick completed his reconnaissance and left the area. He needed to re-coordinate with Allen and find out where their new hotel room was for the night. Then, it'd be planning an assault and hopefully the end of Whitaker and Tank, assuming those were their true names.

  Chapter 71

  Whitaker and Tank left the cabin again. They drove down the nearly invisible road with weapons in their laps and senses at caveman-like intensity.

  "What if we don't hear from Gooden today?" Tank asked.

  "We give him one more day if we don't," Whitaker said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "We should also consider the idea that if we don't hear anything tomorrow, then we probably ought to make a break for it. Cut off the ankle bracelets and run for our lives."

  "Agreed," Tank said. He gripped the stock of his MP5 and said, "And heaven help the assholes who try to stop us."

  Two hours later, they returned to the cabin. Gooden himself had called them today -- not just an aide -- and he'd told them they'd almost nailed down Nick and Allen's location. They had it down to within three blocks, and according to their information, Nick and Allen were still in Gatlinburg -- a small city just twenty minutes from their location.

  So, they had stopped for a pizza and rented a hotel to get real showers in before heading back with additional grocery supplies. They knew how to hurry up and wait, and if they needed to camp out another night, they could make do with canned goods and cards for entertainment. It was the life of soldiers around the world.

  Chapter 72

  Meanwhile, just a short distance from Whitaker and Tank, Nick and Allen finished making their plans.

  "You can do this, right?" Nick asked.

  "Yes," Allen said. He had an MP5 in his hands and was holding it about like a recruit would. Nick had shown him how to use it before and had just showed him again. Making sure he knew how to release the magazine, yank the bolt back, and know the various selector switch settings -- semi, three-shot burst, and fully automatic.

  "Let's go through your drills again," Nick said.

  Allen did, and feeling more comfortable with his abilities, Nick helped him load up his six 30-round magazines. Then he and Allen packed up everything else and loaded it into their car. They carried the rifle to the car by putting it in an old seabag, with clothes stuffed around it.

  They left the small town they'd holed up in wearing their civilian clothes. Two miles away from the nearest building, they pulled onto a dirt road and drove back a hundred yards out of view. They changed into camouflage -- Allen, into some basic hunting stuff they'd bought at Walmart -- and Nick into his Marine ghillie suit.

  Nick backed the car up the dirt road and pulled back out. They were mission “go” now. They knew if a cop got behind them they were screwed, but it was a chance they had to take.

  They drove the remaining distance to the dirt road that led up to the isolated cabin. Nick eased his car up the dirt road and when he could no longer see the road behind him, he let the car coast to a stop between two stout trees. He didn't touch the brakes so they wouldn't squeal. With thick woods on both sides of the drive way, they'd effectively trapped Whitaker and Tank inside the woods. Even if the two men got away from the cabin, they wouldn't be driving away. They'd have to hoof it out on foot, and Nick felt certain they wouldn't get away from him in a one-on-one fight in the woods. Especially since he had the great ghillie suit he'd taken off the dead sniper.

  Nick and Allen exited their vehicle and grabbed their weapons. They pushed the doors closed so the interior light wouldn't run down their car battery, but did so as quietly as they could. Then Nick crossed in front of the car and entered the woods, Allen following.

  Nick walked point silent and smooth. He crept through the woods, his heart beating through his chest and sweat dripping down his face. This was finally it.

  Was it a trap? Could there be sensors that might detect them? A satellite looking down from space with thermal cameras? Three helicopters loaded with heavily armed commandos waiting to swoop in? Or, maybe in the air already on the way. He paused and looked up, listening as hard as he could.

  He swallowed hard and remembered that at this point, it lay in fate's hands. If this was a trap, then they were dead. If it wasn't, they had a chance.

  He glanced back at Allen and saw the man looked focused, though nervous. Nick had told him going in that his only job was watching his step and being quiet. True to form, Allen kept his head lowered, eyes on the prowl for branches or sticks that would snap and sound louder than an alarm.

  A little more than an hour later, Nick had placed Allen in a position facing the back of the house. Allen lay behind a thick pine tree, his MP5 aimed at the rear door.

  Nick snapped his fingers lightly, and Allen looked up. Nick pointed at the MP5's magazine, and Allen nodded. He laid out the five remaining magazines in front of him.

  Nick gave him a thumbs up and a smile, and Allen smiled back. The mission was about to go down, and since Whitaker and Tank's truck sat outside, then this would likely end the cat and mouse game the four had been playing for weeks now.

  Nick glided away from Allen, moving deeper into the woods before circling back around to the front. Getting seen now would be about the most stupid thing he could do, and since the cabin had plenty of windows, it was a distinct possibility.

  Chapter 73

  Nick Woods watched the front of the cabin through his scoped sniper rifle -- the very one he'd taken off the Marine prior to gunning down Colonel Russ Jernigan.

  Nick wasn't perpendicular to the door. He did not want to see into it when it opened. Instead, he lay along the axis of the door so that if it opened, he would see no one; but if someone exited it, he could hit them with enfilade fire.

  Nick knew they'd either run down the wall away from him or up the wall toward him. Thus, he was positioned so that his shots would be straight on, not lateral in nature as they would
have been had he been perpendicular and facing the front door.

  These were two of the most important shots he'd taken in years. These two men were fierce killers. They were well trained and battle tested, and Nick had to face them with just the help of an anti-gun liberal from New York who barely knew how best to hold the MP-5 he'd been practicing with.

  Nick eased into his position better. He made sure his rifle rested on his forearm -- bone support, they called it in the Corps -- and that no muscular tension was manipulating the rifle. It had to be naturally aligned, and Nick had shifted his body an inch here or an inch there several times to get it right.

  Each time, he'd aim in on the cabin then shut his eyes for twenty seconds. If the crosshairs weren’t where he'd been aiming, he'd shift again.

  But he had the position as he wanted now, and he worked to control his breathing. Allen would start firing any moment, and Nick lay beneath his ghillie suit -- plenty of light vegetation and cover in front of him -- the epitome of the perfect human predator. Two rabbits would soon dart from cover, and he would strike them both like a snake, unseen but just a mere hundred yards away.

  Nick Woods settled into his comfort zone behind the rifle. He felt familiarity creep in. He'd spent thousands of hours of his life lying behind a rifle in the prone. He'd used a scope and low profile to conduct reconnaissance. He'd used it to avoid detection, ducking death by the slimmest odds. He'd used it to bag men, both near and afar.

  And if all went according to plan, he'd soon use it again. To avenge Anne and his spotter in Afghanistan. To correct who knew how many wrongs.

  "Whitaker, you've sent a lot of men to hell in your day," he thought. "Some probably needed it. But the country has laws for a reason. And you chose to play cowboy outside the law. Probably made good money doing it, too. Today, it catches up with you."