Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (22 page)

Chapter
60

Whitaker
lost a lot of sleep that night. After losing radio contact with Strike Team
Three, he'd tried to stay calm. Surely, a tactical situation made it necessary
that they stay off the air. Surely, not all nine of his strike team members
were dead. All nine? Could that even be possible?

These
were some bad motherfuckers. Delta Force. Navy Seals. Army Rangers. Marine
Recon.

One
Marine and a soft liberal from New York taking them out?

Impossible.

With
a wavering confidence, Whitaker had dismissed the thought. He understood the
importance of upholding an aura of control and certainty.

However,
after three hours with no communication, Whitaker could take no more. It was
after 2 a.m., and his team commander had broken every Standard Operating
Procedure in the book. It seemed impossible that between cell phones, pay
phones, and three vehicles, that the team leader hadn't found a way to contact
him.

Whitaker
finally relented and called up his support men, ordering them to head out to
the unit's last known location and report what they saw.

They
called twenty minutes later, reporting a huge crime scene up ahead. Dozens of
police cars, ambulances, and night lights. Whitaker told them to turn around
and avoid trying to get closer or drive down the road.

"For
Christ's sake," he hissed. "It's after 2 a.m., and you're a bunch of
guys driving down a dark road, all of you carrying weapons. The last thing I
need is for you all to be arrested and add to my problems. Get the hell out of
there while you can."

And
then Whitaker had sat heavily in his office in Fredericksburg, Virginia. He
poured himself a shot of Tequila and let his mind wander.

Certainly,
he was in deep shit. What would he do if he were Sen. Ray Gooden? Was there any
way he'd keep the same man in charge?

And
that brought up an interesting dilemma. After all, Gooden would probably do far
more than fire Whitaker. How did you fire someone who knew so much? Who'd overseen
and taken part in shit-tons of illegal operations, and probably had files and
files of hidden documents that could bury you.

Whitaker
glanced at his office door, ensuring it was locked.

Tank
was in his office and Whitaker wondered
whether Tank would kill him. He questioned whether at this very moment Tank was
getting a text from Gooden commanding him to take Whitaker out.

Whitaker
pulled out his .40 caliber Glock from its hip holster and laid it on his desk.
Much easier to go for it while it lay there than trying to draw it out while
sitting. But, would he open the door with it in his hand, should Tank knock?

What
if Tank merely had a simple question or message to relay? How weak would
Whitaker look then? How long before his troops would start to talk, saying the
old man had lost his nerve? This old war horse -- a paranoid loner who was good
with a rifle -- had finally got the best of the ole' veteran commander. The man
who'd hunted the Viet Cong like a mad man and led troops on nearly every
continent.

One
loner and a journalist, for God's sake, had finally bested him. Whitaker shook
the thought from his head.

He
stood, holstered his pistol, and unlocked his door. One way or the other, he
wouldn't go out a coward.

Chapter
61

Allen
Green and Nick Woods returned to their hotel room. Nick took a rushed shower,
then they retrieved their hidden cash and gear and drove out of Jacksonville,
N.C.

Nick
was beyond exhausted, nodding off before they'd driven five minutes.

"Why
don't you catch some sleep?" Allen suggested.

"I
may just do that, partner. I'm flat beat."

"Any
particular direction you want me heading?"

"Just
head south. We'll find somewhere far away from civilization and recoup a
bit."

"I
need to stay near Internet access. This story is blowing up, and more and more
reporters are e-mailing me."

"That's
fine. Just head south. We'll get another hotel room."

A
lot happened the next few days. While Nick rested up, and eventually got back
to his running, calisthenics, and countless pistol and hand-to-hand drills,
Allen worked his media magic.

Based
on the advice of a colleague from
The Washington Post
, he set up a
website that detailed and catalogued everything he knew (and suspected) about
the conspiracy. The tone of the website was one of a questioning doubter. Allen
used it more as a, "If there's no conspiracy, then how do you explain
this? Or that?"

By
then, news media had descended again into the Jacksonville/Camp Lejeune area.
Nine more men killed -- one, an obvious sniper. Again, no real clues.

Allen
wrote on the website his version of what happened. The website claimed Nick
Woods had acted in self-defense to protect Allen from a carjacking or
abduction. Granted, it came across as crazy, but how else could you explain all
those bodies, who, by the way, were armed and not found to be licensed law
enforcement of either the state or federal government?

The
web hits started growing from day one, and Allen's site became both a media
resource and a destination source for an increasingly fascinated public. By
this point, even Nick could see the value of the information war Allen was
waging.

He
begrudgingly accepted that Allen's methods were gaining them loads of allies,
which translated to plenty of brains helping them with their strategy and even
volunteers willing to hide them out or support them in any way they could.

Nick
appreciated the support but hesitated to trust any of them.

"Someone
in that list of e-mails you have is a plant," he said. "He'll show up
and blow our asses away."

"Precisely
why I've told no one where we are."

Things
improved even more the next day.

First,
Allen received a message on his website claiming to be from the FBI stating
they'd found some irregularities in their investigation into the shootings and
believed some of what he was stating had merit. The FBI requested the two men
come in for questioning and protection.

Nick
was dead set against this idea, and Allen was only marginally in favor of it. The
idea seemed fraught with danger, and this group that hunted them seemed to have
plenty of sources and connections.

But,
an even better idea emerged when
The New York Times
offered to have an
artist sketch out the face of the man who'd gone by the name of
"Whitaker." Allen wanted to pursue this opportunity, but Nick still
worried that the artist could be followed, assuming he wasn't a plant to begin
with.

Nick
and Allen reached a compromise when
The New York Times
offered to host a
secure video-conference with the artist. Nick agreed to let Allen do that, but
he insisted they start moving hotels twice a day instead of every day.

"This
is really burning through our money," Allen argued.

"Beats
having some of the guys from this group come busting down our door. We don't
know what abilities they have to track us electronically."

But,
those abilities had vastly deteriorated. The NSA was done letting Whitaker use
their resources. Allen's website about a Marine hero and a reporter just
looking for the truth had completely swayed public opinion.

The
story was so big that an opinion poll had been completed and now only 18
percent of the public believed Allen Green had ever looked at child porn or
made up his original story. And as the public perception turned, the media
piled on in Allen and Nick's favor.

And
as for Nick Woods, the public wanted him exonerated from the shootings he'd
been involved in and granted military honors for his sacrifice in Afghanistan.

Nick
showed no concern for these realties. He remained convinced more blood would
flow soon. But, Allen pressed on and soon had the sketch drawn up with the
artist. Once it was completed, Allen promptly uploaded it to the website.

And
that's when things really started to go Nick and Allen's way.

Chapter
62

Whitaker
stood before Sen. Ray Gooden's desk. Again, Sen. Gooden ignored him while he
scanned through a half-inch report.

Sen.
Gooden finally paused, pulled down his reading glasses, and asked, "Why
are we here today?"

Whitaker
thought of several smart-ass responses, but he figured humility should win the
day.

"We're
here," Whitaker said, "because I've failed to either bring in or take
down Nick Woods and Allen Green."

"Well,
that's certainly clear. A bit obvious, if you ask me."

"Yes,
sir."

"But,
it's more than that," Sen. Gooden said. "Exactly how many men have
you lost?"

"Too
many, plus Nancy Dickerson," Whitaker admitted. Unfortunately for him, he
knew the number exactly. Knew most of their names. Their dreams and
aspirations. With units like his, men didn't come and go. These men had been
there for years, and Whitaker knew them all.

Sen.
Gooden said nothing, letting these facts further sink in for Whitaker. Oh, he's
good, Whitaker thought. He's good.

"So,
nearly two dozen men?" Sen. Gooden asked.

"Yes,
sir."

"And
one cop?"

Whitaker
swallowed. He'd forgotten about the California police officer. "Yes,
sir."

"And
one FBI agent?"

Whitaker
looked harder at Sen. Gooden. Surely he wasn't laying the death of FBI Agent
Jack Ward on Whitaker's hands. "But, sir," Whitaker said.

"Don't
'but' me. That man only died because of a failed op that you asked the FBI to
conduct. But the bigger problem here is you're taking part in what is increasingly
looking like a full-blown war inside our very own country."

Whitaker
tried to show nothing, but beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"Do
you know," Sen. Gooden asked, "that the few people who know of our
program -- and believe me, they are few -- are wondering why this wonderful
operation has gotten so sidetracked that it’s now almost completely focused on
an honorable veteran and top-notch reporter, who frankly, are both loyal
citizens?"

Sen.
Gooden stopped, looked to the side, and picked up a cigar. While he cut off the
end and slowly lit it, Whitaker sweated in silence. He knew better than to
interrupt the man when he was making his point, and Sen. Gooden liked to take
his time making his points. A showman, through and through, with a Texas drawl
and a murderous scowl.

Sen.
Gooden exhaled a thick line of smoke through pursed lips and looked down at the
cigar.

"Fine
cigar," he said, as if he wasn't in the middle of chewing Whitaker's ass
out.

"And
so," Sen. Gooden said, "one of the few people who know of our program
asked me recently why our operation had gotten so side-tracked, instead of
chasing down the enemies it was created to hunt?"

Sen.
Gooden looked down at the cigar and took another puff.

"Do
you know how I answered that question?" Gooden said.

"No,
sir."

"I
didn't. And I didn't, because I don't know the answer. But, I told them I'd
soon have an answer for them. And so I called you up here," Sen. Gooden
growled, pointing his cigar toward Whitaker, "because I figure you have
the answer to this question. Because otherwise, we've got a problem that's
quite a bit bigger than you, I assure you."

Whitaker
took a deep breath and said, "Sir, we didn't get sidetracked. Following an
operational security breach, in which some early secrets of our organizational
history were leaked in a national publication by, as you said, a well-respected
reporter, I took action to do some serious damage control. Such damage control
helped prevent months and months of news speculation and likely Congressional Hearings.

"This,
in itself, was a major success. However, a unit not under my control, along
with terrible luck, led to Nick Woods, or the former Bobby Ferguson, not being
in his home. And the superbly trained, decorated hero soon joined forces with
Allen Green. And let me remind you, sir, that these two men represent the most
formidable of threats to our organization. That, sir, is why I got
sidetracked."

Sen.
Gooden leaned back in his chair and examined Whitaker with a sick smile on his
face. He smoked two full inhales and exhales on his cigar, his eyes locked on
Whitaker.

At
least
thirty seconds passed
and Whitaker didn't dare break eye contact.

"Strike
Team Two?" Sen. Gooden asked. "Why haven't you sent me any reports on
them in the past few days? Weren't they closing in on America's second,
most-wanted terrorist?"

Whitaker
nearly gasped. "Sir, I apologize. My second in command has been working
liaison with them, and I'm sure he can answer any questions you have regarding
that operation. I apologize, again, for not keeping you in the loop. I've been
distracted and in over-drive since the shooting at Camp Lejeune."

"Which
one?" Sen. Gooden berated. "There's been about three separate
incidents in the past three days."

Whitaker
nodded. "Point taken, sir."

Sen.
Gooden's smile grew wider. He took a sip of his Jack and Coke and said, "I
want you to take your time answering this next question. Your life, quite
possibly, hangs on how you answer it."

"Yes,
sir."

"Are
you scared of Nick Woods and Allen Green?"

"No,
sir," Whitaker said, a little too angrily.

"So,
you're not? You've deployed entire teams of men to kill him and he's
slaughtered them like sheep, and you're not concerned?"

"No,
sir."

"Ah,
good," Whitaker said with a menacing grin. He took another puff of his
cigar and pushed a button under his desk. Four men in suits entered.

Whitaker
had been disarmed before entering -- no one got near the Chairman of the Armed
Services Committee carrying a pistol, it didn't matter who you were -- but
these weren't Secret Service agents who normally guarded Sen. Gooden.

The
men formed a cauldron around Whitaker. Two by the desk between Whitaker and
Sen. Gooden. Two behind him. All four had their arms crossed, ready for action.

"Whitaker,
I've asked a few men to witness the ending of our meeting, because I don't want
you to overreact and do anything stupid. Now, I've taken a couple main points
from our meeting.

"One,
it's quite clear you've botched about every aspect of this damage control
mission since the beginning. You've lost more than a dozen people, destroyed
two Strike Teams, and severely damaged our ability to operate inside the
country. We've got half of the nation’s media looking under rocks for our
group, which is where we started when Allen Green broke his story. At this
point, it would have been better to have done nothing in the beginning, because
we're back to the start, except we didn't pass go and we for damn sure didn't
collect two hundred dollars.

"For
failing so miserably in this operation, I now relieve you of command. I've
already alerted a man in your organization, who I won't name, that he's in
charge. Your passwords have been changed. Your team leaders and entire
organization already know you're no longer in charge. That your words, threats,
and pleas carry the weight of an overpaid janitor, who's no longer on the good
side of the principal.

"That's
the first point."

Sen.
Gooden paused to take another sip of his Jack and Coke, and Whitaker tried to
control his face. To say he was stunned to have lost his command was beyond
obvious. He could see being killed, but stripping a man like him of his
command, that was actually far worse. The two men in front of him looked eager
for Whitaker to do something stupid.

Sen.
Gooden set his drink down and looked back up.

"Now,
you've said you don't fear Nick Woods and Allen Green. I figured that much. And
though you've been relieved of command, I want you to know that I've never
doubted your courage. You mean a lot to me and Martha, and I'll always welcome
you at our table. But don't plan to come by anytime soon. Because effective
immediately, you and Tank, who's also been relieved of his duties, have one
single mission. You are to hunt down and kill Nick Woods and Allen Green. No
more and no less. You'll be issued a credit card with a balance of $250,000.
That's all the support you get. No weapons from the warehouse in
Fredericksburg, where your code no longer works. No intel. No nothing. Because
officially, you no longer exist to this organization. Of course, we'll monitor
you. You go to the press or even hint at leaking national security information,
--"

"Sir,
I would never --"

Gooden
raised his hand to stop Whitaker. "I know you wouldn't, but I've got to
say this. If you even hint at leaking national security information, you'll
find yourself at Guantanamo Bay. No American prison. No open trial. Nothing
like that. Files have already been prepared and delivered to the NSA and FBI, describing
every hair on your ass, all your friends, your current bank balances, along
with their numbers, you name it. If anything changes, even so much as a single
dollar starts to move, then you'll be apprehended.

"And
how will we apprehend you? Oh, that's even grander. You'll be fitted with an
ankle bracelet in the parking lot when you leave today. If that thing ever
comes off or leaves the country, then you're either a dead man or headed to
Guantanamo. You know these men are good. You trained them. Now, get out of
here, go get Tank, and get after Nick and Allen. Bring me their heads on a platter,
and we'll talk about finding you another fit in a good line of work. Don't
expect to get your command back. You've caused too much damage for that, but I
can offer you my good graces again and a steady income with exciting work.
That's the best I can do.

"Now,
get the hell out of my office, and make it happen."

Whitaker
finally smiled and said, "Consider it done, sir."

"For
your sake, you better hope so."