Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter
8

Whitaker
flew by private jet to Jacksonville, North Carolina.

Colonel
Russell Jernigan was Whitaker’s next target, and he arrived outside the Marine
base just a bit over two hours after his talk with Allen Green.

Back
in New York, Allen was now under surveillance and in the process of admitting
to his editors that he had fabricated the entire story.

The
New Yorker
was doing
damage control -- major damage control. The magazine sent out a press release
to announce the mistake, prepared a retraction for the next edition, and
decided with almost no deliberation to fire their once trusted reporter.

Within
two hours, Whitaker knew Allen would be arrested by the New York Police
Department for multiple counts of child pornography charges. The explicit,
illegal images had been placed on his work computer by a sophisticated hacker.

How
those charges panned out would depend on Allen’s conduct.

Whitaker
wasn’t sure if Colonel Russ Jernigan was the cause of the leak, but he wasn’t
taking chances. Jernigan was a coward, so it seemed odd he would dare talk
about it.

There
was a good chance Allen Green had told him Jernigan’s name to protect his real
source. That man would have known Jernigan’s name, and that man wasn’t a coward.
Worse, he had a grudge.

Whitaker
opened his cell phone and called his boss in D.C., deciding to play it safe. He
wanted the FBI team stationed in Knoxville to take the only other potential
source into custody. Just in case.

This
story had to be shut down immediately, and Whitaker was just the man to do it.

Chapter
9

Bobby
Ferguson carried out his earlier thought at the construction site and purchased
flowers and a bottle of wine on his way home.

He
had been looking forward to the night with Anne the entire day. But, his mood
changed immediately when he saw the green Honda Accord following him.

It
wasn’t your typical, undercover police sedan, but that’s what really worried
Bobby. If he were in charge of surveillance, he wouldn’t use a typical police
sedan either.

The
car was driven by a woman who used her cell phone to make several calls, Bobby
saw. She had followed him 6.7 miles after he noticed her before she turned into
a service station.

Bobby
managed to scribble this on his palm while driving. In the depths of his mind,
he thought he remembered the same car and woman following him a few days before.

If
it was the same woman and car that he had noticed a few weeks earlier, then she
had changed her pattern. She hadn’t stopped at the service station the last time.

He
needed to check his journal, a thought which preoccupied his mind when he
arrived home. As he walked from the driveway into the house, Bobby gingerly
carried the roses and wine like a loving husband but his mind was no longer on
Anne.

At
the door, he glanced behind him to make sure no one was watching him from the
woods. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

He
unlocked the door and heard Anne in the kitchen, the water running. She was probably
doing dishes.

“Hi,
hon,” he said, as he headed straight for his bedroom.

He
needed to update his journal fast before he forgot even a single detail about
the car or the woman behind him. And then he needed to find the last entry
about the similar car and woman to confirm whether it was the same person.

In
his bedroom, he laid the roses and bottle on the bed and yanked open his socks
drawer. He glanced behind him to make sure Anne wasn’t there -- it was too far
away to hear if the water was still running -- and pulled out a black, hardback
book, which was hidden under a false drawer bottom.

He
flipped through the pages, toward the back, skipping over his hastily scribbled
manuscript. Each entry was dated, describing every contact he observed, even
those that didn’t cause alarm.

At
the top of each entry, a heading identified either a vehicle or person. Bobby
had underlined these headings to help keep them straight.

He
scanned page-after-page of vehicles and suspect descriptions. He flipped and
turned, flipped and turned, and was just about to give up -- it had been long
enough for Anne to come see what he was doing -- when he found it.

“Green
car.” The entry was dated Oct. 5, which was thirteen days earlier.

The
entry read, “Honda Accord, green, probably four or five years old. No identifiable
dings, scratches, or bent fenders. Female driver. Blonde. Too far back for
better ID.”

It
was the same car and woman. He was certain now.

“Bobby,
what are you doing?” Anne snapped.

He
flinched, hard.

“Nothing,”
he said, turning and trying to play off the fact she had caught him doing
something. “Just checkin’ my shootin’ journal to see how much powder I been
puttin’ in them one-hundred and eighty grain, thirty-aught six rounds.”

“Bullshit,”
she said walking toward him. “Let me see.”

He
pulled the journal back, out of her reach.

“It’s
nothing, Anne.”

“Let
me see,” she said, becoming angry.

“Damn
it, Anne, I don’t need this.”

“Give
it to me.” She reached for it and grabbed it from him. It only took reading a
couple of entries to confirm her suspicions.

“I
can explain,” he said before she could say a word.  

He
could tell she wasn’t listening.

“Anne,
I just proved it,” he said.

“Proved
what?” she asked. She looked deflated and on the verge of tears.

He
felt powerless, like a desperate man in a sinking boat. He had to get her to
understand. He started babbling in a last-ditch effort.

“Today,
driving home, I saw this car. A -- a Honda Accord. Green. Anne, I remembered it,
and I checked this book to make sure, and it followed me thirteen days ago.
Look, I can show you.”

He
grabbed back the journal, flipping clumsily for the page the entry was on. He
couldn’t find it. He flipped back and forth. The pages all looked the same.

Where
was it? Then, he remembered to find the date. As he searched for Oct. 5, he
didn’t even hear her first few words.

“No,”
she said, louder. “Let me show you something.”

“But,
Anne, not only was it the same car, it turned off at the Conoco service station
to vary its pattern. It didn’t do that the last time. You know, thirteen days
ago.”

“Bobby,
it’s nothing. Can’t you see?” She was getting too loud. “No one is after you.
People have routines. I see the same cars on some days too. There’s only one
main way to get from Knoxville to here. You know that.”

“Anne.”
He didn’t know what to say. Why couldn’t she see? “Look, think about --”

She
cut him off. “Bobby, guess what I found taped under the sink today?”

He
remembered the .380 pistol he kept hidden in the bathroom and could see the
end. Panic filled him.

“I
was going to ignore it,” Anne said. “I thought it was nothing. But, this is
more proof. Proof that you are not well.”

“I’m
not going back to see no damn doctor,” Bobby roared. It came out louder and more
violent than he meant.

“You’re
scaring me,” she whimpered, now crying. “Can’t you see I love you? You need
help.”

Tears
were streaming down her face now.

He
hated to see her cry. He hated to argue. He couldn’t take it anymore.

He
rushed by her and raced outside in a fury. To peace. To safety. To one of the
only things he understood: the woods.                                                             

Chapter
10

FBI
Agent Jack Ward was scared. Kneeling at the edge of the woods just 50 yards
from the assigned possible exit point, the FBI Agent watched a dark house. Jack
felt some comfort in the pistol he had pointed in its general direction.

He
wasn’t supposed to be doing this kind of work, and he couldn’t catch his
breath, he was so nervous. His hands shook, and he tried to control them,
gripping the pistol tighter.

As
mosquitoes buzzed by his face, he shook his head to keep them off. He’d remember
to bring bug spray next time. If there ever were a next time.

Oh,
he’d also keep a pair of camouflage pants at work, just in case he was ever
needed again. Tonight, he had gotten his pressed, starched khaki trousers muddy
getting into position.

He
hated fieldwork, what little he had done. He was an English major and had been
hired by the FBI to review reports, write press releases, and work on updating the
local-office website when new suspects were wanted.

Writing
was a skill that none of the other FBI
agents in Knoxville could do worth a damn, and it was up to Jack Ward to keep
them from looking stupid.

They
just couldn’t write well. Not even close, so Jack spent hours cleaning up their
grammar and poorly written reports.

A
mosquito buzzed his ear, and he slapped at it.

Why
was he out here? This wasn’t part of his job.

But
like his field officer said, though, “Just for a night.”

They
were short a man, unfortunately, but at least this could go in Jack’s
exaggerated “been there, done that” file of bullshit FBI stories he regularly told.

He
loosened his grip on the pistol. Tonight’s story would be a good one. Their
suspect had a long list of registered and unregistered weapons, including
assault rifles.

Worse,
he had extensive military training and an anti-government view that left a
realistic possibility of armed resistance. Although the night was chilly, Ward
found himself sweating in his itchy dress slacks.

He
wiped the sleeve of his blue nylon jacket across his sweaty forehead. The
jacket was one of his favorite bureau possessions. It was blue with “FBI”
across the back in big, yellow, capitalized letters. It was like the ones in
the movies, and it had gotten him laid once.

He
wore it every chance he got.

A
mosquito or something crawled in his ear, and Jack shook his head violently
before using his finger to dig it out. In the process, he nearly dropped his
pistol from his sweaty right hand. Shit, he wished the entry team would hurry
up.

In
the front yard, a four-man stack of FBI agents dressed in black SWAT gear moved
nervously toward the front door. The blue 1996 four-wheel-drive truck, license
plate TRV-668, and 1997 red Lumina, license plate VUN-142, were both parked in
the driveway.

That
meant both suspects were home.

The
point man, distracted by having to cover the front door and the window beyond
it with his submachine gun, never noticed a thick pine branch in his path on
the ground. His stiff black boot landed squarely on it.

The
wood snapped loudly, making every one of the agents flinch as if they had been
fired at. The point man froze in his tracks, causing the second agent to slam
into him. The team lost its composure.

“Damn
it, Vinny,” the third man, and assault team leader, harshly whispered. “Just go.
Go!”

Chapter
11

The
crickets stopped chirping. That was odd, Anne thought. She couldn’t sleep, but to
be fair, she rarely could after she fought with Bobby.

As
she had debated what to do about him, the crickets had been driving her insane.
She really felt she should stick to her guns and get Bobby to go see Dr.
Blevins again.

Suddenly,
the crickets stopped.

She
wondered what had silenced them. They were so loud and annoying typically. Must
be something walking near them, she thought. Maybe a raccoon or possum. Possibly
a deer.

Their
rural home sat surrounded by game-filled woods. She lay there thinking about
how she could help Bobby. He had some serious issues, problems she had once
thought she could solve. But, with more and more thought, she just didn’t know.

A
branch outside snapped. It was loud and only something big would have done
that. Her heart skipped a beat, and a bit of fear edged into her mind.

Damn
it, why was Bobby outside pulling one of his “I’ll sleep in the woods tonight”
affairs. Reaching over, she slid open the nightstand’s drawer and pulled out a
heavy revolver, yet another weapon Bobby kept throughout the house.

Her
hands trembled as her imagination took over. Could it be a bear? One had been
seen weeks earlier, down from the Smoky Mountains.

Or
maybe it was a burglar?

But
why would someone break in at night instead of during the day, when both she
and Bobby were working? Maybe they wanted to hurt her...

She
slipped out of bed and crept down the hall toward the back door, clutching the
pistol. Her nightgown dragged along the carpet. Calling the sheriff was not an option
since he was twenty minutes away and probably in bed.

She
tried to calm down. Bobby had told her the best thing to do in such a
situation. She moved into position.

Then,
she heard them. There were voices right outside the front door. Her heart throbbed
against her chest so hard that it hurt. Her breathing was rapid, out of
control. She wanted to cry or scream or run.

But,
Bobby had once told her what to do in one of his many “just in case” sessions.
How was it she was supposed to position herself? Oh yeah, she was supposed to
kneel, Bobby had said.

She
knelt four feet from the front door and aimed the heavy gun. Looking down the
sights of the pistol was impossible in the darkness. That thought scared her
more.

Taking
a couple of deep breaths, she remembered Bobby had said that cocking the pistol
made it easier to pull the trigger, thus resulting in better accuracy.

She
adjusted her kneeling position, placing her left knee forward and supporting
her body on her right leg. She steadied her left elbow on her left knee and
felt comfort with the increased stability.

She
had always hated guns and now hated the fact she felt relieved to have the
heavy, deadly machine in her hands.