Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (20 page)

Chapter
52

Nick
Woods moved through the forest. He followed low ground, as much as possible,
and stayed in dense, impenetrable cover. Yet even in such impossibly thick
brush, he moved like a ninja.

He
crept along in a crouch, each footstep half as long as a normal stride. With
the shorter stride, he was able to keep his balance and place his toes down in
spots free of dry leaves or twigs. He'd add weight to his toes, then bring his
boot down along its outer edge, slowly increasing weight and pressure. Nick
knew that this slow, precise movement was the best way to minimize sound. Once
all his weight was on the front leg, he'd lift his back foot and repeat the
process.

In
his pocket, the fired brass cases were cold, no longer putting out heat as they
had hours ago. He congratulated himself on remembering to grab them after the
unexpected ambush. And now just hours after the shooting, he slipped -- very
s-l-o-w-l-y -- toward his extract point with the kind of confidence and potency
you might find in a jaguar sneaking through the jungle.

Nick
smiled to himself as he crept through the woods. Wonder what Whitaker is
thinking now, Nick thought. He's probably not feeling so cocky, having missed
his best chance to nab me. He knew I was coming, and he still missed.

Unfortunately
though, Nick had never seen the van
coming. And in truth, had he not stolen the sniper rifle prior to the op, they
would have successfully guessed his location and buried him back there.

That
thought did trouble him a bit. Whitaker had guessed where he'd fire from with
his hunting rifle, hid his men for nearly two weeks, and executed an impressive
counter attack. Just in the wrong spot.

This
idea brought Nick up short. Never underestimate your enemy, sport, he reminded
himself. After all, Whitaker had been cautious enough to send the FBI to round
him and Anne up after Allen Green broke the story. And he'd done this despite the
near certainty that Col. Jernigan had leaked the info, not Nick.

And
he'd also flawlessly nabbed Allen Green from his very office, in a very public
building, in a very public city. He even had the tenacity and discipline to go
after Nick and his spotter after the Afghanistan ops, and he'd done that just
to be safe. Just so he could tie up a couple loose ends. Loose ends involving
two of the best-trained Marines America had. There would have been no chance
that Nick or his spotter would have leaked the info. They were too professional
for that.

But
this guy Whitaker, if that was his actual name, he didn't take chances. And he
didn't lose very often.

Nick
slowed his pace a bit more.

So,
what would you do, he asked himself, if you were Whitaker, and you were trying
to nab a crazy, well-trained sniper at the one opportunity you'll have. The
last possible opportunity you have. You’re a man in charge of this great
organization, facing a serious internal threat, and you have one chance to save
your ass. What would you do?

Nick
had a knack for figuring out what the enemy would do. It's what had saved him
from the Soviets and what had protected him in countless other situations.

Think,
Nick, he commanded himself. What would you do?

He
admitted the idea for a strike team rushing in by van was good. Then Nick
stopped mid-step, and a cold fear hit him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and
his heart pumped blood faster and faster through his veins.

Because
at that moment, Nick knew damn well what he'd do if he were Whitaker. He'd send
in a sniper to back up the assault team. One not in the op area, since that
wouldn't be necessary. Instead, he’d stage one in a trap to cover Nick's evacuation
route in case the assault team missed him.

And
with that thought, Nick got the eerie feeling that he was being watched. He'd
come to the most open and dangerous part of his route -- the perfect place for
a sniper to cover -- and as he instantly dove to the ground, fearing the shot
he knew was headed his way, he thought of Allen Green and knew that if he were
truly Whitaker, he'd do more than send in a sniper as back-up to take out Nick.

He'd
also find a way to track down Allen Green and take him out at the same time.
Because Allen Green, with his contacts and research capabilities, presented
every bit as large a threat as Nick did.

Chapter
53

Whitaker's
Strike Team Three had assembled at their warehouse compound in Fredericksburg,
Virginia. They had their camouflage packed and stood around waiting in various
forms of civilian attire. A couple looked like rednecks in jeans. Others wore
sharper, preppy clothes. Each carried concealed firearms.

The
main goal was for them to avoid looking the same. Their camouflage and heavy
weapons were packed in containers in two work vans that would be driven by
support members. They'd be riding in three SUVs, each driving with about two minutes
distance between each other, with the two work vans in the middle of a widely
spread-out convoy.

They'd
be following speed limits, and each carried legal permits for their handguns.
However, in the event that one of the two vans got pulled over and searched,
they knew they might have to take down a state trooper before back up could be
called.

That
had never happened, though, in all the history of the teams.

The
team members didn't know anything about Nick Woods or Allen Green or the grand
conspiracy story. Whitaker maintained a strict "need to know"
protocol, and in his mind, none of these men needed to know.

All
they knew was the following "situation:" a middle-aged man in his
fifties, located near Jacksonville, N.C., needed to be nabbed. Their mission
outline stated the man had been selling military secrets to the Chinese from
the nearby Marine base at Camp Lejeune.

Some
knew it was bullshit, most didn't. None cared.

However,
they did believe they were acting as a part of the country's vital national
security defense, and that was rewarding in its own right. Not to mention,
their over-the-top pay and constant excitement settled any other questions they
may have.

They
stood by their SUVs, each different in color and brand to help camouflage their
unit. They waited impatiently for their commander. The support men waited by
themselves near their vans. They knew they didn't fit in with the actual
trigger pullers on the Strike Team and had given up trying to long ago.

The
Strike Team members lounged about with the ease of hardened veterans who'd
learned to master the hell of hurry up and wait years ago. The men joked,
laughed, and bitched, but thought little of the mission. Nabbing one man, with
no support element, no training, and likely unarmed? That had the word
“cakewalk” written all over it.

Just
moments after the NSA guy cracked the precise location of Allen Green, Whitaker
contacted his team leader. After asking a few questions, the Strike Team Three
Commander walked out of an office, looked down at his notes one more time, and
then said, "All right, guys. Let's load up and get on the road."

And
with that, the men broke from their groups and climbed into their heavy
vehicles, which were souped-up and modified in the front so they could ram
obstacles without fear.

Chapter
54

A
freakish silence shrouded the forest. Nick Woods had dropped to the ground
hard, after stalking for hours from the ambush site. But, he hadn't worried
about the noise because if he'd been in some sniper's scope, then silence
didn't matter.

Nick
had landed hard, and the sound of his body smashing leaves and sticks had sent
birds scattering and squirrels up trees.

Now,
he lay still, panting. His heavy breathing came not from exertion but from
fear. He had no idea how close he'd just come to dying, but his gut told him it
was within milliseconds.

After
all, the woods in front of him allowed roughly two hundred yards visibility --
behind him was thick brush and cover. For a sniper, two hundred yards was
spitting distance. Hell, even a good rifleman without a scope could drop a man
at this distance, even using a worn-out, standard-issue assault rifle.

But
for a sniper with a scope and finely tuned rifle, you were talking about being
able to hit something just a bit bigger than a half dollar. A good one would
hit within two inches at two hundred yards.

So,
assuming a sniper waited out there watching for Nick, he'd probably have wanted
to drop him immediately as he exited the thick cover. And that's exactly what
Nick had done when he got the feeling of being watched. Which meant the
opposing sniper had probably already let half his breath out and had been
taking the slack out of the trigger waiting for it to surprise him. Which meant
Nick had been milliseconds from death.

A
perfect shot. An instant death.

Nick
knew he was in a terrible situation. The sniper would be perfectly concealed in
a ghillie suit that provided excellent visibility. He'd be behind some light
brush or leaves, hidden in depth behind the moving foliage.

Nick
lay between a couple big trees, and while he knew his rear was secure, he also
knew he couldn't move forward. Had the sniper been able to see even a bit of
Nick, the man would have shot already. After all, his surprise had been blown
by Nick, even though the man hadn't done a thing wrong.

Nick
glanced behind him to confirm he had at least ten yards before he could make it
back into the dense cover of the swampy thicket. While Nick didn't know where
the sniper was located, he felt certain that there'd be no way he could go ten
yards without exposing part of him, which the man would immediately blast. It's
exactly what Nick would do -- in fact, it’s exactly what Nick had done in some
of the sniper duels he'd survived in Afghanistan.

Once
surprise was gone, you wanted to wound the other man and frustrate him. Force him
to try to patch himself up, so you could either move into a position with a
better view or hit him again while he attempted to stop the bleeding.

So,
Nick couldn't go backward. That was for sure. And he couldn't go forward or
move to either side. To do so would be risking exposure and getting winged by a
man who would be driving nails at this distance with a grin on his face.

A
risky move would be to jump up and try to dart back to the thicket. That had a
small chance, especially if he rolled one way or the other, but at this
distance, the sniper wouldn't need to hold his breath or work hard to make a
great shot. The roll would simply alert his opponent and increase the risk, and
just trying to get up would be as equally fatal.

Nick
figured the man was aimed in on the spot where he'd hit the deck. Waiting to
see some movement he could blast. If Nick rose up, it'd just be a quick trigger
pull, and that'd be it.

Great
job, Nick, he said to himself. You're about to get bagged by some sniper who's
probably embarrassed at how easy this is going to be. Hell, there were fat,
out-of-shape police snipers who shot twice a year who could handle this
situation with ease.

Since
he couldn't move, Nick had one thing left to do. And he'd soon find out who the
tougher, more patient hombre was.

Chapter
55

Nick
lay on the ground, listening. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he'd
guess it'd been at least two hours. The birds and squirrels had calmed back
down just minutes after he dove to the ground, and he'd kept his head lowered
for the first twenty or thirty minutes.

He
knew from long experience that keeping your head up while in the prone would
quickly lead to neck cramps. He also knew his opponent wouldn't move in the
first few minutes until he was certain Nick had gone to ground.

Thus,
Nick had kept his head down, but he’d strained for all his might to keep his
hearing super alert.

After
waiting roughly twenty or thirty minutes -- he refused to look down at his
watch -- he lifted his head as slowly as one might raise the flag at a
particularly moving memorial ceremony.

Nick
wished he had his old ghillie suit. Not only would it hide him far better than
his camouflage uniform and boonie hat, but it also had a reinforced, padded
front to it. This made laying in the prone more comfortable. And as Nick
shivered in the cool autumn air, he remembered it also helped keep you warm.

But
Nick needed to focus. He pushed the thought of a more comfortable ghillie suit
out of his head and pulled his rifle toward him, adjusting the knob on the top
of the scope to two hundred yards.

He
lifted his head and looked toward his front. He worked his head from left to
right, moving it slowly and carefully scanning the underbrush and deep shadows.
It took him ten minutes of close study to confirm he could see nothing that
looked out of place.

But
he hadn't planned to see anything out of place. If this guy was any good, and
if he had a ghillie suit on, then he couldn't be seen.

Nick
needed to memorize exactly what the area to his front looked like. He felt sure
the sniper would soon be crawling toward him, and it'd be difficult to pick up
his slow movement.

Nick's
best chance was to see a difference in the way things looked, and the moment he
did, he planned to put a bullet right into the space.

However,
no sounds reached him, and no shadows changed. Minute-after-minute passed, and
Nick felt impatience and doubt creep up on him.

Maybe
he hadn't felt someone looking at him? And maybe laying here, with his back to
the thicket was a guaranteed way to die? Couldn't more men be on his trail,
maybe even with silent trailing dogs? And one of their handlers would step out
of the thicket and see their target lying there, facing the wrong direction. A
double-tap to the back and that'd be it.

But
the feeling had been so real of being watched. Could he have imagined it? So
many times he'd trusted his gut, and it'd almost always been right. And it was
only when he'd ignored his gut that he'd lost. Like allowing Anne to wear down
his awareness, or “paranoia” as she called it.

The
minutes turned to hours, and Nick felt his body begin to cramp. Two hours is a
long time to do nothing, and Nick was far older than he'd once been. He was
also severely out of practice of the painful hell required of snipers.

Simply
trying to stay semi-alert and focused was difficult, and his mind drifted to
Anne as the tactical situations left his mind -- hell, there were no tactical
scenarios, just wait till the other man moves; the first man to move loses.

He
hadn't thought of her much the past few days. It had been total mission focus
from almost the moment he'd read about Allen Green in the newspaper and hauled
ass up to New York to save his life. Nick wondered if Anne would approve of his
shooting of the FBI Agent and the Marine Colonel, both of whom had caused her
death.

Was
his opponent thinking of a girl, too? Was there even a sniper foe out there?
Nick also wondered if Allen Green would freak out later tonight when Nick
wasn't at the pick-up point.

Well,
one thing at a time, he thought. First, he needed to survive this conundrum, and
even pulling this off would take all the discipline and tenacity he could muster.

Nick
could hear nothing, but he wondered if he'd be able to hear a good sniper
crawling two hundred yards away. The leaves were fairly dry, but a good man
would move so slowly that the crushing of them would emit almost no sound.

Nick
wanted to look down at his watch about as much as he wanted to get off the cold
ground. He figured if he looked at his watch, he'd give himself another fifteen
minutes.

But
looking down would not only take his eyes off the area, it would also create
movement. In addition, it would demoralize Nick since he felt confident less
time had passed than he'd imagined. And if he did look at his watch, he really
would set a time to get up and get moving. And such an idea, while tempting, welcomed
a swift death. Thus, Nick pushed the thought from his mind and decisively concentrated
on the job at hand. Get in character, Nick commanded himself.

The
sniper across from him was no doubt dealing with the same thoughts, and Nick
just needed to be more disciplined than him.

Minutes
passed, turning to hours. Nick needed to piss. He needed to scratch several
mosquito bites, especially one on the back of his neck, but he fought these
distractions and cursed his weakness. The urge to piss became so painful that
he could no longer hold it, and so he pissed where he lay. Without undoing his pants.
Without moving. The warm mess felt bad enough, but as it crept along the ground
and up his stomach, the urge to get up nearly overpowered him.

Could
any man other than himself lay this long? He didn't know the answer, but if the
person was in a hide with food and water accessible, and piss and shit bags,
then the answer was certainly "yes." However, if the man wasn’t in a
hide and had just been sent on a quick reaction-type mission, then there
wouldn't be a good hide or piss and shit bags or candy bars. That man would be
beyond the breaking point by now. And with any luck, that man hadn't seen as
much shit as Nick had, and would thus be weaker.

Nick
considered that thought. Had any snipers in Afghanistan these days, or in Iraq,
been in as tough a situation as he and his sniper partner had been in against
the Soviets?

Nick
figured the answer was "no." No way had any of them operated against
a highly trained group of Spetsnaz, who had air support and infantry companies
supporting them along with mobile units, including tanks and armored jeeps. And
in the end, the Spetsnaz and Soviet forces had even been provided perfect intel
from the U.S. government itself, who had sold him and his partner out.

No.
No way had this man been through what Nick had been through.

Suck
it the fuck up, Nick. Suck it up for your sniper spotter. Suck it up for Anne.
Suck it up for Allen Green. Suck it up, so you can take out whoever's behind it
all.

And
suck it up Nick did. He didn't move. He fought off the urge to sleep. He drove
away the temptation to scratch. To stand. To scream that he gave up and he
couldn't take it anymore.

And
hours after he went to ground, and hours after pissing himself, he noticed a
spot two hundred yards away look a bit different. Darker than it once was.

Nick
brought his rifle up moving as slow as he could and got his eye behind the
scope. It took him more than twenty seconds to find the same location in the
scope and as he scanned it in the detail of 10X magnification, he began to
doubt he'd seen any change.

But
as he lay there staring at the dark blob behind loads of leaves, he saw it
move.

He
smiled, thanked his old drill instructors for being such assholes, and fired.
The shot rocked the quiet day, and the target jerked and yelled before immediately
ceasing. Nick worked the bolt, ejected the round, and rammed a new shell home.
He moved the reticule back on target and fired again. Again the greenish shadow
moved and screamed louder, unable to bite down the pain anymore.

Nick
worked the bolt again and leaped to his feet. He ran, stumbling at first from
legs that were stiff, toward the man. He arrived winded and approached
carefully, looking around for an accompanying spotter with the sniper.

But
just as his gut told him someone was watching him, so, too, it told him that
the man operated alone. Partly, he figured it was because whatever snipers were
available would be split up to cover various evac routes. And partly it was
because Nick figured whatever unit was out there, they couldn't have that many
snipers available.

After
all, none had been in New York when he went to pick up Allen Green. And only
one, if any, (he'd seen none) had been back at Col. Jernigan's home.

Nick
slowed his pace to a walk, aimed at the man, and covered the final distance.
Blood soaked the ground below his opponent and dripped from splattered leaves
waist high.

It's
nasty getting hit by a high-powered rifle, Nick thought.

The
sniper appeared to be dead. He'd rolled on his back and no longer looked
camouflaged.

Nick
jogged the final few steps and pushed him with the toe of his boot. Nothing.
He's dead, Nick thought, and checked the area again to make sure the man didn't
have any friends.

Nick
then searched the man, grabbed his wallet, and stole his Beretta 9 mm pistol,
along with both magazines. He'd traveled fifty yards before he stopped and
jogged back to the body. He then smiled and stole the man's ghillie suit,
placing it in the crook of his arm.

Nick
knew from prior experience that the blood would turn dark and not hurt the
effectiveness of the suit.