Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (9 page)

He’d
have to get over it, though. And he would once he received a package later that
day that had some great photos of the man in them.

Chapter
21

Back
in Oak Ridge, the motel office was close to what Nick expected. A near empty
desk dominated the room, sitting in the middle of it. It was one that had
likely been from Wal-Mart’s greatest line of prefabricated furniture. The desk
was now dusty and scratched up.

In
front of the desk sat two guest chairs. They were green vinyl and cracked from
overuse. A piece of notebook paper was taped to the desk.

In
black magic marker, the message said, “If not here, use phone to call
421-6539.” An arrow was drawn pointing to the left, and sure enough, a phone
was behind a big vase-bottomed lamp.

Nick
grabbed the phone and dialed the number.

“Yeah,”
a gruff voice answered. The voice sounded irritated at being disturbed.

“Hey,
my name is Nick. I need a room.”

“I’ll
be down,” the man said without an ounce of urgency or kindness. “Give me a few
minutes.”

So
much for customer service, Nick thought. Ten minutes later, a man appeared. He
was early forties and quickly getting fat. He looked like he had two days of
growth on his face, and his black hair was greasy and unwashed for at least two
days.

The
man popped a cigarette out of a pack and lit it, blowing smoke toward Nick like
he didn’t give a shit.

“Well?”
he asked.

“I’d
like a room. My wife and I are -- well, she threw me out. I may need quarters
for six weeks or six nights. I don’t know how long. What’s the going rate?”

The
man looked at Nick’s clothes, trying to judge his worth.

Nick
looked rough in his soiled filthy blue jeans and shabby face. Before he could
take in more, Nick said, “Look, all I’ve got on me are these clothes and this
pack. Times are rough. I lost my job two weeks ago. I can go eighty a week, and
you’ll hardly know I’m here.”

“Eighty
it is then. But, the maid only cleans rooms once a week, on Saturday, from as
early as ten in the morning ’til as late as four in the afternoon. At some
point during that time, Greta will be by. You better be there. She’s not bonded
and has taken stuff in the past.”

The
man scratched his chin and took another long drag. “If you’re not there, she
cleans anyway, and more than just your room. Be there. For eighty, you get the
room with the TV that doesn’t work.”

“No
problem,” Nick said.

“And
also, this is a rough joint. Lots of problems with loud neighbors and fights
and shit. The last thing I need or want are the cops here. They’ve been
threatening to close this place down for years. You call the cops, you’re out
on your ass. No questions asked.”

“I
wouldn’t want it any other way,” Nick said, opening his wallet and forking over
$80, enough for one week.

Unlocking
the door, Nick saw the room was serviceable. The carpet was drab and pocked
with cigarette burns.

Thankfully,
the door had a deadbolt and chain lock. Probably due to the crime problem the
manager had mentioned, but Nick didn’t care. He was a big boy.

The
sheets and blanket on the bed weren’t fit for a dog, stained and smelling of
sex or some other God-awful stink. Nick ripped them off, even the mattress
liner and threw them in the corner. He’d buy some sheets when he went out later.

The
room had a chest-of-drawers, the nonworking TV, and a cracked mirror. Nick braced
himself before entering the bathroom.

But
surprisingly, it was clean. The design was from the ’60s, at least. Nick
pressed the handle on the toilet, and it flushed. Good.

He
tried the shower’s hot water, and it worked. Now, he had his command post,
though it needed to be stocked.

Using
a worn phone book, he called a cab and headed to the grocery store. He bought
lots of canned food and picked up a newspaper called
The Oak Ridge Observer
on his way out. He needed to look through its classifieds. At a minimum, he
needed a car and other handy things, like a rifle.

After
returning, he dropped off the groceries, called a different cab and headed to
Wal-Mart. There, he bought shower shoes, sheets, and other necessities such as
hygiene gear. He also purchased some shorts and running shoes.

He’d
be running now that he could shower. Arriving back again, he showered and
shaved and washed his jeans and shirt in the sink, hanging them on the top of
the shower to dry. By then, it was late, and he was exhausted.

Fighting
drowsiness, he forced himself to do fifty pushups and then some quick pistol
work, working on his draw and the immediate action drills again.

He
was getting quicker in his drop down after the first shot, and this pleased
him. He continued, going through some of his hand-to-hand moves again. His
upper body felt stiff from the earlier work, so he went even slower, watching
himself in the cracked mirror for openings and mistakes in his fighting
techniques.

Finished,
he put the new sheets on the bed and set the alarm clock for seven a.m.
Thankfully, it was just after nine p.m. so he’d get plenty of rest.

The
alarm rousted him roughly. He clicked it off and debated closing his eyes and
nodding back off. He didn’t have anywhere to be, but he had things to do. Hell,
Anne’s killer was out there. Both the bastard in charge and all of those
indirectly responsible.

He
stood and went to the bathroom to piss. Finishing, he walked over to a pile of
plastic grocery bags. He riffled through them and found the bag that held a
six-pack of Mountain Dews. They were warm, but he didn’t mind. He stripped one
from the plastic holder and opened it.

He
walked back to the bed and sat, relishing the morning soda and the caffeine it
provided. He took about ten minutes to drink it, the whole time
procrastinating. Finishing it, he really lacked an excuse. So he dug through
the bags for his new shorts, white socks, and running shoes.

He
got dressed and grabbed his keys off the nightstand. Nick felt naked without
his pistol, but he knew there was no way he could take it with him on the run
and keep it hidden.

He
walked over to his pack, jerked some duct tape off the roll, and taped the
pistol, two magazines, and the envelope of cash to the bottom of a drawer in
the chest-of-drawers. Satisfied, he left the room and locked it.

His
shorts lacked pockets, so he took off jogging with the keys in his hand. His
legs felt a little sore from all the walking and the leg work involved in
throwing kicks as part of his hand-to-hand training, but the morning was cool
and the run energizing.

It’d
been probably two weeks since he had run, but he felt pretty strong. He’d
always been a flaky runner since getting out of the Corps, running only two or
three times a week for about two or three miles. Maybe as much as five miles on
a really good day.

But
running, like most physical things, were one of those things that came
naturally to Nick. So as he passed the four-mile mark, he kept going. This was
for Anne. And probably a lot of others that some piece of shit man had hurt (or
would).

Nick
didn’t have a clue who he was, but he knew his type. Probably the son of a
military father, or maybe State Department. He’d be the kind of guy that committed
so fully to the argument of service that it was scary.

No
doubt, he probably thought everything he did was an acceptable loss, or worse,
“necessary.” Nick remembered a guy named Whitaker he had met during his
operations in Afghanistan. That had been a cold son of a bitch.

But
Nick seriously doubted it was the same man. Covert ops chewed up people like
Whitaker. And commanders such as him either died in the line of duty or had to
fall on the sword when an op failed.

This
new commander was probably overconfident. And, he had probably far overstepped
his legal bounds. As the old saying went, “Power corrupts, and absolute power
corrupts absolutely.” Nick knew it was true. He’d seen it too many times.

The
guy, or possibly a woman (though Nick doubted that), was probably in the D.C.
area. Or, perhaps Quantico. He’d have to be in one of those places to be in the
intelligence loop.

He’d
be a CIA operative, but there would be a Senator or Congressman who helped hide
and fund the group he led.

Whoever
the person was, he’d be formidable, with time spent in both the military and
CIA. He’d be nearly untouchable, for sure.

But,
no man was completely safe from danger. Especially if the predator didn’t care
about his own safety. Nick ran faster at the thought.

Once
he got back, he showered and stretched out his legs, certain he’d be sore
tomorrow after such a hard run. He put on a clean pair of blue jeans from his
pack.

The
jeans were a little wrinkled since they had been rolled up tightly in the pack,
but they were fine. Nick pulled on a clean T-shirt and his hiking boots, which
bore a dusty look from all the mud he’d gotten on them the night he’d gone into
the cave.

He
then called a cab. He needed a ride to a grocery store where he could pick up
vitamins, supplements, and protein shakes. It was a decision he’d regret.

Allen
Green’s life was finished.

He
was unemployed after
The New Yorker
fired him. He was still a national
news story for “making-up” his big Afghanistan story. And for the
child-pornography charges.

Allen
had attained one of his life dreams: he was now a celebrity. Unfortunately, this
was not how he had envisioned it.

He
had no one to confide in or seek advice from, and this further prevented him
from having any idea of what he should do.

Allen
refused to contact his girlfriend Jennifer because he didn’t want Whitaker’s
goons watching her and knowing how much he cared for her. They’d only use her
for additional leverage.

She’d
left three messages for him, and he’d yet to call her back. It hurt, but he
knew it was for the best.

Though
it hurt to not talk to Jennifer and tell her the truth, the pain paled in
comparison to the actions of his “friends.” Every single one had abandoned him.
Not a single call from them.

At
work, everyone had looked the opposite direction, avoiding Allen as he had
boxed up his belongings. They were all a bunch of gutless sell-outs.

It
had only been three days since the events spun out of control, and it seemed
like a year. His arraignment for the child porn charges was thirty-seven days
away. Allen figured that just about the time the media moved on and stopped
reporting his story, the arraignment would come, and they would all be back,
with plenty of photographers, too. Same as he used to do when he was a junior
reporter back on the crime beat.

The
child porn charges were bad, but the media were crucifying him. He was a
disgrace to the industry, they said, not because he looked at kiddy porn, but
because he hurt the profession with his lack of integrity.

He
was a liar. He was the equivalent of scum. There was even talk that maybe some
management at the magazine should be held responsible and forced to resign.
This caused Allen to smile. Fuck ’em. None of them had backed him. He hoped
they fell on their ass, too.

Allen
recalled the quote by Benjamin Franklin during the early days of America’s
independence, recognizing its wisdom and truth. Franklin had said, “We must all
hang together, or surely we will all hang separately.” Apparently, his
management was not well versed on history. Worse, they didn’t understand common
sense.

During
the hell of the last three days, a single thought had drowned all the pain and
disappointment: revenge.

Allen
didn’t know who was behind this, but he had obviously stumbled onto something
massive or this wouldn’t have happened. He hoped they underestimated him. He fought
the temptation to start immediately by getting on the phone and on the Internet
in the attempt to nail down the truth, but he had to wait. They were watching
him far too closely right now.

No,
he would let them get lackadaisical. Start to trust him. Drop the charges. And
then, he’d either make a break for it or start clandestinely checking around.

They’d
taken everything away from him and in doing so had created their worst enemy: A
man who had nothing to lose.

Chapter
23

Nick
Woods nearly lost it in the grocery store.

He
had walked back to the magazine aisle, passing by a
Knoxville News Sentinel
,
the main newspaper for the Knoxville area. The shooting at his house several days
ago continued to make the front page above the fold.

Today’s
headline read: “Agent wounded; woman killed in raid.”

Nick
had read three paragraphs before finally pulling himself from it. His breathing
was out of control, and anger surged throughout his body. He nearly lost it
right there in the grocery store.

There
was a large picture of his house and two smaller pictures; one of Anne and the
other of some agent. At first, Nick figured that the picture was of the head agent
in charge of the FBI.

But
when he read the story after returning to the cab, he found out the picture was
of the man who had killed his wife. The newspaper said the FBI agent pictured
had been suspended and that an investigation was underway since Anne was
unarmed when he killed her. Furthermore, the agent had been caught trying to
plant a pistol in her hands.

Nick
lost his bearing at that point. In the back of the cab, he crumpled the paper
and began slamming his head on the back of the headrest in front of him. The
cabbie had said, “Hey, man. Stop. Calm down. You alright?”

Nick
wasn’t. All he said was, “Those bastards,” as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Back
at the motel and back under control, he had straightened out the paper and
finished the article. His anger was still fire hot.

An
FBI agent, who had spent months and months learning how to defend himself, had
killed an unarmed woman. And then, he had tried to cover it up.

In
Nick’s eyes, it was unforgivable. The man had been trained by some of the best
trainers law enforcement had.

The
man had known about the raid and should have been mentally prepared. He would
have known about everyone’s assignments and would have had the opportunity to
ask questions before it began.

He
should have been role-playing all of the what-ifs as he waited behind the
house. And finally, his eyes would have been adjusted to the darkness, while
Anne would have been running blind into the night. Not to mention, the man
would have been wearing a bulletproof vest.

None
of these advantages had been on Anne’s side.

She
would have been surprised, outnumbered, and scared. For Christ’s sake, she was
a woman. Barely 120 pounds.

The
reporter from the
Knoxville News Sentinel
had dug up more facts on the
agent in the three days since the shooting. The agent had missed the last three
monthly required range days. And before those, he had missed the two prior to
it, as well.

One
out of six required days on the range in a two-year period. It was this fact
that really wore on Nick. He had always hated hunters who didn’t respect the
game they hunted. Who didn’t have properly sighted rifles. Who took careless
shots at running deer and didn’t fret about wounding animals.

This
was the exact same situation, except it involved an FBI agent. The man hadn’t
trained hard enough, so that had probably amplified his fear. Might have even
been the sole reason he
had
fired, in fact.

But
Nick’s mind drifted back to the female angle. In the South, and probably the
rest of the country, too, a man didn’t lay his hands on a woman. Period. Ever.
For any reason. Even if she hit you or tried to kick you, you walked off.

There
was never an acceptable exception to this rule. Certainly not in the South. And
certainly not if you were a real man.

Nick
recalled all the times he’d seen the news show some local piece of trash who
had beat up his woman. Nothing made Nick angrier than when this happened. Nick
would give anything to stomp the piss out of every wife beater in the country.

Not
that any of them would have the guts to fight back. Men like that were cowards.

So,
too, was this man. He probably couldn’t shoot well, so he worried about going
to the range because he might get picked on or laughed at by other agents.
Instead of improving and facing his fears, he had run and hidden like a coward.

Hopefully,
the FBI would fire him and put him in jail. Because if they didn’t, Nick wasn’t
sure he’d be able to control himself.