Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1)

Sold Out
(Nick
Woods, No. 1)

By Stan R. Mitchell

This
book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or
dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Copyright © 2012

Fifth Edition

Cover by Danah Mitchell

Edited by Desiree Kamerman and Emily Akin

All rights
reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof
in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information,
see website below.

Learn more about Stan R. Mitchell and his
other works at
http://stanrmitchell.com.

Foreword

To my amazing wife Danah, who believes in me even when I
don’t.

To
my Mom and Dad. Thanks for all the love.

To
Mike Rose, Henry Greer, and Bobby Fisher (GySgt, USMC): Three men who taught a
boy what he should aspire to become.

To
Capt. Eaton, United States Marine Corps, and Sgt. Major Hill, United States
Marine Corps; two men who epitomized leadership and strength, and who made an
unforgettable impression on me.

To
my fellow Marines, SSgt. Frank Kovach and SSgt. Jon Rumbolt, who helped me on a
couple technical and tactical points with this book.

And
I would also like to thank Dave Conrad and Rodney Reed for their editing
suggestions. All mistakes, of course, are mine.

Allen
Green, a seasoned reporter of thirty years, walked into the bar that night
believing that locating the man he had tracked for months would solve all of
his problems, and it was hard to disagree. After all, finding the man would
provide Allen the final link in breaking the biggest story in journalism since
Watergate in the ’70s.

Allen
could almost taste the acclaim and recognition that would follow. He would win
the Pulitzer Prize, without question.
(It was, after all, one of the biggest
news scoops ever.)
He would finally have the opportunity to be rich. Book deals
would follow, prepped by juicy, prime-time TV interviews. Then, perhaps a
multi-million-dollar screenplay.

He
knew when he walked into the bar that he was oh so close to his goal.

If
asked, Allen might deny he was seeking the Pulitzer Prize and say he was just
doing his job. But that was a lie. A big one. Allen wanted to break the big
story, not because it needed to be broken -- he was past that naivety -- but
because he was tired of shitty stories and shitty pay. His attitude was well
earned: thirty long, hard years of breaking decent stories, but never gaining
the deserved, national recognition.

Leatherneck,
the name of the bar, was in the testosterone-filled, Marine town of
Jacksonville, North Carolina. The neon sign on the front window flickered,
claiming it had the coldest beer in town. Allen didn’t know if it had the
coldest beer or not, but it for damn sure might have the loudest music.

Rock
music roared loud enough to make its occupants temporarily forget the misery
synonymous with the desolate, pathetic city. Well, almost loud enough, Allen
thought with a smile, trying to come up with at least one positive thing about
the town.

As
he walked through the dark and headed toward the back of the room, Allen’s eyes
struggled to adjust to the blackness and the flashing lights. The place didn’t
seem like the kind of bar his target would hit, but after finally locating the
mysterious man’s house, he had followed him here one week ago.

Well,
it wasn’t that easy. He had trailed him about halfway here and lost him,
worried he might blow his cover by following too close. Then, he had spent
nearly two hours checking every parking lot in town looking for the man’s black
F-150, license plate CBH-194. This wasn’t an easy task in a town
disproportionately crammed with men, who all seemed to drive big trucks.

For
tonight’s stake out, Allen wore a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and military-issue
jungle boots. His dress was a fashion no-no by New York standards, he knew, but
that’s what most seemed to wear down here, except for the officers, who apparently
favored collared shirts and khakis.

Allen
met the stare of many young, defiant Marines as he made his way to a rear
table. He hoped he looked like a salty Gunnery Sergeant, or Gunny, as they were
known in the Marine Corps because the only thing he planned to use if things
got violent with these brutes was his cell phone. He’d be dialing 911 as fast
as he could. Well, maybe he would bluff about his “rank” first.

One
thing was certain though, he didn’t intend to fight any of these mean bastards.

At
the back of the place, he took a seat at a table for four. He kept his back to
the wall and prepared for a long night. The bar had about twelve or fifteen
round tables and probably could hold a hundred thirsty Marines if a hundred
ever succumbed to the “lure” of the “coldest beer in town.”

It
sure wasn’t much. Just a dingy, dark dump, with three pool tables and two
pinball machines for entertainment. It could hardly compete with the strip
clubs and dance joints sprinkled throughout Jacksonville. No, this was where
you went when all you wanted to do was drink and forget, or drink and fight.

Allen
pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a chrome Zippo that bore a Marine logo with
the words “DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR” in capital letters. The words were written
above a hollowed-out skull and crossed M-16s. He’d bought the lighter at a
local surplus store two days ago, along with the jungle boots he wore. As Allen
lit the cigarette, he wondered if anyone actually believed in “death before dishonor.”
He thought on that for a moment. Perhaps, some did. These military types were almost
crazy in their patriotism.

A
Marine walked past him to the restroom. His black tee shirt proclaiming, “Kill
’em all and let God sort ’em out,” stretched tight across his tank-like upper
body. Allen dropped his chin a couple inches in a nod, imitating the dignified,
Southern greeting he’d picked up while down here tracking down his target. He
placed the lit cigarette in his mouth, letting it dangle down from his lips,
tough-like. Christ, he was beginning to talk like them. He’d definitely been in
the South too long.

As
he took a draw on the cigarette, he felt that familiar feeling of “everything’s
going to be alright” sweep over him. He couldn’t imagine life without
cigarettes. The breaks from the office, out in the cold, New York air. Fellow
smokers talking about sex or the Yankees or the magazine’s editor, a real ass.

He
inhaled, and for the umpteenth time of the day, realized he’d never be able to
quit smoking. Truth be told, half the time he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

He
laid the Zippo on the table, description side up so that it aided his disguise,
and tried to relax. He needed to get in the zone. He’d already invested far too
much in this story to come up short now.

A
bargirl waltzed up, her big breasts bouncing braless under a thin, white
halter-top. She stopped, putting them about a half-foot from his face, and met
his eyes with an inviting smile.

“What
can I do for you, Marine,” she yelled over the music, placing her hand on his
neck and leaning over, revealing more of her chest than Allen ever wanted to
see. Her breath reeked of cigarettes and who knew what else. She ran her
fingers lightly across his neck and Allen nearly shuddered and jerked away. But
he somehow stayed in character and leaned closer. He met her eyes, glanced down
at her chest “lustfully,” and smiled. “Honey, there’s lots you can do for me,
but let’s start with a beer.” He winked and knocked the ash from his cigarette
into the ashtray.

She
looked him up and down, then smiled. “Okay, sugar,” she said.

Poor
girl
, he thought as she
strutted off. Shit, he’d had about as much of this “city” as he could take.

Just
a little longer, he reminded himself. Just a little longer. And then money and
fame, but most importantly, money. Loads of it.

The
song ended, and another one, just as bad and just as loud, began.

Allen
Green needed another cigarette already. Careful to avoid antagonizing others
who needed far too little antagonizing, he kept his eyes on the bottles of
whiskey behind the bar. He hoped he looked lost in thought. The front door
opened, and he glanced over, hoping it was the man he was looking for. It
wasn’t.

Three
more young Marines strolled in, shoulders rolled back and cruel eyes scanning
the crowd. Their blown up strut reminded Allen of roosters. Or maybe pit bulls.
These three looked young. About sixteen, if he had to guess, but he knew they
were at least 18 or 19. Old enough to cut you from head-to-toe without thinking
twice or questioning orders, Allen thought. They were just what the government
needed these days: mean boys unafraid to serve overseas.

The
server returned with his beer, which was some kind of draft in a plastic cup
with an especially thick head. Well, they had to make their money somehow,
Allen thought. He pulled out his wallet and handed the woman a five-dollar
bill. She took it, and he half expected her to put it down her shirt. For a
second, his hand lingered, waiting for some change, but she pretended not to
see it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her being near him anymore, so he let it
go and pretended to watch her walk off.

Just
a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer.

And
then big money. And fame. Allen Green breathed out a cloud of smoke and smiled
at the thought. Yeah, all the months of searching were going to be worth it. He
was going to locate his target, break open this story, and solve all of his
problems. Of this, he felt certain.

Chapter
2

More
than five hundred miles away, Bobby Ferguson sat relaxing on the couch in his
living room. He was reading the latest issue of
Guns and Ammo
. His wife,
Anne, sat next to him watching
American Idol
. He couldn’t stand the
show, but enjoyed sitting next to her.

He
stopped reading an article discussing knockdown power of various pistol
calibers and studied her. Her age was just beginning to show -- she’d cleared
forty a few years ago – but she was still beautiful. With shoulder-length
blonde hair and captivating, green eyes, she was quite a find. She sat there,
completely engrossed by some goofy looking white guy, hair gelled in every
which direction, singing some kind of something that passed for music these
days. Bobby wondered how he had made it through school without getting his
lunch money taken.

He
wanted to reach over and caress her. Maybe hold her for a few minutes. Try to
remember that this home and this life with Anne was real. For years, he had
assumed he’d never marry. Would never have a chance at peace or a family.

He
had actually once thought he’d spend his entire life in the Marines, the
fraternity that thrived on manhood and toughness. In the land of boots and
badasses, all forms of weakness were beaten out of you. And once you were no
longer the new guy and had been forged into a warrior, it was an addictive
lifestyle. A place where there was a clear goal and where life made sense.

You
killed yourself 24/7, training for war in ways no civilian could comprehend.
And you did it in the hopes that you would survive the battlefield when war arrived
because war always arrived. Usually, when you least wanted it.

Bobby
Ferguson had prospered in that pit of hell called the United States Marine
Corps. He had breathed aggression and toughness twenty-four hours a day for
four years straight. And all that training and anger had never left him even
after he had departed, though he hid it as well as he could.

He
knew now that he had been too arrogant as a young Marine, and he shuddered at
the thought that he had once believed he never wanted to be married. Not ever,
he used to tell himself.

But
looking at Anne sitting next to him, he pitied anyone who didn’t know what he
knew -- the joy of marriage, a normal job, and (mostly) deep sleep at night.
Gone were the fears of deployments, air alerts, or missions into foreign lands.

Bobby
Ferguson loved his life now, with its slower pace and routine. Even after almost
twenty years of being married to Anne, he still loved her as much as when he
had fallen for her. Actually, more.

There
really was a life after the Corps, he thought. He had his guns. He had his
woods that he liked to hunt in. He had his Anne.

He
returned his attention to the article, reading for several minutes before he
heard a sound outside. His eyes snapped up, glancing to the door before he
could stop them. The door was locked, and the deadbolt turned. The curtains,
though, were pulled back, leaving the window wide open. He nearly rose to close
them.

He
didn’t, though, knowing it would worry Anne. She might start keeping a closer
eye on him again, or even start pestering him to return to the doctor for more medication.
Laying the magazine down on the coffee table, he shook the thought of paranoia,
relaxed, and looked back at Anne.

“I
love you, honey.”

“I
love you, too,” she said, momentarily breaking her eyes from the show.

He
leaned over, kissed her cheek, and ran his hands through her hair.

“You
going to bed?” she asked.

“Yeah,”
he said, hoping she’d follow, though he wouldn’t be upset if she didn’t. He was
nearly finished with Stephen Hunter’s latest novel, “Pale Horse Coming,” and
had stopped last night right before Swagger, the main character, and some gun
fighters attacked the town.

He
stood, walked to the bathroom, and flipped on the light, pulling his shirt off
and taking a look at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t lost much since his days
in the Corps. He was tall and lean, and though his abs weren’t as firm as
they’d once been, they were still noticeable even unflexed.

His
eyes glanced to the nearly unseen scar on the left side of his chest. Healed
after all these years, it was barely visible and partially veiled by his thin,
brown chest hair. But, it was there, and it rarely left his mind. Just two
letters, which were burned into his skin by a coat hanger, same as you would brand
a steer.

The
letters were “
SS
,” in the straight recognizable lines worn
by Nazi Gestapo in World War II. It stood for “Scout Sniper,” and he winced as
he recalled the pain that came from burning the letters on his chest. But even
after twenty years, he was enormously proud of having earned the title of Scout
Sniper -- one of the toughest titles to earn in the Marine Corps. And

He
peeked out the door and made sure Anne was still watching TV. She was. He bent
down and quietly pulled open the right door under the sink. Looking up under
the sink, he confirmed the presence of his .380 automatic pistol taped to the
bottom of the sink. Relieved, he silently closed the door.

He
reached for his toothbrush and toothpaste. “I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow,”
he thought. Construction just wasn’t as much fun in bad weather.