Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter
3

Leatherneck
was filling up, and about an hour after Allen Green arrived, his man, Colonel
Russ Jernigan, entered the bar. Allen knew it was him the minute he entered,
but opened his wallet to check a small picture he carried with him. The picture
was of Colonel Russ Jernigan five years ago and had been pulled from an old,
Marine-unit annual, which are usually made when a unit deploys.

Allen
confirmed the picture matched the man who had entered, then pulled a five
dollar bill out to play off the peek inside his wallet in case anyone had been
watching him. Cash in hand, Allen waved for the bar girl to bring him another
thick-headed, barely cold beer.

Now
came the tricky part. He lit another cigarette to help calm his nerves. He was
getting anxious and could feel his heartbeat pounding. This was odd. It had
been years since Allen could remember being nervous as a reporter.

Actually,
come to think of it, the last time he had been nervous was back in 1979. He had
landed an exclusive interview with President Jimmy Carter to discuss the
hostage situation in Iran.

Part
of the anxiety tonight came from the months and months of work that were on the
line. This man, Colonel Russ Jernigan, was his only hope of nailing down the
story -- not to mention that ever-elusive Pulitzer Prize and tons of money.

He
knew that since he was now fifty-three years old, this story was his last shot
at the Pulitzer. There were just too many good reporters out there, able to run
at the pace he had once been able to run.

They
were full of energy and drive, and they hadn’t been beaten down by life yet. Already,
they were getting the better assignments. They were better looking, understood
social media, and hadn’t stepped on as many toes as he had.

Allen
would get shit. Hell, there was a chance they could even transfer him to the
business beat -- one of the worst assignments in the field of journalism and a
guaranteed dead-end for your career.

He
blew a large cloud of smoke into the dark room. He needed this. With the award
and the acclaim following his Pulitzer, he could shove off from the full-time
work of reporting and begin writing non-fiction books. No more ridiculous
deadlines. No more getting yelled at by fat-ass editors.

Get
your head in the game, he thought, as the bargirl returned. He paid for the
beer and watched Colonel Russ Jernigan take a seat at the bar across the room.
This was going to be delicate, at best.

What
the hell, he thought. If I blow it, I get to leave this shit-hole of a town and
get back to New York.

He
crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, pocketed the Zippo, and walked up next to
Jernigan. He motioned for the bar tender, a young man with a hoop nose ring and
purple hair.

“Can
I get some matches?” Allen asked, ignorant the fact he had a perfectly good
lighter in his pocket. This was all part of the act, though.

The
eccentric man nabbed some from down the bar and laid them in front of Allen. Not
even glancing at Jernigan, Allen struck a match, lit a Marlboro, and flipped
his wrist three times, extinguishing it. He laid the smoking match on the
counter and inhaled deep. He blew the smoke through his nose and did his best
to look at ease.

Nonchalantly,
he turned toward Colonel Russ Jernigan and said, “Hell of a night, huh?”

“Yeah,”
Jernigan said without looking over. Jernigan was dressed like an officer:
khakis and a polo shirt. He looked out of place in the decrepit bar.

Allen
waited a moment, glanced over at him, and said, “Hey, I think I know you.”

Jernigan
turned and studied him, his eyes squinting. After perhaps five seconds or so,
Jernigan grunted, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Yeah,
you’re uh, Jared, right? No, that’s not it.”

Allen
started snapping his fingers, then buried his head in his hands in agonized
frustration. “Argh. I remember you, but your name slips my mind.

Allen
looked up again.

“It’s
uh, ah, don’t tell me. It’s, uh, Jenkins. No, that’s not it either. Hang on,
don’t tell me.”

Allen
squinted and looked off to the side as if he were thinking hard.

“No,”
Allen said, “I remember now. It’s Jernigan. Yeah, that’s it. Captain Jernigan.”

Allen’s
target for months and months paled as if a knife had just been plunged into
him. He tried to play it off, but Allen knew he was nervous as hell.

“You
may not remember me,” Allen Green said. “I was a nobody in Pakistan back in
’88.”

Jernigan
took in Allen’s face again, searching the deepest depths of his memory for
Allen’s face, while trying not to show anything, which he was failing badly at.
He had been caught way off guard, without question.

Allen
took the reaction, and the fact Jernigan did not deny ever being in Pakistan,
as confirmation of what one of his sources had said. His source had said, quite
incredibly, that the U.S. military had sent troops to Pakistan to operate against
the Soviets in the height of the Cold War. The troops were allegedly deployed
to Afghanistan in the latter stages of the Soviet Union’s invasion of that
country during the ’80s.

This
fact had never been confirmed or reported in any publication. And, it was huge
news, in and by itself.

The
U.S. government only admitted to arming Afghan Mujahideen against the Soviet
invaders, including giving the tribal fighters deadly Stinger anti-air missiles
that were capable of shooting down planes and helicopters.

These
Stinger anti-air missiles had dramatically helped shift the war against the
Soviets since they were about the only thing capable of shooting down the
devastating, heavily armed Hind gunships. The Hind gunships had been made
famous in America by their role in the 1984 movie “Red Dawn.”

It
was one thing for America to arm those fighting the Soviets. The USSR had done
the same thing back in the ’60s, arming the Viet Cong in Vietnam.

But
to think that American troops had actually fought and killed Russians during
the height of the Cold War? That was insanely huge news. Perhaps the biggest
news story in decades.

But
Allen knew there could be more. He had to hang onto his act a little longer.

“Hey,
nothing to worry about,” Allen said, leaning toward his very nervous target.
“We’re both pro’s. Let me buy you a drink. This deserves celebrating.”

Jernigan
looked unsure. He was like a deer that sensed danger, but couldn’t see it or
smell it or hear it. Allen worried Jernigan might bolt at any second.

Jernigan
looked at the old man sitting next to him. Jernigan had done some shady covert
work in his day, and it wasn’t for the world to see. And he couldn’t remember
this guy’s face at all.

Jernigan
knew he should pay for his drink and leave. But, if this guy were CIA, which he
understood, “We’re both pro’s to mean,” then maybe he could be Jernigan’s
ticket into the Agency. Jernigan was currently at a dead-end in the Corps. And
while Jernigan had always worked strictly from the military side, assisting the
CIA in several instances, he had never actually been in the shadows with the
CIA. That had been one of his true dreams.

“So,
what’s your name, sir?” Jernigan asked.

“Rick
Knight,” Allen said, without hesitation. Noticing Jernigan checking out his
clothing, he leaned closer and whispered, “Forget my clothes. I’m in town doing
some recruiting. Looking like a salty gunny usually opens the door easier for
these young Marines.”

“Oh,”
Jernigan said.

Allen
knew the explanation made sense, and he could see Jernigan mentally kicking
himself for having never thought of it. Clearly, Jernigan wasn’t the sharpest
colonel that Allen had ever met. He had probably been promoted beyond his
abilities and was stuck now.

Looking
around, Allen slid close toward Jernigan and murmured, “We’re putting together
a team to insert into North Korea. Our overhead surveillance isn’t revealing
enough about their nuclear reactors.”

Jernigan
nodded, taking in the lie as if it didn’t surprise him. As if he had known
that, or at least figured that to be the case. Shit, he was a player, too. A
real James Bond.

Allen
edged even closer and smiled cynically as if the two were regular ole’ chums
now. “The truth is, they’ll probably get killed or captured. But, the president
is looking for an excuse for military action.”

Allen
paused, sucked on his cigarette, and exhaled a thick cloud.

“I
tell you,” Allen continued, “that we have to knock out those damn reactors. You
and I know diplomacy just doesn’t work, but those damn pogues in Washington.”

“You’re
right,” Jernigan grinned, taking a deep swig of his beer. Allen could tell that
Jernigan liked him already. And it had been so easy. Well, at least after Allen
had located him. Most reporters wouldn’t have worked so hard to track down such
a source.

“Say,”
Allen tilted his head, pointing his finger at Jernigan. “I heard that you were
in Pakistan to assist an American sniper team back in the ’80s. One that was
going to ambush some Soviet special forces in Afghanistan. Rumor had it that those
Soviet Spetsnaz bastards had been wrecking the Mujahideen resistance fighters.
And finally, almost too late, Washington said enough. Let’s send in some
Americans and take care of this problem.”

Allen
shook his head in disbelief, then continued. “Even though I believe the guy
that told me -- he’s a long-time friend and all -- I always found that one hard
to believe.”

Jernigan
smiled at Rick Knight.

“We
did,” he boasted, glad to confirm his credentials as a bad-ass, Alpha male, who
had also worked on some cloak and dagger stuff. This cat was okay, Jernigan
thought. He lifted his beer and drank greedily again. He wasn’t much of a
drinker, but he needed to appear tough. This guy could probably get him in the CIA
for sure.

Allen
saw that Jernigan wasn’t quite ready to spill the beans. Prepared for this, he
began a story about a team he’d trained recently and sent into Palestine to
take out a Hamas terrorist leader for the Israelis. He explained how the
Americans had dressed as Israelis and raided the man’s home, capturing the
terrorist.

The
story was spectacular and full of details such as how the Americans had used C4
to blow down the door. And how after they captured the terrorist, they had to
fight their way street-by-street back to the exfil point.

Allen
told the story flawlessly, just as he had rehearsed it a dozen times. Allen
watched as Jernigan took it all in, his eyes glazed over and practically
experiencing it.

If
there was one thing Allen could do, it was tell a story. Hell, he was a writer.
But tonight, Allen outdid himself. The pressure of months and months to find
Jernigan had been shed, and Allen remained smooth, like a pro. Shit, he
was
a pro.

He
was oh-so-close to winning that Pulitzer and all that money. He could almost taste
it. He smiled and lit another cigarette.

Allen
followed the story of the Israeli raid with some ranting about terrorists and
Muslims. By this time, an hour had passed, and Jernigan had drunk three beers.
He was beginning to loosen up.

Allen
began a story about a CIA team trying to track down Osama bin Laden in the
mountains of Afghanistan. Finishing it twenty minutes later, he took the
plunge, though by then it didn’t feel like a plunge.

“So
tell me about your story in Afghanistan back in the ’80s,” Allen said.

At
best, he hoped Jernigan could confirm that American forces had engaged Soviet
forces directly. That would be huge. The headline would say, “U.S. troops killed
Soviets in battle.”

It
would make a hell of a story.

But,
what Jernigan said was far worse. It shook Allen to his very bones.

Chapter
4

The
weather was perfect on the day Bobby Ferguson’s normal life ended. The
temperature was in the 70’s, and the sun was out.

Bobby
was the foreman of a small asphalt crew. They were in the middle of an expansion
job on Interstate 40 in Knoxville, and on this day, they were putting the final
touches on many weeks of work.

After
tearing up a three-mile stretch of old concrete and replacing it with new
asphalt, they had spent the day painting the lines, sweeping up the trash on
the side of the road, and finally taking up all the orange barrels lining the
side of the interstate.

The
crew was in a good mood, and everyone felt a sense of accomplishment for having
completed this stretch of the road. Plus, the weather rocked.

Bobby
didn’t push his team hard on this day, and he even allowed them to add a few
minutes to their breaks.

For
much of the day, Bobby was lost in thought. He couldn’t wait to get off work
because he wanted to do a little shooting when he got home. It was such a beautiful
day that he thought he’d pull down one of his bolt guns -- maybe his Remington
.270 -- and do some long range shooting.

Daydreaming,
imagining the kick of the gun and the smell of gunpowder, he noticed a red
Chevy Lumina approaching. It looked like Anne’s car, and for a second, he
thought it was her.

As
the car passed by, he saw it wasn’t her, but that got him thinking of her. He
smiled at the thought and decided that instead of shooting the .270, he would
pick up some roses and a bottle of wine on the way home.

Some
things beat shooting a rifle, even for a former sniper who loving being behind a
scope.