Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (25 page)

Chapter
73

Nick
Woods watched the front of the cabin through his scoped sniper rifle -- the
very one he'd taken off the Marine prior to gunning down Colonel Russ Jernigan.

Nick
wasn't perpendicular to the door. He did not want to see into it when it
opened. Instead, he lay along the axis of the door so that if it opened, he
would see no one; but if someone exited it, he could hit them with enfilade
fire.

Nick
knew they'd either run down the wall away from him or up the wall toward him.
Thus, he was positioned so that his shots would be straight on, not lateral in
nature as they would have been had he been perpendicular and facing the front
door.

These
were two of the most important shots he'd taken in years. These two men were
fierce killers. They were well trained and battle tested, and Nick had to face
them with just the help of an anti-gun liberal from New York who barely knew
how best to hold the MP-5 he'd been practicing with.

Nick
eased into his position better. He made sure his rifle rested on his forearm --
bone support, they called it in the Corps -- and that no muscular tension was
manipulating the rifle. It had to be naturally aligned, and Nick had shifted
his body an inch here or an inch there several times to get it right.

Each
time, he'd aim in on the cabin then shut his eyes for twenty seconds. If the
crosshairs weren’t where he'd been aiming, he'd shift again.

But
he had the position as he wanted now, and he worked to control his breathing.
Allen would start firing any moment, and Nick lay beneath his ghillie suit --
plenty of light vegetation and cover in front of him -- the epitome of the
perfect human predator. Two rabbits would soon dart from cover, and he would
strike them both like a snake, unseen but just a mere hundred yards away.

Nick
Woods settled into his comfort zone behind the rifle. He felt familiarity creep
in. He'd spent thousands of hours of his life lying behind a rifle in the
prone. He'd used a scope and low profile to conduct reconnaissance. He'd used
it to avoid detection, ducking death by the slimmest odds. He'd used it to bag
men, both near and afar.

And
if all went according to plan, he'd soon use it again. To avenge Anne and his
spotter in Afghanistan. To correct who knew how many wrongs.

"Whitaker,
you've sent a lot of men to hell in your day," he thought. "Some
probably needed it. But the country has laws for a reason. And you chose to
play cowboy outside the law. Probably made good money doing it, too. Today, it
catches up with you."

On
the other side of the cabin, Allen Green prepared to execute his part of the
mission. He clicked the MP5 off safe and into semi auto. He checked his watch,
confirmed it was time, and choked down his remaining anti-violence feelings.

Two
months ago, he wouldn't kill a fly. Today, he'd be firing a military-style
submachine gun at two humans, in what he was pretty sure would fall into the
felony category of premeditated murder.

Allen
controlled his breathing as best he could and swallowed down his anxiety and
fear. He aimed at the side of the cabin and pulled the trigger. The MP5 fired,
roaring loud in the quiet afternoon, but Allen appreciated the lack of kick the
small 9 mm round created. He paused just a second, then returned to the sights
and fired again.

Round
after round through an entire mag, he peppered the side of the cabin. And when
the MP5 clicked empty, he reloaded and began anew.

Inside
the cabin, Whitaker read the latest edition of
The Economist
, while Tank
flipped through a dog-eared copy of Hustler. Both scrambled for cover when
Allen's first shot shattered the afternoon silence. They recognized the sound
and knew it wasn't a car backfiring or a balloon popping or a firework
exploding. They also picked up the caliber from the sound, as well as the thud
of the round hitting the wall of the cabin.

And
as they rolled behind cover and retrieved weapons, they also calculated the gap
between the sound of the shot and the impact of the bullet. This happened
instinctively without conscious thought or effort. Years of range time and
combat provided them with more data than two dozen inexperienced civilians
would have picked up in twice the time.

"He's
at the rear of the cabin," Tank stated.

"Probably
fifty yards away," Whitaker added.

"Agreed.
Let's hit the front door before they rush us or burn us out."

Whitaker
nodded, scrambled to his feet, and darted to the door, as more rounds smacked
the cabin. One bullet shattered a window and buried into an interior wall. Tank
raced after him, his body leaning forward and low.

The
two men burst through the front door opposite the direction of the incoming
fire. Whitaker and Tank scanned their sectors in the front yard and felt relief
to see no stacked troops preparing to assault the cabin. They paused only a
second before stacking up and moving along the wall toward the rear.

Meanwhile,
hidden from them, Nick Woods watched the two men through his scope. He smiled, delighted
his plan had worked so well. Nick's scope rested on the second man to exit, the
one in the rear of the formation and the only one he could see. He assumed it
was Tank. The man stood at least 6'5" or 6'6". The two moved toward
the end of the wall, and Nick forced down the pressure of how little time he
had to make his shots.

Time
slowed. He squeezed. The rifle fired.

It
roared through the woods, easily twice as loud as Allen Green's MP5. It fired a
round twice the size of Allen's submachine gun, which shot merely a pistol
bullet, and the heavy round ripped through Tank. It clipped his spine, exploded
his heart, and tore a three-inch hole out of his chest. The wobbling bullet hit
Whitaker, too, going nearly an inch deep in his back.

Whitaker
felt like he'd been hit by a red-hot, fire poker, which had been swung by some
power-hitting Major League Baseball player. But as the pain burned and the
sound of the shot reached him, he acted. He spun and elbowed the stumbling Tank
out of the way.

Instinct
told him Tank was dead. Tank’s legs had given out, and snipers didn’t miss at
this range.

Whitaker
raced for the door while Nick rushed to reload and get back on target. Both
just made it.

Whitaker
darted through the door as Nick yanked the trigger. Although Whitaker made it
inside, Nick scored a brutal shot to Whitaker's side. Blood exploded against
the side of the cabin and both Nick and Whitaker knew he would die without
immediate medical attention.

And
without question, both knew it'd never come.

Nick
reloaded, eased from cover, and exited the woods. Allen ceased firing after
hearing the two loud shots.

"Did
you get them both?" Allen yelled from his position.

"Sort
of. Stay in the woods out of sight and work your way to me."

Inside
the cabin, Whitaker looked at his bloody side. He felt the burning in his back,
the blood flowing there, as well, and he knew shock was his worst enemy right
now. He threw his M4 on the couch and limped to the bedroom. He kept his right
arm pinned to his side, desperate to slow down the bleeding.

Whitaker
ripped the comforter off the bed and grabbed the sheet underneath it. He yanked
it off the bed and cut a one-foot wide strip of it with his knife down its
entire length. He wrapped the sheet around his side -- across his full body --
four times and then stuffed it inside itself, as you wrap a towel around your
waist. His back bled, but that didn't matter. Whitaker thought for a second,
realized he had no one to call for support or reinforcements, and accepted his
fate.

He
moved back to the living room and retrieved his M4. He positioned himself in
the corner and waited in a kneeling position, his rifle across his knee.

The
door to the cabin remained open, but he didn't want to chance walking through
the opening to close it. The sniper may have relocated himself to cover the
door's opening and, more importantly, the space that was visible inside.
Besides, locking the door achieved nothing. They'd either breach the door or
burn him out.

Whitaker
flexed his fingers on the weapon and tightened his arm against his side. He'd
been in tough positions before. He wouldn't go down easy.

Chapter
74

Allen
Green knelt next to Nick Woods. Nick watched the open front door of the cabin
from a kneeling position behind a tree, his rifle slung and his .45 resting
easy in his hand aimed in the general direction of the door. Now, just thirty
yards away, he preferred the semi-auto pistol over the bolt-action rifle with
its over-magnified scope.

"How
do we know he won't hit the back door while we're both up front?" Allen
whispered.

"We
don't," Nick said. "But if he does, he won't get far, and we'll be
able to track him. I hit him good. Look at the wall there. And if I were him,
I'd stay inside, hidden. Ready to whack whoever comes in."

"What
do we do?"

"We
burn him out," Nick said. "Finally, all your smoking is going to pay
off."

The
two stayed on the side of the cabin, keeping an eye on two curtained windows as
they quietly stacked limbs and thick branches against the side of the cabin.
They moved silently, and since the curtains never moved, Nick assumed Whitaker
continued to wait inside. Unless he'd run out the back, but Nick doubted that.
The man was probably building up a position, Nick guessed, unless he'd been hit
harder than Nick thought, in which case he was playing field surgeon on
himself.

Nick
and Allen built a leaning fire shelter in just a few minutes, and with a pile
of leaves at the bottom, it lit and spread quickly. The dry branches and limbs
caught fire and ignited thicker limbs. The side of the cabin smoked, and both
knew the cabin would catch soon.

"Let's
stay together," Nick said. "He's still dangerous and armed to the
teeth."

They
moved to the front of the building, both covering the door -- Allen with his
MP5 and Nick with his .45 pistol. The fire spread and they soon heard coughing
from inside. Minutes passed, and still he remained inside.

"Come
on out," Nick yelled. "Tell us who your boss is and we'll let you
live."

Whitaker
fought tears and tried to filter the air through another piece of sheet he'd
cut. He lay on the floor trying to stay below the smoke, but it barely helped.

He
considered his options again, for about the hundredth time in the past ten
minutes. He could run out the back, but he wouldn't make it far. His side still
gushed blood and fatigue wrapped its arms around him like an evil mistress lusting
for a soul. Whitaker wanted to succumb to her. To rest his head on the floor
and surrender to peace and rest.

The
room blurred and became unfocused, and Whitaker smashed his M4 against the top
of his head. The pain drove off the evil bitch trying to seduce him and brought
him back to reality. To pain. To the impossible situation before him.

He
shook his head and tried to think clearly. He remembered he couldn't run. He
coughed on the smoke and realized it was now or never. It would either be a
warrior's death or the kind of movie-like ending you only dreamed of: the main
character emerging from certain death as an unstoppable hero.

Whitaker
climbed to his feet. His legs wobbled, and doubt assailed his mind. This
wouldn't work, he thought, but then he fought down the pessimism. Come on
motherfucker, he said to himself. He whacked his rifle against his forehead and
roared as he stumbled through the door.

"Ran-gers!"
he yelled as he exited the cabin, angry hatred on his mind.

Nick
Woods heard the yell and saw the tall, blood-soaked man burst through the smoke
like some kamikaze-charging, doped-up samurai. He admired the man's courage and
determination and thought in another time on another day, he'd have been
honored to serve under this man. But then he remembered his spotter in
Afghanistan, blown to bits. He imagined dozens of broken laws. Saw Anne's body
in the grass.

And
Nick's heart turned from admiration to righteous vengeance. Whitaker's M4
angled toward Nick and began firing on automatic. Nick saw the fire and flash
from the barrel and felt the air turbulence of bullets as they zipped by,
snapping in his ear like a bullwhip.

Nick
fired a pointing shot in Whitaker's direction with his .45 that missed, even at
the short distance of six feet. But Nick's body never paused and moved to the
kneeling position where he two-handed the pistol and fired some more. Yet
Whitaker's weapon still tracked toward him, spewing out molten death, and Nick
rolled to the side.

Whitaker
saw Nick and moved his weapon toward him, his finger curled around the trigger,
the weapon providing comfort as it recoiled back and forth on automatic. Live
or die, he'd take Nick with him. The M4 moved to Nick's head, and Whitaker
smiled as he imagined seeing Nick's head explode.

But
just as the weapon got on target, Nick's head moved. Whitaker lost Nick for a
second between the smoke in his eyes and the speed of Nick's movement. Then he felt
the first slam in his chest. Like a horse kicking him. He felt it again and
realized Nick had ducked to the kneeling position.

Another
jolt pounded his stomach, and he knew death was no longer an "if" but
a "when." But he wanted to take Nick with him worse than anything in
the world.

This
hero bastard who always did right and believed in honor and black and white.
And as Whitaker's weapon tracked to Nick's path and his subsequent roll to the
side, he knew he had him. They'd leave this world together, and Whitaker would
have the pleasure of knowing his organization could survive in the wake of
Nick's death. America needed men like Whitaker. Men who weren't afraid to break
the law to protect its people.

Behind
Nick, Allen watched the whole sequence in sick fascination. Whitaker firing,
Nick dodging by kneeling and rolling. Each time just a split second ahead of
Whitaker. But Nick fired a pistol while Whitaker wielded an automatic assault
rifle with a stuffed-full magazine and a body doped up on death's adrenaline.

Allen
realized Whitaker would get Nick at the end of his roll to the side. He knew
from Nick's drills that he had not practiced a move that would help him avoid
this situation and only those hours of practice and their resulting speed had
spared him thus far.

Then
Allen remembered the MP-5 in his hands. He pushed the weapon to full auto and
fired from the hip as he brought it up. Twenty 9 mm rounds poured through it
into Whitaker's body and still Whitaker tracked Nick's movement.

Then
Allen thought of the brain and knew only a head shot would end this brutal,
dark death dance. He pointed at Whitaker's head and noticed the sights
automatically lined up -- German ingenuity knowing no bounds. Allen fired ten
more rounds, each sickeningly on target, wrecking teeth, bone, and brain
matter.

From
the ground, Nick knew the bullets hammering into Whitaker's face had saved his
life. He reflected on how close death had come to him again as he held an empty
pistol and watched Whitaker's riddled body fall to the ground.

"That
man took a lot of killing," Allen huffed, out of breath and visibly
rattled.

Nick
lay looking at his pistol, its slide locked to the rear on an empty magazine
and started shaking. It looked absurd, he felt certain, but he couldn't stop
himself. He often got the shakes after intense combat.

"You
okay?" Allen asked.

"I
owe you," Nick said, looking up at Allen.

Allen
saw respect in the look and felt a pride in his killing of Whitaker that would
have sickened the old Allen of just six months ago. He smiled.

"Told
you that you'd enjoy it," Nick smirked. "Remember?"

Allen
thought back to the car and the bully and pawn speech.

"Give
me a cigarette," Nick said, reaching up, his hand still shaking.

"You
don't smoke," Allen said.

"Special
occasion. Now give me a damn cigarette before I kill your suddenly cocky
ass."

Allen
laughed and dug out a cigarette. He lit it for Nick, and the two smoked while
the cabin burned and Whitaker bled out, brain dead and paralyzed.

Allen
took a seat next to Nick, who had stood and sat down on the porch. The two sat
like that for several minutes, listening to the cabin crack and pop as it
burned stronger and stronger.

"What's
next?" Allen asked.

Nick
blew out smoke. "We go after his boss, whoever that is."

"Got
to be the head of the CIA or someone in Congress. Maybe the President?"

"Doesn't
matter," Nick said, serious.

"You
must be joking."

"Nope."

Allen
watched Nick take another drag and realized he wasn't joking. Then Allen
started laughing. "You're serious?"

Nick
took another long drag of his cigarette.

"You
realize," Allen said, "that even with all my sources and reporting
friends, I could spend years and never find out if it was the head of the CIA,
someone in Congress, or the President? And then once you find out, you've got
to somehow kill them. You're certainly not going to get them indicted or
incarcerated in jail."

Nick
sat thinking. Allen shook his head in disbelief.

"You're
nuts."

"What
else do I have? They took Anne."

Allen
lacked a response to that. His cell phone rang. Both men jumped, and before
Allen could recover, Nick was loading a mag into his .45 and looking around.

"I
thought there wasn't cell phone service here?" Nick asked.

"There's
not."

"Who
has your number?"

"No
one. Never called anyone on it. It's one of our cheap pre-paid cell phones that
we bought."

Nick
looked up at the sky and imagined a satellite looking down on them.
"Answer it," he said gruffly.

"Hello?"
Allen said.

"Put
the phone on speaker," Texas Sen. Ray Gooden said. However, Nick and Allen
had no way of recognizing the man's famous voice. A computer program altered
and digitized it into a deep-sounding bass.

Allen
pulled the phone down and fiddled with it until he figured out how to put the
unfamiliar, cheap phone on speaker. The moment he did, Sen. Gooden continued.

"Well
done, men. I've watched the whole thing go down, and I must say you performed
well."

Nick
snatched the phone from Allen and said, "We're coming for you, you no
good, son of a bitch."

Sen.
Gooden laughed into the phone, and it sounded especially evil in its altered
state.

"Let
me give you a quick reality check," the voice continued. "Right now,
three drones are circling you both. They carry among them half a dozen Hellfire
missiles. Their operators are veterans of Afghanistan. Quite good operators,
really. Have killed dozens of al Qaida sympathizers and terrorists in Northern
Pakistan."

Nick
and Allen searched the sky.

Gooden
laughed again. "You can't see or hear them, you idiots. How else would
they work so effectively if you could? But, if you managed to outrun them, I
have two hundred men from Delta and SEAL Team 6 staged twenty miles away in
helos."

Allen,
the bold reporter again, yanked the phone from Nick. "You wouldn't fire a
Hellfire missile in the States. Even you're not that stupid."

"Indeed,"
Gooden said. "But military aircraft have been known to crash during
routine training ops. I'm sure that's all that happened. The pilot parachuted
safely, of course. But that's assuming it's even noticed. You've forgotten that
you're miles from anywhere. I doubt it'd even be noticed before our teams policed
the area and removed any identifying missile pieces."

Allen
lowered the phone while Nick searched the sky.

"Now,"
Gooden continued, "you've heard Option 1. Either a fiery death or a fun
traipse through the woods pursued by heavily armed commandos and helicopters
loaded with all kinds of sensors, like infrared, as well as machine guns and
rockets. So, Option 1 is death. Guaranteed. Certain. Swift. Would be over in
less than an hour, assuming you dodge the missiles, and frankly, I'm okay with
this plan. Even prefer it actually. It's safer for me since there'd never be
any leaks or chance for the truth to emerge. Option 1 is far safer for me. And
America."

Nick
dropped his eyes from the sky and met Allen's. Neither said anything.

"Good.
I see I've got your attention, and you're finally listening."

Nick
shook his head in defeat, searching for an angle out of the dilemma. Behind
them, the cabin burned fiercer, popping and crackling.

"Option
2 is more pleasant. Our drones fly home, their pilots bored and frustrated. Our
Delta and SEAL operators return to base, pissed about another false alarm. And
you two live.

"Allen,
you'll be famous. The two of you successfully took down an out-of-control
Homeland Security/CIA leader and his right-hand man. Since Nick will avoid the
spotlight, Allen, I imagine you'll become a sensational hero. Best of all, you
fired the final shots that took down Whitaker. All charges against you for kiddy
porn will be dropped and proven fraudulent, you'll get your job back, and sell
several million copies of a book retelling all of this. Minus this small part
we're discussing right now, of course. More than likely, your ex-girlfriend
Jennifer will enthusiastically take you back. Women do have a thing for rich,
courageous heroes. Trust me, I know.