Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (7 page)

Nick
tried to read him and decided to play it honest. “Yep. You might say that, but
don’t you worry. Just need to get away and think awhile. Me and my wife are
having some problems.” It was an answer not too far from the truth.

Chapter
17

The
old man got him as far as Rutledge, a small town barely twenty miles from his
house. A pitiful distance away really, but outside immediate danger and
probably far enough away for Nick to consider himself safe for the night.

Nick
debated handing the man some money and possibly asking him to be quiet. To
never mention this to anyone. But that seemed too much. It would only increase
the man’s interest. Might convince him that Nick was a real criminal.

So
in the end, Nick had opened his wallet, careful to keep it tilted so the man
couldn’t see in it, and said, “Partner, I owe you, but I’m a little short on
cash.”

The
man smiled, full of wisdom, and said, “I’ve been there son. I’ve been there.”

Nick
tipped his head in a grateful nod and closed the door, which squeaked loudly.
Unfortunately, the old man had dropped him off at a gas station. Thankfully, it
was empty except for someone at the counter, but that was still more attention
than Nick needed.

He
figured the feds would have someone out asking questions tomorrow. You just
didn’t see many men with packs and on foot out this way in the country. At
forty miles, it was just too far from the interstate for any real traveler
making his way by foot.

Oh
well, thought Nick. He shouldered his pack and began walking up the road. He
looked down at his watch. 11:33. He was tired. Drained. Too much emotional and
physical exertion combined with his old construction routine -- early to bed,
early to rise.

He
walked west along the road. When he got far enough that he was certain the gas
station attendant couldn’t see him, he ran off the road and through a field
toward some woods.

Reaching
the woods, he fought past the limbs, brambles, and vines. It was a thicket,
much thicker than the open woods behind his house. He pushed about fifty yards
deep, looking for a place to call it a night.

He
found enough room to lay down finally, an old deer bed, and unpacked his poncho
liner. He lay down. He’d forgotten about his pistol and the magazines until the
ground pushed them into his back.

Groaning,
he removed them and laid them by his side. He fell asleep within minutes.

Chapter
18

Nick
had no idea where he was when he awoke. It was daylight. He was deep in a
carpet of trees, wrapped in his blanket. His mind tried to unravel it all, and
then he remembered.

He
sat up, sad now. Alone, with Anne gone, he felt the forces of misery press
against him.

She’d
been with him for those perfect eight hours of sleep, his exhaustion having
pushed the thought of her death from his mind. Damn, he was going to miss her
for a long time.

He
cursed himself for letting her in and for being the cause of her death. For
letting her convince him his paranoia was unneeded. Damn it, he could have kept
her alive if he had been stronger.

He’d
argued for putting in a gate at the end of their driveway. Sensor detectors
along his property. He’d even hoped to fence in the property to let a few
Dobermans or German Shepherds roam about freely.

He
unwrapped himself from the poncho liner. He saw the pistol by his side lying on
the ground with its magazines lying next to it. He pulled his legs from out of
the blanket and groaned at the feel of sweaty socks.

He’d
left his boots on through the night like a dumb-ass recruit, and his feet had
gotten sweaty. Already, his feet tingled, the burning pain of athlete’s foot
just around the corner.

Before
doing anything, he looked around him and listened for a full two minutes -- he
used his watch as a guide. Nothing. Quickly he took one boot and sock off --
his right foot -- and allowed the foot to air out. He picked up the .45 pistol,
feeling safety and power in its heft.

With
adept ease, he dropped the magazine then removed the eighth round from the
chamber. He laid both on the ground and extended the pistol toward a large
pine. Aiming, he pulled the trigger, dry firing it. He worked the slide and
repeated the dry firing, this time with his eyes closed.

He
was trying to feel the trigger pull. Learn when the hammer released. To get
familiar with the pistol he hadn’t fired in years. He dry fired it thirty
times, feeling somewhat better about his skill with it.

The
old 1911 .45 was no different than the thousands that had been used against the
Germans and Japanese in World War II. They had the knockdown power of a
bulldozer and had been used far into Korean and Vietnam though now they were
being phased out by 9 mm Berettas.

Berettas
had more safeties, held more rounds in case you missed, and didn’t kick so hard.
Pathetic reasons, in Nick’s opinion.

Fucking
Army’s been in the shitter for a long time, he thought.

He
laid the pistol down, pulled out a fresh pair of socks from his pack, and
covered the bare foot with a clean sock. It always felt so good to put a clean,
dry pair of socks on. One of the few joys of being in the field as an
infantryman.

He
then put his right boot back on. Rebooted, he then untied and removed the boot
and sock on his left foot. As it began to air out, he picked up the unloaded
pistol again.

He
pointed toward the same pine and acquired it in his sights. He cursed himself.
Damn it, don’t look at the target (or tree in this case). Focus on the front
sight.

He
lowered the pistol then raised it quickly, aiming at the pine. This time, his
eye focused on the front sight and kept the pine fuzzy, or unfocused. He knew,
as all good marksmen know, that the secret to accuracy was a focused front
sight, with both the rear aperture and target out of focus.

It
was a damn difficult thing to learn and even more difficult to master. If you
were really good, you’d remember the advice when you got the shit scared out of
you in a firefight. You would notice the front sight and not what your target
was doing when you pulled the trigger.

Nick
had done both, and better things had occurred when he’d barely noticed his
target and remembered to focus on his front sight.

He
sat there and practiced aiming, role-playing various scenarios. He remembered
the saying, “The more you sweat in peace the less you bleed in war.” They used
to say it daily in the Marine Corps, and Nick believed it.

After
all, he was living proof of it. Just ask a few Soviets who had managed to “meet
him” and survive their time with him.

He
finished practicing. These days, few understood the importance of practicing
without firing shots, or dry firing as it’s called. Of learning not to
anticipate a gun’s kick. Of having to imagine a shot being fired.

No,
shooting fast and with one hand on a range with live rounds was way more fun.
And less work. It also took less time in the hot sun or wet rain to fire 30
rounds than it did to dry-fire 60 times and then fire 30 rounds.

These
days, it was more fun to play Nintendo or Xbox than train for war.

He
put a clean sock on his left foot and quickly tied his boot.

It
seemed like déjà vu playing the one boot game. Another old infantry trick. It
was a rule a wise man never broke. One boot took less time to put on than two,
and you always had to anticipate contact with the enemy at any time. With that
thought, Nick took a quick look around him again. Still nothing.

He
debated doing some push-ups but held off until he was where he could shower.
He’d have time for that. He packed up his poncho liner and cinched his pack.
Now, only his pack, pistol and magazines were lying at his feet.

He
picked the empty pistol up and held it at his side. He then performed a
close-encounter drill.

The
exercise assumed someone had gotten too close to you. So, you stepped back with
your right foot, while pushing an imaginary person back with your left arm. At
the same time, you leveled your pistol at the target while keeping it by hour hip,
where it couldn’t be grabbed.

It
was one of the few instances Nick would fire a pistol single-handed. He
practiced the close encounter drill fifty times since this drill was an important
one.

Finishing,
he placed the empty pistol in the small of his back. He checked his
surroundings again and satisfied he was still alone, he prepped to practice
some withdrawal drills.

He
slowly withdrew the pistol, aiming it with both hands. He replaced it and
withdrew it again, this time a little faster. He practiced this drill one
hundred times because it was by far the most important.

He
could never be too fast on the draw though he could be damn sure too slow.

By
this time, small beads of sweat covered his brow, and his right hand burned in
a few spots, the classic early warning of blisters. He reached down to the side
of his pack and grabbed his canteen.

He
took ten good swallows -- he counted -- and replaced it. Ten swallows, they’d
always told him. You could run, fight, or swim after ten swallows without
puking or cramping.

Any
more than that, and you were pushing your luck.

Nick
didn’t feel like doing the last drill. His stomach growled, and Nick imagined a
couple biscuits for breakfast. However, he immediately cursed himself.

You
little bitch, he thought. Toughen the fuck up.

With
that thought, he began his next drill. He aimed the unloaded pistol at the
pine, mentally fired, BOOM, then took a knee and mentally fired twice more,
BOOM, BOOM. Again, he thought. He did it, “firing” a single shot at his target
before taking a knee and firing twice more.

He
only did this drill ten times. He knew he should practice it more, but his
tactical side reminded him that he needed to stay at least partly presentable.
Not sweaty and stinky.

He
already needed to shave, and his shirt was starting to look, well like it had
been worn for two days and slept in. He still resisted the thought of reaching
down in his pack and changing into a new one. He was in the country, and few
would care. Many in the country either farmed, hunted, or fished, and looks weren’t
something folks in the country worried much about.

Resuming
his training in the middle of the thicket, Nick thought his way through a
firefight based on his current situation. It would be close and nasty, and few
liked that, even him. Hell, that’s why he was a sniper.

But,
still, it’d be close. No way around that.

They
would either get the draw on him or perhaps he would get lucky and recognize
them before they had pulled their pieces; either way, he could do the last
drill, firing a single shot quickly at the nearest one’s chest, half-aimed,
before dropping to a knee and firing two well-placed shots.

Ninety
percent of the time, Nick would go with that option. In cities, there likely
wouldn’t be any cover, so he would just engage and use pure aggression. One
quick shot, followed by two controlled shots from the kneeling position.

Yet
there could be cover, so he thought through that. Perhaps it might be a
vehicle. Step one, get down or race behind it. Then return fire. Few could hit
a nearby target running laterally. Normally, even he wouldn’t try.

He
could find concealment. Concealment could be anything from thin desks to
couches to walls. Concealment didn’t stop rounds like cover did. But, concealment
caused most untrained people -- even cops -- to hold their fire because they
couldn’t see their target. You had to be trained to shoot through concealment,
and most cops weren’t.

Look
for cover and concealment, he thought. Cover and concealment, he repeated,
reinforcing the idea. The two bastions infantrymen sought. The two things that
could keep you alive on any day of the week.

Satisfied
with his morning pistol work, he reloaded the pistol and placed it and the
magazines in his belt.

He’d
cooled down while he thought through shooting engagements. Now he needed to
practice his hand-to-hand. Before starting, he checked his surroundings.

Then
he began, all of it nice and easy. He practiced various blows that, at best,
would be considered dirty by most if used in a fight.

He
threw eye gouges, shots to the nuts with low kicks and knees, throat punches,
elbows to the temple, and double-hand slaps to the ears. He hated those.

Then,
he practiced joint manipulation. At least, that’s what they’d called it in the
Marines. He never liked the term. In Nick’s estimation, breaking arms, ripping
shoulders out of sockets, and snapping fingers seemed to be a bit more than
mere joint manipulation.

But,
he didn’t know. He was just a simple man, and some piss-ant, college-grad could
hardly title a section of a manual, “Fucking another man up with your bare
hands.”

He
did all his moves in slow motion. He hadn’t practiced as much as he should have
the past few years, Anne having convinced him he was paranoid, maybe even sick.

Nick
had always believed mastering hand-to-hand combat was about analyzing every
possible situation a fight could end up in. It was hard to think when blades
were flying and punches were connecting. And damn if a person didn’t do some
stupid stuff in a fight.

But,
as he’d become trained in fighting, he’d found that if you envisioned certain circumstances,
you usually would react right.

So
he began practicing his blocks, beginning with the counter to the overused
right hand sucker punch. He went through his blocks, doing each ten times
without exception, though in slow motion as he had his attacks.

His
grumbling stomach reminded him of his hunger, and he nearly didn’t finish his
regimen.

Nick,
he thought, there are a lot of people not training right now. If you plan to
own them and survive this, get back to work. Get in character.

They’ll
soon wish that they had been training when they were hungry, too.

So,
Nick began working on the ever important aspect of range in a fight. He
practiced his footwork. Circling, stepping back and even stepping forward to
jam an opponent. He then practiced his head movement and body movement to avoid
someone’s attacks.

Though
he hadn’t watched his time, either when he began or as he trained, Nick spent
close to two hours working on his various techniques. By the time he’d
finished, his whole body felt shaky from its lack of food.

But,
the time had kept Anne off his mind and helped hone his slightly rusty skills.
Now, she was once again occupying his mind.

Her
smile. The feel of her bare skin. He remembered how exasperated she’d been when
he taught her to fire a pistol. Looking back, he realized she’d probably let
him teach her just so she could be with him, sharing in his one love besides
her: guns.

Nick
swallowed. He knew he wouldn’t cry. That Nick, or Bobby Ferguson, was dead. He
realized he’d probably never cry again.

He
had never cried while he was in the Corps. Even when he lost his spotter in
Afghanistan. They made you into a machine.

He
realized he’d never really lost that spirit, but just tucked it away while he
was with Anne. He’d always been a machine since his first day at Parris Island
though really it began before then.