Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (14 page)

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 cell 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.”

“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.