"Moving along, Nick, you get a new identity. You can make up your own back story, or we'll provide you one. Even better, we're giving you two million dollars since you won't be publishing some colossus best seller. Move where you want. Do what you want. We don't care."
Nick looked at the woods just fifty yards away. He had his rifle across his back and pistol reloaded and ready to go. He wondered if he could make it. What was the flight time of a Hellfire missile?
"Don't even think about it," the deep, altered voice said. "I can see you looking at the woods, thinking about running. Trust me, I will obliterate you in a heartbeat. Gladly."
Nick looked to the sky again. Allen wiped sweat from his brow and tried to stop his hands from shaking.
"I'm letting you two live," the voice resumed, "because you've done our nation a great service. Nick, you've done so twice, and yet you were betrayed terribly after your service in Afghanistan. But, I will put this nation's security over your two lives without hesitation. Our nation needs the program you nearly unraveled, and I have shown my decency by relieving Whitaker and his assistant of their command and leaking their positions to you two. I can do no more without weakening our nation beyond a level I'm comfortable at. And that's why I directed my two men to such a secluded area. Had you two failed and they survived, I'd have placed them back in charge, and they would have never forgotten either their reprimand or how it felt to lose control of their men. Leaders fear irrelevance. But you two aced them, so the ball's now in your court. I am prepared to give a single order and engulf you both in fiery explosions and the sights of two hundred trigger-happy men. Make your decisions. Quickly."
Allen, too quickly, said, "Nick, you know what I want to do."
Nick nodded, but he knew he couldn't give up. Couldn't surrender and let this man go free. To continue his reign of abuses.
Nick looked at the distance to the woods and judged his course and where he'd hit the deck. Could he find some cover and either low ground or a dead fall to protect him from the shrapnel? He looked at Allen who read his mind and shook his head "no" in utter disbelief.
"Don't do it, Nick," Allen said.
Nick looked up again and toward the tree line. He doubted he could avoid the three drones with their Hellfire missiles and two hundred men following in their wake, but he had survived a battalion of Soviets who'd been given his location by his sell-out commander.
Nick prepared to make his move. He judged the distance to the woods, checked the sling holding his rifle around his back, and then confirmed his pistol was loaded. But seeing the pistol, he paused and thought back to another pistol. This one taped under a sink and discovered by Anne. He smiled at the memory, recalling the anger and sadness from her that followed.
Looking at this pistol, which had been hidden, as well, from her in a cave, he realized that the one thing Anne had wanted above all else was for him to be "normal." To not be paranoid or worried all the time.
Nick considered this a moment.
With the death of Whitaker, he'd avenged Anne's death and that of his spotter in Afghanistan. Not to mention, many other heroes who Whitaker may have betrayed and abandoned in a foreign land.
Nick could race for the woods and pursue an even more difficult search for the man behind this all -- certainly a Congressman or senior CIA official (and possibly the President) -- but that's not what Anne would want. Not even close.
Nick holstered his pistol in his belt in the small of his back and glanced at Allen, whose face had gone from horror to relief as he'd read Nick's thoughts.
"We'll take your deal," Nick said toward the speakerphone.
"Wise move," the voice replied, and before the sentence ended they heard the sound of helicopters rapidly approaching.
"This was a trap," Allen said with incredulity.
"Seems it was," Nick said, swallowing down relief. That was nearly the second time he'd died within the past five minutes.
And as a black, unmarked Blackhawk descended into the clearing, the two men watched as more than a dozen other Blackhawks circled above it, covering it like a swarm of hornets.
"Glad you took the deal," Allen yelled over the helicopter's roar.
Nick nodded and looked up to the clouds. He thanked Anne for saving his life, yet again; both just now, and after she found him when he was in the deep abyss of anger and paranoia more than ten years ago.
Nick couldn't believe how wrong he'd been on this one. On how he'd missed the trap devised by whoever was above these guys, and on how the helicopters were far closer than he'd ever expected.
He'd have certainly been dead within five minutes.
Allen turned and walked toward the landing helicopter.
Nick followed.
"I hope you can see me now, Anne," he thought, a tear streaming down his face. "If it wasn’t for you, I'd be a dead man right now."
Epilogue
Texas Senator Ray Gooden's predictions came true.
Allen Green turned into an instant hero, famous and rich. The charges against him for child porn were dropped and proved to be part of a grand conspiracy. The New Yorker offered to hire him back, but he told them to take the job and shove it.
He had a book to write, producers wanted to turn it all into a movie, and Allen’s days of having to be an unpaid, underappreciated reporter were long gone. Even better, after an awkward start, things went back to better-than-ever with his girlfriend Jennifer, who eventually forgave him for not returning her calls early on.
Nick Woods received a new identity, as well as the two million dollars he'd been promised. He promptly pulled it from the bank, transferred it a half-dozen times, and eventually withdrew it all in a series of cash withdrawals.
Rumor has it he’s hidden deep in the mountains of Montana, he buried his money, and disappeared from the radar screen. Most believe he’s awaiting more troops to come after him, and that he’s holed up in some fortress-like canyon, crammed full of weapons, traps, and tunnels.
Texas Sen. Ray Gooden found new leadership for his covert organization. It rebuilt both its bank accounts, through drug running, and its ranks, through hungry young men anxious to further serve their country.
Gooden continues to rule through fear and intimidation both the covert organization and the Senate Armed Forces Committee. Neither the CIA, nor America's newest President, has found the nerve to take him on.
THE END
Author’s Note: I really appreciate you purchasing the book and presumably finishing it, if you’ve made it this far. I can’t tell you how hard I worked to try to get it right, but I know it’s still not perfect. Not even close.
In all honesty, as you could probably tell, this was my first book. And it took me more than fifteen years to get the book in the state you’re currently reading it in.
Trust me, I know my writing falls short of the mark in this book -- Nick wouldn’t be happy about me missing the target, believe me -- but I’m afraid I’m just far too close to the book. Even with the help of two different editors who I hired and who did loads to make this book better, this was the best I could do on this one.
I just struggled to accept their suggestions.
The honest truth is I wrote much of "Sold Out" right after my exit from the Marine Corps. At that time, I was dealing with some serious paranoia and trying my best to deprogram myself from four years of extreme situations serving in the infantry.
I was in a dark place, and I suppose the book reveals it.
Just as Nick Woods gets into a major fight with his wife over his paranoia and preparations for an attack on his home, I, too, dealt with that.
In Nick’s case, he got caught with a secret journal and a gun under his sink. In my case, I got into a major fight with my first wife because I was unscrewing the electrical outlets in my home, convinced after an extremely odd interaction at the mall that everything I said in the home was being listened to by the federal government. (I had run into what I assumed at the time was a CIA agent, and al
l of this was in 1999 or 2000. Way before the days of it being common knowledge that the NSA tracks much of what we say and do.)
My point is that the Nick Woods in “Sold Out” is far realer than you probably want to imagine.
We prefer images of soldiers and Marines returning home with a smile, wrapped in the flag, and hugging wives and kids. We don’t want to think about those same veterans taking different routes to work, being startled in their sleep, or nearly attacking a guy in the mall who approached them twice with some weird comments that in hindsight were probably nothing.
But the veterans who have actually been through a lot are like that. They have wire triggers, they’re alert, and you don’t want to startle them. (Just ask one of my friends.)
I also get asked a lot about the Nazi “SS” symbol on Nick’s chest, which as you know by now stands for “Scout Sniper.”
Believe it or not, the Nazi "SS" symbol burned onto someone’s chest isn't something I made up. I had a buddy who I served with in 3rd Platoon, Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, who later became a Scout Sniper two years after I met him and got to know him really well. (This was roughly in 1997, and I’m sorry but for his privacy I will not name him.)
Anyway, a bunch of my friends were circled around him one day following his completion of Scout Sniper training. I walked up to see what was causing the commotion. Turns out, he had a Nazi "SS" symbol burned into his chest, exactly like Nick Woods in the book. (Same location, same terrifying font.)
My friend told me it had been burned into his chest with a coat hanger just a couple of days earlier after completing the brutal Scout Sniper school training.
I said to him, "Man, do you know what that symbol is?"
He answered me with pretty much the exact dialogue that you find in the book. (In short, that it stood for Scout Sniper, and was not about the Nazi connotation. Rather, it was about the strength, quality, and pride portrayed by the German Army in World War II.)
My friend also said that all Scout Snipers got one burned into their chest. (At least at that time. Perhaps that has changed.)
But having said this, I know of several Marine Scout Snipers who have read this book and given me feedback who have served in the Corps since 1999 (when I got out). Not a single one of them has mentioned the Nazi "SS" symbol scene as either being incarnate or problematic. Thus, I'm assuming it still happens.
Have I asked them specifically about this scene? No, I haven’t. I have learned from experience that they are extremely sensitive as a group to the idea that the “SS” might mean anything nefarious or evil. They do not see it that way. Not even close. They see it precisely as I’ve described.
Finally, I’d like to offer a final piece of evidence that this is probably still occurring. Here is a news story that went viral as recently as 2012:
"US Marines in fresh controversy over sniper team photo with Nazi SS flag:"
http://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/feb/09/us-military-marines-nazi-ss-flag-photo
This story is from a very reputable news source, and obviously includes photos with them posing alongside a Nazi flag.
I say all this just to provide some context and show where I'm coming from as the author. I would never make up such a thing to dishonor the incredible Marines who go on to become Scout Snipers. They are by far some of the greatest Marines in the Corps, and the dangers they face while operating as a pair outside friendly lines are almost without comparison.
Finally, as you now know from reading this Author’s Note, I was (and am) too close to this book. I feel confident that if you will give me another chance on another book I’ve completed, you will find any of them to be stronger works.
I apologize again that I was too close to this one to make it as good as it could have -- and should have -- been.
Sincerely yours,
Stan R. Mitchell
If you enjoyed “Sold Out (Nick Woods, No. 1),” please consider dropping a short review of it on Amazon. Reviews go miles and miles toward helping readers discover new authors, such as Mitchell.
Books by Stan R. Mitchell:
Sold Out (Nick Woods, No. 1)
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2)
Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No.3)
Little Man, and the Dixon County War
Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 1)
Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 2)
Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 3)
Soldier On
About the author:
Stan R. Mitchell writes some of the most action-packed, fast-moving novels around. Tired of slow-paced, investigative novels that take 50 pages to excite you? Look no further!
Stan is the best-selling author of 5 novels in 3 different time periods. He's also a prior infantry Marine with Combat Action Ribbon, and a former journalist who spent ten years in the newspaper business, learning how to hook the reader, cut out the filler, and just tell the story.
In short, Stan is knowledgeable, he's fast, and his books will blow you away. You can learn more about him at http://stanrmitchell.com.
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Prologue
Nick Woods pulled off the interstate tired, uncomfortable, and hungry.
He stopped at a large gas station that sat just off the exit. He was making good time, working his way through the backwoods of South Carolina, but he was due a stop.
Nick needed gas, he needed to piss, and he needed a Mountain Dew and a Snickers.
He parked his ’97 Jeep Grand Cherokee by a pump and closed the door gently. The SUV had nearly 200,000 miles on the odometer, but it still ran well and he treated it like a queen. Frequent maintenance and plenty of love had kept it in top shape, just like the old Colt 1911 .45 automatic pistol stashed under his seat.
The Colt .45 had been hidden in a cave and carried under some tough conditions when a lot of bad men were hunting him just a few years earlier. It had killed many of those men (and one woman, though she was armed just like the men). Following such excellent and trusty service, Nick had decided to keep it for sentimental value.
But unlike the old 1911 under the seat, the newer pistol on his hip, a Kimber 1911 .45, carried no sentimental value. It was kept for use. Instant use.
The Kimber was also customized and upgraded: green Tritium 3-dot night sight, adjusted trigger pull, and custom grips. Of course, like any good gunman, Nick had loaded a round in the chamber prior to loading the seven-round mag into the pistol, so he toted eight rounds of .45 caliber ammo instead of seven.
Under his blue jean jacket, he also had two more magazines of seven rounds for the gun. Twenty-two rounds total, plus an emergency .38 pistol strapped to the inside of his left ankle, and a one-hand opening knife clipped to the right pocket of his jeans.
Nick had been accused of being paranoid, and he knew it to be true. It was also true that he had needed every weapon on him -- and more -- several times just for being who he was, so he didn’t mind being labeled paranoid. He understood that to mean “prepared.”
Nick stood by the door of his red Grand Cherokee, pausing a moment before walking away. The vehicle provided cover and held a number of better weapons than what he could carry with him concealed. Like his M14. And his 12 gauge pump loaded with double-ought buck. And of course his trusty, scoped M40 bolt gun in .308/7.62.
Besides the weapons, the Jeep was most importantly his best chance of getting away if things suddenly got hairy. And Nick never walked away from escape possibilities lightly. He shuddered at the memory of h
undreds of Soviet troops hunting him in the mountains of Afghanistan a decade earlier.
Nick shook his head to erase the terrifying thoughts, and, breathing deeply, set to burying the pains of so many old war wounds. He looked about and refocused on the present. He scanned the gas pumps nearest him, looking quickly in a 360 around him as unobtrusively as possible. He gave the thick woods opposite the gas station a once over and finally took a long look at the customers in the gas station.
Some of them waited in line. Others picked junk food off the aisles. No one looked frightened or frozen in fear, as if a hold-up was underway. So far, so good.
Taking another deep breath, Nick adjusted the Kimber .45 on his hip, and walked toward the door. He dreaded the people he’d have to interact with, having spent the better part of two years in solitude up in the mountains of Montana.
He had expected the government to double-cross him again. The deal they made was very similar to one they made many years ago and that one certainly didn’t end up sticking. Nick Woods had been sold out -- twice, actually -- and he fully expected the government to come after him in Montana.
But a damn strange thing happened: They never came. He’d been prepared, waiting for them with an almost eager, expectant intensity, but the dawns and dusks passed with him hidden behind his guns, no one in sight.
He’d grown tired of waiting and realized he probably needed to be around people again. He was mentally losing it, becoming crazier and lonelier by the day, and thus a big reason for this cross-country trip was to tear down his paranoia and get him comfortable being around people again.
Anne would be proud, Nick thought, to see him making such progress.
I’m trying, baby. I’m trying.
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