Sold Out

(Nick Woods, No. 1)

By Stan R. Mitchell

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Copyright © 2012

Fifth Edition

Cover by Danah Mitchell

Edited by Desiree Kamerman and Emily Akin

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, see website below.

Learn more about Stan R. Mitchell and his

other works at http://stanrmitchell.com.

Foreword

To my amazing wife Danah, who believes in me even when I don’t.

To my Mom and Dad. Thanks for all the love.

To Mike Rose, Henry Greer, and Bobby Fisher (GySgt, USMC): Three men who taught a boy what he should aspire to become.

To Capt. Eaton, United States Marine Corps, and Sgt. Major Hill, United States Marine Corps; two men who epitomized leadership and strength, and who made an unforgettable impression on me.

To my fellow Marines, SSgt. Frank Kovach and SSgt. Jon Rumbolt, who helped me on a couple technical and tactical points with this book.

And I would also like to thank Dave Conrad and Rodney Reed for their editing suggestions. All mistakes, of course, are mine.

Chapter 1

Allen Green, a seasoned reporter of thirty years, walked into the bar that night believing that locating the man he had tracked for months would solve all of his problems, and it was hard to disagree. After all, finding the man would provide Allen the final link in breaking the biggest story in journalism since Watergate in the ’70s.

Allen could almost taste the acclaim and recognition that would follow. He would win the Pulitzer Prize, without question. (It was, after all, one of the biggest news scoops ever.) He would finally have the opportunity to be rich. Book deals would follow, prepped by juicy, prime-time TV interviews. Then, perhaps a multi-million-dollar screenplay.

He knew when he walked into the bar that he was oh so close to his goal.

If asked, Allen might deny he was seeking the Pulitzer Prize and say he was just doing his job. But that was a lie. A big one. Allen wanted to break the big story, not because it needed to be broken -- he was past that naivety -- but because he was tired of shitty stories and shitty pay. His attitude was well earned: thirty long, hard years of breaking decent stories, but never gaining the deserved, national recognition.

Leatherneck, the name of the bar, was in the testosterone-filled, Marine town of Jacksonville, North Carolina. The neon sign on the front window flickered, claiming it had the coldest beer in town. Allen didn’t know if it had the coldest beer or not, but it for damn sure might have the loudest music.

Rock music roared loud enough to make its occupants temporarily forget the misery synonymous with the desolate, pathetic city. Well, almost loud enough, Allen thought with a smile, trying to come up with at least one positive thing about the town.

As he walked through the dark and headed toward the back of the room, Allen’s eyes struggled to adjust to the blackness and the flashing lights. The place didn’t seem like the kind of bar his target would hit, but after finally locating the mysterious man’s house, he had followed him here one week ago.

Well, it wasn’t that easy. He had trailed him about halfway here and lost him, worried he might blow his cover by following too close. Then, he had spent nearly two hours checking every parking lot in town looking for the man’s black F-150, license plate CBH-194. This wasn’t an easy task in a town disproportionately crammed with men, who all seemed to drive big trucks.

For tonight’s stake out, Allen wore a flannel shirt, blue jeans, and military-issue jungle boots. His dress was a fashion no-no by New York standards, he knew, but that’s what most seemed to wear down here, except for the officers, who apparently favored collared shirts and khakis.

Allen met the stare of many young, defiant Marines as he made his way to a rear table. He hoped he looked like a salty Gunnery Sergeant, or Gunny, as they were known in the Marine Corps because the only thing he planned to use if things got violent with these brutes was his cell phone. He’d be dialing 911 as fast as he could. Well, maybe he would bluff about his “rank” first.

One thing was certain though, he didn’t intend to fight any of these mean bastards.

At the back of the place, he took a seat at a table for four. He kept his back to the wall and prepared for a long night. The bar had about twelve or fifteen round tables and probably could hold a hundred thirsty Marines if a hundred ever succumbed to the “lure” of the “coldest beer in town.”

It sure wasn’t much. Just a dingy, dark dump, with three pool tables and two pinball machines for entertainment. It could hardly compete with the strip clubs and dance joints sprinkled throughout Jacksonville. No, this was where you went when all you wanted to do was drink and forget, or drink and fight.

Allen pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a chrome Zippo that bore a Marine logo with the words “DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR” in capital letters. The words were written above a hollowed-out skull and crossed M-16s. He’d bought the lighter at a local surplus store two days ago, along with the jungle boots he wore. As Allen lit the cigarette, he wondered if anyone actually believed in “death before dishonor.” He thought on that for a moment. Perhaps, some did. These military types were almost crazy in their patriotism.

A Marine walked past him to the restroom. His black tee shirt proclaiming, “Kill ’em all and let God sort ’em out,” stretched tight across his tank-like upper body. Allen dropped his chin a couple inches in a nod, imitating the dignified, Southern greeting he’d picked up while down here tracking down his target. He placed the lit cigarette in his mouth, letting it dangle down from his lips, tough-like. Christ, he was beginning to talk like them. He’d definitely been in the South too long.

As he took a draw on the cigarette, he felt that familiar feeling of “everything’s going to be alright” sweep over him. He couldn’t imagine life without cigarettes. The breaks from the office, out in the cold, New York air. Fellow smokers talking about sex or the Yankees or the magazine’s editor, a real ass.

He inhaled, and for the umpteenth time of the day, realized he’d never be able to quit smoking. Truth be told, half the time he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

He laid the Zippo on the table, description side up so that it aided his disguise, and tried to relax. He needed to get in the zone. He’d already invested far too much in this story to come up short now.

A bargirl waltzed up, her big breasts bouncing braless under a thin, white halter-top. She stopped, putting them about a half-foot from his face, and met his eyes with an inviting smile.

“What can I do for you, Marine,” she yelled over the music, placing her hand on his neck and leaning over, revealing more of her chest than Allen ever wanted to see. Her breath reeked of cigarettes and who knew what else. She ran her fingers lightly across his neck and Allen nearly shuddered and jerked away. But he somehow stayed in character and leaned closer. He met her eyes, glanced down at her chest “lustfully,” and smiled. “Honey, there’s lots you can do for me, but let’s start with a beer.” He winked and knocked the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray.

She looked him up and down, then smiled. “Okay, sugar,” she said.

Poor girl, he thought as she strutted off. Shit, he’d had about as much of this “city” as he could take.

Just a little longer, he reminded himself. Just a little longer. And then money and fame, but most importantly, money. Loads of it.

The song ended, and another one, just as bad and just as loud, began.

Allen Green needed another cigarette already. Careful to avoid antagonizing others who needed far too little antagonizing, he kept his eyes on the bottles of whiskey behind the bar. He hoped he looked lost in thought. The front door opened, and he glanced over, hoping it was the man he was looking for. It wasn’t.

Three more young Marines strolled in, shoulders rolled back and cruel eyes scanning the crowd. Their blown up strut reminded Allen of roosters. Or maybe pit bulls. These three looked young. About sixteen, if he had to guess, but he knew they were at least 18 or 19. Old enough to cut you from head-to-toe without thinking twice or questioning orders, Allen thought. They were just what the government needed these days: mean boys unafraid to serve overseas.

The server returned with his beer, which was some kind of draft in a plastic cup with an especially thick head. Well, they had to make their money somehow, Allen thought. He pulled out his wallet and handed the woman a five-dollar bill. She took it, and he half expected her to put it down her shirt. For a second, his hand lingered, waiting for some change, but she pretended not to see it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her being near him anymore, so he let it go and pretended to watch her walk off.

Just a little longer, he thought. Just a little longer.

And then big money. And fame. Allen Green breathed out a cloud of smoke and smiled at the thought. Yeah, all the months of searching were going to be worth it. He was going to locate his target, break open this story, and solve all of his problems. Of this, he felt certain.

Chapter 2

More than five hundred miles away, Bobby Ferguson sat relaxing on the couch in his living room. He was reading the latest issue of Guns and Ammo. His wife, Anne, sat next to him watching American Idol. He couldn’t stand the show, but enjoyed sitting next to her.

He stopped reading an article discussing knockdown power of various pistol calibers and studied her. Her age was just beginning to show -- she’d cleared forty a few years ago – but she was still beautiful. With shoulder-length blonde hair and captivating, green eyes, she was quite a find. She sat there, completely engrossed by some goofy looking white guy, hair gelled in every which direction, singing some kind of something that passed for music these days. Bobby wondered how he had made it through school without getting his lunch money taken.

He wanted to reach over and caress her. Maybe hold her for a few minutes. Try to remember that this home and this life with Anne was real. For years, he had assumed he’d never marry. Would never have a chance at peace or a family.

He had actually once thought he’d spend his entire life in the Marines, the fraternity that thrived on manhood and toughness. In the land of boots and badasses, all forms of weakness were beaten out of you. And once you were no longer the new guy and had been forged into a warrior, it was an addictive lifestyle. A place where there was a clear goal and where life made sense.

You killed yourself 24/7, training for war in ways no civilian could comprehend. And you did it in the hopes that you would survive the battlefield when war arrived because war always arrived. Usually, when you least wanted it.

Bobby Ferguson had prospered in that pit of hell called the United States Marine Corps. He had breathed aggression and toughness twenty-four hours a day for four years straight. And all that training and anger had never left him even after he had departed, though he hid it as well as he could.

He knew now that he had been too arrogant as a young Marine, and he shuddered at the thought that he had once believed he never wanted to be married. Not ever, he used to tell himself.

But looking at Anne sitting next to him, he pitied anyone who didn’t know what he knew -- the joy of marriage, a normal job, and (mostly) deep sleep at night. Gone were the fears of deployments, air alerts, or missions into foreign lands.

Bobby Ferguson loved his life now, with its slower pace and routine. Even after almost twenty years of being married to Anne, he still loved her as much as when he had fallen for her. Actually, more.

There really was a life after the Corps, he thought. He had his guns. He had his woods that he liked to hunt in. He had his Anne.

He returned his attention to the article, reading for several minutes before he heard a sound outside. His eyes snapped up, glancing to the door before he could stop them. The door was locked, and the deadbolt turned. The curtains, though, were pulled back, leaving the window wide open. He nearly rose to close them.

He didn’t, though, knowing it would worry Anne. She might start keeping a closer eye on him again, or even start pestering him to return to the doctor for more medication. Laying the magazine down on the coffee table, he shook the thought of paranoia, relaxed, and looked back at Anne.

“I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too,” she said, momentarily breaking her eyes from the show.

He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and ran his hands through her hair.

“You going to bed?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, hoping she’d follow, though he wouldn’t be upset if she didn’t. He was nearly finished with Stephen Hunter’s latest novel, “Pale Horse Coming,” and had stopped last night right before Swagger, the main character, and some gun fighters attacked the town.

He stood, walked to the bathroom, and flipped on the light, pulling his shirt off and taking a look at himself in the mirror. He hadn’t lost much since his days in the Corps. He was tall and lean, and though his abs weren’t as firm as they’d once been, they were still noticeable even unflexed.

His eyes glanced to the nearly unseen scar on the left side of his chest. Healed after all these years, it was barely visible and partially veiled by his thin, brown chest hair. But, it was there, and it rarely left his mind. Just two letters, which were burned into his skin by a coat hanger, same as you would brand a steer.

The letters were “SS,” in the straight recognizable lines worn by Nazi Gestapo in World War II. It stood for “Scout Sniper,” and he winced as he recalled the pain that came from burning the letters on his chest. But even after twenty years, he was enormously proud of having earned the title of Scout Sniper -- one of the toughest titles to earn in the Marine Corps. And

He peeked out the door and made sure Anne was still watching TV. She was. He bent down and quietly pulled open the right door under the sink. Looking up under the sink, he confirmed the presence of his .380 automatic pistol taped to the bottom of the sink. Relieved, he silently closed the door.

He reached for his toothbrush and toothpaste. “I hope it doesn’t rain tomorrow,” he thought. Construction just wasn’t as much fun in bad weather.

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.

Chapter 5

Allen Green’s story appeared in The New Yorker magazine three weeks after his “interview” with Colonel Russ Jernigan at the loud Leatherneck bar.

His article read:

Americans hunted down, killed Soviet Special Forces

JACKSONVILLE, N.C. -- During the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, America has long admitted to supplying weapons to the Afghan resistance fighters, or Mujahideen, including cutting-edge technology such as Stinger anti-air missiles. But, an in-depth investigation has revealed that American intervention was actually far more direct.

Several sources have confirmed that American snipers were sent into the southeastern parts of Afghanistan to engage Soviet Special Forces, or Spetsnaz, after Afghan resistance was nearly extinguished in the province in late 1987.

Incredibly, after the operation, American military leaders purposefully leaked information of the two snipers, which achieved two goals.

First, it tied up loose ends by having the men who were involved in the operation killed.

Second, the leaked information was used to ferret out a Soviet mole buried within the U.S. intelligence community. This mole had been leaking and hindering Mujahideen operations for years.

Both snipers were killed because of these leaks, and the mole, once identified, was used by U.S. counterintelligence to leak false information to the Soviets.

Two brilliant Afghan victories actually resulted because of the false information fed to the mole. These battles were later called the Battle of Al Mosud and Taranka.

This mole was later arrested and remains in U.S. custody.

The victories of Al Mosud and Taranka helped stabilize the final years of the war in Afghanistan. . .

Allen’s article went on, but the details were nothing compared to the bomb-shell revelation in the top of the article that stated American troops had killed Soviet Spetsnaz in Afghanistan.

The story made nearly every respectable news outlet within minutes of the issue hitting newsstands. CNN, MSNBC, Fox News, ABC, CBS, and NBC, as well as every national newspaper the following day.

The government denied the story, which even Allen admitted wasn’t bulletproof.

Nonetheless, Allen did have military records showing a Nick Woods, whose name had been used by Colonel Russ Jernigan, had gone to sniper school in 1985. Records also showed that Nick Woods left his Marine unit in 1987 for reasons no one in his unit seemed to know.

That was odd. Furthermore, there was no record of Nick Woods anywhere in the country now; twenty of the nation’s top reporters couldn’t find him.

Finally, Allen had found two Pakistani embassy employees -- one former and one current -- who stated off the record that eight American soldiers had been at the embassy during 1987.

And these weren’t your normal, embassy Marines with dress uniforms and perfect teeth, they’d said. These men had brought military gear with them and had departed after a short time, but with two fewer men, according to the two embassy employees.

The two Pakistani embassy employees had heard rumors that the American troops had pushed into Afghanistan and conducted operations. Both had heard that at least one of the members had been killed.

Allen hadn’t mentioned the sniper’s name -- Nick Woods -- because he knew that it would likely affect the insurance money Woods’ family received after Nick died in a “training accident” in 1987.

He also didn’t want to put Woods’ family through any more grief.

Of course, Allen couldn’t confirm the insurance money because the military had “misplaced” his records. (“It happens all the time,” he had been told by a bored clerk named Sergeant Janet Lonnely, who had no clue why some reporter from The New Yorker was even asking about a Marine from so long ago.)

Worse, Woods’ family down in Georgia had practically thrown him off the porch when Allen showed up for “just a few questions” about the subject of the training accident.

What Allen didn’t know, nor had Colonel Jernigan, was that both snipers were not killed. It was one of two facts in the article that were wrong.

Chapter 6

Allen Green sat at his desk, checking his e-mail the day after the story broke. There were messages on his voice mail for television bookings and interviews for print media.

It was a media firestorm, and he basked in the attention, thinking of whom he’d call first. He imagined the money that would be headed his way. Oh, the money.

His phone gave the in-house ring, breaking his thoughts.

He picked it up.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Allen,” said the front-desk receptionist, “there’s a guy here to see you. Says he has an appointment.”

Allen thought for a second, then flipped open his planner. Nothing. He remembered that he wasn’t even supposed to be back in New York yet from Jacksonville, North Carolina.

“That’s funny,” he said, “but I don’t have an appointment listed.”

“He says it’s important, and that if you don’t want to talk to him, he’ll go to The New York Times with the information.”

“Okay, then,” Allen said reluctantly. “I’ll be down.”

He stood from his desk and walked toward the door. Then he stopped, remembering he might need to take notes. He turned around, headed back to his desk, and grabbed a pen and notepad.

No reporter ever forgets pen and paper. That’s taught on day one.

So much for being a pro. The whole thought of finally having some money and winning the Pulitzer was seriously debilitating his ability to function.

In the reception area, a man in a suit awaited him, standing and looking about nervously. Allen smiled. Guy looks like a government agent, he thought.

“I’m Allen,” he said to the man as he walked up and offered his hand.

The man stepped closer, shook his hand, and whispered, “Can we talk outside?”

“Uh, sure,” Allen said, glancing back at the receptionist. Her face said, “Give me a break. Who does this guy think he is?”

Allen smiled at her but followed the man toward the elevator. It opened before the suit could press the button, something that rarely happened since their office was on the fourteenth floor.

Coincidence, Allen figured, though his floor was scarcely visited.

Two other men were in the elevator, and neither moved toward the door. Now that was odd, Allen thought. Wonder why the elevator stopped if they weren’t getting off? Especially since neither he nor his source had pressed the button?

A cursory glance revealed one wore a button-up blue shirt with khakis. He was smiling at Allen, real eerie like. The other person was hidden behind an outstretched New York Times, only revealing his slacks and shoes.

Allen hesitated to make sure they weren’t getting off, then stepped forward, entering the elevator with his visitor. They both turned to face the doors.

The doors began to close, and Allen felt the hair on his neck stand up. As the doors were inches apart, he thought of thrusting his hand in between them and running.

But by the time that idea had crossed his mind, it was too late. The doors had closed, and he heard the rustle of a newspaper as it fell.

He knew he was in deep shit as he tried to turn. His arms were grabbed from behind by both men, and he struggled to break free. Allen started to yell, and his supposed source covered his mouth, which he bit for all he was worth. The guy cursed in pain, but then Allen felt something stab into his back. A knife, he thought.

He was going to die in this elevator.

But a burning pain spread in his knew and he realized it had been a needle instead of a knife. Something had been injected into him.

“Stay calm,” the source said. “Don’t fight it.”

The elevator descended the fourteen flights. The doors opened to the lobby, and two paramedics were waiting with a gurney. Allen felt his knees buckle, and as he fell, arms propped him up. He tried to yell, but his mouth would not respond.

As the walls begin to spin and go black, the two medics were the last thing Allen saw. He heard the source say, “Here he is, help him,” in an urgent voice to relieve any onlookers.

Allen heard a woman say, “Oh my God,” but the paramedics were loading and strapping him down. They had it under control, the bystanders assumed, so no one pulled out their cell phones.

Allen’s source and the other two men split up and disappeared in the confusion.

The paramedics checked his pulse as they rolled him toward the door and told everyone watching that Allen would be fine.

No one that saw the incident bothered to call his office, the hospital, or the police.

Chapter 7

Allen Green awoke, dizzy and disoriented. His mind was groggy, like a hangover, but worse. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.

Opening them again, he realized the room had no windows. As he fully gained consciousness, Allen realized he was in an empty, concrete cell.

He was lying on a green, military-issue cot, and the only light in the room came from a single bulb built into the ceiling and enclosed behind wire.

Belatedly, he noticed a man built like an NFL linebacker sitting in a metal folding chair reading a Muscle and Fitness magazine. In his blue jeans, the man’s upper legs had that deformed look only big weightlifters have.

The man’s face even looked tough. His jaw jutted forward like the front of a train, blocky and solid. The face was wide and hard as if it had been carved from granite.

His eyes, small and intense, appeared cruel. He looked up, bored.

His eyes narrowed, seeming to imply how ridiculous it was he had to stand guard over a person as pathetic as Allen.

“Glad to see you’re up,” he grunted. “I’ll get Whitaker.”

He walked over to an iron, windowless door, knocked three times, and exited once a series of locks snapped open. The door slammed, thick and heavy, like a vault.

Allen tried to remember how he got here. It was hazy. He was pretty sure he’d left Jacksonville, North Carolina, for New York, but wasn’t certain. He also thought he’d published the story about American snipers killing Soviet soldiers, but he was not sure now.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, which strangely had no sleep in them.

The door opened, and the muscle man that had been reading the magazine walked in. Another tall man followed him.

This man wore business attire: khakis, long-sleeved button up shirt, and brown dress shows. The tall man took a seat in the metal chair previously used by the linebacker. Allen took the well-dressed man to be Whitaker.

Whitaker crossed his right leg over his left leg, looking like a CEO ready for a good game of chess. He stared at Allen, mute.

Allen took advantage of the time. As a reporter, he was used to noticing small details, and he had a feeling if he lived to see the outside world again, he might want to remember the face.

Whitaker, in a single word, was ugly. He was tall and built, but had more of a runner’s body than a lifter. He looked like he could run back-to-back marathons.

But despite a tall, in-shape body, his face looked out-of-proportion. The nose was too big, the eyes too far apart. He was, in a word, ugly.

After what felt like at least thirty seconds, Whitaker rubbed his jaw and spoke.

“Allen,” Whitaker said, “you have no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

Allen could tell he was definitely Ivy League educated.

Allen was still groggy but wasn’t in the mood to argue.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Allen, I’ll be directing this conversation,” the man said calmly.

“Who are you?” Allen asked, anger in his voice.

Allen never saw it coming, as Mr. NFL linebacker stepped forward and threw an uppercut into his solar plexus. He fell backward, and his weight flipped the cot. His back slammed into the concrete, and his head followed, knocking against the floor. Stunned, he tried to shake it off, but before he could clear his thoughts, the man yanked him to his feet and sat him back on the now up-righted cot.

Allen gasped for breath, unable to breathe. Tears fell from his eyes, without him willing it. He’d never been punched before, having lived a guarded, sophisticated life in the New England area. Hell, he had been an only child who had always attended the best private schools.

He whimpered as he tried to breathe.

Mr. Linebacker, maple-legs, sneered in contempt at his weakness.

“Allen, now you need to calm down,” Whitaker said in the same sophisticated voice. He talked as if they were chatting and sharing drinks at a wedding reception.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “You have no idea what you’ve done or the world of shit you’ve created with that little article of yours.”

Allen sat mute and wiped the tears from his eyes, suddenly embarrassed by his inability to handle pain.

“With just one article, at that,” Whitaker said. “Thanks to your work, we have confirmed that a double agent in Moscow has been abducted, and we’ve lost contact with five other agents inside Russia. Six CIA field agents, Allen. Do you know how large a chunk of national security that is?”

Allen’s brain was clearing up, and he was beginning to catch his breath. The article and the way he had been snatched from his office were coming back to him. He remembered the article, but could not figure out how it translated into six field agents being nabbed.

Not being one who was afraid to ask a question, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“You moron,” Whitaker said. “The double agent you said was arrested was never actually arrested. You had your facts wrong. And that man was our most important double agent inside Russia. And now he’s gone, as are five others.”

“Oh,” Allen said.

“Allen, we need you to think, and play this smart,” Whitaker replied. “We need you to work with us, starting right now.”

Whitaker grinned, a slight and controlled smile that was a bit awkward, if not creepy.

“The choices you make from this point forward,” Whitaker said, “matter very much now. You see, we have lots of collateral damage to clean up. Your choice is either a life of cooperation and silence or a string of bad coincidences.”

Allen roared at Whitaker: “You ever heard of protected sources or the First Amendment, asshole? Journalists never give out their sources. You should know that --”

The linebacker stepped forward and cocked his fist before Whitaker grabbed his arm. Whitaker smiled as the linebacker stepped back.

Allen expected Whitaker to say, “There’s no need for that,” or, “We don’t want to have to hurt you.” That’s always what happened in Hollywood.

Instead, Whitaker pulled out a small cell phone from his pants pocket. As he punched in some numbers, he nodded to the linebacker, who left the room.

Allen heard a voice on the phone answer and say, “Yes?”

“Do it,” Whitaker commanded before hanging up.

Mr. NFL Linebacker returned to the room, carrying a hand-held police scanner. He turned it on, and it took several minutes of routine chatter before it became clear how the phone call and police radio were related.

A dispatcher reported a fire had been called in, and read off an address.

It was Allen’s apartment address.

“You mother-fucker,” Allen said.

Mr. Linebacker stepped forward and repeated his earlier punch, but harder. As Allen fell back again, he felt rather sure his sternum might have cracked this time. Again, he was hauled back onto the cot far before he was ready. And again he cried though he tried to hold back the tears.

He managed to say between gasps, “You know,” deep breath, “nearly a hundred people,” deep breath, “live in that apartment complex.”

“Allen, two-hundred and eighty million people live in the United States. You still aren’t following that whole national security theme I mentioned earlier. More than likely, your most secret notes, e-mails, encrypted data on your hard drive, etc., was in your apartment, not at the office.”

Whitaker reveled in Allen’s gaping mouth.

“And don’t worry about the fire safe, you can be confident we have a firefighter looking for it. Oh, and by the way, at your office right now, a warrant has been handed to your editor and we are seizing your computer, files, desk and contents of your locker. We’re also starting interviews with your fellow employees.”

Whitaker chuckled. “You know, Allen, you really shouldn’t store pornography of little girls on your hard drive.”

“You know damn well I’m not a pedophile,” Allen yelled as he jumped from the cot. He never even got to his feet. A flurry of punches, elbows, and knees from the Linebacker left him in a heap on the floor, blood flowing from his nose, mouth, and a cut on the right side of his face.

On the scanner, frantic voices screamed for ambulances. Firefighters were trying to rescue people from the second floor, where they were trapped. The fire continued to grow in intensity, and desperate calls to other fire stations were being made.

“Now, Allen, you being a divorced man with no kids, it’d seem we wouldn’t have much leverage on you. But, we know you are kind of fond of Jennifer, right?”

Allen flinched and immediately regretted it.

“I’m sure you know she’s off today, but did you know she’s shopping right this minute on Sixth Avenue? Let’s get down to business before another accident happens and she gets hurt. First, where’d you get your information?”

Allen gritted his teeth. He debated holding out.

You were taught from day one in journalism school to never give out your sources. They were your leverage, your hidden weapons.

“Allen,” Whitaker said, “this involves more than you and Jennifer. Those who stand up for you -- your friends, your editor, and whoever else may be out there -- their lives are going to get uncomfortable, too. You have to help. Only you can stop this right now.”

It felt like a nightmare. Allen had never believed in conspiracies. Yet now it seemed he was caught up in one.

They indoctrinated you in college about a free press and the fact that these things didn’t happen. But, the prick Whitaker sat there smiling, his hands clasped together on his knee. A real pompous ass.

“While you’re thinking,” Whitaker said as he dialed a number into the phone, “let’s check on Jennifer.”

“No!” Allen screamed, not even meaning to.

He was amazed at how easily he broke. He despised their strength.

In a low voice, his head bowed down and tears still streaming from his eyes, Allen Green told them Colonel Russ Jernigan’s name. He explained how he had managed to scoop the story. And he listened to their instructions for damage control.

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.

Chapter 12

Outside the house, the first three FBI agents stopped about two feet from the door, holding their position. The first agent in the stack covered the door with his H&K MP-5.

The fourth agent, the breacher, moved up from the rear of the file with a forty-five pound battering ram. Now in front of the door, he reared back and swung the ram as hard as he could, aiming just to the left of the door handle.

The ram smashed into the wood with a roar, knocked back the door, and set off a screaming alarm that Bobby, in all his paranoia, had installed without Anne’s knowledge.

The door flew open and hit Anne's forearm, causing the cocked gun to swing right and fire. The powerful .357 magnum exploded as it punched a massive bullet down the barrel. The pistol was so loud that it temporarily overpowered the 126-decibel alarm.

Anne had no idea if she hit anything or not. Sheer terror, magnified by the screaming alarm, took over and she bolted for the back door.

The breacher was spun around and thrown down by the massive .357 bullet. The jacketed hollow-point entered his upper leg and smashed through his femur before exiting out the back of his leg along with several bone fragments.

The SWAT team froze, panic taking over. None of them had ever been shot at, much less hit. Not to mention, the damn alarm had them frozen with its overpowering sound. Their ears were ringing so loudly that they almost woozy from the noise.

Then, training took over as the assault team leader screamed, “Shots fired, officer down!” into his radio.

Now, all the SWAT team members were trying to scream over the blaring alarm. Suddenly, the first man felt a hand on his shoulder, as the second man hurled a flash bang grenade into the room.

The grenade blasted at over one thousand decibels and flashed with two million candle light power. The officers burst into the room behind the stun grenade.

Anne tore out the back door.

An explosion behind her roared and lit up the entire house like a firecracker lighting up a barrel. She stumbled over a root, falling hard and dropping the pistol in the process.

Scrambling to her feet, she could barely make out people in the backyard shouting over the alarm behind her.

She had to get into the woods. Bobby was there. Somewhere. He’d protect her.

She saw motion running toward her off to her left. Someone was running at her, pointing a pistol and screaming, though she couldn’t hear what he was saying over the alarm.

She had no fight left in her. Whoever these people were, there were simply too many.

She raised her hands to give up and show she was unarmed. But a flash and roar went off from her left.

Something hit her hard in the stomach and she tumbled. A searing, burning pain erupted in her stomach.

On her back, she struggled to stand, but her legs would not move.

Could she be paralyzed? She tried to move her legs, but they didn’t respond. Panic seized her and she screamed in an ear-piercing, heart-wrenching wail.

Numbness spread and the world grew dimmer. The blaring alarm grew quieter. She lost track of time but struggled to keep her eyes open.

Was she dying? She didn’t know, but she felt so tired and sleepy.

Blurry objects stood over her. She blinked her eyes to see them and realized they were police officers.

How odd, she thought, before fatigue beckoned her to close her eyes and go to sleep.

There was someone running out the back door. FBI Special Agent Jack Ward screamed, “Freeze, Police,” but, the person couldn’t hear him.

Actually, he could barely hear his own words over the damn alarm.

“I can’t let someone get away,” he thought. He pursued the “felon,” racing out of the tree line, even if she wore a nightgown and looked non-threatening.

“Stop! Freeze! Police!” he shouted, closing the distance.

She saw him, and a cold fear overwhelmed him. “Holy shit!” he thought. She was raising her arm, swinging it his way.

He saw a gun. She was going to kill him, just like she had one of the members of the entry team. He’d heard it on the radio. He raised his pistol.

His hands seemed slow, as though they wouldn’t respond. It was like his senses were inhibited by alcohol. But as he finally managed to pull the trigger, the sight picture remained locked in his brain.

He knew he had made a bad shot, hitting her low. He never even got on target again before the woman fell from his sight picture.

Ward ran up to her, to kick the gun from her hand. And that’s when he saw, she had no gun. He replayed the scene in his mind of her running across the yard.

She had been sprinting but had slowed when she saw him. And she had turned and raised… Oh, no, Ward thought. She had been turning to raise her hands in surrender.

He looked about for the pistol. If he could just find it and place it in her hands, he’d be all right.

Otherwise, he might lose his job or end up in jail for shooting an unarmed woman. He darted along her path from the house, searching frantically.

Chapter 13

Again, Bobby heard the sound. This time, there was no doubt in his mind. It was a gunshot, not quite as powerful and distinct as the first, nearly undetectable off in the distance.

Countless possibilities ran through his mind. The shots were definitely from the direction of his home. He stood up from his rock perch, where moments before the first shot he had been debating how best to make up with Anne.

He was probably a mile from the house, but a steep ridge was in his path. The night was quite dark with only a quarter moon to penetrate through the trees. It would not be safe for him to run, but he decided to anyway, taking off at a brisk jog.

Limbs slapped his face as he tore through the night. Noticing a hole, he cut hard left only to find his feet sliding out from under him on the leaves.

He landed hard on the side of his left leg. Groaning, he scrambled back to his feet, put weight on his left leg to test it, and took off again.

The scene at the house had changed. Flashing blue lights from five police cars lit up the landscape. There was a state-trooper vehicle, three unmarked cruisers with flashing strobe lights on their dashes, and a large armored FBI SWAT vehicle.

A siren roared in the distance as all heads turned in the hope that it was the ambulance. It was not. The local county sheriff skidded into the driveway slinging loose gravel. He jumped out of his car and shouted to the nearest body, which happened to be a woman dressed in an elegant skirt and blouse.

“Just what in God’s name is going on here?”

Then the sheriff saw Anne, who he knew. Three people leaned over her. The three were standing now and someone pulled out a white sheet to cover her.

From inside the tree line, a sweating and out of breath Bobby Ferguson watched the scene. He had almost burst from the tree line until his ears caught words of anger between the sheriff and some guy dressed in a suit.

Bobby knew if Sheriff Bo Jensen wasn’t privy to what was going on, it meant feds.

Then he saw the trio kneeling over a prone body. He recognized the nightgown and nearly dashed from the woods, but a voice from the depths of his conscience told him to stay put.

He watched all the agents as they stood around and took photos. He noticed one bleeding agent had been shot. She’d hit one of them though he’d likely live.

Around the perimeter, agents put up yellow police tape. He then saw an agent spread a white sheet over her.

He nearly lost it. Anne. Dead? It couldn’t be.

He tried to control his anger, but a deep rage coursed through him. His unpracticed, near extinct discipline, barely kept him from rushing out. To maul the assholes on his land.

He felt the rush of adrenaline and the cold thoughts of a killer. He clenched his teeth and felt tears roll down his face.

No, he nearly screamed! She was his anchor. His foundation.

He looked at the soft agents in his yard. In suits and fucking sedans. Those fuckers don’t know war, he thought. I’ll show them fucking war.

He hit himself in the face, hating the tears. Hating the situation. Hating the feeling of helplessness.

He shook his head, digging his fingers deep into the hard dirt. I need to control myself, he thought. I’m a sniper, not a maniac. I need to get somewhere and think this through. Find out who’s behind it.

And with that, Bobby Ferguson crept back into the woods and the dark night air. Unfortunately for a lot of people, Bobby Ferguson was formerly known as Nick Woods.

And Nick Woods was one of the greatest snipers this country had ever produced. Nick Woods was the Marine Sniper that had bagged his limit of Soviet soldiers in the hills of Afghanistan.

Unfortunately for Whitaker, the FBI from the Knoxville branch had failed to bag Bobby Ferguson in their raid. And the very dangerous and skilled Nick Woods had lost his anchor in the process.

Chances were better than great that a lot of blood would soon be spilled.

Chapter 14

For Whitaker, picking up Colonel Russ Jernigan proved a cinch.

An undercover police cruiser with a North Carolina Highway Patrolman sat waiting on the tarmac for Whitaker and his henchman when Whitaker’s plane landed. The cruiser pulled up right next to the taxi-ing jet, and Whitaker and Tank, the man termed Mr. Linebacker by Allen Green, climbed in. The officer switched on his lights and squealed out of the airport toward Camp Lejeune.

Not a word was said during the drive. The Highway Patrolman was rightfully intimidated, and Tank was contemplating the upcoming action. He lived for the opportunity to hurt those that needed hurting.

Meanwhile, Whitaker had too much on his mind to talk. The story by Allen Green was a potential catastrophe of Herculean proportions. He attempted to plan the next steps, but there were far too many unknowns. As much as he hated it, it looked like he would be playing this one by ear.

The guard gates of Camp Lejeune broke him from his thoughts. The patrol car avoided the Marines at the gate by turning into a driveway before it. The road led to the visitor’s building parking lot, where visitors who lacked military ID’s could get passes onto the base.

Waiting for them in the corner of the parking lot was a Major in camouflage utilities and an enlisted Marine. Two military hummers were parked behind them. Whitaker and Tank exited the vehicle without even a thanks to the trooper.

The Major nodded to Whitaker as the three approached.

“Long time no see,” he said.

Whitaker replied, “You’re right. It has been a long time, but we need to move fast.”

“Sure,” the Major nodded. “We’ll tell the guards you’re with us. Go wherever you need and stay on the base as long as necessary. If MPs pull you over, call me on my cell phone. When you’re done, leave the hummer anywhere you’d like, either on or off base. Just call me, so we can retrieve it quickly.”

Whitaker smirked, impressed. “I owe you.”

The Major smiled, knowing a debt repaid by Whitaker took one far in life. It was worth endangering his career by breaking more ordinances and rules than he could name.

The Major jumped in his hummer with his enlisted driver, and Whitaker and Tank climbed in the other one. As they had been told by the Major, Whitaker and Tank were waved through by the Marine MPs without a single question or glance, which was quite a feat in the post-Sept. 11 world.

The Major sped away and left them to their business, which he knew better than to ask about.

The whole interview with Colonel Russ Jernigan took less than two hours and was uneventful. Tank had driven Whitaker to Colonel Jernigan’s office, where Whitaker had gone in and told Jernigan they needed to talk. Not asked, just told. Jernigan had willingly left without a scene though he had looked a little pale and nervous to his fellow Marine officers.

They had driven Jernigan off base to a motel in Jacksonville. By that point, Jernigan had really grown concerned. The complete silence during the trip hadn’t helped.

Inside the room, they had “questioned” Jernigan, which of course meant Tank got to throw some punches and spill some blood. As the pain and pressure built up, Whitaker started to believe Jernigan had spilled the information to Allen Green, despite his constant denials.

Jernigan was just too nervous and guilty looking for Whitaker’s liking.

But then Whitaker’s phone rang and the need for questioning ended. Whitaker learned that the FBI had raided Bobby Ferguson’s house the night before, or Nick Woods depending on which name you preferred, and he was gone.

That made it certain that Nick Woods had talked to Allen, not Colonel Jernigan. And it meant Allen Green has very wisely deceived Whitaker and given up the decoy name of Jernigan instead of his true source.

Nicely played, Whitaker had to admit.

Whitaker apologized to Jernigan for the “misunderstanding” and headed back to the airport. He and Tank were headed to Knoxville. They had a manhunt to lead before Nick Woods got too far away.

Jernigan, though bloodied and nearly at his breaking point, felt only relief that the call had arrived when it did. He had been mere moments from telling them about the night at Leatherneck bar. And if they discovered the truth, they would have certainly killed him.

Chapter 15

Flying now toward Knoxville on the same private jet, Whitaker tried to control his anger. After hearing about what had happened in Tennessee, besides Bobby Ferguson being gone, he cursed himself for depending on FBI goons.

I swear they’re really nothing but office personnel these days, he thought. Whitaker’s men weren’t college educated, and he cared far more about how much they could bench press and how tight their groupings were on the range than whether they cussed or told insensitive jokes.

The shootout and death in the FBI raid on Bobby Ferguson’s house had left a clue for the world, at least for those smart enough to connect the dots.

Allen Green was smart enough, but he was under complete observation, twenty-four hours a day. Besides, he’d been fired from The New Yorker, and no one would hire him now.

He now lacked “integrity” in the eyes of most of the world, and many suspected, including the New York Police, that he’d started the fire at his apartment to gain more attention or notoriety. Or, whatever the hell he was seeking.

A typical unsuccessful writer with a midlife crisis, they probably thought. Whitaker grinned at how well he’d handled it.

An undercover agent working for Whitaker had tried to tempt Allen already. The man had posed an editor for a British newspaper and contacted Allen, saying he actually believed Allen’s original story. And had been researching the matter himself. Furthermore, the “editor” had offered $100,000 if Allen would share the true story of what happened.

Finally, the editor had said that if the story proved true, the parent company would hire him as a senior reporter with a great salary. It was another chance for Allen, or so it appeared.

But, Allen had wisely turned down the offer and said he had made the entire story up. It wasn’t true. And in the process, Allen had unknowingly extended his life.

So how big was the threat, Whitaker wondered?

What was the possibility that Nick Woods could damage or destroy Whitaker’s organization? True, he could shoot better than ninety-ninety percent of the world, but he lacked any education, wealth, or powerful friends.

Plus, he’d left every single weapon he owned in his home. In addition, the FBI had immediately contacted his bank and frozen his accounts, which were meager anyway.

So, Nick Woods had no money, no vehicle, no friends that mattered. And just to be safe, every single construction worker was under surveillance, as well.

Whitaker had expected for a car to be stolen or a minor robbery to occur as Nick made his way out of Grainger County, but it hadn’t happened. Without a trace, Nick Woods, the master sniper, was gone.

What would I do if I were him, Whitaker wondered. An all-points bulletin had been issued nationwide for the name Bobby Ferguson and alias Nick Woods, and a recent surveillance photo had been distributed across the country.

If Whitaker had ever owned a conscience, he’d have felt like shit for distributing a nationwide APB that a “Bobby Ferguson” was a serial child molester, not a renamed former Marine that had honorably served his country. But, the child molester approach always garnered more attention from police departments and other agencies, as well as media attention.

Truthfully, Whitaker finally acknowledged, he was worrying too much. The odds were stacked too high against Nick Woods. He was done. It might take a couple of days, or a week or two, but he’d be caught.

He’d get pulled over or have some cop walking a beat rouse him from some alley and recognize him. He might hurt an innocent cop or two, but their radios would bring his death.

And if they took him alive, Whitaker would make sure he didn't live long. Even if it had to happen in the depths of a prison, Nick Woods would be eliminated. Whitaker couldn’t allow the man the opportunity to go to the press again.

Whitaker laid his head back against the plane’s seat and closed his eyes. It had been a long two days, which had kicked off with the publishing of the story.

Then, there had been the questioning of Allen, the visit of Colonel Jernigan, and now the flight to Knoxville to oversee the chase.

But, the stress was a small price to pay, he thought. It was nothing in the big scheme of things, and that’s all Whitaker cared about.

Chapter 16

Nick Woods was deep in a thicket, walking down a worn deer trail. Just an hour before, he had seen Anne motionless body, lying in the wet grass.

Nick tried to come up with a reason as to why his house had been raided by the feds. He was looking for any plausible motive, which wasn’t based on conspiracy theories.

Maybe someone had committed a crime in Grainger County, and they’d got the addresses mixed up?

Shut up, Bobby, the old Nick said, returning. You know why they came.

But he didn’t. He hadn’t talked. He had told no one about the number of Soviet Spetsnaz killers he had bagged in Afghanistan.

Then, it hit him. He stopped walking. Only one man outside the CIA other than himself knew the truth. Captain Russell Jernigan, if that was even his real name. That motherfucker spilled the beans, Nick thought.

Nick had always distrusted the man. For Jernigan, the entire episode in Pakistan had been a game. More than likely, Jernigan had never killed a man or he wouldn’t have been that way. Or maybe he had, but he’d definitely never been on the losing end of a firefight where a friend or acquaintance didn’t walk away. Or walked away, but only on crutches.

Nick knew war wasn’t a game. It wasn’t about containment or falling dominoes when rounds were skipping rocks into your face and you were screaming for your mother.

He could hardly remember the details of Jernigan, what he looked like, or where he might be, but it didn’t matter. Because now, he had a target.

Nick clenched his fists, swallowed down anger, and headed toward his cave.

He found it with ease though he hadn’t been to it in years. It was hard to believe, but Anne had actually begun to heal him. Along with the medication, and the lying doctor.

“Bobby, there isn’t anyone watching you,” the doctor would say at every visit. “What makes you think that? You’re just sick.”

Nick had always thought the doctor was one of them. Trained to know what to say that was most effective for veterans like him, who had been sold out by their government.

In fact, Nick had thought initially that Anne was one of them. Just to calm him and keep him quiet. To make him soft.

And, it’d worked. He’d changed from a murderous man intent upon finding out who had sold him and his partner out in Afghanistan, to a paramilitary nut on a hill content with being left alone, to finally a married man who shot for old time’s sake and was just a touch paranoid.

Now, he knew that Anne wasn’t one of them. They’d killed her. The thought made him shake with rage, as did the fact he had ever doubted her sincerity. He paused to swallow down tears.

Get in character, Nick. They used to say that in the Corps all the time. You had to stay focused. Without emotion most of the time. Especially in war.

Standing outside the cave, he wished he had a flashlight. He wondered why he’d never thought of that. That he might have to find this cache in the dark.

Then he remembered. Because more than likely, he’d be in the house at dark, and he could have held off an army there. Held it off until he decided to retreat through his tunnel. The thought of the tunnel underneath his house made him think of Anne.

If she had known about that -- God, she would have left him. He smiled. She was a hell of a fighter. Shit, she had to be to partially tame him.

He closed his eyes and remembered her gorgeous face. Her passionate kisses. Her rage when he upset her. It took all Nick had to fight back more tears.

Alright now, Nick, get your head in the game and get in character. Do you love Anne? Then find out who the murderous bastards were behind her death. Find them and help restore honor in this country.

That is what Anne would want.

With that thought, he got on his hands and knees and crawled into the black hole of his cave. It was damp, and the air was thick. It reminded Nick of the smell that always permeated around Camp Lejeune in the swamps: stagnant water and rotting wood.

He couldn’t see a thing. His hands groped through wet dirt, and he hit his head on a rock outcropping along the ceiling.

He was scared shitless, worrying he’d grab a snake or run into a bobcat waiting at the end of the cave. His head went through a spider web, and he spit and knocked at his face, nearly stopping and backing out.

Hatred and training took over. He had to do this for Anne. If it was meant for a copperhead or bobcat to be in here, then so be it.

The fatalistic instinct he’d always relied on during combat was returning. It kept you sane, making things easier. Play smart. Play the odds. But in the end, fate often decided where rounds struck and which targets were hit.

Nonetheless, you kept moving as the bullets went by you, or you died. Period. And once you understood and believed in fate, courage came easier.

Besides, with Anne gone, he had little to live for.

So he pushed deeper, fear keeping his heartbeat at a dangerously high rate. After he’d crawled for what seemed like miles, but what he knew to be twelve feet, he found it. An opening on the right side of the cave that was about a foot higher than the tunnel he now crawled through. This higher portal was designed to keep his equipment dry.

He’d spent years digging the tunnel with a Marine e-tool. It’d taken weeks to dig in the uncomfortable small space, but now it had finally paid off. He reached up into the side hole and immediately felt canvas.

It was a green military issue backpack, stuffed full of things he’d once thought he might need in a survival situation: a couple sets of civilian clothes, heavy climbing rope, duct tape, a small flashlight, extra batteries, a green wool blanket, an unloaded .45 pistol, three empty magazines, two boxes of .45 cartridges, and cash. Lots of cash in small denominations.

He dragged the pack out of the cave as fast as he could and took a deep breath of fresh air. Damn, it felt good to be out of that cave. In the darkness, he laid the pack upright and opened it. Thankfully, the straps appeared to be fine. He’d always worried they might dry rot, but apparently, the semi-dry cave had worked.

Inside the pack, a green sealed bag met him. It was rubber and tied at the top by a wrapped and knotted string. The classic Willie-Pete bag, as Marines called them, the “WP” standing for “water-proof.”

They were a Godsend for infantrymen. They helped your pack float if you needed to cross a deep river and kept your clothes dry regardless of how hard it rained.

Untying the strings, he opened the bag and found another identical one. Also sealed. He opened it, maneuvering his fingers past the clothes and supplies in search for his pistol.

He found it and pulled it out. It took longer to find the two pistol magazines and flashlight. Then, after locating a box of cartridges, Nick started to load each magazine. He used his mouth to aim the mini Maglite.

He was pretty sure he could load the magazines in the dark correctly, but he wanted to make certain he didn’t force a round in backward. That might be bad in a gunfight.

He’d left the magazines unloaded because he’d always worried keeping them crammed full of bullets might weaken the springs over many years. And if the springs were loose, then his gun might jam. And if your gun jammed, you died.

After loading the three magazines, he pulled one more cartridge out of the box and closed it. He put the box of cartridges back in the pack and turned the flashlight off. He then stuck the single round between his teeth and worked the pistol’s slide back and forth. It slid easily and felt smooth. Dependable.

He then aimed it through the woods and pulled the unloaded gun’s trigger. The hammer fell crisply. The function check completed, he fed a magazine in the pistol and worked the slide once more, feeding a round in the chamber.

Then he dropped the magazine, pleased with its easy release, and took the round from his mouth. He loaded this last round into the magazine, giving him eight rounds of .45 ammo in a firefight instead of seven.

Finished, he checked the safety lock and stuffed the pistol, now cocked and locked, into his waistband behind his back. Using his left hand, he stuck the two extra magazines into the left side of his waistband, bottom up, so the lip at the base of the magazine would keep them from sliding down.

He picked up the flashlight and used it to look in the pack for his money. He found the thick envelope within seconds. It was a nine by twelve mailing envelope, encased by three plastic bags. It held $10,600.

He’d started with $200 in twenty-dollar bills hidden in his house after he was discharged. Then, he’d set aside a twenty-dollar bill each week for ten years before finally stopping with Anne's help.

He removed one hundred dollars and placed it in his wallet. He put the envelope back in the pack, at the bottom, and sealed the whole thing up. He figured anyone trying to rob him would ask him for his wallet, not his pack.

He wished there was some food in it. He was hungry after the late-night run to his house and the evasion through the woods. But, he’d decided not to put food in it on purpose, even sealed military issue MRE’s, for fear that animals might smell them and chew into his pack.

Well, that’s what he had money for. He hoisted the heavy pack and welcomed its weight, for its contents were his only chance of getting away. The weight brought back old memories of long night marches. Pain too impossible to describe unless you’d actually been on one.

He adjusted the straps, bounced up and down to get it seated, and then adjusted the straps one last time. He placed the flashlight in his left front pocket and readjusted the pistol on his right hip. He was ready. He headed off through the woods.

He saw the highway about an hour later. He thought it might be about that long because he hadn’t looked at his watch at either the cave or immediately following the shootout. After leaving the cave, Nick had been debating whether to take the road or stay in the trees.

The argument between the sheriff and the FBI led him to believe there wouldn’t be roadblocks all across the county. This had to be an illegal operation or why wouldn’t the sheriff be involved?

Although he figured the roads weren’t blocked, Nick suspected they were on his trail. If he were them, he’d have some dogs following, too. An inexpensive yet effective operation.

It wouldn’t draw much media or public attention. But, if they set up roadblocks and stopped every resident on every major road, then the newspapers and TV station reporters would be going nuts in no time.

His decision made, he walked up on the road. He had to hope the next car or so (going either way) wasn’t a police officer. But, he had to get out of the county fast, and that meant taking bold risks.

He was surprised they didn’t have a helicopter after him yet. They must have been certain they’d get him in the house. Damned fools must not have planned any other contingencies, he thought. They just saw his truck and moved in, without even having the home under any kind of surveillance to confirm he was there.

They wouldn’t last long in war, where a thing called Murphy’s Law had put many a man in the ground.

Headlights coming from behind him illuminated his path. He kept walking. He knew from his experience in giving rides that you never picked anybody up that was looking for a ride. So he kept walking, but let his shoulders sag some, real tired-like. He added a bit of a limp, too. The car flew past him without slowing or swerving out of the way. Nick wasn’t even sure if it saw him.

Then he saw headlights approaching from his front, from way off. There were three sets of them. Two cars and one truck passed without a thought. Then two more sets of lights appeared from behind him. He resumed his tired, weary gait.

The front vehicle was slowing as it approached. He could tell by the squeal of the brakes that needed to be replaced. It went past him, its right signal warning the car behind it to slow down. It was stopping.

It was a truck. A Ford, mid-eighties, with rust visible along the corners of the fenders. Nick sped up and caught the look of the man in the truck. He looked old. Probably sixty. Sure that the man was okay and not some agent, Nick dropped his pack and hoisted it into the bed of the truck. Depositing it with relief, he readjusted his pistol in the darkness and climbed into the truck, thankful country folks were so warm hearted.

“Howdy, there,” the driver said.

“Howdy.”

“Where you headed?”

“West,” Nick said with a smile.

The old man, his face covered with grisly, unshaven gray hairs grinned back. “You running from something?” he asked good-naturedly.

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.

From his time as a boy (with a tough, stern Dad) to his time playing football, he had always an affection for toughness. No, it was not toughness. It was pride. It was saying what you thought, even if that meant taking a good ass whooping instead of wisely backing down.

And with that thought, he retraced his steps from last night. He had some hunting to do.

The deck was stacked against him big time. It was a long shot, but he’d made a few long shots in his day.

Someone, or some group, had come after him with a plan, and now it was time to strike back and remind them that two sides could bring the pain. That once you start a fight, you lose full control of what will happen.

Your opponent can move and strike back, and that’s precisely what Nick Woods would do now.

Chapter 19

It was dark, and Nick was in the woods again.

The day had proved uneventful. He’d left his pack in the woods, bought some food at the gas station after his two-hour morning practice session, and gone back into the woods to eat. He’d stayed there until after five, confident at that point that if there were roadblocks or patrols, they’d be giving up or at least lessening their force.

Everyone has to sleep and eat at some point. And usually with manhunts, you went all out in the beginning, pushing your folks until they could barely stand anymore, then you started thinking about rest and long-term capabilities.

At five, he’d grabbed his pack and headed for the gas station again. Upon arriving, he’d hid it in some bushes and stood outside the building, leaning on it waiting for the right person. Nick had waited twenty minutes, counting six cars filling with gas, and then that person had shown.

Again, it was an old man, and again the man drove a truck. Nick had approached the senior and offered him sixty dollars to drive him to Oak Ridge, a nearby city just a good hour away.

The man, who relied on Social Security, had quickly agreed. Nick grabbed his pack, threw it in the back of the truck, and hopped in.

This second man had been a real talker, unlike the one from the night before. He’d lost his wife to cancer, and his only son had moved to the big city (or “seety,” as he called it) and rarely visited.

The big “seety” was just Knoxville, hardly a true big city, but Nick had listened respectfully. Nick had answered some of the man's questions, making up stuff as he went. But mainly, he kept the man talking about himself or his son.

Above all, Nick knew it was important the man not find anything memorable about his situation, and part of how he kept that from happening was by making certain his situation didn’t seem strange.

Thus, Nick chatted with the man, keeping up the guise that he had nothing to hide.

While the man droned on, Nick had been thinking. Unless he was totally mistaken, he figured that in some media outlet somewhere, the story involving him and his spotter’s work in Afghanistan had been published recently.

He had the old man drop him off at a shabby motel in Oak Ridge. Nick didn’t even see a name for the place, just a red lit vacancy sign in the window of the office. Perfect. He handed three twenty-dollar bills to his driver and then met the old man’s eyes with a stern, serious look.

“Sir,” Nick said. “I’m going to be real honest.”

The man suddenly looked worried, more than likely preparing for the worst. Was Nick some kind of criminal, Nick could see him thinking.

“I’ve had some trouble with the law, and I’m running from the police.”

The man’s face tensed, and Nick could feel him taking in his features, etching them in his mind for when he had to describe his passenger. Shit, Nick thought, maybe this idea had been stupid. Well, he couldn’t give up on it now.

“Basically,” Nick said, “a man I thought was my friend got to fooling around with my wife. I found out about it, and well, you know, had words with him, so to speak. It was a little worse than I planned, and he had some injuries. My wife kicked me out, and the law wants to throw me in the pen for assault charges.”

The man looked relieved to hear such a trifling story.

“Sounds to me like he had it coming,” the man said. “It figures that a man who’d cheat on his friend’s wife would try to deal with his problems through the courts. Gutless bastard. You just hang in there, son. God will take care of you.”

Nick met the man’s eyes again and nodded thoughtfully. The man seemed to have bought Nick’s acting.

“Sir, you have a good day,” Nick said. And with that, he grabbed his pack from the man’s truck and headed into the office of the motel complex.

Chapter 20

Back in Washington, in his Pentagon office, Whitaker sat with his legs propped on his desk. He was pissed. It had been two days since the raid, and they hadn’t found Nick Woods.

While he didn’t know where he was, what he did know was that Bobby Ferguson was dead. Some of his men had tracked Bobby after the local and state police had cleared out and found the trail leading into his cave. And in the cave were heavy drag marks.

So, Bobby had reverted back to the old Nick and in retrieving his cache had become the highly touted Nick Woods. Sniper legend among CIA insiders. Unknown Marine among the military community.

Now, Nick had been alerted. And, he had disappeared. Just like that.

As soon as Whitaker had received the call from the FBI reporting that Bobby Ferguson wasn’t at home, he had scrambled his forces.

Every available person in his organization not already assigned, even those that had recently entered retirement, had been called up. Thirty-one of his undercover people, varying in age from twenty-two to sixty-six, had closed in on Grainger County.

They’d tried every known trick. They had sat in restaurants, driven along back roads, and asked clerks in gas stations about a friend that had broken down and was traveling on foot.

Waiting for the call that Nick had been spotted by these undercover agents were three eight-men strike teams parked strategically throughout the county in undercover work vans. Whitaker's boss had asked the FBI to assist in the light work since they were definitely involved now.

Since they had already been shot by one of the “Ferguson family,” they were more than happy to assist. So the FBI watched friends, family, every known acquaintance of Nick’s. Whitaker didn’t expect Nick to make such a mistake of contacting any of them, but he had to play it safe.

Still, nothing. From anyone.

Besides the bad news that Nick Woods hadn’t been at home, a woman had been killed, and the media were asking questions about the hastily planned raid that reportedly caught some FBI agents off guard.

That infuriated Whitaker. It presented a definite dot on a map. In his line of work, there were always dots.

No, not dots, small blips. The blips were always scattered, separated by hundreds if not thousands of miles. They spanned counties, states, and continents, and usually seemed unrelated.

Allen Green had somehow connected a few blips. Somehow he’d figured out that American troops had hunted down Soviet troops.

Allen had brilliantly connected the blips, or dots. And even figured out that America had then sold out its own men and given away their location to the Soviets.

Of course, he was wrong about the snipers being killed and the small detail about the mole being arrested, but that was to be expected when you were dealing with small blips on the radar screen.

Allen Green presented a great threat. He was a respected journalist and no doubt had friends and colleagues who would never be convinced he invented the entire story. Or that he was a pedophile.

After all, how could a man with a decade’s-long record of integrity truly be such a criminal? His friends were reporters, and eventually, it’d start to wear on them how they’d misread Allen.

They might even decide that they hadn’t misread Allen’s character. That perhaps something else was going on, which was far more devious.

This was exactly why Allen Green was under surveillance 24/7. Not to mention, tech folks were tracking e-mail traffic among media personnel in New York, as well as each and every phone call made by Allen.

Eventually, as time went by, Allen would have to be killed. Of that, Whitaker was certain.

That was the lesson from this situation.

Whitaker had failed to eliminate Nick Woods when he was in Afghanistan. After Nick Woods and his spotter had completed their primary mission of taking out the majority of an elite Soviet Special Forces unit, Whitaker had sent the two men on worthless operations.

Each operation allowed false information to be fed to possible moles inside the CIA. It was hoped the moles could be ferreted out.

And sure enough, it had worked. They had soon found their mole -- a huge victory in itself. And to wrap things up nicely, they had leaked the coordinates of Nick and his spotter on the next mission.

They had hoped the Soviets would tie up the loose ends of Nick and his spotter, and the Soviets certainly tried. They had gone after the two Americans like madmen. More than a hundred troops, backed up by mortars and Hind gunships.

An entire operation merely to get two men. The Soviets had bagged Nick’s spotter and wounded Nick, as well, but he had escaped their cordon and worked his way back to the embassy in Pakistan.

Whitaker was confident Nick knew he had been sold out. As part of every op, Nick and his spotter were given coordinates of where to be picked up. Not just one set, but many, in case they couldn’t get to the primary pick up point. Or, in case the primary pick up point was compromised by the enemy.

But, Nick had avoided the three primary points and two other alternates, all within ten to twenty miles of his mission site. Of course, Whitaker had leaked each of the pick-up points to the mole, hoping the Soviets would bag Nick at one of them and end the mission for good.

But instead, Nick had traveled more than a thousand miles to Pakistan over a period of weeks. All while being wounded.

Whitaker had been so certain that Nick and his partner would be killed or captured that he hadn’t had anyone watching the embassy. He’d closed down the operation and sent all his forces back to America, figuring that there was no way that Nick or his spotter would get away from the battle-hardened Soviets. Not when the Soviets had the specific location of the two men.

But letting down his guard and making that assumption had proved a huge mistake. Weeks later, Nick showed up to the American embassy in Pakistan dressed as a civilian.

He made a demand to the Marine guard at the door that he wanted to meet with the American ambassador, and by the time a leak in the embassy informed Whitaker of the situation, he could hardly have Nick picked off.

Thankfully, Nick had been smart enough to create a credible story of being a missionary kidnapped from Pakistan and dragged into Afghanistan. Then, once he was no longer closely watched, he had escaped.

Nick had told the embassy he was named Bobby Ferguson, and though they could find no record of him, his English was impeccable and they assumed he had been too traumatized to correctly remember his name. He certainly knew American history and geography, and they figured if they just got him back to the states with a psychiatrist, he’d be fine.

Whitaker had already reported to the Marine Corps that Nick Woods and his spotter had died in a training accident while conducting treacherous mountain operations.

The press never caught wind of the abduction and heroic journey of Bobby Ferguson. Partly it was because reporters cared little about missionaries and their religious zeal. And partly it was because no one in the media cared about Afghanistan prior to the attacks of September 11.

Thus, Nick’s story of being a missionary had proven to be brilliant and kept him off anyone’s radar screen. Quite impressive for someone untrained in the art of covert operations.

Whitaker had always debated when to take Nick out once he returned to the states. Nick had somehow understood he’d been thrown into something over his head, and had gone along with giving up his old life.

Nick Woods was dead, and his family would get the $200,000 in life insurance they were due. Nick agreed to avoid his hometown -- at least for ten or twenty years, and then, only in disguise -- and to begin his life anew under the name Bobby Ferguson.

Nick had been told by one of Whitaker’s handlers that he must avoid going home in order to stay under the radar of Soviet KGB agents, who might eventually find and identify him.

“The Soviets still want your hide for all the men you killed,” the handler said. “Not to mention, you helped turn the tide of war against them almost single-handedly, so they’ll be looking for you for years and years. If I were you, I’d stay on the run or keep a low profile.”

Whitaker knew he had to take Nick out at some point. It had to be done, but it wasn’t that simple. Nick was a nut, and he was good.

And Nick realized -- somehow -- what Whitaker hoped he wouldn’t: that his greatest threat wasn’t the KGB, but the CIA hoping to tie up a loose end.

Initially, Nick had placed dynamite all through the house. All primed to go off for the sole reason of causing a scene because Nick was smart enough to know that he couldn’t possibly stay alive.

No one could live forever if expert killers were after you. No one kept their guard up that well.

But, you could cause a scene, and Nick knew that if a house exploded, they would come. Local law enforcement. The media with their dangerous cameras and questions. And, they’d find numerous bodies in the house.

Whitaker had debated taking Nick out on the road in a classic “hit and run” or something, but Nick had approached the sheriff and told him there were people sending threats to him. So, if he’d died within the first few months, there would have been at least an investigation by the sheriff, which wasn’t a problem.

But, if the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation got involved, it could have gotten ugly. Especially, if the FBI decided they would provide assistance.

And who knew how many documents Nick kept in safe deposit boxes that Whitaker didn’t know about.

Nick was crazy, and they knew by his behavior that he was doing everything in his power to prevent his death. And they’re worst fear was that ultimately Nick planned to take down the men behind the murder of his spotter and best friend in Afghanistan.

Whitaker and his men had waited for Nick to take his guard down. To stop carrying two pistols and a knife. To stop watching his mirrors as he drove to work and living a life utterly without a pattern.

Even driving to his job, Nick changed his patterns. Sometimes he would go in to work two hours early and on other days, he would show up five minutes late. He even took different routes, one of which added 24.6 miles and thirty-three minutes to the commute.

The man was a nut. A hard target. Psychotic. But, above all of that, he was just good.

They had left him alone while keeping him under surveillance, just in case he tried to leak the story.

Then something totally magical happened. Nick had met Anne. They had watched the two with interest, and Anne had saved Nick’s life. She had tamed him and made him into nearly a normal man, one that could be taken out, no doubt.

But, Whitaker had changed his mind in one of the few instances of sympathy he’d ever had. Whitaker decided that Nick had served his country well by turning the tide of the war in Afghanistan, being used as a pawn to stop a dangerous Soviet Spetsnaz unit, and discovering a painful mole. Even when he found out the real truth of how he’d been sold out, he remained mute.

A true patriot, if ever there was one.

For sure, Nick could have started probing and looking for who had set him up, but he hadn’t. He’d understood that he’d been caught up in a game much bigger than himself. Much, much bigger. Or perhaps, he never did anything, because he realized how little he could achieve. Or maybe he couldn’t confirm well enough in his own mind that he’d been sold out.

Either way, Anne had finally closed that door for good by falling in love with the distant, stern man, and wearing down his crazy behavior.

But, now Whitaker knew he was in a world of shit. Nick’s single guiding force, his rudder in life, had been brutally killed.

Whitaker had no idea how the death of Anne would affect Nick. Currently, three of the nation’s top psychologists were evaluating Nick’s type of behavior in a “hypothetical” situation.

Worse than not knowing what Nick would do, several FBI agents were asking questions internally about the extremely odd, last-minute assignment they’d been given.

One of their men had been hit and was wounded badly. In addition, these men had no reason to keep quiet. Whitaker imagined every one of them getting phone calls from media outlets literally at any moment.

All Whitaker needed was one of them to explain to some reporter how odd the raid had been. How none of them had heard about their target and how the place hadn’t been scoped by some snipers to make sure Nick, or Bobby Ferguson as they knew him, was inside.

The director of the FBI had called and reamed out Whitaker’s boss. The raid had embarrassed the FBI, and its director was furious.

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.

Chapter 22

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.

Chapter 24

Whitaker walked into a crowded room. It was a rented conference area at the Marriott Hotel in Knoxville, and his troops were assembled. Tank -- his big-ass right-hand man -- was with him, as he always was.

Whitaker wasn’t in a good mood. Senator Ray Gooden had called less than an hour earlier, questioning and threatening Whitaker for nearly twenty minutes. This was an incredible amount of time for his boss to talk to him.

Gooden served on the Senate Armed Forces Committee and usually used aides to pass along direction. Gooden always kept his distance from Whitaker, but he hadn’t today.

Whitaker had known when he accepted the job that he was the fall man in case the whole unit and its various operations were ever exposed. This was Senator Gooden’s project, and Whitaker was merely one of several men to lead it. Most likely, Whitaker wouldn’t be the last. Not as long as the crusty, old Texas Senator was kicking.

Whitaker’s troops watched as he ambled to the front of the table. They knew that Whitaker ambling was not normal. Definitely a bad thing. Whitaker practically sprinted places, never walked. And definitely never ambled.

They were all concerned about what he was about to say though likely some would deny it. He was likely to tell them to double their efforts or some other impossible task like that.

They had all heard stories about his service in Vietnam. How he had arrived as a brand new lieutenant and had nearly been fragged within three days. A record by all accounts. He volunteered his men for everything. Patrols. Ambushes. Guard duty.

When they were not behind their rifles, he volunteered them for work assignments. They burned shit. Filled sand bags. Cleaned machine guns on the line. All because he said they lacked discipline, and America had a war to win; and apparently, Whitaker had decided he’d win it himself.

They had hated him. Before his first contact, he had told the men and squad leaders that any man who didn’t pull his share of the load during a firefight would find himself on every dangerous assignment Whitaker could find. He had said that if they were not naturally brave, he would make them brave.

Those who showed an attitude or acted insubordinately were put on point during patrols by Whitaker. The one that hated him the most and had thrown the frag, a guy named Jones, had paid dearly for his hatred of Whitaker.

Jones had been leading the platoon across an open field one day, mentally and physically exhausted. Whitaker had kept Jones on point for six straight hours. If Whitaker’s superiors had known that, they would have likely court-martialed him. But they didn’t and never would because no one dared to cross Whitaker.

So, Private First Class Bill Jones, a wily veteran with just thirty-two days left in ’Nam, stepped on a mine that even a green replacement would have seen. But, Jones didn’t because he wasn’t paying attention. Not that any man could have been after six hours on point.

Even worse, Jones was dizzy with exhaustion from being put on the ambush squad the night before by Whitaker. Jones had also worked double duty the day before that, filling sandbags while the platoon was in the rear at a firebase, supposed to be resting.

Jones was practically a heat casualty when the event happened. So trudging along, fighting the urge to turn and gun down a boot lieutenant, Jones had stepped on a mine pitifully hidden by a nine-year-old Vietnamese boy.

Some in the platoon swore Whitaker smiled when the blast spewed blood and bone into the air like a geyser. Whitaker had simply called a medevac helo and then had the audacity to tell Jones as he lay on a poncho stretcher, “Son, your country appreciates your service.”

The story went that Whitaker had smiled like a madman when he said it.

Strangely though, the platoon members eventually grew to respect Whitaker, despite his maniacal reign. They became better than the other platoons. Even tighter, because they had to endure more.

He actually became a good leader, finally learning to take care of his men and not to volunteer them all the time. None dared to smoke dope, and they began to buy into Whitaker’s philosophy: a badass platoon that fought daily would take fewer casualties in a firefight than a shitty one that made one bad contact with the enemy.

Whitaker’s platoon was lethal in combat. They would pursue the enemy with an intensity befitting the best Special Forces troops. They walked a bit prouder because they knew they bore a heavier load. Twice, their platoon, leading the company as usual, wasn’t ambushed because of their intensity and alertness. Instead, the Vietcong had ambushed trailing platoons that were walking and talking, some even wearing headphones.

Eventually, soldiers were requesting transfers to Whitaker’s platoon. The platoon had earned the much-deserved reputation as the best platoon in the battalion, and if you were a draftee who wanted to do some good and come home safe, you wanted to be with Whitaker.

Whitaker flourished. He fought the war with such intensity that before long, he went from a platoon with twenty-three men to a company with more than a hundred men. He returned to America after his tour was up, but ultimately, Whitaker missed Vietnam and couldn’t handle the hippies.

Frustrated, he returned. He worked in Saigon in intelligence. He re-enlisted and extended his time and finally got to fill in as a battalion commander while only a Major.

The power was incredibly addictive though Whitaker was only battalion commander for three weeks. Seeing there were few opportunities for command and knowing he was not cut out to wait to earn lieutenant colonel and command a battalion, Whitaker sought other opportunities.

He eventually finagled his way to working intel directly for Ranger teams, Long Range Recon Patrol squads, and even a few CIA teams operating in Cambodia and North Vietnam. He left the Army shortly thereafter and entered the shadows, working for the CIA. And he had been in the shadows ever since.

“Alright, people,” Whitaker said, finally stopping his ambling. He stood at the head of the conference table since he never sat when he was in this kind of mood. His tall figure helped remind them of the chain of command, which way it went, and exactly where his position on it was.

All thirty-one of his undercover people were in the room, and his three eight-man strike teams were present as well. All wore civilian clothes, but they were packing heat under coats, in briefcases, and in ankle holsters.

Looking around the room at his people, he announced, “We are changing plans. Forget the restaurants and the gas stations. Start checking out cheap motels. Also, start pulling badges and drop the you-are-looking-for-your-friend story. We’re pulling out all of the stops on this one.”

His troops listened and tried to hide the concern. Whitaker’s change of plans concerned them. None of them wanted to find Nick Woods alone. And they knew they couldn’t call for back up with every possible confirmation made by some motel manager. One of them would inevitably knock on some door and a very dangerous, super paranoid man would answer.

Whitaker understood this. Even knew this, but was willing to lose an agent to locate Nick. Once he was located, Whitaker’s strike teams could move in, and they would take him down. And if they couldn’t get there fast enough, the local law enforcement could cordon off the area. They’d finally kill him though it mist cost them some men.

Nonetheless, it was a win-win situation as far as Whitaker was concerned. National security trumped concerns for his people and local law enforcement.

It was no different than taking a hill as he had done many times back in the Army. You knew you would lose a few soldiers, but you took the hill. Holding a hill allowed you to dominate terrain, and dominating terrain allowed you to win a war.

Killing Nick Woods was a national priority because he was a threat to one of the greatest, most effective operational units the CIA had ever created.

Chapter 25

Nick Woods had been busy.

He spent the day going through the classifieds of the local weekly paper, The Oak Ridge Observer.

He had found a car to buy, as well as a used rifle. Nick had made phone calls about likely vehicles, narrowed it down to three, and then taken cabs out to inspect the vehicles and talk to the owners.

He settled on a 1982 Chevy Caprice. It was green, ran fairly well, and wasn’t too eye-catching, being neither a complete piece-of-shit nor a shiny brand new vehicle. If he was lucky, it wouldn’t draw the attention of cops or potential witnesses. More importantly, it was a heavy, well-built car that could be used to drive through a roadblock if necessary. It cost him twenty-five hundred dollars, which he paid in cash.

Next, Nick began looking for a scoped deer rifle. There were lots of them listed. After all, it was east Tennessee, and deer season was underway. He narrowed the decision down between a .30-06 and a .308. He went and looked at both, finally purchasing the .308.

The .308 was a Winchester Model 70 bolt-action rifle. It cost him $400, including the mounted scope. He left the farmer’s home and went straight to Wal-Mart, where he bought five boxes of shells. One hundred rounds. It was a start. He left Wal-Mart and bought five more boxes of .308 shells at a gun store in west Knoxville, as well as some targets.

As the day was ending, he drove the Caprice to a large field and began sighting in his rifle. It was way out in the country, north of Oak Ridge, in Morgan County, and he knew the gunshots would not alert anyone. Everyone shot up here on a regular basis.

However, he was worried some armed, angry farmer might pull up. He didn’t know how he would handle that. He just took his chances, and his chances paid off.

He shot thirty-four rounds and got the rifle sighted in. More importantly, he got somewhat comfortable with the rifle and its trigger, from the shooting and all the dry-firing he did prior to finally letting loose. He picked up all of his casings and target sheets before leaving and headed back to his motel room. He needed a shower, some more training time, and sleep.

In the morning, he would go to the public library, first thing.

Chapter 26

Nancy Dickerson was tired. She had been driving from shitty motel to shitty motel for the last eleven hours, following the change of plans ordered by Whitaker.

She had only slept four-and-a-half hours the night before, and the search for Nick Woods was taking a serious toll on her thirty-five-year-old body.

Today, every stop had been the same. She would walk into a motel’s office, show a real FBI badge (though she had never been a real agent), and then show a picture of Nick Woods. There had been seven possible sighting already, which was understandable since she was stressing to each manager that Nick Woods may have changed his appearance.

She had knocked on all seven possible sighting doors with the manager standing by her side with a key. Each time, her adrenaline had been pumping, and she had kept her hand on the heel of her nine-millimeter pistol. Each time, a man had answered, and it had not been Nick.

More than three hours ago, her search brought her to motels in Oak Ridge. She really wanted to call it a day and get some rest, but Whitaker had explained this guy was spying on the U.S. and had some top secret information he was trying to get out of the country to China. It was vitally important, he had said, and she believed him.

It had to be.

They had flown her from Los Angeles to take part in the search. And beginning today, she and the other cohorts of Whitaker were flashing FBI badges, an action only taken in the most extreme of circumstances. This man -- Nick Woods -- had to be one of the worst enemies America could possibly have.

Chapter 27

Nick woke up rested, though sore. After drinking his morning Mountain Dew and throwing down two Pop Tarts, he jumped in the Caprice and drove toward the public library. He needed to do some research on the FBI office in Knoxville, and he figured the library was the best place to start. Nonetheless, he worried there might be some video cameras in the library.

The library was just down the Oak Ridge Turnpike, on the right side of the road. Nick parked and debated leaving the .45 in the car. He debated the pros and cons a few moments but decided he would live and die, win and lose, with it on him. So, he kept it in the small of his back under a loose, untucked T-shirt.

He walked through a set of glass doors and immediately panicked. Just inside the doors was a set of head-high, gray security sensors. Nick didn’t know if they were metal detectors or sensors that detected if books were being stolen. Nick stood there stupidly, debating the issue.

A man and woman heading for the doors stopped and watched him. A library staff member behind the checkout desk stopped typing on a computer and looked up. Nick was attracting attention, so he decided to go forward and if it went off, so be it.

He took a step, looked down at his watch to play off the awkwardness, and went through the sensors. The sensors remained silent, so they were for books.

Nick walked over to the magazine reading section. He wanted to map out the place while sitting down. He had already stood out too much.

He grabbed the day’s paper and sat in a wide, plush chair. The FBI raid on his house was not on the front page, as it had been the day before. Nick decided to thumb slowly through the entire “Nation/World” section just to make it obvious he was not looking for the raid story, which he was now confident would be in the local section of the paper. While flipping, he glanced throughout the library and confirmed there were no cameras. He didn’t see any.

A story grabbed his attention. The headline read, “Reporter who broke story, now ridiculed.” The story was short, obviously the follow-up to a follow-up to a much bigger story, but, it named Allen Green, the reporter from The New Yorker magazine, and gave the gist of what happened.

This reporter named Green had uncovered a massive story involving Nick and his spotter’s actions in Afghanistan, gained immediate fame, and then resigned after admitting it was false. He was now charged with storing and distributing child pornography. His arraignment was nearly three weeks away, the story said.

Nick stood and went to the library staff person behind the desk. He asked for past newspapers. She pointed to a stack he hadn’t noticed. The articles from the two days before shocked Nick. The reporter had most of the facts right about America’s actions in Afghanistan. The major exception to this accuracy was that Allen Green had written that both the sniper and spotter had been killed following having their information leaked.

Now, everything made sense, Nick thought. This hot-shit reporter broke the story, and Nick (unaware since he didn’t keep up with the news) had gone to work same as always.

Some covert unit had immediately jumped on the ball and moved in to apprehend Colonel Russ Jernigan, most likely, and they’d probably decided to use the FBI to arrest Nick for the sake of speed.

Just like that. Stop the collateral damage. Except that Nick had been fighting with Anne and had stormed out of the house hours earlier. Something they couldn’t have expected.

Nick Woods knew he needed to get to New York to find this guy. A small picture of the reporter was in the article from the second day. He looked around to confirm no one was watching him. Seeing no one, he quietly tore out the picture and the name.

One thing was for sure, this guy would die in some accident soon if Nick didn’t get to him.

Chapter 28

Nancy Dickerson pulled up to one of the roughest joints she had seen yet in Oak Ridge. Why does the city allow them to keep operating this thing, she wondered? She walked into a shabby office.

A repulsive man sat behind a dusty, cheap desk. He was in his early thirties, needed to shave, and wore a dingy T-shirt. Chest hair came up and out of his T-shirt like bushes growing across a fence. Everything in her wanted to hurry up and get home and get some sleep.

Nancy pulled out her FBI badge and gave her pitch for the umpteenth time this day. She was an FBI agent in search of this man. Yes, he might look slightly different. The man took it all in and pulled out a cigarette. Nancy watched him. Surely, he wouldn’t light it inside --

A lighter appeared in his hand, and he lit the cigarette. The man blew smoke in Nancy’s face and grunted, “That man is here.”

“In town?” Nancy asked.

“No. In this building,” the man said as his eyes took in her breasts. He rubbed his crotch and Nancy wondered if he were a sex offender. Thankfully, he continued.

“In fact,” the man said, “he’s back from some errands. I just saw him go in his room about ten minutes ago.”

Nancy wasn’t buying it. But, the faster she investigated his claim, the faster she could get away from this pervert.

“Grab the key and let’s go check it out,” she said.

Chapter 29

Nick Woods was in his room packing up. He had canceled his physical training, pistol drills, and dry-firing practice with his rifle for the day.

Now, nothing mattered but time. Some man he’d never met named Allen Green was hours, maybe days from dying. It all depended on the media. If the media stopped writing about Allen Green’s story, then they would move in and kill him. No doubt about that.

Nick stuffed his dirty shirts and blue jeans into his pack. He wished he would have hand washed them the day before and allowed them to hang dry across the shower rack.

Well, he could wash them in New York somewhere. Of course, Nick suddenly realized he didn’t know the route to get there. You’re a damn fool, he thought, cursing himself. He had been in the library with hundreds of maps and internet access but had departed without charting a course.

You need to stop acting like a greenhorn, he thought. He stopped for a second, debating a brief return to the library. No, he could just hop on one of the interstates heading north, either I-81 or I-75, and get a map later.

Shit. He was losing his composure. He bent over to cinch down the pack when he heard footsteps at the door. Someone knocked and said, “FBI, open up.”

It was a female voice. He didn’t move, afraid to make a sound. His hand grabbed the .45 from behind his back and drew it. Maybe she would go away. Probably just checking every door.

No way, he thought. He had not heard her until just then, so she hadn’t knocked at the doors to his left or right.

She knocked again, harder. He heard a male voice say, “I just seen ’im go in there.”

A key or pick was inserted into the lock. He looked at the dead bolt on the door. Fuck, he hadn’t bolted or chained the door in his urgency to get packed and headed for New York.

He started toward the door, thinking maybe he could get use his bodyweight to hold it shut. His thoughts and actions seemed slow and thick in his panic.

The door swung open before he could get to it, and there stood a woman. Her hand was on the butt of a pistol. Her eyes widened in immediate recognition, and her hand pulled the pistol holstered on her right hip.

Nick wasn’t sure what to do. Was she was one of them? The covert unit who was breaking who knew how many laws?

She retrieved her pistol and Nick froze. Was she going to fire?

Her pistol raised higher, he saw her finger tighten, and he ducked as her gun exploded and launched a round by his head. Nick was already in the kneeling position, the bullet having only missed him by inches.

Surely this woman wasn’t FBI? She had literally tried to kill him right then and there. All of these thoughts happened in milliseconds, and Nick’s reaction followed. He hastily returned fire.

His first shot wasn’t even aimed. He needed her to freak out and panic.

The round caused her to scream, and she flinched. Getting shot at will do that to you, Nick knew.

But Nick’s recent practice of his drills took over as he instantly focused on the black front sight of his pistol and the gun seemingly fired on its own. The big .45 hit the woman in the chest and threw her four feet back.

She landed on the pavement and Nick knew that being thrown back like that meant one thing: bullet-proof vest.

He stepped toward her to see if the fight was out of her. Maybe he could tie her up, but from on her back, she raised her head and brought the pistol in his direction. Her left hand moved up and molding to the pistol in a good two-hand grip. At least as good a grip as possible after being surprised and suffering a broken rib and cracked chest bone. Nevertheless, she was well-trained. And tough.

Nick had no choice. He aimed, focused on the front sight, and fired again. He saw the results. His bullet hit her forehead and that was the end of that.

Nick hurried to the door to see who the man was that arrived with her. He turned the corner, and there stood the fat, stinking manager he’d met just days earlier.

The man stood there, motionless and pale. Nick grabbed him, put the pistol against his head, and growled, “Get in the room.”

The man’s fear must have left him because he said “no” and reached for the pistol. Nick saw the move coming from a mile away and yanked the pistol back.

Nick kneed the man in the balls and the man fell forward, completely deflated. Nick grabbed a handful of hair and pulled him into the room.

The man fell and curled up in the fetal position, groaning and holding his groin with both hands.

Outside the room, Nick ignored the manager’s moans and looked around, scanning the parking lot. Nothing but a few scattered cars and drape-covered windows.

He saw no one though the shots had been so loud. Probably people were still too scared to look out. He stuffed the pistol into his pants and rushed out to the woman. He grabbed the pistol from her still warm hand and threw it in the room. Then, he grabbed her legs and dragged her toward the room.

She was light, Nick thought, as he noticed her gray dress, more of a suit really, was still meticulous except for the blood stains. The shot to her chest had brought no blood, thanks to the vest. The headshot had blown most of the blood back. Pulling her legs, he dragged her into the room.

Behind her, a trail of blood led to where her head had hit the pavement. Although even a 10-year-old playing detective could have seen the blood trail and where it led from a half-mile away, it didn’t matter.

He had to move fast, and having no body immediately visible would gain him a tad more time than having a body outside his door.

Inside the room, he slammed the door and locked it. The man had righted himself and sat against the wall, terrified. Too scared to even crawl toward the pistol Nick had chunked into the room. Shit, that was stupid, Nick thought.

“I knew I shouldn’t have rented a room to you,” the man snarled. “What are you? Some kind of psycho wife killer?”

Something snapped in Nick.

In a blur, he ran over to his pack and searched for some rope. At that moment, when Nick had his back turned, the man moved. He lunged toward Nick.

Nick just managed to find the rope and spun to meet the man. The man threw a haymaker, which Nick narrowly dodged by sidestepping left.

As the man passed by him, Nick looped the 550 cord around the man’s neck. Before the man could turn, Nick hauled the half-inch wide rope up and back.

The man made a sucking sound of surprise as the rope burned into his neck. Nick, trained in the art of garroting, shoved his back against the man’s back. And as the man elbowed Nick’s ribs and kicked his boots into the back of Nick’s knees -- both moves sent shots of pain through Nick’s body -- Nick bent forward.

Bending forward pulled the rope tighter, and now Nick was lifting the man off the ground. The rope had to be digging into the man’s throat, cutting off his air, but all Nick could think of was the fat son of a bitch calling him a psycho wife killer.

In a way, Nick had killed Anne. And no other thought occupied his mind as the guy struggled, the weight heavy across Nick’s right shoulder. Nick remembered the argument. The faint gunshots across the steep ridge. His race back to his house. And Anne’s body lying dead in the grass.

Yes, Nick had killed her. And he would never forgive himself for not having been there on the night she needed him most. Had he been there, she wouldn’t have been so scared that she had resorted to grabbing a gun.

Yes, Nick had killed her. And as a tear rolled down his cheek, he realized the man was no longer moving.

Nick let go of the rope and the body slid to the floor. He rushed to check the man’s pulse, but it was too late.

Damn it. What now?

For a second, he thought about making the whole mess look like a drug deal gone wrong or something similar.

No, he thought. Just run. Keep it simple, stupid. The classic KISS principle.

He stuffed the rope back into his pack, snatched the envelope full of cash from beneath the top of the drawer, and closed the pack. He grabbed the rifle, slid the bolt back far enough to see brass, and closed it. Hoisting his pack, he reached for the door and stopped.

Shit, his pistol wasn’t topped off. He had fired what, once, twice? Fuck it, no time. He opened the door and scanned the parking lot. A woman was watching from an open door about thirty feet away. He half-directed the rifle toward her, and she screamed as she ducked inside and slammed the door.

The cops were probably on their way, but he didn’t need her to see what he was driving. He unlocked the green Caprice, threw the pack across the seat, and laid his rifle, stock down, in the floorboard of the passenger seat.

He turned the key, and the engine roared to life -- thank God for small favors. He backed up quickly, slammed it into drive, and sped out of the parking lot. A police siren was barely audible in the distance, and he quickly headed for the busy turnpike of Oak Ridge.

Would they have his vehicle description? Probably not, though the lady he’d pointed his rifle at may have seen it and could now be calling it in. Would dispatch have those details distributed yet? Not likely.

It didn’t matter. He had to run. He’d either get lucky or not.

As he drove down a neighborhood street, he crossed his fingers and hoped for the best.

Chapter 30

Whitaker heard about the shooting approximately twenty-five minutes after it happened, the best he could figure.

An aide told him the Oak Ridge Police Department had responded to a “possible shooting/armed white male menacing residents” call at 11:32 a.m. The police had arrived and quickly discovered the bloody mess in the parking lot.

An officer had noticed the drag marks toward the room and had run back to his car, calling for back-up as he raced to the cruiser. He had immediately opened the driver’s door, unlocked the shotgun, and hefted it out of its console mount. When the next cruiser arrived two minutes later, he was still kneeling in the space created from the cruiser’s open door, his shotgun aimed at the hotel room.

By then, dispatch had notified the two officers that a white male had been seen leaving the parking lot in a boxy, large green car. Make and model unknown. An all-points bulletin immediately went out. The two officers had finally approached the door and tactically entered it, their guns and flashlights scanning the room.

They discovered the two bodies, one female and well dressed and the other fat and unkempt, passed over them to clear the bathroom, and then called for ambulances. Seconds after calling the ambulances, the officers changed the call to a non-emergency code for the ambulances. These two were dead, no doubt about it, and there was no need for an ambulance to kill anyone in their rush to the motel.

The two officers then left the room, careful not to disturb anything. It was now a crime scene, and every piece of evidence needed to be preserved. The first Oak Ridge detective who arrived found the FBI badge and quickly called the FBI office in Knoxville to tell them they had lost one of their own.

This came as quite a surprise to the FBI Special Agent in Charge, since every member from his Knoxville office was sitting in a full command briefing with him.

He immediately canceled the briefing and they scrambled, some working the phones and some heading for Oak Ridge. The FBI leader made his first call about the situation to his boss in D.C., who immediately called Whitaker's boss -- Sen. Gooden. Whitaker's boss denied at first that any operations were ongoing in Oak Ridge but then asked why the FBI leader was asking, suddenly interested.

The FBI Director had said, “Sen. Gooden, so help me, if you are doing something down there using real FBI badges, I’ll have two hundred Washington agents flown in, and you won’t be able to pass gas without us knowing it.”

“Now, now,” Gooden said. “I’ve got nothing going on.”

“You better hope not,” the FBI leader admonished before slamming the phone down.

Sen. Gooden had immediately contacted Whitaker, and as Whitaker ended the call, he calculated what to do. No doubt he had lost someone. He really had two options. He could flood the area in search of Nick Woods or call back the troops. Disperse them so things didn’t get more complicated.

He knew he had to go with the latter option. The exposure was already too great. Shit, he thought. Now he would have to go on the defensive against Nick Woods.

Of course, Nick could get caught by the locals or feds, but he doubted it. Nick had avoided hundreds of Soviet troops and native Afghans after having his location passed to them. And that was in a country where he couldn’t even speak the language.

Yes, he would have to go on the defensive and wait for Nick’s first move. He could try to role-play what Nick would do, but where would that even begin? Even he didn’t know what he would do if the roles were reversed. Nick wouldn’t know who the enemy was, so what could he do?

Irritated, Whitaker dialed the number for one of his team leaders. He would release the retired ones and send his regulars on vacation or something. Just as long as they got as far from East Tennessee as possible. And fast.

Whitaker cursed himself for not memorizing who was in the Oak Ridge area. A good commander would know that. He thought it was Nancy Dickerson. She was a pretty good agent.

And women made great operatives because men never suspected a woman to be tailing them. Or to put a pistol in their face. They were a great tool. Or usually were. But Nancy hadn’t proved a threat to Nick. That was for sure.

The exposure wasn’t much of a threat. She, like everyone else, would have legitimate paperwork to prove she was a bounty hunter. Furthermore, she had three printed fact sheets for real east Tennessee fugitives. So, the locals and feds would assume that some crazy bounty hunter was out searching for some con while impersonating an agent.

Not that rare of an occurrence actually. The chances the FBI would connect much larger dots were small. Small, that is, if all of his agents got out of the area without getting caught.

One more armed “bounty hunter” carrying an FBI badge would make the situation something more than a coincidence. It would spell disaster. The thought made Whitaker’s stomach churn.

Chapter 31

Nick Woods drove south down the Pellissippi Parkway, away from Oak Ridge.

He kept his speed right at sixty miles per hour, and his eyes darted from the rear view mirror to as far forward as he could see, looking for police cruisers coming up behind him or roadblocks that might be set up ahead.

Would there be roadblocks? He wasn’t sure. Perhaps.

Killing the woman was bad enough, but that was self-defense. Or at least self-preservation. Killing the manager bugged him.

Why had he done that? Had it been truly necessary? Was he starting to lose it? Nick tried to shake it off and not think too much on it. He couldn’t right now, after all. The man had brought up Anne, attacked him, and he’d lost it.

He couldn’t change what had happened, so he focused on his current predicament. On his speed limit. On looking for roadblocks.

There weren’t many vehicles on the road going south, the direction he was going. That worried him. Worse, none of the vehicles he saw were green. Shit, he had picked a bad color in his zest to find a cheap, heavy car.

Unfortunately, even without a roadblock, he might get spotted by some alert cop driving the opposite direction and responding to an all-points bulletin out of Oak Ridge.

Nick needed to get to Knoxville. Fast. With its horrible traffic and immense size, it would provide him some safety.

Chapter 32

A boxy, green Chevy Caprice moved north along interstate I-81, near Harrisonburg, Virginia.

Rain and a slick pavement kept most drivers from pushing the speed limit or passing except when absolutely necessary, yet nearly all passed the Caprice.

The Chevy Caprice was one of those harsh cornered cars that looked like it had been designed by engineers who’d only had Legos at their disposal. It hadn’t been a head turner when it was designed, and this one had seen about five lifetimes since it came off the assembly line.

The back window was cracked, while the underside of the rear panels bore bubbled paint and spreading rust. The entire paintjob on the car was horribly faded, and the car’s interior head liner sagged from the ceiling.

In a word, the car was ugly. And well past its deserved retirement.

Nick Woods sat on the cigarette-burned, front seat of his $2,500 Caprice. He didn’t notice the traffic that rode his ass before swerving over and angrily passing. His mind was on Anne.

It amazed him he hadn’t thought of her more in the past few days. But then again, when had he had time? Ever since he’d grabbed his pack out of that cave, he had either been running, or hiding, or buying necessities, or doing research, or working out.

And now he had nothing but time. Hours and hours of it. About thirteen or fourteen, he guessed. He had already decided what he would do once he got to New York. He had initially thought he would look the guy’s address up and just call or stop by, but that seemed suicidal once he thought about it. Hadn’t he himself said they would be watching Allen Green?

His second thought had been to recon outward in. Once he figured out where this guy lived, he could work his way in looking for patterns. Eat at a deli for a couple of hours “working” to solve a crossword puzzle, in which he wrote out the descriptions of possible agents in the margins. He could sit at a park bench, walk by the home randomly, ride by it in cabs, and find out who “they” were. But, he realized this plan had two major shortcomings.

One, it would take too long. It would take days and days, and maybe a couple of weeks, to find out the opposition and their observation posts.

The second major problem was they would likely discover who he was during that time. Surely, they had pictures of him and knew to be looking for him, just in case he came looking for Allen Green. After giving up on plan two, he had racked his brain for more than an hour and a half before a simple plan emerged: he would hang a note on Allen Green’s door.

Well, it was a little more complicated than that. He would go print a shitload of door advertisements and would put these on doors throughout the neighborhood, except on Allen’s door, he would pull from the bottom of the pile and put a contact note in light pencil in the margin; top left corner to be precise. It’d be light enough so agents watching with binoculars from across the street couldn’t make it out.

Nick figured that if he started five blocks away and went five or six more blocks past Allen’s house, they wouldn’t be suspicious. The plan became more etched in Nick’s mind.

His confidence in its success had put him at ease, allowing his mind to drift and relax.

It quickly drifted to Anne. Shit, he missed her. He’d give anything to be sitting on the couch with her watching some dumb-ass reality show on TV -- even if it included some odd-looking singer with crazy hair.

He remembered how soft her lips had been the first time they had kissed and how it had felt the first time they had gotten carried away. And while she had been so lustful in bed, she had been so sensitive most of the time. She always loved for him to hold her as she went to sleep each night, especially after sex.

It would grow old in a hurry, his arm quickly going numb beneath her, her curves turning him on again, the closeness making it too hot under the sheets.

Damn though, what he would give to be able to hold her now.

He remembered their final moments on that last terrible night: a bad fight. Their fiercest. He had hurt her with his words and anger. In the end, he’d left her crying and desperate. Devastated. Worried about him.

He gripped the steering wheel with all his strength. He then realized he didn’t even know if, or where, she had been buried. Those motherfuckers, he thought. And that was the real question. Who were those motherfuckers?

Actual FBI agents had raided his home. That didn’t make sense. He was hardly a criminal. So was someone high up in the FBI behind this? That didn’t seem likely. It seemed more likely that someone with real power had used that power to get the FBI to assist in some quick damage control.

Not that Nick thought very many FBI agents would purposely kill an innocent person, but they would apprehend and turn over people. They did it all the time. To U.S. Marshals, to local and state police, to the Justice Department, to the Department of Defense.

Nick didn’t know who was behind it, but he was damn sure going to find out or die trying.

Chapter 33

Whitaker was now in Los Angeles, having called off the search for Nick Woods following the death of Nancy Dickerson. After all, how did you catch a ghost?

With luck, a local police force would get lucky and cross paths with him. There was still the “wanted” child predator alert on Nick distributed throughout the country.

Besides, there was more Whitaker had to worry about than just Nick. His first and foremost mission was fighting the war on terror, which was the real work of Whitaker’s group these days.

In fact, two of his eight-man strike teams were inside Pakistan searching for Osama Bin Laden right this very minute. His three other eight-man strike teams were in the states.

Whitaker’s teams could enter countries clandestinely and operate invisibly. If they were caught or killed, no problem. They had no way of being tied back to the U.S. since they used non-U.S. weapons and carried various French, Italian, and German papers.

Politically and legally, American troops couldn’t operate in Pakistan, an ally supposedly assisting in the war on terror. But the pressure from Pakistan was too small on al Qaeda, so two of Whitaker’s teams had been called in on one hot and one cold lead regarding bin Laden’s location.

Whitaker’s teams were more covert than most military Special Forces, such as the SEALs and other units. His teams appeared to be a group of mercenaries from a European country.

The real beauty was the fact that not one cent of funding for Whitaker’s unit was found anywhere -- not even from the CIA’s undesignated fund. No reporter could ever blow their cover. No Congressman could ever find out through an audit or Inspector General’s report about them.

That was because Whitaker’s unit was entirely funded from its own efforts, which resulted mainly from illegal drug running. Which, of course, was why Whitaker was in L.A.

A local competitor, some gang offshoot of the Crips called the Hands of Death, had been growing and somehow bringing in enough cocaine to cut into Whitaker’s profits by 36 percent in the L.A. area. Of course, that was unacceptable.

Whitaker was here to investigate the situation and check out the competition. And what that mostly meant was he was out driving around in the most dangerous parts of town.

He had lots of options to deal with this problem. The easiest option would be to give a tip to the cops and let them clean house on the Hands of Death. However, the competition had corrupted a few police officers to work for them, just as Whitaker had. So that option could fail if they received enough of an early warning.

Another option was to call The Los Angeles Times and provide a tip about some of the collaboration between the cops and the Hands of Death. But this could create hysteria from elected officials once the press finished its vendetta, and such an uproar would likely cost him some of his informants on the police force, as well. Strike two.

That left only one option, as Whitaker saw it. It was also why he had brought one of his U.S.-based, eight-man strike teams to L.A. with him.

His boys were going to spill some major blood in L.A. Really shake the place up, while also getting in some great and very realistic training.

And Whitaker being Whitaker, he wanted to take part in it.

Chapter 34

Nick Woods hesitated before stepping out of the elevator.

He was nervous, like a useless, gun-shy hound, but he had to find Allen Green. So he focused again on the task at hand.

Nick took a deep breath and stepped from the elevator. He was in New York now, a city he intensely disliked. There were too many buildings, too many people, and both were too cold for his comfort. He couldn’t wait to get back to the South, where folks met your eye and said hello.

Nick saw a receptionist sitting behind a desk, and he considered turning around. But, what other option did he have?

He had discovered the apartment listed as Allen Green’s address was burned, but not before designing, buying, and distributing a couple hundred damn flyers. Now, he really hated the fact he had raced out of the library in Oak Ridge like a stupid, boot recruit.

No doubt he could have found a side story in the newspaper mentioning the suspicious fire of the esteemed-turned-infamous reporter’s apartment.

With the apartment a dead end, Nick was left with one option: hoping he could convince a coworker to give him Allen’s phone number.

The make-up plastered woman behind the desk was staring now. He finally moved forward.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m looking for Allen Green.”

“He doesn’t work here anymore,” she snapped. Nick figured he wasn’t the first to stop by and ask about him.

“Well, can I speak to one of his good friends?”

She squinted at him, looking disgusted, but picked up a phone. She dialed a number and asked a “Mike” to come to the front desk.

Mike showed up a couple minutes later. Nick knew he wouldn’t get along well with Mike. Mike had curly, long hair and some kind of designer glasses with really small lenses. Lenses barely larger than his eyes. He also had a notepad and pen in his hands.

Nick hesitated, his paranoia returning, but then realized this momma’s boy couldn’t possibly be anything other than just a reporter. He for damn sure was too soft to be an agent waiting to take Nick out.

But if he were, Nick had the .45 tucked in his back, and two more magazines in case Mike brought reinforcements.

“Did you need something?” Mike asked, his voice too educated for Nick’s tastes.

“I called you, didn’t I?”

“You sure did, but I’m busy, so if you don’t mind?”

“Lead the way, hoss.”

Mike glared at Nick’s blue jeans and shook his head in disgust. This guy had definitely strayed too far north of the Mason-Dixon Line. He better have something good to say, Mike thought, as he led him through the cramped and crowded newsroom.

Nick surveyed Allen’s old work-place. Cubicle after cubicle dotted the interior, like islands. The cubicles were low, maybe four or five feet high, and heads popped up and shouted across the room intermittently. Nick figured it would be stressful as hell working here.

Mike stopped off at a glass room and stepped inside. Nick followed, and Mike shut the door behind him. The room consisted of a conference table, ten chairs, and a shoulder high tree of some kind growing out of a basket in the corner. Amazingly, the room was well insulated from the noise outside in the news room once the door closed.

“What’s your name?” Mike asked, opening up his notebook.

“I don’t think you need to know that,” Nick said.

Mike groaned and dropped his reporter’s notebook on the table.

“Look, we’re not going off the record. I only do that with people I know, that I approach because I have to.”

Nick shrugged. He’d need to do some good acting here. “Sorry. I’m not talking.”

Mike looked intrigued like he was on the verge of giving in, but --

“All right,” Nick said. “You win, but not today. You get me Allen Green’s new address or phone number. I don’t care which. I’ll talk to him alone and get him to vouch for my military background and service. If he doesn’t, then you’ll never see me. If he does, then you’ll have one of the biggest stories of your career.”

“This better be good,” Mike said.

“Well, I’m not sure what you consider good, but when you get what I’ve got to tell, it’ll be worth the wait.”

Mike picked up the pad, wrote down something, and tore off a sheet.

“Here’s his number,” he said, pushing the paper across the table. “Call him and then call me.”

With that, Mike reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card. He slid that across, too.

Nick accepted both, nodded, and said, “Thanks, Mike. You’ve been most helpful.” He tried to hide his smile, but couldn’t. He had scored a major accomplishment, finally finding a way to contact Allen.

Nick rushed from the building to find a payphone. He finally located one inside a bad-smelling section of the subway seven and a half blocks away.

He dialed Allen Green’s phone number, looking for anyone suspicious around him. No doubt, things would soon get dicey.

It rang three times before it was answered.

“This is Allen,” Nick heard.

“Allen, hi, uhh, how are you?” Nick said. “Look, I need to meet you.”

“I don’t even know who you are,” Allen said. “Who am I talking to?”

“Uh, I can’t say over the phone.”

“Then I’m not interested in whatever it is you called me about. Besides, I’m not in the news business anymore.”

“Look, this is really important.”

“I don’t meet strangers,” Allen said.

He hung the phone up, perplexed. That had been weird. He replayed the experience of meeting the “source” who had brought a couple of friends for a friendly elevator ride a few days ago. Not to mention a couple of paramedics.

Nick listened to the dial tone in the phone. Shit.

He should have planned the phone call better. He reached into the front pocket of his blue jeans for some more change. He only had a dime and a nickel -- not enough.

Well, he would be forced to think about what to say this time, since he needed to get some change. He hung the phone up and stepped from the booth.

On the other end of the call, Allen remembered the paramedics strapping him down and waking up to meet Mr. NFL Linebacker and Whitaker.

They had broken him so easily. Whitaker asking for a radio and giving a command. Someone already waiting at Allen’s apartment to burn it down.

The fire being reported over the radio minutes later. Then, it hit Allen. Those guys were professionals, duh. But, whoever had just called had hardly been a professional.

He had been a tongue-tied idiot and a Southern one at that. At least, that was how he had sounded.

It might have been an act by someone who was not a tongue-tied idiot, but couldn’t Whitaker and his professional thugs come abduct Allen whenever they wanted anyway?

They could pick his locks in the middle of the night or show up impersonating a cop. They were so good that probably nothing was beyond their capabilities. But this guy had been none of those things.

Allen punched the menu button on the cell phone and looked at the number on the caller ID. He punched the talk button and hoped he hadn’t waited too long.

Nick had made it close to twenty feet from the payphone when he heard it ring. Could it be Allen? He ran back to it.

“Hello?” he said, somewhat stupidly.

“Hey, it’s Allen Green. I’ve changed my mind. Let’s meet.”

“Okay. Well, that’s great. I don’t know the area, so you’ll have to pick somewhere. And it needs to be really public, lots of people around if you know what I mean.”

Allen did, but he played it off. “No, I don’t know what you mean. Well, how about O’Mally’s diner. It’s just off --”

“No,” Nick said, “I’d rather meet at a busy bus stop or somewhere near the subway.”

“Okay, let’s meet at Luzio’s. It’s a pizza shop just half a block from the substation on 46th street.”

“Done. I’m on my way,” Nick said, digging out his recently purchased map of New York City.

Chapter 35

Whitaker drove down a waste barren street, deep in one of the worst ghettos he had ever seen. He was still in Los Angeles, preparing for the strike against the rival drug-running gang called the Hands of Death.

Empty warehouses with graffiti-covered walls flanked the street, and Whitaker shook his head in disgust. A plastic bag blew across the street in front of him. Spray-painted dumpsters and trash-covered alleys seemed to be the only noticeable landmarks.

This was the new frontier, Whitaker thought. For centuries, it used to be the oceans until men like Columbus broke them, and then later, the Wild West, which Calvary troopers and unflinching, gritty sheriffs tamed. Then came outer space, but man had mostly conquered it as well, putting a man on the moon and a space station in the air.

Some said outer space hadn’t been conquered, that the U.S. should now try to put a man on Mars. But, that was all bullshit, Whitaker knew. The real frontiers resulted from lost ground, where once beautiful towns had turned to business-deserted, drug-infested inner cities.

The days of negotiating with the likes of Sitting Bull and Geronimo had been replaced by worried police chiefs trying to control large numbers of barely educated, unmotivated groups of people. These groups of people were of all colors, including white, but they shared a common tendency: they were beat down and mostly uninterested in education or self-improvement.

They would riot, burn, and loot what few valuable buildings they still had, given the smallest reason.

With every sensory gland screaming out warnings, Whitaker felt very much alive as he traveled deeper into the deserted no man’s land of this ghetto. No different than it was a good hundred and fifty years ago, he thought. He was the lone gunfighter riding through town scoping out the enemy, his posse just behind him.

He had passed three groups of thugs, each standing on street corners. These were the black type, not Hispanic or white. Not that it mattered. They were all trash, Whitaker knew.

Armed, the men had eyed him and his black BMW with suspicion. Even Whitaker, the daredevil that he was, knew he was pushing his luck. Whitaker was certain they were all members of the Hands of Death. He figured they were packing pistols, maybe an automatic Uzi or two among them.

But, he was armed, too. Underneath his right leg, a fat Glock pistol lay packed with seventeen rounds of hand-loaded, 9 mm hollow-point ammo. The rounds, crammed to the limit with powder like some mid-Western silo stuffed full of corn, dangerously pushed the limits of safety as to what could be fired without his pistol exploding.

But, Whitaker trusted his unit’s hand loader, one of the best in the country. More important than safety, he wanted the additional knockdown power of the super-powerful bullets, as well as the higher magazine capacity of the smaller nine-millimeter round.

He was watching the last group of thugs in his rear view mirror when his cell phone rang. Few had his number, so he answered it. “Yes?”

“Sir,” a woman said, “Sherlock Holmes reports a likely contact between their target and Lone Wolf. Please advise.”

Shit, Whitaker thought. Sherlock Holmes was the code name for two agents keeping an eye on the reporter Allen Green back in New York. The two agents, a man and woman, were pulling murderous twelve-hour shifts, taking turns relieving each other while everyone tried to guess what Allen Green would do. Thankfully, the shifts had been boring and mundane to date.

But that must have changed since the term “Lone Wolf” was the code name for Nick Woods.

Shit, shit, shit. There was no way the two strung-out agents could take down Nick Woods. Not likely anyway. Nick would have selected the rendezvous and scoped it out to his advantage. It was routine sniper procedure. But, damn it, he couldn’t allow the two men to make a connection either. Allen and Nick together, if working in collaboration, would pose the most serious threat that Whitaker’s unnamed unit had ever faced.

He had no strike teams within range. Two of the eight-man teams were still in Pakistan, and one was prepping for the bloody raid planned for tonight against the Hands of Death. As for the last two groups, one was doing desert training in the Mojave Desert, and the other was practicing building assaults in a rough part of Seattle.

Who else was available? He thought there might be a retired member of his unit in upstate New York, but that man probably couldn’t make it to New York City in time. For that matter, the man probably couldn’t even make a successful hit on Nick.

It didn’t matter. There was a chance of success, and unfortunately, freedom demanded a heavy price. He would order an immediate hit on both of them.

“Sir, are you there?”

“Yes!” Whitaker snapped. He practically screamed.

Distracted, he never noticed the stop sign he ran or the black and white police cruiser that pulled out from an alley between two buildings. The car immediately flipped on its flashing lights, which caught Whitaker’s attention.

“Shit, got to go. I’ll call you right back,” he said, slamming shut the folding cell phone before his agent on the other end could reply.

Whitaker’s heart was throbbing, his hands shaking. He knew running was not an option. Too many other cruisers and helicopters in L.A., not to mention he didn’t know the area. He pulled the car to the curb, easy-like. No, his only option would be an ambush. A brutal, cowardly ambush.

The officer watched him warily from inside his cruiser once they were both stopped. He bent his head to the side and said something into a radio. Whitaker was not worried about that. His license plate was authentic, as was the car’s registration. Both to a retired U.S. Army officer.

The retired officer got paid good money for the small risk of letting Whitaker borrow his car while he was in L.A. Whitaker would warn him to report the car stolen as soon as he took care of this piece of business.

The officer got out of the car, remarkably slow. Wary. Standing behind the opened police car’s door, he looked about him, eyeing the thugs from the Hands of Death standing on the corner behind them two blocks away. Satisfied all was well, he shut the door.

The officer was Hispanic and young. Probably early twenties. Of course, that made sense. No veteran officer in their right mind would be patrolling this part of town. They’d have earned safer patrol zones.

The police officer was slim and wore thick black leather gloves. His short-sleeved shirt revealed strong arms, not like a body builder’s, but more like a runner or soccer player. His belt had the usual pistol, pepper spray, radio, and extra magazines. He left his baton and shotgun in the car.

The officer looked about again as he walked toward the car. His eyes remained hidden behind reflective, aviator sunglasses. That would make it more difficult for Whitaker. No doubt about it.

The cop approached Whitaker, his body closely hugging the car providing practically no target. Damn, he was good, Whitaker thought. In a different time and place, Whitaker might have recruited him.

By now, Whitaker knew a conversation followed by a distraction and a takedown was impossible. This guy was just too good. And that sucked for him because Whitaker would prefer to immobilize him and handcuff him, keeping him alive.

But this officer had probably been patrolling this part of town long enough to know that you didn’t think about sex or football when on duty in this area.

Whitaker braced himself. This was the hardest part. One of them was going to die, or at least get hurt badly.

Fuck it, Whitaker thought as he grabbed the door handle and swung the door open.

The officer, the consummate professional, was raising his hand, but not his voice. “Sir, please stay in the car.”

Whitaker knew the officer was thinking, “Nothing uncommon happening here. He had control of the situation. Besides, the man was well dressed.”

But, something very uncommon was indeed happening.

Whitaker’s shoes hit the pavement and he stood, but his movements were slow and smooth, very non-threatening. His left hand, purposefully visible.

Then, things changed, everything moving too fast for the officer to do anything about it.

Whitaker twisted to face the man frontally and moved at a speed that screamed death. The officer, only three feet away, realized he was in serious trouble. His right hand was reaching for his pistol on his duty belt while his left moved toward Whitaker to shove him off balance.

Whitaker ignored the officer’s attempt and fired one-handed, his right hand holding the pistol low near his beltline and out of reach of the officer. The shot connected, hitting the officer low in the belly, but not penetrating the bulletproof vest or knocking him down.

It did stop both the shove and the draw of the man’s pistol. Instead, the officer’s hands clutched his stomach, and his body tried to comprehend the extreme blow.

Whitaker fired again from his hip. The round hit in the chest area, twisting the man and knocking him backward. Whitaker’s pistol extended and he aimed this time, firing four shots into the officer’s back.

The shots were fast, machine-gun like, and the officer had no trauma plate to spread the shock along his back. The vest also probably couldn’t stop that many shots that close together. It wasn’t designed for that.

Whitaker didn’t care whether any had penetrated. As the officer jerked painfully and further lost his balance, Whitaker kept shooting, walking the rounds up into the neck and back of the head.

The time for trying to take the man alive was long past.

The man jerked with each shot and landed hard on the pavement, his head leading the way. He jerked and shook in spasms on the ground.

Whitaker, without even thinking, fired a final round into his head.

His ears screamed from the shooting, a loud and annoying whistle. He hated shooting without earplugs in.

He glanced around, checking his blinds spots and eyeing the thugs two blocks away. Convinced it was clear, he calmly changed magazines.

Whitaker scanned the area one final time and climbed back into his vehicle. He refused to squeal the tires as he pulled away.

Behind him, the thugs from the Hands of Death looked on, impressed by the well-dressed, white man in the BMW.

Whitaker regretted killing the cop. There were not many of his killings he regretted, and he was already certain this one would be the worst. Thankfully, he had mentally prepared himself for it.

The arguments were many. His unit’s mission was too important strategically for the country when compared to what one good cop might accomplish. Not to mention, the cop’s death would only improve the police force, making them train harder and play it safer.

Crime-wise, no doubt the death would create outrage, and the community would rise up with the cops, determined to exterminate the vermin responsible for the man’s death. That was good, except it would hurt his own drug trafficking efforts. Of course, he could shift his boys and focus in some other city for the short term. The crackdown might even break the Hands of Death for good.

He was four blocks away now and certain he would get away. Probably in another two or three minutes, dispatch would radio the officer inquiring why he hadn’t checked in, as was standard for even routine traffic stops. They would scramble their forces moments after that, and dispatch would know his license plate.

No sweat, he thought, opening up his cell phone. He would just have to ditch the car and call his unit for a quick pick-up.

Chapter 36

Nick Woods beat Allen Green to Luzio’s and selected a table near the back. The place reminded him of a Waffle House, a small rectangular restaurant with a long bar. However, this bar had stainless steel vertical ovens behind it rather than an open grill and used green as its primary color, instead of yellow.

Nick’s waitress was a voluptuous Italian girl, probably in her early twenties. In a “Luzio’s” branded white tee shirt that fit way too tight and with her hair up in a youthful ponytail, she was hard not to check out.

She took Nick back to a time before the brutal murder of Anne, before the horrors of operating in Afghanistan, before the Corps. Back to his high school days, when the place to go was a small ice cream shop in his home state of Georgia.

There, it seemed some young hotty had worked at the local burger joint since the beginning of time. They rotated through, usually just for a summer or a single school year.

Nick tried to clear his head. He didn’t need to be thinking about his high school days right now. This meeting with Allen could likely be one of his last moments on earth. It could turn into a modern day Alamo, with crack commandos firing wildly as they overran him.

Well, he had eight rounds in the pistol, and two magazines of seven to add to the tally. He’d at least get a few of them.

And perhaps a huge gunfight would draw the attention of the press, and they’d finally crush whatever organization was behind this thing.

It would be a small victory for Anne.

One thing was for sure. Nick wouldn’t have picked Luzio’s to meet at. It had only a single entrance and exit, which was about midway up the wall from Nick. Three sides of the building contained windows. All it’d take would be for one good sniper to pop him from a four-story apartment across the street.

It wouldn’t take the sniper long for him to find Nick. He was one of only two white males in the place. Four other males were Italian and one other older male was black.

Shit, you’ve really put yourself in a pickle on this one, Nick, he said to himself.

He glanced down at his watch again. It had been twenty-three minutes since the phone call. Frustrated, he took a sip of his Mountain Dew -- it definitely wasn’t a time to be chugging a beer. He needed to stay sharp and alert.

He saw Allen walking toward the entrance. He knew it was him before he could even make out his face. Allen Green walked fast and glanced around anxiously like a felon still wearing an orange jump suit.

He walked in, looked around uncertainly, and focused on Nick. Nick waved him over.

Allen had not changed much from the picture that Nick tore out of the newspaper. He had long hair that was parted to the left, though carelessly. It was brown with lines of gray intermingled.

Nick guessed he was fifty. Sitting in front of him, Nick realized how small he was. Probably five-seven, maybe one hundred and sixty pounds. His hands looked soft, and his fingernails were round and even, almost manicured-like. He wore khaki pants, a button up long-sleeved shirt, and a dark suit jacket over that. He wasn’t the kind of guy Nick would strike up a conversation with back home; that was for sure. Too much like a lawyer, preppy and metrosexual. Nick preferred to hang around men who wore jeans and work boots.

Allen realized as soon as he walked in that Nick was the mysterious caller with the Southern twang. This guy, whoever he was, was straight from the movies. Tall, lean, and serious.

He wore dark blue jeans and a T-shirt.

The man’s blonde hair was short, almost like a tuft on top, and even shorter on the side. Definitely the preferred haircut of cops and soldiers.

The man’s blue eyes could have been handsome, but they were too grave and biting. His tee shirt showed a strong build, and his forearms, covered in thick blond hair, would have made even Popeye jealous. The man had to be a mechanic or something, given his forearms. His hands were sitting on top of each other, but Allen figured they were calloused like sandpaper.

“Hey, there, have a seat,” Nick said, though he immediately realized it had sounded too country. He extended his hand.

“Allen Green,” Allen said, trying to match his grip, but failing miserably. “Lying journalist and child molester. What can I do for you?”

Allen saw that the man still looked serious. As if he didn’t even hear the joke.

“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” the man said. “There’s some mean folks that intend to kill you.”

Allen tried to show nothing.

“Maybe I should order something to drink before our discussion gets too serious,” he said.

“We don’t have time for that,” the man said. “We need to be leaving right now.”

“‘We,’ you say?”

“Yeah, ‘we,’ if you have any sense.”

“Please explain.”

“Look, that article in the magazine that you wrote? I know it was true.”

Allen was intrigued now, but still cautious. Perhaps this was a test to see if he would admit the article was accurate, only to be killed later by one of Whitaker’s thugs. He had been warned, after all, by Whitaker himself.

“How’s that?” Allen asked. “Even I admitted I fabricated the entire thing.”

“I know it’s accurate because you wrote about me, that’s why.”

“Really? What part?”

Nick looked about him and leaned forward. “Does the name Nick Woods mean anything to you?”

Allen nearly gasped. He knew his face paled. There was no controlling it.

Nick Woods was the name of the sniper who had died in a “training accident.” That was a fact only Allen, his editor, and his publisher knew. They had wisely avoided publishing the name.

“Alright,” Allen said, “I’m listening.”

“Look, we don’t have much time. Read this.”

Nick threw the article on the table that summed up the raid on his home. Allen picked it up, and his eyes raced back and forth across the page. He finished it so quickly that Nick wondered if he had actually read it.

“I’m not sure,” Allen said, “what this has to do with you. Who is Bobby Ferguson?”

“I was Bobby Ferguson until you wrote your article.”

“I don’t follow,” Allen said, still confused.

Nick looked toward the door and eyed a young man that entered. He was young, wearing a jacket that could be hiding a weapon. No obvious bulge indicating a pistol, but he glanced toward their table.

“Look, I don’t have time to explain. I pulled off those missions you wrote about, was sold out, and managed to escape back to Pakistan, where I made sure lots of people saw me. Thankfully, I was smart enough to make up the name Bobby Ferguson instead of telling the truth.”

“But, didn’t your family see your face?”

“Look, mister. My family doesn’t keep up with the news the way they do in other parts. Now, we need to go, and quick.”

“Exactly why did you come here?” Allen asked.

“To warn you.”

“No, what’s the real reason?”

Nick sat there thinking. What was the real reason? Was it to warn this guy? Not entirely.

“I’ll shoot straight,” Nick grunted. “I need your help. I don’t think you had child porn on your computer, and I know for damn sure that article was dead on. I lived it. But, I’m betting you’ve been visited by some nasty fellows. And, I’m betting they fucked with you, just like they fucked with me back in the ’80s. Someone needs to do something about this group. Who knows how many laws they’re breaking?”

Allen never said a word, just smiled, a bit eerie-like for such a soft-looking fellow, Nick thought.

Chapter 37

Whitaker pulled off into an alley, driving deep toward its rear, not stopping until the bumper hit a dumpster roughly.

He dialed his team leader’s number on his cell phone.

“Yeah,” the man answered.

“Where are you?”

“We’re about three mikes out,” the man said, “mikes” being the military term for minutes.

Whitaker punched up his GPS navigational system. “I’m at 369458,” he said.

“We’ll be there in seconds, boss.”

Whitaker slammed his phone shut, pocketed it, and ran toward the alley’s entrance. He withdrew his pistol from beneath his jacket and kept it by his side. Reaching the entrance, he glanced up and down the street. Nothing. No screeching police cars racing toward him. No sirens yet.

Up the road, a white Land Rover came tearing around the corner, its back tires fishtailing as the driver whipped it around. The sports utility vehicle raced up to him and screeched to a halt.

Driving the Rover was one of his best drivers, and Tank sat in the passenger seat with an M-4 submachine gun across his lap. It had a second magazine taped upside down to the thirty-round magazine already loaded. Sixty deadly rounds ready to go.

Jumping into the back seat, next to his eight-man assault team leader, who also had an M-4 muzzle down between his legs, Whitaker could not keep from smiling.

His men would have gone to any length to rescue their leader.

“Good to see you guys,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

As the Land Rover wove its way out of the hotspot, the team leader searched various police frequencies on a scanner for the upcoming blitz of law enforcement.

Whitaker ran his hands through his hair and tried to get his breathing under control. And, in the stress of the near-death experience and euphoria of having survived, Whitaker forgot to call headquarters back and direct his agents to move in on Nick and Allen.

Chapter 38

Nick was back in his big Caprice with Allen sitting up front next to him. Nick had wisely stored the car, with his gear and more importantly his rifle, before entering New York City.

He figured finding parking would be a hassle and besides, the police were likely on the lookout for the green Caprice since the shooting in Oak Ridge.

Following their meeting, he and Allen had flagged down a cab and rode straight to the storage site. Nick assumed traveling in one of the thousands of yellow cabs was a safer proposition than being caught on camera boarding trains and subways together with Allen.

Nick had convinced Allen that he didn’t need to return to his apartment, and once they were in the privacy of the Caprice, Allen had told him his story.

Of how some man named Whitaker and a huge giant of a man, built like an NFL linebacker, had scared the shit out of him inside of a concrete cell. Of how they’d forced him into admitting he had fabricated his article. Of how some hacker had dumped child pornography on his work computer.

As the story was told, Nick recognized a deep anger in the soft-spoken, often satirical remarks of the New York man. It occurred to him that they had taken just as much from Allen as from him.

Nick’s future had been with Anne. A few kids. A family. Stability.

It was the same with Allen. They had taken his credibility, which was just as necessary for his future.

Allen had nothing now. He couldn’t write news articles or continue his career. Worse, they had likely taken his Pulitzer Prize, as he had just finished painfully explaining. And with that loss, came the loss of time off for a couple of novels. Allen's dreams were over, just as Nick's were.

And given that Allen was a cynical, divorced reporter dedicated to his job, there wasn’t much else out there for him. Now, they were both quiet in the Caprice, just watching cars and buildings fly past.

Both were brooding, calculating their losses. It was growing dark, and they had been heading south, in a roundabout way as was necessary around New York.

“Where are we going?” Allen asked.

“To Knoxville, or its outskirts.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to say hello to a certain FBI agent.”

“The one that killed Anne?”

“Yep,” Nick said.

“You intend to kill him, right?” Allen asked, glancing over at Nick, still unable to read him yet. Still not sure if saying “hello” meant spilling blood or just saying “hello.”

“You betcha.”

“You think he did it for money?” Allen inquired, a probing reporter again.

“Nope,” Nick said.

“So, it was an accident?”

“Nope.”

“It wasn’t an accident?” Allen asked, incredulously. “You're saying some paper-pushing FBI bookworm wearing khakis and dress shoes purposely killed your wife, so he could get suspended, get his picture in the paper, and deal with a shitload of scrutiny?”

Nick glanced over at Allen. His eyes returned to the road.

“I do not believe Anne’s death was part of the equation. I think those agents were just supposed to pick us two up. I would’ve likely been killed in a jail fight. Or, some convicted killer would have shanked me to knock off some years or gain some perk. They would have left her alone, I think.”

“So,” Allen replied, “let me get this right. An FBI agent, who is scared shitless and just doing his job, accidentally kills your wife. And for that, you intend to kill him?”

“That’s about the sum of it.”

“You, a man who has served in the military and faced danger? Real danger. Who knows how shit can go wrong in the heat of battle. You intend to kill a fellow service member? A man just doing his job?”

Nick said nothing and Allen wrongly assumed he was making headway.

“Don’t you see it was an accident?” Allen asked. “And have you forgotten that she shot one of the other agents? He had every right to believe she was armed.”

Nick's fists tightened on the steering wheel.

“I would have shot her, too,” Allen said.

Nick turned and looked at Allen, his eyes focusing on the wily reporter in the growing darkness. Allen met Nick’s look and saw something for the first time in Nick’s eyes that said, “Do not fuck with me.”

It scared him.

But, then Nick's eyes softened, back into the soft blue eyes that made him handsome. Nick smiled.

“You wouldn’t have shot her, sport,” Nick said, his voice as calm as it had been before the look of anger.

“Bullshit. It was dark. He was scared.”

“You wouldn’t have shot her because you are a professional. You respect your discipline. You’re one of the best. That’s how you got your story. You worked for months on it. Maybe years. That’s why you should be getting the Pulitzer.”

Nick shook his head in anger.

“If that man would have paid his dues on the range and taken his job serious, he would have realized there was more to the job than drafting papers. But, he didn’t, and now she’s dead.”

Nick paused, and Allen saw him grip the steering wheel again with probably enough force to break most men’s hands.

“For God’s sake, Allen, he was supposed to be a professional. He was wearing a bulletproof vest, and he should have been in the woods behind that house at least one hour before the raid so his eyes could’ve adjusted to the darkness. But, he didn’t. He didn’t do any of that, including owning up to his mistake.”

Nick cursed.

“The son of a bitch then tried to plant a weapon in her hand. But you just wait. Nothing will happen to him.”

Nick exhaled, trying to release some of the dangerous anger from his body.

“In the military,” he continued, “if you accidentally kill someone from friendly fire, you get punished. This man will get nothing. Just wait and see.”

Allen sat there trying to counter Nick’s argument. He had a point on a few facts, but enough to justify cold-blooded murder? Hardly.

“What if we --

Nick interrupted Allen.

“Look, you are a pampered, pansy-ass. You were probably raised by parents who allowed you to make excuses. In the South, especially out in the country, things are usually different. This man killed my wife. If he hadn’t, she would already be released. Anne would still be alive, waiting on me.”

Nick shook his head angrily.

“But, she isn’t. She’s dead. She’s dead because some scrawny wimp, who got beat up in high school, thought joining the FBI would make him tough. He joined, made it, but didn’t respect the game. You saw the article in the paper. He didn’t pay his dues on the range. If he had, and if he had been more competent, my wife would still be alive.”

Nick paused as a police cruiser passed going the other direction. Once it disappeared from view, he continued, “At a minimum, the man is guilty of negligence. Negligent homicide will get you time, even by your excuse-making judges up here in New York. Whether you’re speeding and hit someone, or whether you get in a bar fight and pull a knife. You got the education, you probably know how many years someone would serve for negligent homicide. Or even a manslaughter charge.”

Nick paused again, looking toward a parked car that he initially thought was an undercover police vehicle.

Convinced it wasn't, he said, “Look, in the South we handle things differently. If you’re on the school grounds and someone steals your pencil, you dot his eye. Now, you can call this revenge or whatever you want, but it’s going to happen. If you want, I’ll let you out. But, I intend to bury this man and then bury Colonel Russ Jernigan, since he can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“In case you forgot,” Allen snapped, “I was the one who got Jernigan to talk.”

“You were just doing your job, trying to tell a story that Americans arguably need to know about.”

“I started this whole mess,” Allen continued, “which makes me partially responsible for Anne’s death.”

“You really think that?” Nick asked, looking over at him.

Nick shook his head in disgust.

“You’re wrong. This was started when someone assigned me and another good man to go pull off a dangerous mission for our country in a foreign land we weren't supposed to be in. Whether that was right or not, I don’t know or care. I take orders, or at least I used to. I never complained. I did my duty. So did my partner. And so did Colonel Russ Jernigan. But, Jernigan dropped the ball recently. Badly. He sold me out when he talked to you. At a minimum, he is guilty of dereliction of duty and conduct unbecoming of an officer. He let out our nation’s secrets and look what that did.”

“I tricked him,” Allen said. “I got him drinking to loosen him up. Never even told him I was a reporter. I really pushed the limits of respectable journalism. Trust me on that.”

Nick glanced at Allen and smiled.

“You got excuses for everything, don’t you? I bet you think it’s not a thief’s fault if he steals, it’s the bad environment he was raised in.”

“Okay,” Allen said, deciding to not argue about politics with such a simpleton. “You kill this agent in Knoxville, then you kill this Jernigan guy because he talked to me. Then what?”

“I’m not real sure,” Nick said. “I figure you can help me on that, but I’m thinking I come back and nab the FBI special agent in charge in Knoxville. I’d like to have a little chat with whoever he or she is and find out who gave the orders to raid my house.”

“And, if it’s the director of the FBI?”

“Then, I’ll take a trip to Washington.”

“You don’t really think you could get close enough to kill him, do you?”

“Who said anything about getting close? I'm a sniper.”

“But, that breaks your chain. That doesn’t even get you whoever is behind this,” Allen said.

“Yep, that’s why I need your head, your sources, and your research skills,” Nick said, looking Allen in the eyes again. “And your determination,”

“Why don’t we just publish the truth? Hide out somewhere? I know lots of reporters. I can get you interviews. We’ll put you in front of lots of cameras. Get an investigation started. Put you in the witness protection program.”

Nick grinned at Allen.

“First of all, whoever is behind this was able to pull off an FBI raid on my house on short notice. They will find us, regardless of where we are. But, even if they couldn’t, we’d still lose. You are smart enough to know that every operation has a fall man. I’m betting this one would, too. So, we shut down one unit or organization, or one tier of it. We still don’t take out the brains of the operation, and another unit pops right back up. Doing all kinds of bad deeds.”

Nick kept quiet for a couple of minutes. He rarely talked as much as he had, but he knew he needed to get Allen on his side.

Allen turned toward Nick. He tried to read the strong face.

“I’m not sure I’m buying that you need to kill this FBI agent, who got the shit scared out of him. Hell, he’s probably hardly slept since killing your wife.”

Nick looked at Allen, started to speak, then fell silent. He thought for a few minutes to try to work out an argument. The silence became uncomfortable for both men. He debated turning the radio on but had no idea what kind of music Allen liked. Didn’t feel like asking.

“Well?” Allen asked.

Nick looked over at him again. Damn, this guy was going to get on his nerves. “Okay, you win. It’s not totally about Anne. Your FBI agent, who is hardly getting any sleep, is going to die because he’s a pawn. He’s caught up in something much bigger than himself.

“I’m going to use him to make an example of him. You see, snipers operate out of fear. If you start killing men, you begin to get inside the enemy’s head. Which is why all too often, a couple of snipers, who should be easily overrun by a large group, rarely are. Why, you ask? Because of fear. If ten men think they are going to be the next to die, and even if only one of the ten will die, usually, they won’t budge. They sit frozen with fear once they see someone’s melon split wide open just a couple of feet away.

“That’s the difference between regular combat and sniping. In combat, there is chance. Sometimes, even luck. So ten men attack even ten other men. Maybe even twenty men. Why? Because there’s a chance each may live. Thousands of rounds are fired. Few are hit, and still fewer die. Both luck and fate are involved. Really, it’s percentages. You know, we got to take this hill or beach, and we’ll probably lose twenty percent. Well, when you’re the one carrying that rifle that twenty percent is never you, so you fight even though you’re scared shitless.

“But, that’s not the case against a couple of snipers. Each of the ten knows damn well that the sniper will kill one of them. No chance involved at all. It’s all calculated, practiced skill. Science, if you will. A shot will be fired, and one man will die. No doubt about it. He won’t be wounded or maybe just lose a leg or arm. No. Somebody is going to take one through the chest. Or maybe the head, depending on the range.

“So, this agent is going to die. And when he does, somebody who is responsible for killing Anne is going to say, ‘Oh shit. Nick Woods is not only still alive, he’s hunting again.’

“And this somebody will try to rally his troops. Tell them they have every edge. Nothing to fear. All that bullshit. And then another man, Colonel Russ Jernigan, is going to die.

“And then it’s going to begin to eat at them. They’ll sleep less and start to think this shit isn’t so fun when you’re on the losing team. And their leader will try to rally them, but it will start to seem fake. Like he’s trying too hard. Or, maybe he’s never had to rally them before. And then the threads of the organization will start to unravel.

“And with luck, this leader will start making mistakes. Or, at least some moves we’ll notice.”

Allen didn’t know what to say. As much as it pissed him off, he found part of the logic convincing. Still, he didn’t think the agent needed to die. He debated his choices. He could ask Nick to let him out, and then send a warning to the man.

Nick, glancing over at Allen, had a guess or two about what he was thinking. “Hey, partner,” he said.

Allen looked back at him.

“You’re still not sold on all this, so let me give you two more reasons. If that still doesn’t cut it, I’ll let you out and you can live on the run. Or, face up to those child pornography charges. Serve some hard time. Become bed buddies with some stinking, three-hundred pound felon in the penitentiary.

“The first reason you need to help me is because you know now. You know about this group. You know how illegally they operate. They’re so above the law that it’s scary. But you can’t plead ignorance anymore. While I know ignorance is bliss, you and I have a moral responsibility to stop whoever is behind this group. They're evil. Plain and simple. Almost certainly operating without Congressional approval, maybe even without the President’s. Probably just one man behind them. And, as you know, you have to fight fire with fire, so we’re going to have to do some things that morally, we might wish we hadn’t had to do.

“That’s your high ground moral reason. But, there is one more. Believe me, revenge is sweet. Why do little twerps, finally pushed to the limit by some bully, pull out a knife and stab and stab and stab, even after the only thing under them is a corpse growing colder? Because it feels good to finally get even with someone who's tormented you and hounded you for years.

“Don’t you see, Allen? It’s too late. The bully has already clobbered you. Bloodied you, but good. He fucked with you and thinks he’s above the law. Arguably, he is. And if we don’t do something, he’ll fuck with Jennifer and anybody else you care about, too.

“Now, the choice is yours. You know you have to pick up that knife and start stabbing him, or he’s going to keep coming back. Some asshole named Whitaker will watch your every move until the day you die. He will threaten you and be in your head every second of the day. You’re going to be miserable.

“He may even make you do something against someone else because he owns you now. You’re going to have to stay away from Jennifer, and from your writing and reporting. So, I’m saying, ‘Pick up the knife, Allen.’ Don’t be the bitch on this one.

“Let’s go do these guys. And, I promise you this. Whether we win or lose, live or die, I'd rather die as a man standing up for himself than allow fear to rule my life.”

Allen glanced over and met Nick’s eyes. Nick smiled. Allen felt pretty sure he was looking into the eyes of either a crazy man or one of the best combat veterans the country ever produced. Maybe both.

Regardless, the country boy from the South had convinced him. He was in.

Chapter 39

Allen and Nick sat camped out at the Holiday Inn in Knoxville. Allen had taken off for the public library, intent on doing all the necessary research on the FBI office in Knoxville. Nick had said he needed to do some calisthenics and weapons drills. Allen could only vaguely guess what that was.

Inside the library, Allen made short work of his research. Like any decent reporter, he began with a phone book. A cursory search revealed the FBI office location at 710 Locust Avenue and its phone number. He jumped onto a computer and searched for the address.

He found directions to the office and printed satellite aerial photos of the surrounding area.

Back in the hotel room, Nick had showered after his brutal workout. He knew at some point he would have to get Allen involved in exercising, too, for his own sake. However, that could wait, at least until after this hit. Now clean and cool, Nick was on the floor, lying down.

He was dry-firing his unfamiliar .308, getting more comfortable with the trigger and scope of the rifle he'd bought out of the classifieds section. He was executing his seventy-third practice “shot” when there was a single knock on the door -- the signal that it was Allen.

Nick took no chances. He lay down the rifle, pulled out his .45, and got behind the bed.

“Come in,” he said.

After sliding the key card into the slot and entering the room, Allen hastily said, “Alright, damn it. Put that thing down. No one is behind me.”

Nick smiled, holstering the pistol. “Sorry,” he said.

“I found the mother lode,” Allen said. He dropped off some printed copies of his research onto the nearest bed.

“Great,” Nick said, picking them up.

“I had an idea, too,” Allen said.

“What’s that?” Nick grunted, shuffling through the papers.

“We need to do an interview with the local paper after the shot.”

“Say what?” Nick looked up at Allen.

“Yeah, we need to do an interview with the local paper after the shot.”

“I’m not following.”

“Trust me. It’s the power of the press. You have to at least acknowledge that we could fail. That we could be killed without finishing the job, right?”

“True,” Nick reluctantly agreed.

“Exactly. We need to get as much of the story out there as we can. Just in case that happens. This murder will give our story further creditability.”

“Yeah, but it will get our faces out there, too.”

“Oh, come on. Our faces are already out there. You’ve got a nationwide all-points bulletin on both of your names. And, I’ll have the same on me when I don’t show up for court on those child porn charges here soon. Not only does this provide some insurance in case we fail, it’ll also hinder our enemy’s movement. Think of it. Ten or twenty of the nation’s top reporters asking questions at the Pentagon and military bases throughout the country. Regardless of how ridiculous the story, the reporters will start digging. Believe me, I know these reporters. Even something this outlandish will draw interest. And once that many start digging, then it'll be impossible for the group to blackmail that many people.”

“Maybe,” Nick said, measuring the idea.

“One other thing.”

“What?”

Allen pulled out a folded sheet of paper from inside his jacket. He held it out to Nick. “That lady you killed in Oak Ridge?”

“I don’t want any more details,” Nick said, eyeing the paper and refusing to accept it. “I’m not happy I had to do that. But she pulled and was going to execute me right there. That’s the way my hand was dealt.”

“No, you can sleep well from here on out,” Allen said. “She was definitely a fraud.”

Nick snatched the paper, scanning the printed news article. The article quoted several FBI agents who said Nancy Dickerson was not an FBI agent. Nor had she ever been.

Allen saw that Nick’s relief was obvious.

“At least now I know I wasn’t making up in my head the fact she attempted to murder me,” Nick said.

“Yep,” Allen responded.

Nick wasn’t sure what to do. He suddenly felt as if a major load had been lifted off him. He had assumed she was one of Whitaker’s agents since she fired first, but a nagging thought had kept telling him that perhaps she truly had been an FBI agent. And that perhaps she had either panicked out of fear or seen the pistol by his side.

It might not matter to some, but it mattered greatly to Nick that the woman hadn’t been a real FBI agent after all. That article was definitive proof that Nick had acted solely in self-defense, and that made meant a lot to him.

He already carried enough regrets.

Two hours later, Allen and Nick were still in the hotel room. Allen was reading “A Man in Full,” a novel by Tom Wolfe, on the bed farthest away from the door.  The near perfect phrases from Wolfe never ceased to impress Allen. Allen was a fine writer, but Tom Wolfe was great.

Across the room, Nick was kneeling in front of the motel’s cheap chest of drawers, looking over the aerial photo Allen had downloaded from MapQuest. He was studying the picture, looking for the right answer, finding trees, rooms, and parking garages where he could shoot from. It had taken him more than an hour, broken up by sets of pushups and sit-ups, but he had found the best answer.

It was hardly perfect. Just a parking garage located what looked to be two hundred yards away. Nick did not know how high the walls in the parking garage were, but he guessed them to be about four feet high. The simplest proposition would be to park, walk up to the wall, and wait until FBI agent Jack Ward left the building.

Nick could leave the rifle leaned against the wall, hidden behind his body. To most, Nick would just look like someone getting some fresh air. He could smoke a cigarette for an added effect.

That was all fine and dandy, Nick thought, until he had to make the shot. Then he would have to raise his rifle and get behind the scope. Somebody would certainly see him then.

Well, that option wouldn’t work. At least, not within the safety parameters Nick demanded. Sure, if the timing was right, he might be able to take the shot with no one noticing him on the second level of the garage. But, that would require some luck.

Actually, if Jack Ward left the office after five, as Nick suspected he would, then it would require some divine intervention to have no one on the second floor, either walking to their car or driving down to the first floor exit.

Too many people left work at five for Nick not to be noticed.

A better idea hit him. They could steal a van, one of those ’80s, full-sized ones -- the type with hardly a window on either side. They could park its rear bumper against the wall, have a back window removed, and Nick could fire from inside it. The van would allow him plenty of safety and concealment. He could take the shot and have Allen play chauffeur as they left the parking garage.

Relieved, he stood. His knees hurt from his long study of the photo. The recent intense running hadn’t helped much. These aches reminded Nick that he hadn’t run in what, two, three days? He’d have to take care of that. Maybe he’d have Allen drop him off downtown, so he could run through what was now his AO, or Area of Operations.

“Hey, Allen,” Nick said.

Allen looked up from his novel, lifting his head the slightest bit in the look of a “yes?”

“I got something you can do,” Nick said. “I need you to take me downtown and drop me off. I’m going to do my run for the day, as well as check out this one location from where I might shoot from. While I’m doing that, I was wondering if you could get a map and find three routes from, uh, from …” he couldn’t remember the name of the garage. He walked over to the printed “MapQuest” photo. “From the James White parking garage to some mall inside of town. Just pick one.”

“Okay,” Allen said. “But, why a mall?”

“Because it has a huge parking lot there that stays relatively full. My green Caprice shouldn’t be noticed.”

“Well, I can just look at the map and pick three routes. And, didn’t you already work out today? Why do you need to run?”

Nick realized Allen had a lot to learn about the craft of war. He remembered he should be patient since he needed Allen and since his last argument with Anne might have been different had he not lost his temper and stormed out on that fateful night.

“Look,” he said. “Yes, you could pick out three routes from the map, just as I could. But, the map only tells you so much. You know, distance and size of the road. You may pick what you think are the three best routes from the map and then find out there’s traffic lights or busy intersections on one of them that you didn’t know about. Hell, there may be construction, or a two-lane road may actually only be one.

“So, what I’m asking is for you to pick five or six routes from the garage to whatever mall you choose. Once you’ve picked them, I want you to drive them all and narrow the list down. After you’ve narrowed the list down to three, I want you to drive each of them several times, until you’re comfortable with them. Until you know them. Then, start driving the side routes of them.”

Allen nodded, thinking Nick did indeed make sense on some things.

“And,” Nick said, “I’m going to run because I need to, and because I want to see the shooting location. You know, do a little recon.”

Allen smiled, pulling a cigarette out from a pack. He lit it, sitting on the bed. “How will this plan of yours end up working?”

“We’ll steal us a van,” Nick said, “one of those old full-sized ones that doesn’t have windows. We’ll park on the second or third level, whichever is best for the angle of the shot, knock out the back window and back it in so that I can see the front of the building. You can be napping or whatever in the back with me until around five or so when Ward leaves. Hopefully, I’ll be able to ID him quickly and get a good shot off. Then, it’s up to you to get us out of the parking garage on whatever route you pick. Just remember, traffic will be a bitch at five since it’ll be rush hour.”

Allen blew out a lungful of smoke. “What if he enters a side door and thus doesn’t leave out the front door? Or what if a crowd is exiting at the same time and he’s among them? You know, maybe you won’t be able to get off a shot. And frankly, I’m worried about the five o’clock thing. That’s a maximum number of people out driving and walking about. Lots of eyes and ears are going to be open, and we’re going to be leaving in some piece of a shit van that will be missing its back window?”

Nick hadn’t considered that. “You got any better ideas?”

“Not right now,” Allen groaned. He stood, walked over to the sink and ground his cigarette in it. He rinsed off the black stain from the white porcelain and dropped the cigarette into the small hotel trashcan. Lighting another one, he thought of a better idea.

“I got it,” Allen said. “Let’s call him from a cell phone and ask him to come down to the front of the building.”

Nick nodded. That was good. Why hadn't he thought of that? Allen was trying not to grin too much, using his cigarette as a prop, but the sides of his mouth gave him away.

“That’s a damn fine idea,” Nick said. “Plus, that allows us to control the timing of the shot, we can do it in the morning at about ten or so, and it will keep him standing still, as he looks around for whoever called him.” Now smiling at Allen, he said, “You’re going to go a long way toward keeping my sorry ass alive.”

“As long as you do the same for me, we’ll call it even,” Allen said.

Nick walked over to his pack and pulled out a worn, gray tee shirt to run in. Across the room, Allen was sitting on the bed, ignoring his Tom Wolfe novel and watching Nick. Nick pulled his shirt off. Allen was trying to size Nick up, to look at his build, his muscle density, and the way he moved, judging him like a gambler would a fighter about to step in the ring.

Nick had a wiry, lean build and moved cautiously, in a smooth way, like he was carrying a tray of full wine glasses at all times. Allen figured it was some kind of sniper thing, since the toughest men he knew generally fell into two categories. The thick weightlifters -- cops came to mind as an example -- moved like elephants, puffed up and massive. While the small, gangster types strutted around like roosters, staring down and sizing up those around them with complete disrespect, fully confident the pistols and Mac 10s they were packing would protect them.

But, Nick was different. His manners and movements were more like those of a priest; no, a monk. One of those Shaolin types. A humble, easy-going look that always appeared balanced and smooth. It was the kind of look and attitude that wouldn’t get many looks from other men or cause many fights in a rough bar.

As Nick turned toward him and pulled the gray shirt over his head, Allen noticed a thick line of scar tissue on Nick’s right shoulder. It was at least four inches long and had the rough look of being treated by some miserable army doctor. Hell, Allen had seen smaller scars on men and women who had lost limbs during vehicle accidents and had them reattached. He guessed the scar came from a gunshot wound that had been followed with lots of reconstructive surgery. One thing was clear, there was no scar tissue on his back, which meant the bullet had lodged in Nick. Probably had to be dug out, Allen guessed.

And as Nick’s shirt came down over his arms, Allen saw just a glimpse of a scar on Nick’s chest. It was round and about the size of a quarter. As the shirt came down over the wound and Nick began to take off his blue jeans, the quarter-sized wound took shape in Allen’s mind.

Nick’s legs showed a smattering of jagged, healed wounds below both knees (mortar round, if Allen had to guess),

But Allen couldn’t shake the thought of that scar on Nick’s chest. He remembered the location, centered where many cons plant chest tattoos. And as Allen convinced himself it was some kind of marking or tattoo, he finally realized what he had seen.

Nick pulled on his shorts and tied his shoes while Allen tried to argue himself out of what he had seen. But the harder he tried, the more convinced he became.

The image on Nick’s chest was burned into his mind now, and it infuriated him. The symbol -- one of Hitler's second most recognized symbol after the Swastika -- represented evil, and Allen felt a deep anger flare up inside him. It would be simple to just let it slide or forget about it, but he couldn’t. No New Yorker would. Hell, what was the worst Nick could do? Beat him into a pulp? Kill him?

Nick was folding his blue jeans and stuffing them into the pack when Allen finally found his voice.

“What was that on your chest?”

Nick stopped and looked up at Allen. “What?” he asked, having not heard Allen’s quivering statement.

Allen thought Nick was being a smart ass. Shaking, from both fear and rage, he managed to stand, a small, diminutive man in his 50s. “I said, ‘What is that on your chest?’”

Nick didn’t understand what was going on, but he knew the little nut needed to quit reading whatever the hell was in that book he had. The man’s tone and accent really pissed him off, and he wasn’t afraid to beat a small man’s ass if he had to.

He’d give the twerp a chance to cool out. “What do you mean what’s on my chest?”

“That symbol you’ve burned into your chest. Don’t deny it. I saw it, you racist motherfucker,” Allen said, spitting a little and looking quite pathetic to Nick.

“Oh, this?” he asked, pulling up his shirt and showing off the burned scar, the SS.

“Yeah that,” Allen said, practically yelling. He felt sweat forming in his clenched fists.

“What about it?” Nick asked, still perplexed.

“Oh come on, you stupid bastard. You know what.”

“Uh, no, I don’t,” Nick said.

“Bullshit, where’d it come from?”

“Oh, Germany.”

“No shit,” Allen snapped. “And what’s it stand for?” he asked, no longer an eloquent reporter from New York.

Nick now finally understood, but Allen’s assumptions really pissed him off. “You know, you’re not nearly as smart as you think you are. You think this symbol is some kind of racist trash, don’t you?”

“No fucking shit,” Allen said. “There’s a few million Jews who can attest to that.”

Nick looked down at the symbol again, the straight distinctive lines, SS, and still felt proud of the tattoo.

“Listen here, dumb ass,” Nick said through his teeth, about to lose control. “I’ve never even met a Jew. The symbol stands for Scout Sniper, the term the Corps uses to refer to its snipers.”

Nick closed his mouth, inhaled deeply, calming himself before continuing.

“I earned the title of Scout Sniper, so I burned this in my chest, just like most Marine snipers do. Why this symbol? Because the German military revolutionized the art of warfare, conquered half the world, and extensively used snipers. And as they began to lose the war, their army provided an example few can match.

“The Marines to this day study the German’s tactics of World War II. Their Blitzkrieg tactics, their squad sizes, their delegation of command. And for me, having this burned into my chest reminds me that … I don’t know, it reminds me I need to be the toughest man on earth, that I need to be training at all times because if I don’t, I’ll pay for it. Finally, that even the best can lose, as Germany did.”

Allen was at a loss of words. It was such a simplistic reason and probably true. He knew he should just apologize, but he was still too angry and flustered.

Nick stepped closer and slapped Allen easily on the face. “Hey big boy, thought you were going to go to the mat with me there for a second.”

Allen smiled, embarrassed, still scared, still mad. He tried to figure out a way to apologize, but Nick cut him off.

“Come on, let’s go,” Nick said. “You’ve got some driving to do, and I need to do a little run.”

Chapter 40

Whitaker was back in Washington in Senator Ray Gooden’s office. It was only the third time Whitaker had reported to his superior’s office.

Doing so was risky for Senator Gooden.

Following Whitaker’s easy escape out of the ghetto after gunning down the officer, he had felt lucky to be alive. However, his delight quickly transformed into outrage and embarrassment for forgetting to call headquarters.

He had wanted to order the hit on Allen and Nick while they were meeting in New York, but then the cop had pulled him over and distracted him.

Now that anger was growing into a sinking feeling of fear. Allen Green and Nick Woods combined were worthy adversaries with their unique, complimentary talents.

Senator Gooden sat behind his magnificent, boat-sized, mahogany desk reading a stapled packet of papers. He seemed unaware Whitaker was standing in front of his desk, at a modified parade rest. Whitaker had been in this position for nearly ten minutes, and that was after a thirty-plus minute wait in the reception area.

Yes, Senator Gooden was pissed, Whitaker knew.

Gooden was a small man. About five-five, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, he sat in a small chair to understate this fact. He was well into his sixties though he still had a full head of hair. It was gray and combed to the left, the classic Washington look. He wore circular glasses and was always meticulously dressed and groomed.

Today, his coat was off, and Whitaker could see a gold cuff link on his right shirtsleeve. Just above his left wrist sat a sliver of silver from a watch. Whitaker knew it was a Rolex, no doubt a gift from some corporation.

Indeed, Senator Gooden’s friends were many. And his enemies were dead. Either politically or literally.

In fact, the mysterious death of a democratic opponent for Texas senate had mired Gooden for years. The opponent had been more than twelve points ahead in every poll with the election just two days away when his plane crashed soon after takeoff following yet another successful fundraiser. An investigation found faulty wiring, which oddly had not been found in a preflight inspection conducted two hours prior to taking off.

During that campaign, four major newspapers had endorsed his opponent. Since then, the number had continued to rise, regardless of the opponent. Senator Gooden was hated. By the press. By his opponents. By the majority of the people across the country, just not in Texas.

And yet he kept getting elected. Everyone knew how dirty he was. He had taken illegal campaign contributions. He had twice been investigated by the Senate Ethics Committee for conflict of interest. But, with every opponent since candidate Bob Kile, who died with his wife, four aides, and two pilots in a fiery flash just outside of Houston, Gooden had easily been re-elected.

The tactics were as brilliant as they were barbarous. Nude pictures of daughters or wives of rivals leaked to media outlets. Strange investigations by the IRS were launched. Unexplained endorsements for the Republican Gooden would emerge from Democrats who had spoken poorly of him. Gooden believed a little dirt and leverage could win any political battle. To date, he’d been right. And even with all the ugliness in his past, he was as powerful -- or more so -- than ever.

Texas politician Gooden was ruthless, no doubt, but this corruption did not compare to Senator Gooden, the defender of democracy, the mastermind of Whitaker’s illegal unit to fight terrorism.

There were years and years of history of illegally funding struggling minority groups around the world with weapons and money. The mujahideen in Afghanistan, when the Soviets were there and before it was even legal U.S. policy. And the Northern Alliance against the Taliban following the Soviet departure.

The Kurds in the Middle East. Most surprisingly, the Chechens against the now democratic Russians, until the Chechens had resorted to barbaric terrorism in Moscow. Nevertheless, Gooden still believed the Chechens should be funded to keep the Russians from becoming a strong U.S. opponent again.

Whitaker knew enough dirt on Senator Gooden to bury him, but he didn’t have the guts to spill it. Senator Gooden was no different than a mob boss. He would get you, even if he were in the confines of prison.

The man finally laid the paperwork down and locked his fiery eyes on Whitaker.

“Good afternoon, Senator,” Whitaker said.

“The hell it is,” Gooden snapped. “You want to tell me what happened in California?”

“As you know, we had a little situation.”

“No shit. And why did we have a situation?”

“Because --”

“I’ll tell you why,” Gooden snarled. “Because you had to go out there on some kind of damn stunt. Had to lead the troops, huh? Great. Now your face is on a videotape, courtesy of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

Whitaker swallowed hard. The thought of a camera in the police car never crossed his mind, though he knew they were standard in the police departments of major cities. Shit.

“Give me a report on Nick Woods,” Gooden commanded. “I assume you’ve found him?”

“Unfortunately, we haven’t.”

“Unfortunately, I know that,” Senator Gooden roared back sarcastically. “I think there’s something else you want to tell me about that situation, isn’t there?”

Whitaker wondered how his intel was so good. Were there other units like Whitaker's under Gooden’s belt?

“I asked you a question,” Gooden chided.

“As a matter of fact,” Whitaker said. “We’ve lost Allen Green.”

“No fucking shit,” Gooden roared. “Don’t you think I would’ve liked to have known that?”

“Of course, but I’ve -- ”

“I don’t want to hear it. You can’t find Bin Laden. You can’t keep a tail on Allen Green, some stupid, liberal writer from New York. You go off like a cowboy and waste a cop, and still don’t take care of the Hands of Death -- the very reason you went out there.

“My accountant says your funds are getting preciously thin, and those Hands of Death thugs continue to undercut us out there. My patience is wearing thin, Whitaker. You’re quickly coming to a point where I’m leaning toward terminating your command.”

Chapter 41

In Knoxville, the weather was clear. Still a bit cool, but sunny and beautiful.

Nick sat inside a once plush, 1970s full-size van, watching the building where FBI Special Agent Jack Ward worked through the scope of his .308 rifle.

The window of the rear door of the van had been knocked out the day prior, and Nick and his rifle were about five feet from the opening, deep in the shadows of the curtained van.

Nick waited in the seat of a captain’s chair, kneeling, with the rifle perched across the back of the seat for support. With Nick’s head cramped against the top of the van, it was a shitty position, but he was only shooting 260 yards.

With the building’s doors sharp in his scope, all he could do was wait. Two days had passed since his spout in the motel room with Allen over the SS symbol burned into his chest, but that was long forgotten. Though he knew he was only moments away from taking the shot, he found it hard to concentrate.

Behind him, Allen was smoking his third cigarette in five minutes. Allen kept thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Someone could walk by the front of the van and look in, Allen thought. Or, the employee waiting to take their parking ticket might not be in his booth when they made a break for it after the shot.

He’d probably be taking a piss, Allen worried. Well, it didn’t really matter now. Allen had already called Jack Ward from a recently purchased, disposable cell phone.

And there you had it: Allen Green, an only child raised wealthy by a dope-smoking mom, was about to take another serious step back from his climb to the top. He'd already dropped from award-winning journalist to accused child molester. And now he was about to become a co-conspirator in the brutal assassination of an FBI agent that was involved in a controversial shooting. Allen figured that profile would warrant a short, sharp obit in The New York Times, which oddly enough had always been one of his goals.

Usually, only about three or four people had short articles on them in the Times following their death. Famous politicians, scientists, sometimes writers. Allen wanted to be one of those writers.

Well, he thought, if you can’t make it in the front door, go around to the back. The satire did little to cheer him.

Nick, still behind the scope, wasn’t worried like Allen. In fact, Nick was far from worried. He had that feeling you get before you knock on the boss’s door to ask for a raise or to say you aren’t going to work another Sunday or Friday night. He knew he needed to carry out this shot, but it was like finally knocking on the door. You had to face the boss.

Nick figured he could pass on shooting Jack Ward and live the rest of his life on the run. Maybe find him a cabin somewhere. The covert unit would probably stop looking eventually.

But, like the cruel bastard of a boss who pushes some employees too far, Nick knew he had to go through with this confrontation. After all, this boss was responsible for Anne’s death.

Yeah, he’d knock on the door all right. And if he got fired or killed in this situation, so be it.

Any doubts he had about knocking on the door were completely erased when Special Agent Jack Ward stepped through the glass doors and onto the sidewalk. He looked pissed, turning his head from left to right to meet whoever it was who had just called and demanded to meet him outside. Alone.

Nick knew the insolent piece of shit had twice told Allen on the phone that he was in “Administration” and anyone with a tip about a crime needed to talk to “Investigations” -- not him. After Allen insisted he would only pass along documents to Jack Ward had the man finally relented. A real coward, thought Nick.

Nick knew the type. Ward didn’t care about helping people or reducing crime. He was in it for the paycheck, or bragging rights, or both. The eight-power scope brought into grand detail the fat face and soft body. Jack was looking up and down the street for his contact, and he looked agitated and angry.

Nick figured Jack wasn’t happy to be away from his reports and stacks of paperwork he probably enjoyed wading through. But it was time for Jack to get a cold reality check.

Nick pushed the analysis of Jack Ward out of his mind and focused on killing the son of a bitch. The man was nothing but a total coward who had shot Anne because he’d been too scared.

The fears of meeting the boss were gone now. In fact, at that moment, Nick didn’t care whether he lived or died. All he wanted to do was to exact revenge on the disgrace before him. If Jack Ward’s superiors wouldn’t punish him, then Nick would. He clicked off his safety.

Nick had calculated the range, the bullet drop, and the windage. And as he pulled the trigger slowly back, he thought about how this man had not only shot Anne, he had tried to plant a weapon in her hands after the fact.

The rifle exploded like a cannon, its sound amplified to a deafening boom in the small, dark, enclosed van. As the gun knocked Nick back, his right hand was already working the bolt to reload.

Jack never knew what hit him. Like all long shots, the bullet ripped into him before he ever heard the shot. Jack, now lying on the ground, screamed in panic and tried to stop the blood pouring from his chest.

“Nick, we need to go,” Allen said, his voice nervous. “Do you need to shoot again?”

Nick put the safety on the weapon and pulled it from his shoulder.

“No,” he said. “Unnecessary. It was a clean shot. Let’s go.”

Allen started the van up and drove down the ramp of the parking garage, remembering what Nick had said about getting in the enemy’s head. Killing enough of them would make them ineffective, regardless of their overwhelming strength in numbers.

Allen knew Nick had just fired the first shots of his war. He doubted the other side had anyone as ready for this war as Nick.

Chapter 42

The getaway went off without a hitch. They had paid their parking fee, admitted to the employee they had heard a shot, too, but informed him it had sounded like it was blocks away.

It had just echoed back and forth in the parking garage, they told him. He actually seemed to believe it.

“Man, Knoxville is getting crazier and crazier,” the staffer said.

They drove to the mall, where they ditched the van for good and grabbed Nick's green Caprice. From there, they headed for their motel outside Knoxville.

Meanwhile, several hundred miles away, Whitaker learned of the shooting and went into panic mode. He had good sources, but he barely beat the media on hearing the news of the shooting of Jack Ward.

Of course, it was understandable that he barely beat the media in this instance. About thirty people had been on the sidewalks around the building when Nick pulled the trigger.

With the noise of the rifle, the Knoxville Police Department had received more than one hundred emergency calls to 911 in less than sixty seconds. Initially, the Department believed it was dealing with a terrorist sniper. Calls were made for the SWAT team to assemble. But besides calling 911, people were also calling the media.

The broadcast channels broke into commercial breaks, and the cable media soon followed. In just over five minutes, CNN was broadcasting “early reports” of a possible terrorist attack in Knoxville.

Just moments before CNN had the story, a source of Whitaker’s had called him in D.C. and said there had been a shooting at the building where the FBI was headquartered in Knoxville. The man explained that he just heard it on the scanner and would call back when he heard more.

He didn’t need to. Whitaker already knew. It fit the profile. Angry vet still madly in love kills the man responsible for killing his wife. And with that, he felt a cold fear creep into his stomach.

Nick Woods wasn't going to hide out in the mountains, thankful to just be alive. No, he had gotten his hands on a rifle and was hunting again.

Chapter 43

The press releases prepared by Allen Green were written to catch your attention. And they did.

The bold headline said, “Who shot FBI Agent Jack Ward in Knoxville yesterday, and why?”

Allen and Nick had driven to Chattanooga, another city in Tennessee with more than 100,000 people, the day after the shooting to send out the release. Allen had a list of fax numbers for newspapers throughout east Tennessee, as well as regional and national newspapers.

He knew the only chance the press release had was for whoever picked it up off the fax to recognize it. He figured the east Tennessee papers were his best chance.

Allen had hoped to wake up early and shoot the faxes out by 8 a.m., but he overslept, true to his night-owl character, and didn’t make it to a Kinko’s copy center until just after 10:30 a.m.

There was no line, so he walked up to the fax machine and began punching in the various area codes and fax numbers. He soon had the machine shooting out his three-page fax across the country. Allen hoped those on the receiving end were in the right mood to fully read and hopefully follow-up on the press release he had worked on for hours.

The release immediately announced in the first paragraph that FBI agent Jack Ward had been killed by gun-nut Bobby Ferguson. The shooting by Ferguson was in retaliation for Ward’s actions in the recent botched raid.

The press release stated that Ward had negligently and wrongfully killed his Bobby Ferguson’s wife Anne.

While the shooting was revenge at its core level, the press release stated that the story was much deeper.

Allen had then described the story of how Bobby Ferguson was actually former Marine sniper Nick Woods, who had served covertly in Pakistan against the Soviets. The rest of the press release read quite similar to Allen’s story in The New Yorker.

The fax ended by saying each media outlet would receive a call within a couple of days.

Nick and Allen had purchased dozens of disposable cell phones from several stores with money from Nick's pack, and it was with these cell phones that Allen would call each media outlet.

For Allen, the work over the next two days proved to be the most frustrating work he’d done in some time. Setting up in yet another hotel room, this one in Nashville since Nick thought they should leave Chattanooga immediately after sending the faxes, Allen worked nearly non-stop from eight to five for the next two days.

And with all that work, he achieved nothing.

The reasons why no one would pick up the story were many. Reporters were out of the office. Editors had reviewed and shot down the story -- isn’t this the same story you just denied a couple of months ago, they asked?

Even those who got past his denial and began to probe as to why he had later retracted the story found it absurd to believe that secret agents had apprehended and threatened Allen, planting evidence on his computer.

And they supposedly burned down a building, too? This was nothing but an out-of-this-world conspiracy theory.

Allen diligently kept good notes of each phone call and marked off each news source as it became clear they wouldn’t do anything on the story. At his highest point, he thought three organizations might do the story: The New York Times, Time magazine, and 60 Minutes.

The New York Times came the closest before bowing out. The reporter from there said her editor thought the story might be plausible except it didn’t make sense that Allen would change his story because of secret agents or threats. No good reporter would cave in and give up the truth, she said in a sanctimonious voice.

Of course, he'd once felt the same way. But being abducted, assaulted, and threatened had a way of changing one's point of view.

Allen gave up on the media, at least for now.

Chapter 44

In Fredericksburg, Virginia, Whitaker used his key to open a heavy steel door on the side of a rundown warehouse. He and Tank entered the huge warehouse and slammed the door behind them.

Inside, men lifted weights off to the left. Whitaker had bought enough weights and machines to make most small gyms jealous. Whitaker believed a team should lift and live together as much as possible. It kept his teams tight and forced them to push themselves harder than if they were lifting alone.

The equipment sat on the concrete floor and lacked even the comfort of rubber matting, but his men didn't care. Each had worked out in far worse conditions.

Whitaker heard heavy metal music blaring from a boom box on the floor. His men pushed and pulled weight in impressive amounts, sweat pouring from their bodies. He nodded to the leader of Strike Team Two, who supervised the team of eight men.

Whitaker kept walking and fought the urge to join his men. He knew Tank wanted to, as well. Probably worse than even he did. Seeing the men of Strike Team Two lifted Whitaker's spirits.

These men were professionals. Killers of the highest order. And he had four more strike teams just like them. Five teams. Eight men each. Forty of the best commandos in America. All waiting for a target.

Whitaker knew he could bring Nick Woods down if he could just determine his location. He walked into his office with Tank, which was one of several rooms built inside the shitty-looking warehouse. From the outside, it looked like those around it. But from the inside, it had been retrofitted and upgraded to a command post, complete with the latest command and control equipment.

Whitaker had located his command post in Fredericksburg, Virginia, for several reasons.

First, it was near Washington, D.C., where he often had to go to meet with one of Senator Gooden’s aides.

Second, unlike D.C., Fredericksburg lacked the traffic of commuters or a first-rate police force with experienced, nosy detectives. It had less than 30,000 people and an average police force.

Finally, the city was close to Quantico, where the Marine Corps had plenty of ranges for practicing weapons drills and assaults. The base also had miles of woods for the teams to practice in. Strike Team Five, in fact, was training in Quantico today.

Whitaker always felt the location of his command post had been nothing short of brilliant. Actually, the entire setup of his unit by Sen. Gooden had been pure genius, and everything could keep going as planned as long as he took down Nick and Allen.

Whitaker took a seat at his desk and sighed heavy. Tank plopped down across from him in a guest chair.

“What’s ailing you, Boss?”

Whitaker rolled his neck in a circle and groaned. Tank said nothing. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. Whitaker took his eyes off the ceiling and looked at Tank.

"We've got one shot to get Nick and Allen," he said.

"Why's that?"

"Because we know they're going to go after Colonel Jernigan. He's their only remaining clue at the moment. But if we miss taking them down during their hit on him, then we'll be stuck on the defensive. We'll have no idea what their next moves are, and they'll pick us apart."

"Then we need to make sure we take advantage of this opportunity," Tank replied.

"Indeed. We've got two teams here on rotation, doing nothing but training. I want both of them with us to North Carolina."

"Sixteen men, plus us? That's a lot of firepower."

"We may need it," Whitaker said.

"And do we warn Col. Jernigan that he may be in deep shit?" Tank asked.

"Of course not," Whitaker said. "He brought this on himself, so if he catches a bullet, it just saves us the trouble down the road. Plus, I don't want him looking nervous. Nick Woods can smell a trap from a mile away. We can't let him get away this time."

"He has a habit of that. Afghanistan. Just recently."

"Don't remind me," Whitaker said. "Let's hit the locker room and change into gym clothes. We'll hit the weights hard before we saddle up tonight."

"Roger that, Boss."

Chapter 45

Nick Woods watched Col. Russ Jernigan through a pair of binoculars as he stepped from his home and walked to his Jeep Grand Cherokee. Jernigan followed the same routine as he had the three days prior.

Nick scribbled a notation in his sniper logbook and noticed Jernigan was running three minutes ahead of schedule today. Still, the man left his home each morning between 7:45 and 7:48 a.m.

In addition to recording Jernigan's habits, Nick noticed a few men who also had their eyes on Jernigan. Two sat in a car at the end of the street. There were at least four in full camouflage in the woods behind his house.

Nick figured there were probably a couple more somewhere he hadn't seen. The shot was doable from where he lay more than seven hundred yards away.

He was across the street from Col. Jernigan's home and more than twelve homes down. It was a cattycorner shot, angling away. Difficult, even for Nick, but he'd pulled off more difficult shots.

His best shooting location for the shot was in the other direction, but Nick had seen several men in full camo working their way around it. So, he'd use this second location. Not ideal. But safer. And more unpredictable for his enemy.

Nick had upgraded his rifle. A couple of weeks earlier, he'd snuck onto the base where the Marine Corps hosted its sniper school training grounds. Quite quickly, he selected a couple of poorly trained snipers in their first week of sniper school and snuck up on them one night. He'd shined a bright flashlight in their faces and surprised the shit out of the tired and exhausted trainees.

But through the light, they'd seen his pistol and given that they were unarmed -- no live ammo, just blanks -- they had little recourse.

In the end, he'd talked them into voluntarily giving up their weapon. Nick even fired a round into the air, so that their story about being robbed by some crazy man had more credibility.

Then Nick had booked it out of the area, humping across the woods through an escape route that avoided roads and hit every thicket and swamp he could find. It was only two klicks to the road where Allen was driving up and down, waiting to pick him up.

None of that extra precaution on the escape had been necessary as the training staff hadn't been in the field and the two men hadn't been given a radio for their routine training exercise. It took more than six hours before the MPs were even alerted, and by then Nick lay on his bed in a hotel room just twenty miles away in Jacksonville, N.C.

He'd already showered and cleaned up.

Nick had spent the next week getting familiar with the rifle he'd stolen, which felt like an old friend from back when he served. It was the same rifle, caliber, and scope as he'd used, so it took little time to get familiar with it. He'd fired more than a hundred rounds through it on an abandoned farm thirty minutes away while Allen Green spent the week working the phone and a laptop to find exactly where Col. Jernigan lived on base in Camp Lejeune.

Allen had worried he'd have to stake out the bar scene again, as he had the first time, but in the end, he managed to get through to a couple former friends from the news world. Several were starting to believe Allen's crazy story of being framed.

He had, after all, had an impeccable reporting record for the past thirty years. All the insiders had known he'd been working on a major story for months and months. To have been that mistaken about a story then turn around and admit he'd been wrong was so farfetched for a veteran reporter of Allen's stature that many former friends were kicking themselves for abandoning him so quickly. One of his best friends had paid back an old favor and tracked down Col. Jernigan's home address through a couple of military contacts he had relationships with.

And now just a little more than three weeks after drilling FBI Agent Jack Ward from a parking garage in Knoxville, Nick Woods lay behind a much better rifle and planned to blow away Col. Jernigan the following day. He'd prepped the battlefield, studied his exit route, and planned all kinds of surprises for Whitaker's men who were "guarding" Jernigan.

These dumb sons of bitches were about to tangle with one of the best warriors America had ever produced, and they'd been getting sloppy after guarding the same man and following the same routine for three weeks straight. In a word, they were screwed, Nick thought.

Chapter 46

Nick Woods lay behind the M40A1 rifle the next morning, watching Col. Russ Jernigan's home as the sun burned off the early morning fog.

The rifle felt familiar, and it should. It was the precise weapon he'd used to hunt down the Russkie Spetsnaz in Afghanistan. He had worried when he stole the rifle in the dark from the two training Marines that he might end up with an M40A3, something the Marine Corps began fielding around 2003.

The M40A3 was heavier and used an improved scope, which wouldn't have bothered Nick. What would have bothered him was learning the new rifle with the level of familiarity he had with the older M40A1. In short, he wouldn't have been able to in just a matter of weeks. Nor, in even a year or two.

He'd spent hundreds of days and nights with an M40A1 -- some cold, some wet, some hot. Many of those nights in training, and quite a few in war.

And lying behind the M40A1 sniper rifle all these years later, he felt the comfort and familiarity one might find with an ex-girlfriend they had dated for years. With this rifle, he knew her tendencies, and he knew how to make her sing.

Col. Russ Jernigan's door opened, and there he stood in his camouflage uniform looking down at his keys and an attaché case. Just another day at work, or so he thought.

Nick Woods cursed under his breath, feeling real anger that such a despicable man had reached the high rank of Colonel. The man couldn't control his mouth and protect Top Secret information, something Lance Corporals and Corporals did on a regular basis -- for about one-tenth the pay.

Seeing his face through the scope, Nick swallowed down his emotions and tried not to think about the fact that this man was the one truly responsible for Anne's death.

Nick buried his raw anger and worked to forget the sight of Anne in their yard. The sight of the scope tracking Jernigan across the yard reminded Nick of dozens of shots from his past.

How many had he killed? He'd once known, but after a while, they ran together. The real professionals stop keeping track.

Colonel Jernigan walked toward his truck, looking calm and unhurried this morning. Jernigan always paused in front of the door to his truck, and since it was an older model 4x4, he had to unlock it manually with a key. Nick planned to take the shot at this moment when Jernigan wasn't moving.

Jernigan took his final steps to the truck, and Nick felt time slow down and his senses sharpen. Some kind of bug climbed his leg just above his boot, and he shifted his mind from the sensation to focus on the crosshairs and Jernigan's body. The wind remained constant, blowing just slightly from left to right.

Nick began easing back the trigger, as delicate as you might test the blade of a razor-sharp knife with your finger.

Chapter 47

"Cruel Angel, this is Team 4 Leader. Do you read, over?"

"Roger, Team 4 Leader," Whitaker said. "This is Cruel Angel. Read you loud and clear."

"Be advised, Cruel Angel. We have November Whiskey in our sights."

November Whiskey stood for Nick Woods, and Whitaker could not contain the joy those words brought to him. He smiled at Tank, as they sat in a hotel room in Jacksonville, just a few miles from Camp Lejeune and Colonel Jernigan.

"Team 4 Leader, are you absolutely certain you have November Whiskey in your sights?"

"Roger, Cruel Angel. We can see his position and the outline of his body."

Whitaker grinned. His plan would work.

"Roger that, Team 4 Leader. Follow the original plan and do not intercept until after the shot is taken."

Tank laughed, and Whitaker looked up from the radio.

"What?" he asked.

"You're an evil son of a bitch," Tank said.

"Might as well close the final loose end. Plus, it ties off nicely with the story that will emerge."

"Still, pretty cold blooded to allow Col. Jernigan to take a bullet."

"It is," Whitaker shrugged, "but we deal in big schemes, and in the big scheme of things, it's a minor footnote."

Whitaker glanced down at his radio. He wished he was out there with his troops. The one bad thing about command was how quickly you got pulled from the front lines.

Eventually, you found yourself looking at maps and listening to radios. You found yourself perfecting plans and studying strategy.

At least in this instance, Whitaker knew he had a great strategy in place. He'd overseen countless operations, and this was one of his best yet. And like all great plans, it started with first-rate intel.

Whitaker knew Nick Woods would go after Col. Jernigan. He also knew he had a civilian-made .308 hunting rifle, which was not nearly as effective as a military sniper rifle.

Thus, Whitaker estimated 300 yards as a max range for Nick. Really, that was barely outside assault rifle range, so Nick's greatest strengths as a sniper were severely diminished.

From there, Whitaker had drawn a 300-yard circle around Col. Jernigan's home, as well as his office, though both Whitaker and his team snipers felt Nick would shoot Jernigan around the home. The office was too jammed up with people and buildings to be effective.

Whitaker had set up surveillance at both locations, just to play it safe. But his men had quickly seen Nick snooping around the Colonel’s home. It had been so tempting to take him out early on, but Whitaker's plans relied on Nick taking Col. Jernigan out.

The advantages to this were numerous. First, it closed a final loose end. Second, the shot would be a flat-out murder, further undermining Nick's outlandish story involving conspiracy and threatened news media. Third, after the shot, Whitaker's men could kill him in a way that would allow Marine Major Hawkins of the MP unit on base to take credit for just happening to be in the right place at the right time.

Hawkins was the Marine who'd helped Whitaker get on the base to begin with, and he even allowed him to borrow a couple Hummer's on his first trip to Camp Lejeune. This would be a huge repayment of that favor.

Major Hawkins was about to become a real-life hero, and his career would be set.

Whitaker had ordered all members of Team 4 to arm themselves with H&K MP5 submachine guns, since these fired 9 mm rounds. This was the same caliber as the rounds fired in MP service pistols. Best of all, the H&K MP5 came with a suppressed model that all of Whitaker's teams used regularly, so they were familiar with them.

Once the men had killed Nick Woods, Major Hawkins would come roaring up in his Hummer and fire the appropriate number of times into the air that Nick had been hit. The Team 4 leader had assured Whitaker they could take Nick down with two good center mass shots, and maybe one in the head.

That would be three shots for Major Hawkins to fire in the air while Team 4 policed up their brass and got the hell out of Dodge. Investigators wouldn't even take the time to run ballistics on the rounds.

It'd be a routine shooting, and no one would question the integrity of Major Hawkins.

"Shot fired! Shot fired!" screamed Team 4 Leader over the radio.

"Here we go," Whitaker said to Tank.

"I hope they nail the bastard," Tank said, and Whitaker looked up and thought he heard something in Tank's voice.

Typically, Tank wanted to get his hands on their targets. Had Nick Woods gotten in Tank's head?

Chapter 48

Nick focused his scope on Colonel Jernigan, making a couple of last-second adjustments. He eased the trigger back and loosed the round that would right many wrongs.

Immediately, Nick worked the bolt to reload the rifle. He moved the rifle back on target and prepared for a follow-up shot, but saw Jernigan go down. Blood sprayed across the truck door.

Nick knew the shot had felt good and figured he'd hit Jernigan within a few inches of the heart -- certainly through one of his lungs. The man stood no chance unless an ambulance pulled up in the next thirty seconds, and even that would be a stretch.

Nick began to push himself up from his position. He had a four-mile hard evasion route in front of him, and he mentally prepared himself for it.

Out of nowhere, he caught movement and ducked back down. A van came roaring down the street toward a fake hide he'd placed right at three hundred yards from Jernigan's home.

Nick had placed the fake hide there in case there were any counter-snipers watching for him. He'd set it up a bit obvious, even placing a cheap scope he'd bought at Wal-Mart among the bushes so that there'd be some reflection there from the morning sun.

Nick pulled the rifle back up as the van slid to a stop just yards from the hide, which sat just inside the tree line. As the men jumped from the truck and fired silenced H&K MP5 submachine guns toward the hide, Nick realized these were not MP's or Marines. They wore Marine uniforms, but Marine MP's didn't carry silenced weapons or deploy like an assault team.

Nick quickly realized that these were men of whatever shadowy unit it was that was hunting him and Allen Green. He also recognized this as a golden opportunity. One they had forced him into. After all, his plan didn't include trying to outrun eight men who had vehicle support. He'd expected some pursuit, but by men who were also trying to avoid getting seen by MP's or other base personnel.

The sheer audacity of these men brought up some fear Nick hadn't expected. Then he remembered the fake FBI agent, whose name turned out to be Nancy Dickerson. Just as he finished twisting the range down on his scope and placing the reticule on the first man, he thought of how this group had rounded up Allen and destroyed his life.

Whoever was behind this group was cold blooded, and not afraid to break any law on the books. By the time Nick pulled the trigger, he'd decided he'd kill every one of the men in the van if he could.

They had chosen to work for a murderous organization. And they had taken part in an illegal operation in which they had impersonated legitimate Marine MP’s and fired silenced weapons into a hide in an act of calculated murder.

These men hadn’t even given the “sniper in the fake hide” an opportunity to surrender. It had been an ordered hit. The kind which few men willingly go along with.

Yeah, Nick would kill every one of them if he could. He pulled the sniper rifle’s trigger and his first shot blew a man off his feet.

"Where'd that come from?!" yelled the Team 4 Leader. "Spread out! Eyes outboard! Communicate, damn it. What do you see?"

His men ignored the fake hide they had just shot up and spread out into a quick 360, each taking a knee and looking for the source of the shot.

Nick racked the bolt and aimed at the leader standing and shouting. He fired quickly. After all, it was just four hundred yards away this time, instead of seven hundred.

The man went down hard, and Nick dropped a third man before they scrambled into the prone.

"Where are those shots coming from?" screamed one of the men, real urgency and fear in his voice.

"He's to the west, I think," another said.

"Spread into a linear formation," one man yelled, pointing with his finger toward the woods. "He's this direction."

The men not facing toward Nick jumped up and ran to get into a skirmish line, except now everyone was in the prone.

"Cruel Angel, this is Team 4," yelled the next in charge into the mic in his vest that connected to the radio in his pack. "Team 4 leader is down, as are two other team members. We're taking very effective fire from several hundred yards away. Request support, over."

Tank saw Whitaker look down at his radio with a sick look.

They had no support in the immediate area for his besieged troops.

"Team 4, support is on the way, but it'll be a few minutes getting there," Whitaker said.

He saw Tank furrow his brow at the obvious lie, but continued, "You must try to fire and move toward him. He can't hold you all off, and that's your best chance."

The Team 4 member who was next in command didn't answer Whitaker. He looked up and said, "All right, guys, we're going to fire and move and take this fucker out."

"Come on, Lewis," someone said. "We've got piss-ant pee shooters that barely shoot a hundred yards. We're dead men if we try to run him down when he’s three or four hundred yards away."

A shot echoed, and the telltale whack sounded. A moist slap caused all the men to squirm lower to the ground.

"Who was that? Who got hit? You all right?"

"We need to go," another Team 4 member said. "If we make a break for it, some of us can make it out of here."

Lewis wanted to argue with him, but facts were facts.

"Sounds good," he said. "Get ready for some covering fire."

Nick had a hard time seeing them while they were in the prone, and he knew they'd probably make a break for the van soon.

He prepared for their next move by pulling his nearly empty magazine from the rifle and inserting a fresh one in. That gave him five rounds and only four remaining targets.

Piece of cake.

In the distance, he could hear sirens approaching, but that was as much a threat to the men lying in the grass before him as it was to him.

Suddenly, two men jumped up, and rounds started zipping by him, some low -- striking the dirt -- and others high -- cutting branching and leaves. He couldn’t hear them firing because of their silenced weapons, but that was okay. At 400 yards, it would take some serious bad luck on his part for him to get hit by a pistil-sized, 9 mm round.

Nick ignored his fears and braved the bullets thudding all around him. He aimed at a man jumping into the driver's seat of the van. Nick fired, but his shot shattered the glass and missed due to the deflection the window caused. He worked the bolt and sent a second shot toward his target.

This one struck the side of the man's face and instantly killed him.

Nick aimed at a second man who had jumped into the back of the van. He lost him in his scope when the man ducked behind a seat.

The other two men, who had been providing cover fire, leapt to their feet and ran for the truck. He shot the one darting toward the vehicle’s rear doors and blew him into the van, before the man’s body slid out.

The second of the last two to scramble made it to the driver's door. As he yanked it open and pulled the dead man from the driver's seat, Nick put a bullet right into the front of his face. Both men fell.

Nick worked the bolt again and aimed toward the rear of the van.

On second thought, he lowered his rifle. He'd let the final man live – along with any others who were tough enough to survive taking a well-placed 7.62 mm bullet. Their stories would intensify the fear among the rest of the opposition's troops.

And with that thought, Nick slid back from his position and exited the area. The ghost of Nick Woods had shown these men what a true sniper could do with a fully capable military rifle.

Eight men lay bleeding or cowering in fear, and not a single one of them had managed to see him. Hell, they hadn’t even located his true position.

Nick knew as he exfiltrated the area that these men had felt terrifying fear today. They, nor their friends in the other squads, would be looking forward to tangling with Nick again.

Not today. Not ever.

Chapter 49

Allen Green grew increasingly worried following the day of Nick's mission. Nick had said it might take a day or two -- maybe even three -- to get off the base, depending on how tightly they clamped it down after the shooting of Col. Jernigan.

News channels had shown the complete devastation after a Marine leaked a video clip taken from an iPhone. Bodies lay busted and broken across the landscape. Best of all, the men that Nick killed had left a treasure trove of intelligence for the Marine Corps investigators, as well as the FBI, to work with.

Now media throughout the country were reporting that the violence hadn't been a terrorist attack as initially reported, or if it were, it had been an internal militia group; possibly from out west.

All the men found dead or wounded were carrying various forms of identification ranging from private investigators to former police officers to former federal agents, including even one former FBI member.

Neither the Marine Corps nor the media could figure out exactly what had gone down yet, but all the bodies had helped the dialogue between Allen and his former press friends.

More and more were starting to buy into a conspiracy of such scale and width as to be mindboggling.

One, a reporter from The New York Times, had begun to seriously dig and ask questions to DOD and the CIA. His name was Ken Leonard, and he had already been publishing bits and pieces of an upcoming story on his blog. His readers weighed in on comments and offered suggestions on what they thought was happening.

On the second day following the shooting, Allen Green again dutifully drove down a barely used state road bordering the Marine base and, more importantly, the training area Nick planned to exit from.

Nick had told Allen to drive down the road each night and look for a series of signals along the road at a pick-up point the two had agreed would work best -- both for the man in the woods and the man driving the car. And just as he did on the first night, Allen nervously drove down the road, looking for a branch in the road, followed by an RC Cola can, followed by an old red shirt that would be lying in the gravel on the shoulder.

Allen had worried other trash might confuse him, but the two had driven the spot that would be used and confirmed it was relatively litter free prior to Nick leaving for the op. Besides, Nick had asked, how many RC Cola cans have you seen lately? Not to mention the red shirt he'd be packing in with him.

But despite how hard Allen squinted in the darkness of that second night, he saw none of the three signs when he passed the area at midnight as directed. He arrived back at his hotel room dejected and increasingly worried.

However, that negativity was soon replaced by joy once Allen checked The New York Times website and saw a news story -- third down from the top, in fact -- that had been written by Ken Leonard, the reporter who'd been jumping more and more on Allen's side in regards to the conspiracy.

Ken had asked Allen earlier in the day if everything he had told him in the previous few days could be used on the record. Allen, now a fugitive on the run, figured he had nothing to lose by having his name used in a story with quotes and statements from him.

This agreement to be quoted on the record with his name attached had been the decisive factor in Ken Leonard's editor at The New York Times giving him the green light on his article.

And as The New York Times so often does, they'd placed the article online around midnight, which almost always meant the article would appear in the next day's print edition. Allen clicked the link and waited impatiently while the page loaded.

The headline read, "Colossal conspiracy or frantic felon, full of foolish fancy?"

Well, Allen thought, they sure nailed the alliteration.

He read on, full of anticipation. Sure enough, Ken Leonard recounted the story from beginning to end with flawless precision. Of how an award-winning reporter had worked for months on a huge story. Of how the story had claimed that American snipers had engaged Soviet Spetsnaz troops in Afghanistan despite years and years of Americans adamantly claiming no such thing ever occurred. Or even nearly occurred. Of how those same snipers had been sold out to close up any loose ends and determine who a Soviet mole actually was.

And then the article described how Allen admitted it was all false the very next day, and how the police said he set fire to his apartment and had child pornography found on his computer. The article followed these two points with a quote from Allen himself, now hidden allegedly somewhere in the south, according to the article.

"It's absurd that I made that story up and would withdraw it the very next day," Allen Green said in an interview. "I've been writing articles for thirty years and had only two clarifications in that time. Yes, two clarifications and no, read zero, corrections. And child porn? Wouldn't you think that if I looked at child porn, I wouldn't have done so from my work computer, which is monitored by my employer? This is part of a huge government conspiracy. The government couldn't allow this story to stand, so they came after me with some secret group."

Allen smiled after reading his quotes. They read well in print, and he was glad Ken Leonard had quoted him accurately.

The article also stated how the once respected reporter had skipped town and later issued press releases claiming the sniper mentioned in the story was actually alive and was tracking down the shadowy organization that was plotting against the two men.

The story only had a couple paragraphs about the gunning down of Nick Woods's -- err, Bobby Ferguson's wife -- then a bit about how the two names were the same person, and how Nick Woods had shot down FBI Agent Jack Ward in retaliation for Anne’s gruesome and unexpected murder.

And now, Allen Green was willing to go on the record and claim that Nick Woods had gunned down U.S. Marine Col. Russell Jernigan at Camp Lejeune as part of the recent news involving a massive shootout at the sprawling base. Green also said Nick had been responsible for the death of the men (called “militia,” for now) from the shadowy group who were protecting Jernigan.

The article reported that the Marine Corps refused to confirm or deny whether a Col. Russ Jernigan was involved in the shoot-out until the investigation was concluded.

Amazingly, much to Allen's delight, Ken Leonard had interviewed a former CIA official (while not naming him) who said that while the claims by Allen might seem outlandish to most readers, the truth was they rang pretty accurate, according to the former agent.

"It can get pretty mixed up while you're in there serving," the former CIA agent had said in the story. "There are times when you won’t be picked up after completing a mission. Sometimes, weather interferes. Sometimes, deals get made. And since we’re all trained to be skeptical, sometimes we see conspiracy when no conspiracy exists. And sometimes conspiracy exists right before the public’s eyes, and they have no idea."

Allen stared at the screen a few more minutes and leaned back in his chair. He pulled a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. And as he smoked it -- slowly -- a conclusion ran through his mind.

Son of a bitch, he thought. We're honest to God going to nail these bastards. The media -- with its vast powers and resources -- has the story in their sights.

Allen smiled as he considered the warpath the media was about to embark on. We’re going to get Whitaker and whoever is behind it all, he thought.

Chapter 50

While Allen Green enjoyed the story and tasted the first moments of victory, Whitaker and Texas Sen. Ray Gooden made their countermoves.

Whitaker called Sen. Gooden the moment one of his men alerted him to the story, and Gooden didn't even waste time reading the report.

"What's it say in a ten-second nutshell?" Gooden asked.

"It's bad," Whitaker admitted. "Pretty much tells the whole story. Accurately."

"I've got to chair the Armed Services Committee tomorrow and still need to review some material. I don't have time for this shit."

"I know, sir. I have a plan for dealing with it."

"You damn well better," Gooden hissed through his teeth.

He listened to Whitaker's plan and then made one phone call. It didn't matter that it was nearly midnight, and it didn't matter that his request broke about twenty different laws -- all felonies.

Gooden called the Deputy Director of the National Security Agency. When the man answered, groggy from sleep, Whitaker said, "Bruce, hate to wake you, know it's after midnight, but I've got a national security emergency. I need you to alert your staff on duty that I've got a man on the way to your front gate, and he needs some quick research done on a crucially important matter. Feel free to wake up the Director if you want, but he's aware of this situation. We'd hoped we wouldn't have to drag you into this, but the situation turned south on us in a hurry."

Bruce, the Deputy Director of the NSA, had said no problem and picked up the phone to call the night staff at headquarters to make it happen. Since he trusted Sen. Gooden, he never bothered to confirm with his Director whether he was indeed aware of the situation. No need to wake him.

Instead, he intrinsically trusted Sen. Gooden. How could he not? The man had been running things on the Senate Armed Forces Committee for nearly thirty years.

This was a good thing since Gooden had just told one of the most dangerous lies he'd told in more than a decade. And as Sen. Gooden ended his call with the Deputy Director, somehow managing to hide his anger at Whitaker and just able to swallow down his fear as he related the lies to Bruce, he decided that if Nick Woods didn't kill Whitaker, he would do so himself.

Whitaker, with all his mistakes, had jeopardized decades and decades of work. But first, he'd use Whitaker to get that damn reporter, Allen Green, and see if he could stop Nick Woods. And while Whitaker worked to make that happen, Sen. Gooden would be looking for his next commanding officer. Because if something didn't drastically change, he'd be burying one man and bargaining to retain a new one in the very near future.

Chapter 51

Whitaker stood behind a goofy looking man who sat in front of three computer monitors, completely focused. Barely a pound over ninety, the guy had curly hair and ear phones that ran down intermingled with the mesh of wires scattered on top of the desk. Whitaker had assumed the ear phones were work related until he'd followed the cord to their destination, which was an iPod on the far corner of the desk.

Whitaker had never been around some of the top computer geeks employed by the NSA. He usually just received data dumps and intel files electronically, but tonight was an exception. A major one, he thought, wondering how far past midnight it was now.

The computer geek kept working, ignoring the man standing behind him. Whitaker closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. The past two days had been complete hell and reminded him of fierce combat in other war zones he'd encountered across the globe.

Whitaker remembered how confident he'd been just prior to Nick Woods dropping Col. Jernigan. He then recalled how that confidence had been shattered by the brutal ambush of Team 4. The shooting had barely stopped before he was scrambling and making frantic attempts to get his men who'd survived off the base, but he'd had no luck. The MP's had swarmed, and there were more generals and officers involved in the situation than he could possibly get around.

Whitaker wasn't even sure how many men from Team 4 were dead and how many were hooked up to machines in the base hospital. And as soon as he'd realized it'd be impossible to get the men off the base, he instructed Tank to order his best available sniper in the states to get to Camp Lejeune. And fast. The man had collected his gear -- he'd been training on a sniper range in Quantico -- and jumped on a waiting private jet that Whitaker had arranged to land nearby.

Whitaker had spent the next few hours planning the mission with the sniper and getting his Marine Major on the phone so that the sniper could get on base, which currently was under heavy security.

"Where do you think he'll be?" Whitaker had asked, looking at a topographical map of the terrain around Col. Jernigan's house.

The sniper, who'd been studying the map for nearly an hour while Whitaker worked the mission's logistics, said nothing at first. He continued his analysis of the map, evaluating the lines that indicated elevation and the colors that portrayed heavy vegetation. He tried to put himself in the shoes of Nick Woods. What would he do? Would he have hauled ass after the shot? Or would he have buried himself deep in a hide until the pandemonium ended?

The sniper had an "x" placed on the map where the shot and resulting ambush had occurred. And around that "x" he had measured one mile in each direction -- north, south, east, and west. Then he'd drawn a curve connecting all four points until he had a circle on the map exactly one mile out from the shot.

Then, he'd repeated the task for two miles, three miles, four miles, and finally five miles.

The sniper knew Nick Woods was within those circles since the shot had been just a few hours earlier. He also knew Nick would pick the same evasion route as he would since they'd been trained identically. Thus, he studied the map a couple more minutes and recognized precisely where Nick would go.

The sniper estimated the pace he would move at if he were Nick, added some extra distance to be safe, and then looked for the nearest insertion point. He wanted to be in position and waiting when Nick came by.

The sniper looked up at Whitaker and pointed to the map. "He'll be here,” the sniper stated. He then moved his finger toward another mark. “And I need to get a ride and be dropped off here."

Whitaker nodded and assured him he'd make it happen. After setting up the insertion of the sniper, Whitaker struggled to maintain his sanity during the next two days. He tried to focus on his other teams that were deployed and the training of teams not deployed, but he couldn't stop worrying about whether his sniper had nailed Nick Woods. Since the man purposefully carried no radio, Whitaker was in the dark.

After two days, the article had broken on The New York Times and he'd spoken with Sen. Gooden, who'd set him up -- pulling who knows how many strings -- with the NSA. While the agreements worked their way down from the top of the NSA to its operations center, Whitaker had been aboard a private jet flying straight to a nearby airport.

Now, still standing behind the geeky NSA operator, he tried to let the worries about his sniper and Nick Woods go. He couldn't control that situation. Right now, he had a single focus, and that was Allen Green.

"How long should this take?" Whitaker asked.

"Depends on how complex and paranoid our friend Ken Leonard is," the NSA guy replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," the man said, his fingers still typing, "it depends on how complex his password is. Whether he used numbers in addition to letters. Whether he used punctuation and symbols. And whether he used a longer password than most."

"Is there any way you can't break this?" Whitaker asked.

"No. Just a matter of how long it will take."

The geek, who Whitaker found rude, certainly knew his business. He'd broken into The New York Times server in less than ten minutes though Whitaker thought the geek had purposefully taken longer than normal. Whitaker suspected they hacked into The New York Times regularly, but they didn't want to give that piece of intel away to a man they didn't know.

Now, the annoying little nerd was attempting to crack into Ken Leonard's personal email account. From there, they hoped to find the e-mail address from Allen Green, which would ultimately expose the reporter’s IP address. Once they had that, they would use national security requirements to get the hosting company to give up the specific address -- and not just the city or general area.

Once they had that location, then Allen Green was a dead man.

"One more question," Whitaker added. "Give me a best case and worst case scenario."

"Best case?" The geek glanced up from his screens and tapped his chin. "An hour to break into his e-mail and four hours to work the approvals to get the exact location. Worst case, maybe four hours to break into his e-mail, plus the four that follows it."

"Great," Whitaker said. He stepped away from the computer workstation and pulled out his phone. He ordered his on duty officer at his operations base in Fredericksburg to alert Strike Team Three, which was on light training following a difficult deployment to Afghanistan, to mobilize and await further instructions.

Whitaker hadn't caught any breaks yet but taking Allen Green out would end the real threat. Without Allen Green's skills and connections to other reporters, he'd just be dealing with a barely educated sniper who lacked any outside resources. And with luck, that barely educated sniper was already dead.

Chapter 52

Nick Woods moved through the forest. He followed low ground, as much as possible, and stayed in dense, impenetrable cover. Yet even in such impossibly thick brush, he moved like a ninja.

He crept along in a crouch, each footstep half as long as a normal stride. With the shorter stride, he was able to keep his balance and place his toes down in spots free of dry leaves or twigs. He'd add weight to his toes, then bring his boot down along its outer edge, slowly increasing weight and pressure. Nick knew that this slow, precise movement was the best way to minimize sound. Once all his weight was on the front leg, he'd lift his back foot and repeat the process.

In his pocket, the fired brass cases were cold, no longer putting out heat as they had hours ago. He congratulated himself on remembering to grab them after the unexpected ambush. And now just hours after the shooting, he slipped -- very s-l-o-w-l-y -- toward his extract point with the kind of confidence and potency you might find in a jaguar sneaking through the jungle.

Nick smiled to himself as he crept through the woods. Wonder what Whitaker is thinking now, Nick thought. He's probably not feeling so cocky, having missed his best chance to nab me. He knew I was coming, and he still missed.

Unfortunately though, Nick had never seen the van coming. And in truth, had he not stolen the sniper rifle prior to the op, they would have successfully guessed his location and buried him back there.

That thought did trouble him a bit. Whitaker had guessed where he'd fire from with his hunting rifle, hid his men for nearly two weeks, and executed an impressive counter attack. Just in the wrong spot.

This idea brought Nick up short. Never underestimate your enemy, sport, he reminded himself. After all, Whitaker had been cautious enough to send the FBI to round him and Anne up after Allen Green broke the story. And he'd done this despite the near certainty that Col. Jernigan had leaked the info, not Nick.

And he'd also flawlessly nabbed Allen Green from his very office, in a very public building, in a very public city. He even had the tenacity and discipline to go after Nick and his spotter after the Afghanistan ops, and he'd done that just to be safe. Just so he could tie up a couple loose ends. Loose ends involving two of the best-trained Marines America had. There would have been no chance that Nick or his spotter would have leaked the info. They were too professional for that.

But this guy Whitaker, if that was his actual name, he didn't take chances. And he didn't lose very often.

Nick slowed his pace a bit more.

So, what would you do, he asked himself, if you were Whitaker, and you were trying to nab a crazy, well-trained sniper at the one opportunity you'll have. The last possible opportunity you have. You’re a man in charge of this great organization, facing a serious internal threat, and you have one chance to save your ass. What would you do?

Nick had a knack for figuring out what the enemy would do. It's what had saved him from the Soviets and what had protected him in countless other situations.

Think, Nick, he commanded himself. What would you do?

He admitted the idea for a strike team rushing in by van was good. Then Nick stopped mid-step, and a cold fear hit him. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and his heart pumped blood faster and faster through his veins.

Because at that moment, Nick knew damn well what he'd do if he were Whitaker. He'd send in a sniper to back up the assault team. One not in the op area, since that wouldn't be necessary. Instead, he’d stage one in a trap to cover Nick's evacuation route in case the assault team missed him.

And with that thought, Nick got the eerie feeling that he was being watched. He'd come to the most open and dangerous part of his route -- the perfect place for a sniper to cover -- and as he instantly dove to the ground, fearing the shot he knew was headed his way, he thought of Allen Green and knew that if he were truly Whitaker, he'd do more than send in a sniper as back-up to take out Nick.

He'd also find a way to track down Allen Green and take him out at the same time. Because Allen Green, with his contacts and research capabilities, presented every bit as large a threat as Nick did.

Chapter 53

Whitaker's Strike Team Three had assembled at their warehouse compound in Fredericksburg, Virginia. They had their camouflage packed and stood around waiting in various forms of civilian attire. A couple looked like rednecks in jeans. Others wore sharper, preppy clothes. Each carried concealed firearms.

The main goal was for them to avoid looking the same. Their camouflage and heavy weapons were packed in containers in two work vans that would be driven by support members. They'd be riding in three SUVs, each driving with about two minutes distance between each other, with the two work vans in the middle of a widely spread-out convoy.

They'd be following speed limits, and each carried legal permits for their handguns. However, in the event that one of the two vans got pulled over and searched, they knew they might have to take down a state trooper before back up could be called.

That had never happened, though, in all the history of the teams.

The team members didn't know anything about Nick Woods or Allen Green or the grand conspiracy story. Whitaker maintained a strict "need to know" protocol, and in his mind, none of these men needed to know.

All they knew was the following "situation:" a middle-aged man in his fifties, located near Jacksonville, N.C., needed to be nabbed. Their mission outline stated the man had been selling military secrets to the Chinese from the nearby Marine base at Camp Lejeune.

Some knew it was bullshit, most didn't. None cared.

However, they did believe they were acting as a part of the country's vital national security defense, and that was rewarding in its own right. Not to mention, their over-the-top pay and constant excitement settled any other questions they may have.

They stood by their SUVs, each different in color and brand to help camouflage their unit. They waited impatiently for their commander. The support men waited by themselves near their vans. They knew they didn't fit in with the actual trigger pullers on the Strike Team and had given up trying to long ago.

The Strike Team members lounged about with the ease of hardened veterans who'd learned to master the hell of hurry up and wait years ago. The men joked, laughed, and bitched, but thought little of the mission. Nabbing one man, with no support element, no training, and likely unarmed? That had the word “cakewalk” written all over it.

Just moments after the NSA guy cracked the precise location of Allen Green, Whitaker contacted his team leader. After asking a few questions, the Strike Team Three Commander walked out of an office, looked down at his notes one more time, and then said, "All right, guys. Let's load up and get on the road."

And with that, the men broke from their groups and climbed into their heavy vehicles, which were souped-up and modified in the front so they could ram obstacles without fear.

Chapter 54

A freakish silence shrouded the forest. Nick Woods had dropped to the ground hard, after stalking for hours from the ambush site. But, he hadn't worried about the noise because if he'd been in some sniper's scope, then silence didn't matter.

Nick had landed hard, and the sound of his body smashing leaves and sticks had sent birds scattering and squirrels up trees.

Now, he lay still, panting. His heavy breathing came not from exertion but from fear. He had no idea how close he'd just come to dying, but his gut told him it was within milliseconds.

After all, the woods in front of him allowed roughly two hundred yards visibility -- behind him was thick brush and cover. For a sniper, two hundred yards was spitting distance. Hell, even a good rifleman without a scope could drop a man at this distance, even using a worn-out, standard-issue assault rifle.

But for a sniper with a scope and finely tuned rifle, you were talking about being able to hit something just a bit bigger than a half dollar. A good one would hit within two inches at two hundred yards.

So, assuming a sniper waited out there watching for Nick, he'd probably have wanted to drop him immediately as he exited the thick cover. And that's exactly what Nick had done when he got the feeling of being watched. Which meant the opposing sniper had probably already let half his breath out and had been taking the slack out of the trigger waiting for it to surprise him. Which meant Nick had been milliseconds from death.

A perfect shot. An instant death.

Nick knew he was in a terrible situation. The sniper would be perfectly concealed in a ghillie suit that provided excellent visibility. He'd be behind some light brush or leaves, hidden in depth behind the moving foliage.

Nick lay between a couple big trees, and while he knew his rear was secure, he also knew he couldn't move forward. Had the sniper been able to see even a bit of Nick, the man would have shot already. After all, his surprise had been blown by Nick, even though the man hadn't done a thing wrong.

Nick glanced behind him to confirm he had at least ten yards before he could make it back into the dense cover of the swampy thicket. While Nick didn't know where the sniper was located, he felt certain that there'd be no way he could go ten yards without exposing part of him, which the man would immediately blast. It's exactly what Nick would do -- in fact, it’s exactly what Nick had done in some of the sniper duels he'd survived in Afghanistan.

Once surprise was gone, you wanted to wound the other man and frustrate him. Force him to try to patch himself up, so you could either move into a position with a better view or hit him again while he attempted to stop the bleeding.

So, Nick couldn't go backward. That was for sure. And he couldn't go forward or move to either side. To do so would be risking exposure and getting winged by a man who would be driving nails at this distance with a grin on his face.

A risky move would be to jump up and try to dart back to the thicket. That had a small chance, especially if he rolled one way or the other, but at this distance, the sniper wouldn't need to hold his breath or work hard to make a great shot. The roll would simply alert his opponent and increase the risk, and just trying to get up would be as equally fatal.

Nick figured the man was aimed in on the spot where he'd hit the deck. Waiting to see some movement he could blast. If Nick rose up, it'd just be a quick trigger pull, and that'd be it.

Great job, Nick, he said to himself. You're about to get bagged by some sniper who's probably embarrassed at how easy this is going to be. Hell, there were fat, out-of-shape police snipers who shot twice a year who could handle this situation with ease.

Since he couldn't move, Nick had one thing left to do. And he'd soon find out who the tougher, more patient hombre was.

Chapter 55

Nick lay on the ground, listening. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he'd guess it'd been at least two hours. The birds and squirrels had calmed back down just minutes after he dove to the ground, and he'd kept his head lowered for the first twenty or thirty minutes.

He knew from long experience that keeping your head up while in the prone would quickly lead to neck cramps. He also knew his opponent wouldn't move in the first few minutes until he was certain Nick had gone to ground.

Thus, Nick had kept his head down, but he’d strained for all his might to keep his hearing super alert.

After waiting roughly twenty or thirty minutes -- he refused to look down at his watch -- he lifted his head as slowly as one might raise the flag at a particularly moving memorial ceremony.

Nick wished he had his old ghillie suit. Not only would it hide him far better than his camouflage uniform and boonie hat, but it also had a reinforced, padded front to it. This made laying in the prone more comfortable. And as Nick shivered in the cool autumn air, he remembered it also helped keep you warm.

But Nick needed to focus. He pushed the thought of a more comfortable ghillie suit out of his head and pulled his rifle toward him, adjusting the knob on the top of the scope to two hundred yards.

He lifted his head and looked toward his front. He worked his head from left to right, moving it slowly and carefully scanning the underbrush and deep shadows. It took him ten minutes of close study to confirm he could see nothing that looked out of place.

But he hadn't planned to see anything out of place. If this guy was any good, and if he had a ghillie suit on, then he couldn't be seen.

Nick needed to memorize exactly what the area to his front looked like. He felt sure the sniper would soon be crawling toward him, and it'd be difficult to pick up his slow movement.

Nick's best chance was to see a difference in the way things looked, and the moment he did, he planned to put a bullet right into the space.

However, no sounds reached him, and no shadows changed. Minute-after-minute passed, and Nick felt impatience and doubt creep up on him.

Maybe he hadn't felt someone looking at him? And maybe laying here, with his back to the thicket was a guaranteed way to die? Couldn't more men be on his trail, maybe even with silent trailing dogs? And one of their handlers would step out of the thicket and see their target lying there, facing the wrong direction. A double-tap to the back and that'd be it.

But the feeling had been so real of being watched. Could he have imagined it? So many times he'd trusted his gut, and it'd almost always been right. And it was only when he'd ignored his gut that he'd lost. Like allowing Anne to wear down his awareness, or “paranoia” as she called it.

The minutes turned to hours, and Nick felt his body begin to cramp. Two hours is a long time to do nothing, and Nick was far older than he'd once been. He was also severely out of practice of the painful hell required of snipers.

Simply trying to stay semi-alert and focused was difficult, and his mind drifted to Anne as the tactical situations left his mind -- hell, there were no tactical scenarios, just wait till the other man moves; the first man to move loses.

He hadn't thought of her much the past few days. It had been total mission focus from almost the moment he'd read about Allen Green in the newspaper and hauled ass up to New York to save his life. Nick wondered if Anne would approve of his shooting of the FBI Agent and the Marine Colonel, both of whom had caused her death.

Was his opponent thinking of a girl, too? Was there even a sniper foe out there? Nick also wondered if Allen Green would freak out later tonight when Nick wasn't at the pick-up point.

Well, one thing at a time, he thought. First, he needed to survive this conundrum, and even pulling this off would take all the discipline and tenacity he could muster.

Nick could hear nothing, but he wondered if he'd be able to hear a good sniper crawling two hundred yards away. The leaves were fairly dry, but a good man would move so slowly that the crushing of them would emit almost no sound.

Nick wanted to look down at his watch about as much as he wanted to get off the cold ground. He figured if he looked at his watch, he'd give himself another fifteen minutes.

But looking down would not only take his eyes off the area, it would also create movement. In addition, it would demoralize Nick since he felt confident less time had passed than he'd imagined. And if he did look at his watch, he really would set a time to get up and get moving. And such an idea, while tempting, welcomed a swift death. Thus, Nick pushed the thought from his mind and decisively concentrated on the job at hand. Get in character, Nick commanded himself.

The sniper across from him was no doubt dealing with the same thoughts, and Nick just needed to be more disciplined than him.

Minutes passed, turning to hours. Nick needed to piss. He needed to scratch several mosquito bites, especially one on the back of his neck, but he fought these distractions and cursed his weakness. The urge to piss became so painful that he could no longer hold it, and so he pissed where he lay. Without undoing his pants. Without moving. The warm mess felt bad enough, but as it crept along the ground and up his stomach, the urge to get up nearly overpowered him.

Could any man other than himself lay this long? He didn't know the answer, but if the person was in a hide with food and water accessible, and piss and shit bags, then the answer was certainly "yes." However, if the man wasn’t in a hide and had just been sent on a quick reaction-type mission, then there wouldn't be a good hide or piss and shit bags or candy bars. That man would be beyond the breaking point by now. And with any luck, that man hadn't seen as much shit as Nick had, and would thus be weaker.

Nick considered that thought. Had any snipers in Afghanistan these days, or in Iraq, been in as tough a situation as he and his sniper partner had been in against the Soviets?

Nick figured the answer was "no." No way had any of them operated against a highly trained group of Spetsnaz, who had air support and infantry companies supporting them along with mobile units, including tanks and armored jeeps. And in the end, the Spetsnaz and Soviet forces had even been provided perfect intel from the U.S. government itself, who had sold him and his partner out.

No. No way had this man been through what Nick had been through.

Suck it the fuck up, Nick. Suck it up for your sniper spotter. Suck it up for Anne. Suck it up for Allen Green. Suck it up, so you can take out whoever's behind it all.

And suck it up Nick did. He didn't move. He fought off the urge to sleep. He drove away the temptation to scratch. To stand. To scream that he gave up and he couldn't take it anymore.

And hours after he went to ground, and hours after pissing himself, he noticed a spot two hundred yards away look a bit different. Darker than it once was.

Nick brought his rifle up moving as slow as he could and got his eye behind the scope. It took him more than twenty seconds to find the same location in the scope and as he scanned it in the detail of 10X magnification, he began to doubt he'd seen any change.

But as he lay there staring at the dark blob behind loads of leaves, he saw it move.

He smiled, thanked his old drill instructors for being such assholes, and fired. The shot rocked the quiet day, and the target jerked and yelled before immediately ceasing. Nick worked the bolt, ejected the round, and rammed a new shell home. He moved the reticule back on target and fired again. Again the greenish shadow moved and screamed louder, unable to bite down the pain anymore.

Nick worked the bolt again and leaped to his feet. He ran, stumbling at first from legs that were stiff, toward the man. He arrived winded and approached carefully, looking around for an accompanying spotter with the sniper.

But just as his gut told him someone was watching him, so, too, it told him that the man operated alone. Partly, he figured it was because whatever snipers were available would be split up to cover various evac routes. And partly it was because Nick figured whatever unit was out there, they couldn't have that many snipers available.

After all, none had been in New York when he went to pick up Allen Green. And only one, if any, (he'd seen none) had been back at Col. Jernigan's home.

Nick slowed his pace to a walk, aimed at the man, and covered the final distance. Blood soaked the ground below his opponent and dripped from splattered leaves waist high.

It's nasty getting hit by a high-powered rifle, Nick thought.

The sniper appeared to be dead. He'd rolled on his back and no longer looked camouflaged.

Nick jogged the final few steps and pushed him with the toe of his boot. Nothing. He's dead, Nick thought, and checked the area again to make sure the man didn't have any friends.

Nick then searched the man, grabbed his wallet, and stole his Beretta 9 mm pistol, along with both magazines. He'd traveled fifty yards before he stopped and jogged back to the body. He then smiled and stole the man's ghillie suit, placing it in the crook of his arm.

Nick knew from prior experience that the blood would turn dark and not hurt the effectiveness of the suit.

Chapter 56

Two men from Strike Team Three sat outside the Holiday Inn in Jacksonville, N.C.

They watched Allen Green's room though they didn't know the full story as to why Allen Green needed to go down. All they knew was that some guy named Allen Green was selling secrets he’d obtained from a few Marines inside Camp Lejeune to the Chinese.

Strike Team Three intended to hit Allen Green's room at 3 a.m. There was no better time for a night strike. Too late for the night owls to be up and too early for the early birds to have risen.

The team would stack quietly and hit the door with a battering ram -- no warning, no knock-ee, knock-ee.

Two support members would trail the eight-man strike team and wait on the balcony. They'd be wearing khaki's and polo shirts equipped with Glock pistols on their hip. Anyone who opened their door to investigate the noise would be approached by an angry "cop" flashing a quite-real looking badge and commanded to stay in doors for their own safety and to not bother calling the cops. The situation was under control.

Inside the room, Allen Green would be either taken alive -- bound and gagged -- or riddled with bullets from silenced MP5s. His choice. Neither Whitaker nor the team members cared.

The time was just after 10:15 p.m. and the two Strike Team Three members watching Allen's room had been bored for nearly two hours now.

The team member in the driver's seat said, "Did I ever tell you about the best blowjob I ever got?"

"Yeah, you did. When we were doing that surveillance up in Buffalo, New York. Her name was Sarah, and you were on a plane,” the other team member replied robotically. “Stepped into the lavatory together."

"Actually, it was Sandy, but yeah, that was it."

The team member in the passenger seat heard the disappointment, but what the hell. He didn't want to hear the story again, but now he hated the awkward tension he now felt in the car. Maybe he should have pretended he'd never heard the story. Then, he saw the curtain in Allen Green's room move.

"Hey, hey, hey. What do we have here?" he asked.

"What is it?" the team member in the driver's seat shifted forward.

"The curtain moved in his room --"

But before he could say more, the light turned off, and the door opened. Allen Green checked the lock and stood in the walkway up on the second floor.

"Call it in," the driver said.

And while the call worked its way up to the team leader, they saw Allen stride down the walkway and down the steps.

Chapter 57

Allen Green drove the entire way to the pick-up point full of mixed feelings. On the one hand, Ken Leonard from The New York Times had written a great article the night before. Doubt continued to spread among the public and the authorities.

On the other hand, Nick Woods should have been at the rally point waiting just in the trees on night number two. Now, it was night three, and Allen couldn't shake the feeling that something bad had occurred. It was so frustrating because they were so close to busting the conspiracy wide open and getting their lives back -- even though Nick said they'd never truly have their lives back. Allen disagreed with that, but regardless, that was beside the point.

They were so close to their safety and freedom again, yet it seemed something had happened to Nick. Allen lit his second cigarette of the past ten minutes and attempted to push the fear out of his mind. Maybe he should just keep driving if the signals weren't in the roadside tonight.

He had nothing in the hotel room that mattered. Maybe they were after him now. He felt a cold chill work its way down his neck. Nonsense. He'd been around Nick too long and was growing too paranoid.

He drove on, turning the radio on and pushing the thought from his mind.

Behind him, Strike Team Three scrambled to gear up. The two men who'd been monitoring his room followed from a safe distance while the rest of the team grabbed weapons and loaded into vehicles from a nearby hotel.

They had been waiting in a hotel room while their team leader sent a call in to Whitaker telling him their target was on the move. Whitaker digested the news and instructed the Strike Team Leader to follow the man and take him down at the first chance they got.

Whitaker debated briefly in his head as to whether he should mention to the Strike Team Leader that their target might be meeting up with a dangerous sniper and former veteran, who'd bagged a bunch of people in his day and was still on the hunt. But in the end, Whitaker passed.

He knew the Strike Team Leader was in an open room with the rest of the men, so everything he said would be heard by all. It certainly wouldn’t inspire confidence to hear about the talented Nick Woods right before what should be a simple strike.

And there wasn't time to tell the Team Leader to step outside and call him, so he could brief him. Thus, Whitaker made the decision not to mention it.

"Listen," Whitaker commanded. "Follow him, and the first chance you get where there aren't any witnesses, just take him out. I don’t care if it's an open road or a dark, deserted parking lot. Just make it happen and get out of there."

"Roger that," the Team Leader said. Then, to his men, he yelled, "Let's go. We don't have time to screw around. He's getting further and further away, and we can't go speeding after him if we're armed for bear. Everyone, just grab pistols and ignore your vests or sub-machineguns. This should be easy. Now, let's go. Move. Move. Move."

The six remaining Strike Team Three members and their Team Leader piled into their two SUVs and headed in the direction that their target -- or Allen Green -- traveled.

Chapter 58

Nick Woods watched the road in front of him. He waited in the kneeling position, leaning against a tree. He had the sniper rifle slung across his back and the bloody ghillie suit that he'd taken off the sniper balled up in front of him.

He had his .45 pistol out and in his right hand, nice and ready. Extractions usually proved dangerous, and Nick didn't plan to take any chances. Besides his .45, he also had the 9 mm Beretta that he'd taken off the sniper stuck in his waist, just below his belly button.

Right on time, he saw headlights headed his way.

Allen Green drove down the road, his eyes searching the ground in front of his eye beams. And then he saw a branch where it was supposed to be.

"Come on," he thought. "Please, RC can, where are you?"

Then his headlights picked up the glint of a blue RC Cola can. And just beyond that, he saw the old red shirt laying in the gravel of the road's shoulder.

Allen felt huge relief, the fear and stress suddenly gone. There was just something about the confident, hard Southern man that Allen had trouble putting into words.

Allen cut his lights and slowed. But, as he pulled to the side, he noticed a vehicle behind him hit its high beams and roar toward him. And behind it came two more.

Nick heard the convoy before Allen saw them. Nick's senses had been on full alert in the darkness, and his ears picked up the traffic coming his way.

Nick immediately left the ghillie suit and sprinted up the road toward the coming vehicles, while staying within the tree line for its cover and concealment. As Allen had approached Nick’s pick-up point, Nick had kept his eyes shielded from the headlights in order to maintain his night vision. And then the other vehicles hit their lights on bright after Allen had slowed and cut his off, and Nick still worked to look away from the glare, hoping his adjusted eyesight might play some advantage if things got rough.

Nick raced through the woods, limbs smacking his face and his boots slipping and sliding. He made it roughly fifty yards then darted out of the woods and into the grass alongside the road once he'd run beyond the vehicles.

The three vehicles -- two SUVs and a business car of some kind -- lined up behind each other, and men burst out of the cars, guns drawn and shouting as they dashed forward.

Nick ran, too. Toward them. From behind. He kept his eyes squinted, protecting his night vision. Thankfully, he only had the red brake lights to contend with, not the bright lights from the front of each vehicle.

Whitaker’s Strike Team Three members all rushed to the right of each vehicle. It made sense from a tactical perspective. If they approached from both sides, then they'd be in each other's line of fire. In this formation, they'd be on line and could fire safely.

Nick had closed to within ten yards, and they still hadn't heard him in their own noise. Then he saw Allen's brake lights go brighter as he pushed the brake. It was obvious that Allen planned to throw the car in gear and drive off -- he'd frozen for what must have been five or ten seconds, but that's what civilians do, Nick knew.

"Shoot him before he drives off," someone yelled, and Nick saw pistols get raised their final necessary inches. Nick stopped running and started shooting.

He couldn't see his sights, but he didn't need to. They were just six feet ahead. He pointed the pistol as if he were pointing his finger. It was just as he'd been trained, and he trusted his body to intuitively aim correctly.

His shots rocked the night as only a .45 can, and as his rounds tore into the rear man. The team hesitated. They'd been told there'd be only one man, and Nick took advantage of their hesitation.

He fired eight shots from the .45 in three seconds and dropped the pistol, yanking the Beretta out and firing off the entire magazine from the kneeling position.

The men in front of him tried to turn, to maneuver around their screaming and bleeding buddies, but every time one got close to returning fire, they caught rounds themselves. The entire line of men was perfectly illuminated and blinded by the bright lights of the three vehicles.

They were barely able to see a silhouette, and some pistol flashes, but their views were one-one hundredth of what Nick Woods saw.

And Nick Woods fired until the pistol locked to the rear, out of ammo. Nick reached down, grabbed his .45 from the ground, and reloaded it with a second mag. And as men groaned, cried, or reached for pistols or other weapons, he walked among them and kicked their weapons away.

“Looks like you boys picked the wrong team today,” Nick said. “And I figure real cops don’t bother shooting a man in the back who’s trying to drive away and presents no threat to them, so I’ll spare myself any regret for gunning you all down.”

One of the men lying on the ground withdrew a radio to call for help. Nick watched in amusement, snickered at the futility of such a move, and stepped hard on his hand.

There’d be no calling for back up for these boys.

Chapter 59

After the echoes of the gunfire ceased, Allen Green wanted to flee the scene immediately, but Nick instructed him to wait just a little longer.

Nick ran to the woods and grabbed the ghillie suit he'd taken from the sniper.

"I might need this," he said, throwing it into the car.

"I thought you said you didn't have one," Allen said.

"I didn't, but somebody decided to let me borrow it."

Allen looked back over the seat and saw what looked to be dried blood on it.

"I'll bet," he said.

"Oh, before we leave, let's get all the money we can from these chumps," Nick said. "May need it."

"We'll be leaving our fingerprints, though."

"Won't matter," Nick replied. "You'll be writing this up as one of your press releases, right?"

"True."

The two quickly searched each of the men and wiped the inevitable blood they couldn't avoid off on the dry pieces of clothing they could find. Despite the sticky hands, it proved worth it. They found more than $860 in cash on the men, along with an MP5 and six magazines fully loaded in the back of one of the vehicles.

"Not a bad night's work," Nick grinned as they stood outside the car.

"Easy for you to say," Allen said. "You didn't have eight dudes aiming guns at you about to blow your head off."

"The hell I didn't," Nick scoffed. "Who do you think they were aiming at after I started firing? Not to mention, a damn near perfectly hidden sniper nearly took my head off."

"How'd you get by him?"

"I'll tell you later. We need to get the hell out of here, grab our stuff from our room, and get out of Indian country."

"And then what?"

"First, a shower for me. Then you can update the media on what happened. With as many bodies being piled up, they're going to catch on soon that something pretty serious is going on. Now, call 911, and tell them there’s been a drug deal gone bad out here on the highway. And that there’s been lots of shooting.”

Nick scanned the stack of men to confirm none was moving very quickly, then looked toward the field he’d thrown the weapons in. Yeah, none of them would get away or be able to shoot down some innocent cop when he arrived.

After Allen made the call, they climbed in the car and sped off into the night. Allen waited until he was a few miles away to share the latest. Once he was confident they were clear of the incoming police units, he said, “I have some good news. A New York Times reporter named Ken Leonard has been writing up the story. Believe me, the press is coming around to seeing things our way, and I've been getting more e-mails from reporters I once knew."

"That's great news, Allen. It really is, and it's an important part of what we need to get done. But just remember, in the end, this war will be won by bullets, not barrels of ink."

"Don't be so sure," Allen said, pulling out a cigarette.

Chapter 60

Whitaker lost a lot of sleep that night. After losing radio contact with Strike Team Three, he'd tried to stay calm. Surely, a tactical situation made it necessary that they stay off the air. Surely, not all nine of his strike team members were dead. All nine? Could that even be possible?

These were some bad motherfuckers. Delta Force. Navy Seals. Army Rangers. Marine Recon.

One Marine and a soft liberal from New York taking them out?

Impossible.

With a wavering confidence, Whitaker had dismissed the thought. He understood the importance of upholding an aura of control and certainty.

However, after three hours with no communication, Whitaker could take no more. It was after 2 a.m., and his team commander had broken every Standard Operating Procedure in the book. It seemed impossible that between cell phones, pay phones, and three vehicles, that the team leader hadn't found a way to contact him.

Whitaker finally relented and called up his support men, ordering them to head out to the unit's last known location and report what they saw.

They called twenty minutes later, reporting a huge crime scene up ahead. Dozens of police cars, ambulances, and night lights. Whitaker told them to turn around and avoid trying to get closer or drive down the road.

"For Christ's sake," he hissed. "It's after 2 a.m., and you're a bunch of guys driving down a dark road, all of you carrying weapons. The last thing I need is for you all to be arrested and add to my problems. Get the hell out of there while you can."

And then Whitaker had sat heavily in his office in Fredericksburg, Virginia. He poured himself a shot of Tequila and let his mind wander.

Certainly, he was in deep shit. What would he do if he were Sen. Ray Gooden? Was there any way he'd keep the same man in charge?

And that brought up an interesting dilemma. After all, Gooden would probably do far more than fire Whitaker. How did you fire someone who knew so much? Who'd overseen and taken part in shit-tons of illegal operations, and probably had files and files of hidden documents that could bury you.

Whitaker glanced at his office door, ensuring it was locked.

Tank was in his office and Whitaker wondered whether Tank would kill him. He questioned whether at this very moment Tank was getting a text from Gooden commanding him to take Whitaker out.

Whitaker pulled out his .40 caliber Glock from its hip holster and laid it on his desk. Much easier to go for it while it lay there than trying to draw it out while sitting. But, would he open the door with it in his hand, should Tank knock?

What if Tank merely had a simple question or message to relay? How weak would Whitaker look then? How long before his troops would start to talk, saying the old man had lost his nerve? This old war horse -- a paranoid loner who was good with a rifle -- had finally got the best of the ole' veteran commander. The man who'd hunted the Viet Cong like a mad man and led troops on nearly every continent.

One loner and a journalist, for God's sake, had finally bested him. Whitaker shook the thought from his head.

He stood, holstered his pistol, and unlocked his door. One way or the other, he wouldn't go out a coward.

Chapter 61

Allen Green and Nick Woods returned to their hotel room. Nick took a rushed shower, then they retrieved their hidden cash and gear and drove out of Jacksonville, N.C.

Nick was beyond exhausted, nodding off before they'd driven five minutes.

"Why don't you catch some sleep?" Allen suggested.

"I may just do that, partner. I'm flat beat."

"Any particular direction you want me heading?"

"Just head south. We'll find somewhere far away from civilization and recoup a bit."

"I need to stay near Internet access. This story is blowing up, and more and more reporters are e-mailing me."

"That's fine. Just head south. We'll get another hotel room."

A lot happened the next few days. While Nick rested up, and eventually got back to his running, calisthenics, and countless pistol and hand-to-hand drills, Allen worked his media magic.

Based on the advice of a colleague from The Washington Post, he set up a website that detailed and catalogued everything he knew (and suspected) about the conspiracy. The tone of the website was one of a questioning doubter. Allen used it more as a, "If there's no conspiracy, then how do you explain this? Or that?"

By then, news media had descended again into the Jacksonville/Camp Lejeune area. Nine more men killed -- one, an obvious sniper. Again, no real clues.

Allen wrote on the website his version of what happened. The website claimed Nick Woods had acted in self-defense to protect Allen from a carjacking or abduction. Granted, it came across as crazy, but how else could you explain all those bodies, who, by the way, were armed and not found to be licensed law enforcement of either the state or federal government?

The web hits started growing from day one, and Allen's site became both a media resource and a destination source for an increasingly fascinated public. By this point, even Nick could see the value of the information war Allen was waging.

He begrudgingly accepted that Allen's methods were gaining them loads of allies, which translated to plenty of brains helping them with their strategy and even volunteers willing to hide them out or support them in any way they could.

Nick appreciated the support but hesitated to trust any of them.

"Someone in that list of e-mails you have is a plant," he said. "He'll show up and blow our asses away."

"Precisely why I've told no one where we are."

Things improved even more the next day.

First, Allen received a message on his website claiming to be from the FBI stating they'd found some irregularities in their investigation into the shootings and believed some of what he was stating had merit. The FBI requested the two men come in for questioning and protection.

Nick was dead set against this idea, and Allen was only marginally in favor of it. The idea seemed fraught with danger, and this group that hunted them seemed to have plenty of sources and connections.

But, an even better idea emerged when The New York Times offered to have an artist sketch out the face of the man who'd gone by the name of "Whitaker." Allen wanted to pursue this opportunity, but Nick still worried that the artist could be followed, assuming he wasn't a plant to begin with.

Nick and Allen reached a compromise when The New York Times offered to host a secure video-conference with the artist. Nick agreed to let Allen do that, but he insisted they start moving hotels twice a day instead of every day.

"This is really burning through our money," Allen argued.

"Beats having some of the guys from this group come busting down our door. We don't know what abilities they have to track us electronically."

But, those abilities had vastly deteriorated. The NSA was done letting Whitaker use their resources. Allen's website about a Marine hero and a reporter just looking for the truth had completely swayed public opinion.

The story was so big that an opinion poll had been completed and now only 18 percent of the public believed Allen Green had ever looked at child porn or made up his original story. And as the public perception turned, the media piled on in Allen and Nick's favor.

And as for Nick Woods, the public wanted him exonerated from the shootings he'd been involved in and granted military honors for his sacrifice in Afghanistan.

Nick showed no concern for these realties. He remained convinced more blood would flow soon. But, Allen pressed on and soon had the sketch drawn up with the artist. Once it was completed, Allen promptly uploaded it to the website.

And that's when things really started to go Nick and Allen's way.

Chapter 62

Whitaker stood before Sen. Ray Gooden's desk. Again, Sen. Gooden ignored him while he scanned through a half-inch report.

Sen. Gooden finally paused, pulled down his reading glasses, and asked, "Why are we here today?"

Whitaker thought of several smart-ass responses, but he figured humility should win the day.

"We're here," Whitaker said, "because I've failed to either bring in or take down Nick Woods and Allen Green."

"Well, that's certainly clear. A bit obvious, if you ask me."

"Yes, sir."

"But, it's more than that," Sen. Gooden said. "Exactly how many men have you lost?"

"Too many, plus Nancy Dickerson," Whitaker admitted. Unfortunately for him, he knew the number exactly. Knew most of their names. Their dreams and aspirations. With units like his, men didn't come and go. These men had been there for years, and Whitaker knew them all.

Sen. Gooden said nothing, letting these facts further sink in for Whitaker. Oh, he's good, Whitaker thought. He's good.

"So, nearly two dozen men?" Sen. Gooden asked.

"Yes, sir."

"And one cop?"

Whitaker swallowed. He'd forgotten about the California police officer. "Yes, sir."

"And one FBI agent?"

Whitaker looked harder at Sen. Gooden. Surely he wasn't laying the death of FBI Agent Jack Ward on Whitaker's hands. "But, sir," Whitaker said.

"Don't 'but' me. That man only died because of a failed op that you asked the FBI to conduct. But the bigger problem here is you're taking part in what is increasingly looking like a full-blown war inside our very own country."

Whitaker tried to show nothing, but beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.

"Do you know," Sen. Gooden asked, "that the few people who know of our program -- and believe me, they are few -- are wondering why this wonderful operation has gotten so sidetracked that it’s now almost completely focused on an honorable veteran and top-notch reporter, who frankly, are both loyal citizens?"

Sen. Gooden stopped, looked to the side, and picked up a cigar. While he cut off the end and slowly lit it, Whitaker sweated in silence. He knew better than to interrupt the man when he was making his point, and Sen. Gooden liked to take his time making his points. A showman, through and through, with a Texas drawl and a murderous scowl.

Sen. Gooden exhaled a thick line of smoke through pursed lips and looked down at the cigar.

"Fine cigar," he said, as if he wasn't in the middle of chewing Whitaker's ass out.

"And so," Sen. Gooden said, "one of the few people who know of our program asked me recently why our operation had gotten so side-tracked, instead of chasing down the enemies it was created to hunt?"

Sen. Gooden looked down at the cigar and took another puff.

"Do you know how I answered that question?" Gooden said.

"No, sir."

"I didn't. And I didn't, because I don't know the answer. But, I told them I'd soon have an answer for them. And so I called you up here," Sen. Gooden growled, pointing his cigar toward Whitaker, "because I figure you have the answer to this question. Because otherwise, we've got a problem that's quite a bit bigger than you, I assure you."

Whitaker took a deep breath and said, "Sir, we didn't get sidetracked. Following an operational security breach, in which some early secrets of our organizational history were leaked in a national publication by, as you said, a well-respected reporter, I took action to do some serious damage control. Such damage control helped prevent months and months of news speculation and likely Congressional Hearings.

"This, in itself, was a major success. However, a unit not under my control, along with terrible luck, led to Nick Woods, or the former Bobby Ferguson, not being in his home. And the superbly trained, decorated hero soon joined forces with Allen Green. And let me remind you, sir, that these two men represent the most formidable of threats to our organization. That, sir, is why I got sidetracked."

Sen. Gooden leaned back in his chair and examined Whitaker with a sick smile on his face. He smoked two full inhales and exhales on his cigar, his eyes locked on Whitaker.

At least thirty seconds passed and Whitaker didn't dare break eye contact.

"Strike Team Two?" Sen. Gooden asked. "Why haven't you sent me any reports on them in the past few days? Weren't they closing in on America's second, most-wanted terrorist?"

Whitaker nearly gasped. "Sir, I apologize. My second in command has been working liaison with them, and I'm sure he can answer any questions you have regarding that operation. I apologize, again, for not keeping you in the loop. I've been distracted and in over-drive since the shooting at Camp Lejeune."

"Which one?" Sen. Gooden berated. "There's been about three separate incidents in the past three days."

Whitaker nodded. "Point taken, sir."

Sen. Gooden's smile grew wider. He took a sip of his Jack and Coke and said, "I want you to take your time answering this next question. Your life, quite possibly, hangs on how you answer it."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you scared of Nick Woods and Allen Green?"

"No, sir," Whitaker said, a little too angrily.

"So, you're not? You've deployed entire teams of men to kill him and he's slaughtered them like sheep, and you're not concerned?"

"No, sir."

"Ah, good," Whitaker said with a menacing grin. He took another puff of his cigar and pushed a button under his desk. Four men in suits entered.

Whitaker had been disarmed before entering -- no one got near the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee carrying a pistol, it didn't matter who you were -- but these weren't Secret Service agents who normally guarded Sen. Gooden.

The men formed a cauldron around Whitaker. Two by the desk between Whitaker and Sen. Gooden. Two behind him. All four had their arms crossed, ready for action.

"Whitaker, I've asked a few men to witness the ending of our meeting, because I don't want you to overreact and do anything stupid. Now, I've taken a couple main points from our meeting.

"One, it's quite clear you've botched about every aspect of this damage control mission since the beginning. You've lost more than a dozen people, destroyed two Strike Teams, and severely damaged our ability to operate inside the country. We've got half of the nation’s media looking under rocks for our group, which is where we started when Allen Green broke his story. At this point, it would have been better to have done nothing in the beginning, because we're back to the start, except we didn't pass go and we for damn sure didn't collect two hundred dollars.

"For failing so miserably in this operation, I now relieve you of command. I've already alerted a man in your organization, who I won't name, that he's in charge. Your passwords have been changed. Your team leaders and entire organization already know you're no longer in charge. That your words, threats, and pleas carry the weight of an overpaid janitor, who's no longer on the good side of the principal.

"That's the first point."

Sen. Gooden paused to take another sip of his Jack and Coke, and Whitaker tried to control his face. To say he was stunned to have lost his command was beyond obvious. He could see being killed, but stripping a man like him of his command, that was actually far worse. The two men in front of him looked eager for Whitaker to do something stupid.

Sen. Gooden set his drink down and looked back up.

"Now, you've said you don't fear Nick Woods and Allen Green. I figured that much. And though you've been relieved of command, I want you to know that I've never doubted your courage. You mean a lot to me and Martha, and I'll always welcome you at our table. But don't plan to come by anytime soon. Because effective immediately, you and Tank, who's also been relieved of his duties, have one single mission. You are to hunt down and kill Nick Woods and Allen Green. No more and no less. You'll be issued a credit card with a balance of $250,000. That's all the support you get. No weapons from the warehouse in Fredericksburg, where your code no longer works. No intel. No nothing. Because officially, you no longer exist to this organization. Of course, we'll monitor you. You go to the press or even hint at leaking national security information, --"

"Sir, I would never --"

Gooden raised his hand to stop Whitaker. "I know you wouldn't, but I've got to say this. If you even hint at leaking national security information, you'll find yourself at Guantanamo Bay. No American prison. No open trial. Nothing like that. Files have already been prepared and delivered to the NSA and FBI, describing every hair on your ass, all your friends, your current bank balances, along with their numbers, you name it. If anything changes, even so much as a single dollar starts to move, then you'll be apprehended.

"And how will we apprehend you? Oh, that's even grander. You'll be fitted with an ankle bracelet in the parking lot when you leave today. If that thing ever comes off or leaves the country, then you're either a dead man or headed to Guantanamo. You know these men are good. You trained them. Now, get out of here, go get Tank, and get after Nick and Allen. Bring me their heads on a platter, and we'll talk about finding you another fit in a good line of work. Don't expect to get your command back. You've caused too much damage for that, but I can offer you my good graces again and a steady income with exciting work. That's the best I can do.

"Now, get the hell out of my office, and make it happen."

Whitaker finally smiled and said, "Consider it done, sir."

"For your sake, you better hope so."

Chapter 63

Allen Green hit the jackpot the day after Whitaker lost his command.

Allen had posted The New York Times artist's sketch online. The media and public already knew the story of Whitaker and how he'd interrogated Allen in a hidden room after the story broke. Within two days of posting it, reports started to come in from California that the sketch of Whitaker looked exactly like a man wanted in a police shooting. Allen immediately researched the incident and knew the minute he saw the video footage from the police department that he was looking at the man that had destroyed his life. Whitaker, until he learned the man's real name.

Furthermore, the hunt sped up as it hit its next stages. Reporters from dozens of newspapers and TV stations were combing through photos of graduating classes at West Point and the Naval Academy, hoping to find out who this guy named Whitaker really was.

Better yet, even former graduates and officers from all four branches were trying to figure out who he was. This man had gunned down a cop and abducted a reporter in some kind of unbelievable CIA-like conspiracy. You didn't do that, even in the post-9/11 world.

The public smelled blood and desired payback, and the media fanned the flames as only the media could.

Chapter 64

"What's our plan?" Tank asked.

He and Whitaker sat in a corner booth of Waffle House. It was after midnight. Whitaker needed some coffee and time to think, and Tank could always use more protein for his ever-starving muscles.

"The bottom line is we need to kill Nick and Allen," Whitaker said. "If we do that, then their website goes inactive and eventually the public will move on. We'll keep a low profile during that time and hope for the best."

"How do we pull this off now that there's a sketch out of you? That sketch is a good one, at that, and they may have your actual name before long. They'll find you from your West Point annual. There just aren't that many West Point grads of your height and who would have graduated in the time period that you did."

"All true," Whitaker said, reminding himself yet again that Tank was no dummy. The man had more than just bulging muscles. "And, of course, we really have no intel or any way to figure out how to find them."

"Which means, what?" Tank asked as he forked down a load of eggs.

"It means we need to e-mail them through the website and arrange a meeting somehow. And at such meeting, we kill them."

"Why would they risk that? They'll know what we aim to do."

"That's a fact," Whitaker said. "So, we'll need some bait to help bring them in."

Chapter 65

Sen. Ray Gooden sat behind his desk. It had been hours since he talked with Whitaker, and it was now after midnight.

Gooden had cancelled attending an important fundraiser with some Texas constituents who had flown in by private plane, sending his No. 1 aide instead and explaining a national security situation had held up the Senator.

Now he rested at his desk. Half drunk. His tie loosened and his shirt a wrinkled mess. He knew the situation was spiraling out of control right before his eyes, and it was moving at a speed he found difficult to comprehend. Things were moving at the speed of political campaigns, except in this case it involved national security and too many felonies to count.

With every passing day, the chances for a Congressional inquiry grew. Once those began, the risks would further increase. There'd be tough questions asked out loud and broadcasted throughout the country. There'd be asshole former military officers, maybe even a few current ones, who -- too straight-laced and honorable for their own good -- would leak info or even testify about what they'd heard rumors of. These men had no idea about real national security, Gooden thought. You couldn't protect all of America while following the law to the letter. You had to blend it a bit, adding in some terrorism of your own. You had to exist in that shade of gray, in an ugly world where nothing was black or white.

But, the speed and danger of this situation had Gooden more scared than he'd been in a long time. Probably since he'd trailed Democratic candidate Bob Kile. Yeah, this situation felt as dangerous as that had felt -- much worse than those investigations by the Senate Ethics Committee.

Gooden smiled as he remembered that firebrand, Bob Kile. He grinned harder and thought, "Well, Bob, I'm betting that twelve-point lead and endorsement by four different newspapers didn't matter much as your plane raced toward the ground."

Bob Kile had been two days away from burying him in an election, and he'd still found a way out. Now, he just needed to find a similar way to end this crisis.

Certainly in just a day or two, the media would figure out who Whitaker actually was. And from there, those bastards would start pulling that small thread and following it to its source. And with so many recent deaths among his troops, and so many of their family members and friends who may have seen or known Whitaker, the risks were skyrocketing.

Gooden felt his stomach rumble and wiped his sleeve across his forehead.

Oh, they hated him, and he'd pissed off and attacked so many people that what allies he had might turn on him this time. That was the problem with power. You had to exercise it, and yet with each time you used it, you gained more opposition and animosity.

Gooden gulped down the rest of his Jack and Coke and slammed the glass on his desk. He immediately refilled his glass, mixing it with about 70 percent Jack Daniels and 30 percent Coke.

He took another large swallow. He couldn't shake the thought that he needed this to end fast. At this point, it didn't matter whether Whitaker and Tank lived or died. He just needed them to either take Nick and Allen down or die trying. If they succeeded, then Allen's website would cease being updated and the story would soon die. If they failed, then there'd be the body of Whitaker, and Nick and Allen could claim victory.

With luck, Nick would return to the woods of Tennessee and a life of construction, and Allen would win some kind of award and be offered some senior reporting slot again.

There'd be danger immediately after the death of Whitaker and Tank, but the CIA would deny any knowledge of the men's group, which was of course the truth. The public would again suspect the CIA knew very well about the group and its operations. There might be some increased oversight from Congress and some articles written, but it'd all die down soon. Too many terrorists out there to hammer the CIA too hard.

Gooden chugged the rest of the drink and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, further soiling his shirt.

Damn, he needed this to go down soon. Within the next day or two. Regardless of who came out the winner, he needed it over.

He refilled the glass again. What was this? The fifth? Or eighth? Or was it even higher than that?

Gooden didn't care. He had an aide and driver who could get him home, and in the depths of the back of his mind, he could feel a possible solution coming on. He stood and started pacing the room.

He staggered in a line, back and forth, thinking hard and sipping his drink. Yes, he liked this idea. He could arrange the showdown. Make it happen fast. And then whoever won, won.

The idea came further together. He'd contact Whitaker and Tank and claim he'd changed his mind. That due to the urgency of the situation, he needed it resolved quickly. Therefore, he'd decided to use all the political leverage he had to have the NSA get involved one final time. He’d say they had the rough location of Nick and Allen, so Whitaker and Tank should stage themselves at one of their CIA cabins not currently in use deep in the woods.

Gooden knew just the right location to put them at. It wasn't near anything. The two sides could have their war, and the public would be none the wiser.

And while Whitaker and Tank waited, Gooden would be leaking their location to Nick and Allen. He felt certain Nick would overpower Allen and insist on going to get them, even if it was a trap.

Nick wouldn't allow Allen to bring in the cops. Allen was still wanted by the police, and Nick probably wasn't in the clear either. Lots of bodies had been felled, including one FBI agent who’d been operating officially in his legal duties.

Yes, Gooden thought. This could work.

He pushed the "page" button on his phone, and when his aide picked up, Gooden quickly commanded, "Vaughn, get me a clean laptop. Brand new. And have our tech people set up a clean email account with no history. And I don't want that laptop logged onto the Internet or anything else that might leave an IP address or any other kind of internet history. You understand?"

"Yes, sir. I'll start making it happen immediately."

Gooden turned his speaker phone off and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the drink that remained on his desk, but it no longer called him.

He felt his confidence returning and allowed his political mind to strategize about an upcoming hearing he needed to chair in two days.

Chapter 66

"You've got to see this," Allen said.

Nick looked up from his ninety-third pistol drill of the day. He only had seven more reps of this exercise.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Could be the jackpot," Allen replied. "Got an e-mail from someone who says they're in Whitaker's group. Says they want to give away his location so we can take him."

Nick grunted. "Sounds convenient. How stupid do they think we are?"

Allen shook his head. "I don’t know. The e-mail is pretty long and detailed. It talks about all the offenses Whitaker has committed and says he's giving up Whitaker and his bodyguard -- some guy named Tank -- because they're out of control."

Nick smiled and said, "Sure they are."

"I agree at first glance it seems like a trap, but I don't know. He talks in here about how he didn't know Whitaker had shot a cop or started to torture me."

"Keep dreaming," Nick grumbled, completing repetition number ninety-eight.

"He says this organization is pivotal to the war on terror, but it's gotten off track under Whitaker's leadership. He doesn’t want to sell out his buddies. Just Whitaker, who he calls a maniac."

Nick finished his pistol drill and reloaded the weapon. He slid it behind his back and walked over to read the e-mail. The e-mail seemed legit, but that meant nothing.

"Tell him we need proof he's telling the truth," Nick said. "Ask him to send three different photos of Whitaker, as well as a good one of this guy named Tank. If he's as close to them as he says he is, he should be able to get them or already have them. Units are usually tight. I had photos of all my buddies."

"Great idea," Allen nodded. "I'll e-mail him now."

Chapter 67

Whitaker's phone rang, and he recognized the number as a Washington, D.C., area code.

He flipped it open and said, "Go ahead," having learned a long time ago you never said your name when you didn't know who was calling. And sometimes even when you did.

"Whitaker, this is Gooden. Change in plans here."

"Go ahead."

"This whole thing is spiraling out of control, and it needs to end fast. So, I've called in every favor I've got left with every friend I know in the NSA."

"And?" Whitaker surmised.

"They're going to do it. In fact, they're already doing it. They've got Nick and Allen's location pinned down somewhere in the mountains of East Tennessee. They're having more trouble this time, though. Allen has some tech guys from various news organizations, as well as some really talented hackers, working with him. You know how the hackers love conspiracies like this."

"Can they get it?"

"They say they can, but when they do, I want you and Tank nearby. Ready to strike. Otherwise, their hackers may pick up that we've pinged them, and we'll have blown our only chance. You know if they split, we'll have no way to find them again."

"Where do you want us?"

"The CIA has an unused cabin way up in the mountains in East Tennessee. It's miles from anywhere. Go there and wait. I'll text you the location. This might even take a couple of days they say, but you two stay rested up. I want you ready to move within minutes whenever we get their location."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Where you all headed right now?"

"New York. We had every intention of nabbing Jennifer."

"Jennifer? Who the hell is Jennifer?"

Whitaker laughed. "Alan's sweetheart. We'd planned to use her as bait."

Now Gooden was laughing, too. "You sick bastard."

"I learned from the best."

"Indeed, you did."

Chapter 68

"We got photos," Allen proclaimed.

"You're shitting me," Nick said.

"Nope, plenty of them. And there's even coordinates and a map of where the two are."

"Get out of here," Nick contended, standing up from the prone. He'd been "snapping in" with his rifle -- at least that's what he'd told Allen he was doing -- but in truth he'd been just pulling the trigger and re-cocking it, completely lost in thought. He'd been missing Anne more and more, and he wondered what he'd do if he survived this mess. Even scarier, he wondered if he even wanted to survive it.

Allen analyzed Nick's face as he climbed to his feet. No doubt about it, the days of waiting had taken a toll on Nick. He seemed grumpier and angrier than he normally did. And while he wouldn't say it, Allen knew he was missing his wife. And he knew more than anything else that Nick needed to see a counselor. The man had so many demons running through his head, and that was before Anne had been gunned down.

Nicked stopped halfway to him. "What the hell you looking at like that?"

"Nothing," Allen said. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. "Check out these photos. These are definitely photos of the guy named, 'Whitaker,' who interrogated me. And this is definitely the NFL linebacker-sized dude who was with him. It says in the email that this guy's name is Tank. And here's the cabin's location. It's near your old stomping grounds."

The two spent a half hour looking over the photos. Zooming in and looking for any sign of manipulation. And then they began scoping out the cabin. The cabin lay outside Gatlinburg, Tennessee, and backed up to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Whoever had built it had buried it by itself literally ten miles from the nearest other dwelling.

Allen spent ten minutes using satellite shots from Google Maps and Bing to study the cabin and the woods all around it. There was only one road to it, and it turned into a dirt road more than two miles from the cabin.

"Awfully isolated," Allen noted.

"It is."

Chapter 69

Whitaker and Tank arrived at the cabin exhausted. The planning of the abduction of Jennifer and all the driving toward (and back from) New York left them spent. And worrying about the likely end of their careers, if not their lives, had emotionally drained them.

On top of all this, their senses had been working overtime, as well, because both knew deep down that their lives could be taken at any moment. They faced as great a danger from Sen. Gooden (maybe greater) than they did from Nick and Allen.

They sat in the car, watching the cabin with slight unease.

"Gooden said there'd be no one here, right?" Tank asked.

"Right," Whitaker affirmed.

"Then, let's enter weapons drawn just in case," Tank said.

Whitaker nodded. They exited the vehicle, yanked out pistols, and glided toward the front door. Whitaker stood to the side of the door -- in case someone shot through it -- and used the code he'd been sent to unlock the key-panel lock.

As soon as the door unlocked, the two burst into the room. Whitaker went right, and Tank cut left. They cleared the two corners of the room first and then turned away from the wall toward the inside of the room, which they both immediately recognized as a living room. They scanned the ceiling and moved on to the next room, the kitchen.

Room by room, the two cleared the cabin silently. They checked the closets, the crawl spaces, and underneath the beds. The cabin had no attic, so without a word, they immediately checked for sensors, listening devices, and cameras. Forty minutes later, they felt safe talking.

"Nothing seems out of the ordinary," Tank said.

"I know, and that worries me more," Whitaker replied. "Hasn't been that long ago that we were both relieved of our duties, thrown to the side, and assigned tracking bracelets."

"Good point."

"Let's check the woods for a sniper. We move fast and zig and zag, so they can't get a clean shot on us. If one of us gets hit, the other runs for it if he's not close enough to take the sniper out. And don't go for the car. They'll be waiting for us to do that. Whoever survives the shot takes off at full speed into the national park and emerges days later as far away as possible. Maybe even a week. With a pistol, the survivor ought to be able to kill something to eat and extend the time he can hide out."

"Sounds like a game plan. I'm ready when you are."

Whitaker nodded and walked to the back door. Tank stacked against him, and he ripped open the door and sprinted away from the cabins and into the woods. They rushed from tree to tree, zig zagging and darting about like two mad men in the sights of someone's scope.

Thirty minutes later, they ended their search of the woods around the cabin. No sniper or sniper teams stalked them from afar. Nor had they seen any sign of men crawling or lying anywhere.

"What now?" Tank asked.

"We see if the fridge is stocked with something stiff worth drinking."

"I'm down with that," Tank said.

Chapter 70

Nick Woods worked his way forward. He wore the ghillie suit he'd picked up off the dead sniper inside Camp Lejeune. As he'd known, the blood had dried and left some darker spots. It still blended perfectly, and it was a great ghillie suit. Its owner must have spent weeks and weeks on it.

In the movies, sniper work is sleek and sexy. But the reality couldn't be further from the truth. It's slow, methodical, and painful.

Nick moved slower than a snail, and his senses tried to pick up even the slightest thing that might be off. Both he and Allen had worried this could be a trap, but both also had a gut feeling that it wasn't. That this was what they'd been searching for so hard, and it'd been handed to them in quite the surprising twist.

As a precaution, in case it was a trap and Nick was taken alive, Allen agreed to pack and leave the hotel room he'd been staying in. That way, worst case scenario, Nick couldn't give up his location even if tortured. Nick honest-to-goodness didn't know where Allen was heading.

But, Nick couldn't think of that right now. His entire focus was on sensing anything that might be wrong. Sometimes it was a sound. Sometimes a shape. Sometimes a feeling.

Yet nothing felt wrong at all. Nick felt more nervous in his hotel room than he did out here. But, he wanted to be thorough, so he crawled, slid, and scooted around the woods he'd approached from.

Convinced it was clear, he started to work in a 360 around the cabin. A single truck -- a gray Toyota -- sat in front of the cabin, which was connected to civilization by a dirt road that was covered in leaves. Nick knew if it had been used much, it would have been muddied or hardened by dirt. But, it lay flat with the forest ground, lacking ruts and covered by leaves, a barely used trail to a barely used cabin.

Nick also noticed the cabin had no power. Just a rough outpost powered by generator and without a satellite antenna in sight. That probably meant the place had no communication, but Nick couldn't be sure. These days there was cell phone service just about everywhere. Nonetheless, this was deep in the mountains and miles from a single-lane road, which itself was about fifteen miles from other homes. So, there was a chance the cabin had no way to communicate outside.

Nick completed his reconnaissance and left the area. He needed to re-coordinate with Allen and find out where their new hotel room was for the night. Then, it'd be planning an assault and hopefully the end of Whitaker and Tank, assuming those were their true names.

Chapter 71

Whitaker and Tank left the cabin again. They drove down the nearly invisible road with weapons in their laps and senses at caveman-like intensity.

"What if we don't hear from Gooden today?" Tank asked.

"We give him one more day if we don't," Whitaker said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. "We should also consider the idea that if we don't hear anything tomorrow, then we probably ought to make a break for it. Cut off the ankle bracelets and run for our lives."

"Agreed," Tank said. He gripped the stock of his MP5 and said, "And heaven help the assholes who try to stop us."

Two hours later, they returned to the cabin. Gooden himself had called them today -- not just an aide -- and he'd told them they'd almost nailed down Nick and Allen's location. They had it down to within three blocks, and according to their information, Nick and Allen were still in Gatlinburg -- a small city just twenty minutes from their location.

So, they had stopped for a pizza and rented a hotel to get real showers in before heading back with additional grocery supplies. They knew how to hurry up and wait, and if they needed to camp out another night, they could make do with canned goods and cards for entertainment. It was the life of soldiers around the world.

Chapter 72

Meanwhile, just a short distance from Whitaker and Tank, Nick and Allen finished making their plans.

"You can do this, right?" Nick asked.

"Yes," Allen said. He had an MP5 in his hands and was holding it about like a recruit would. Nick had shown him how to use it before and had just showed him again. Making sure he knew how to release the magazine, yank the bolt back, and know the various selector switch settings -- semi, three-shot burst, and fully automatic.

"Let's go through your drills again," Nick said.

Allen did, and feeling more comfortable with his abilities, Nick helped him load up his six 30-round magazines. Then he and Allen packed up everything else and loaded it into their car. They carried the rifle to the car by putting it in an old seabag, with clothes stuffed around it.

They left the small town they'd holed up in wearing their civilian clothes. Two miles away from the nearest building, they pulled onto a dirt road and drove back a hundred yards out of view. They changed into camouflage -- Allen, into some basic hunting stuff they'd bought at Walmart -- and Nick into his Marine ghillie suit.

Nick backed the car up the dirt road and pulled back out. They were mission “go” now. They knew if a cop got behind them they were screwed, but it was a chance they had to take.

They drove the remaining distance to the dirt road that led up to the isolated cabin. Nick eased his car up the dirt road and when he could no longer see the road behind him, he let the car coast to a stop between two stout trees. He didn't touch the brakes so they wouldn't squeal. With thick woods on both sides of the drive way, they'd effectively trapped Whitaker and Tank inside the woods. Even if the two men got away from the cabin, they wouldn't be driving away. They'd have to hoof it out on foot, and Nick felt certain they wouldn't get away from him in a one-on-one fight in the woods. Especially since he had the great ghillie suit he'd taken off the dead sniper.

Nick and Allen exited their vehicle and grabbed their weapons. They pushed the doors closed so the interior light wouldn't run down their car battery, but did so as quietly as they could. Then Nick crossed in front of the car and entered the woods, Allen following.

Nick walked point silent and smooth. He crept through the woods, his heart beating through his chest and sweat dripping down his face. This was finally it.

Was it a trap? Could there be sensors that might detect them? A satellite looking down from space with thermal cameras? Three helicopters loaded with heavily armed commandos waiting to swoop in? Or, maybe in the air already on the way. He paused and looked up, listening as hard as he could.

He swallowed hard and remembered that at this point, it lay in fate's hands. If this was a trap, then they were dead. If it wasn't, they had a chance.

He glanced back at Allen and saw the man looked focused, though nervous. Nick had told him going in that his only job was watching his step and being quiet. True to form, Allen kept his head lowered, eyes on the prowl for branches or sticks that would snap and sound louder than an alarm.

A little more than an hour later, Nick had placed Allen in a position facing the back of the house. Allen lay behind a thick pine tree, his MP5 aimed at the rear door.

Nick snapped his fingers lightly, and Allen looked up. Nick pointed at the MP5's magazine, and Allen nodded. He laid out the five remaining magazines in front of him.

Nick gave him a thumbs up and a smile, and Allen smiled back. The mission was about to go down, and since Whitaker and Tank's truck sat outside, then this would likely end the cat and mouse game the four had been playing for weeks now.

Nick glided away from Allen, moving deeper into the woods before circling back around to the front. Getting seen now would be about the most stupid thing he could do, and since the cabin had plenty of windows, it was a distinct possibility.

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.

"Moving along, Nick, you get a new identity. You can make up your own back story, or we'll provide you one. Even better, we're giving you two million dollars since you won't be publishing some colossus best seller. Move where you want. Do what you want. We don't care."

Nick looked at the woods just fifty yards away. He had his rifle across his back and pistol reloaded and ready to go. He wondered if he could make it. What was the flight time of a Hellfire missile?

"Don't even think about it," the deep, altered voice said. "I can see you looking at the woods, thinking about running. Trust me, I will obliterate you in a heartbeat. Gladly."

Nick looked to the sky again. Allen wiped sweat from his brow and tried to stop his hands from shaking.

"I'm letting you two live," the voice resumed, "because you've done our nation a great service. Nick, you've done so twice, and yet you were betrayed terribly after your service in Afghanistan. But, I will put this nation's security over your two lives without hesitation. Our nation needs the program you nearly unraveled, and I have shown my decency by relieving Whitaker and his assistant of their command and leaking their positions to you two. I can do no more without weakening our nation beyond a level I'm comfortable at. And that's why I directed my two men to such a secluded area. Had you two failed and they survived, I'd have placed them back in charge, and they would have never forgotten either their reprimand or how it felt to lose control of their men. Leaders fear irrelevance. But you two aced them, so the ball's now in your court. I am prepared to give a single order and engulf you both in fiery explosions and the sights of two hundred trigger-happy men. Make your decisions. Quickly."

Allen, too quickly, said, "Nick, you know what I want to do."

Nick nodded, but he knew he couldn't give up. Couldn't surrender and let this man go free. To continue his reign of abuses.

Nick looked at the distance to the woods and judged his course and where he'd hit the deck. Could he find some cover and either low ground or a dead fall to protect him from the shrapnel? He looked at Allen who read his mind and shook his head "no" in utter disbelief.

"Don't do it, Nick," Allen said.

Nick looked up again and toward the tree line. He doubted he could avoid the three drones with their Hellfire missiles and two hundred men following in their wake, but he had survived a battalion of Soviets who'd been given his location by his sell-out commander.

Nick prepared to make his move. He judged the distance to the woods, checked the sling holding his rifle around his back, and then confirmed his pistol was loaded. But seeing the pistol, he paused and thought back to another pistol. This one taped under a sink and discovered by Anne. He smiled at the memory, recalling the anger and sadness from her that followed.

Looking at this pistol, which had been hidden, as well, from her in a cave, he realized that the one thing Anne had wanted above all else was for him to be "normal." To not be paranoid or worried all the time.

Nick considered this a moment.

With the death of Whitaker, he'd avenged Anne's death and that of his spotter in Afghanistan. Not to mention, many other heroes who Whitaker may have betrayed and abandoned in a foreign land.

Nick could race for the woods and pursue an even more difficult search for the man behind this all -- certainly a Congressman or senior CIA official (and possibly the President) -- but that's not what Anne would want. Not even close.

Nick holstered his pistol in his belt in the small of his back and glanced at Allen, whose face had gone from horror to relief as he'd read Nick's thoughts.

"We'll take your deal," Nick said toward the speakerphone.

"Wise move," the voice replied, and before the sentence ended they heard the sound of helicopters rapidly approaching.

"This was a trap," Allen said with incredulity.

"Seems it was," Nick said, swallowing down relief. That was nearly the second time he'd died within the past five minutes.

And as a black, unmarked Blackhawk descended into the clearing, the two men watched as more than a dozen other Blackhawks circled above it, covering it like a swarm of hornets.

"Glad you took the deal," Allen yelled over the helicopter's roar.

Nick nodded and looked up to the clouds. He thanked Anne for saving his life, yet again; both just now, and after she found him when he was in the deep abyss of anger and paranoia more than ten years ago.

Nick couldn't believe how wrong he'd been on this one. On how he'd missed the trap devised by whoever was above these guys, and on how the helicopters were far closer than he'd ever expected.

He'd have certainly been dead within five minutes.

Allen turned and walked toward the landing helicopter.

Nick followed.

"I hope you can see me now, Anne," he thought, a tear streaming down his face. "If it wasn’t for you, I'd be a dead man right now."

Epilogue

Texas Senator Ray Gooden's predictions came true.

Allen Green turned into an instant hero, famous and rich. The charges against him for child porn were dropped and proved to be part of a grand conspiracy. The New Yorker offered to hire him back, but he told them to take the job and shove it.

He had a book to write, producers wanted to turn it all into a movie, and Allen’s days of having to be an unpaid, underappreciated reporter were long gone. Even better, after an awkward start, things went back to better-than-ever with his girlfriend Jennifer, who eventually forgave him for not returning her calls early on.

Nick Woods received a new identity, as well as the two million dollars he'd been promised. He promptly pulled it from the bank, transferred it a half-dozen times, and eventually withdrew it all in a series of cash withdrawals.

Rumor has it he’s hidden deep in the mountains of Montana, he buried his money, and disappeared from the radar screen. Most believe he’s awaiting more troops to come after him, and that he’s holed up in some fortress-like canyon, crammed full of weapons, traps, and tunnels.

Texas Sen. Ray Gooden found new leadership for his covert organization. It rebuilt both its bank accounts, through drug running, and its ranks, through hungry young men anxious to further serve their country.

Gooden continues to rule through fear and intimidation both the covert organization and the Senate Armed Forces Committee. Neither the CIA, nor America's newest President, has found the nerve to take him on.

THE END

Author’s Note: I really appreciate you purchasing the book and presumably finishing it, if you’ve made it this far. I can’t tell you how hard I worked to try to get it right, but I know it’s still not perfect. Not even close.

In all honesty, as you could probably tell, this was my first book. And it took me more than fifteen years to get the book in the state you’re currently reading it in.

Trust me, I know my writing falls short of the mark in this book -- Nick wouldn’t be happy about me missing the target, believe me -- but I’m afraid I’m just far too close to the book. Even with the help of two different editors who I hired and who did loads to make this book better, this was the best I could do on this one.

I just struggled to accept their suggestions.

The honest truth is I wrote much of "Sold Out" right after my exit from the Marine Corps. At that time, I was dealing with some serious paranoia and trying my best to deprogram myself from four years of extreme situations serving in the infantry.

I was in a dark place, and I suppose the book reveals it.

Just as Nick Woods gets into a major fight with his wife over his paranoia and preparations for an attack on his home, I, too, dealt with that.

In Nick’s case, he got caught with a secret journal and a gun under his sink. In my case, I got into a major fight with my first wife because I was unscrewing the electrical outlets in my home, convinced after an extremely odd interaction at the mall that everything I said in the home was being listened to by the federal government. (I had run into what I assumed at the time was a CIA agent, and all of this was in 1999 or 2000. Way before the days of it being common knowledge that the NSA tracks much of what we say and do.)

My point is that the Nick Woods in “Sold Out” is far realer than you probably want to imagine.

We prefer images of soldiers and Marines returning home with a smile, wrapped in the flag, and hugging wives and kids. We don’t want to think about those same veterans taking different routes to work, being startled in their sleep, or nearly attacking a guy in the mall who approached them twice with some weird comments that in hindsight were probably nothing.

But the veterans who have actually been through a lot are like that. They have wire triggers, they’re alert, and you don’t want to startle them. (Just ask one of my friends.)

I also get asked a lot about the Nazi “SS” symbol on Nick’s chest, which as you know by now stands for “Scout Sniper.”

Believe it or not, the Nazi "SS" symbol burned onto someone’s chest isn't something I made up. I had a buddy who I served with in 3rd Platoon, Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 8th Marines, who later became a Scout Sniper two years after I met him and got to know him really well. (This was roughly in 1997, and I’m sorry but for his privacy I will not name him.)

Anyway, a bunch of my friends were circled around him one day following his completion of Scout Sniper training. I walked up to see what was causing the commotion. Turns out, he had a Nazi "SS" symbol burned into his chest, exactly like Nick Woods in the book. (Same location, same terrifying font.)

My friend told me it had been burned into his chest with a coat hanger just a couple of days earlier after completing the brutal Scout Sniper school training.

I said to him, "Man, do you know what that symbol is?"

He answered me with pretty much the exact dialogue that you find in the book. (In short, that it stood for Scout Sniper, and was not about the Nazi connotation. Rather, it was about the strength, quality, and pride portrayed by the German Army in World War II.)

My friend also said that all Scout Snipers got one burned into their chest. (At least at that time. Perhaps that has changed.)

But having said this, I know of several Marine Scout Snipers who have read this book and given me feedback who have served in the Corps since 1999 (when I got out). Not a single one of them has mentioned the Nazi "SS" symbol scene as either being incarnate or problematic. Thus, I'm assuming it still happens.

Have I asked them specifically about this scene? No, I haven’t. I have learned from experience that they are extremely sensitive as a group to the idea that the “SS” might mean anything nefarious or evil. They do not see it that way. Not even close. They see it precisely as I’ve described.

Finally, I’d like to offer a final piece of evidence that this is probably still occurring. Here is a news story that went viral as recently as 2012:

"US Marines in fresh controversy over sniper team photo with Nazi SS flag:"

http://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/feb/09/us-military-marines-nazi-ss-flag-photo

This story is from a very reputable news source, and obviously includes photos with them posing alongside a Nazi flag.

I say all this just to provide some context and show where I'm coming from as the author. I would never make up such a thing to dishonor the incredible Marines who go on to become Scout Snipers. They are by far some of the greatest Marines in the Corps, and the dangers they face while operating as a pair outside friendly lines are almost without comparison.

Finally, as you now know from reading this Author’s Note, I was (and am) too close to this book. I feel confident that if you will give me another chance on another book I’ve completed, you will find any of them to be stronger works.

I apologize again that I was too close to this one to make it as good as it could have -- and should have -- been.

Sincerely yours,

Stan R. Mitchell

If you enjoyed “Sold Out (Nick Woods, No. 1),” please consider dropping a short review of it on Amazon. Reviews go miles and miles toward helping readers discover new authors, such as Mitchell.

Books by Stan R. Mitchell:

Sold Out (Nick Woods, No. 1)

Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2)

Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No.3)

Little Man, and the Dixon County War

Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 1)

Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 2)

Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 3)

Soldier On

About the author:

Stan R. Mitchell writes some of the most action-packed, fast-moving novels around. Tired of slow-paced, investigative novels that take 50 pages to excite you? Look no further!

Stan is the best-selling author of 5 novels in 3 different time periods. He's also a prior infantry Marine with Combat Action Ribbon, and a former journalist who spent ten years in the newspaper business, learning how to hook the reader, cut out the filler, and just tell the story.

In short, Stan is knowledgeable, he's fast, and his books will blow you away. You can learn more about him at http://stanrmitchell.com.

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Don’t miss the epic follow-up to “Sold Out!” Free, extended Preview: Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2)

Prologue

Nick Woods pulled off the interstate tired, uncomfortable, and hungry.

He stopped at a large gas station that sat just off the exit. He was making good time, working his way through the backwoods of South Carolina, but he was due a stop.

Nick needed gas, he needed to piss, and he needed a Mountain Dew and a Snickers.

He parked his ’97 Jeep Grand Cherokee by a pump and closed the door gently. The SUV had nearly 200,000 miles on the odometer, but it still ran well and he treated it like a queen. Frequent maintenance and plenty of love had kept it in top shape, just like the old Colt 1911 .45 automatic pistol stashed under his seat.

The Colt .45 had been hidden in a cave and carried under some tough conditions when a lot of bad men were hunting him just a few years earlier. It had killed many of those men (and one woman, though she was armed just like the men). Following such excellent and trusty service, Nick had decided to keep it for sentimental value.

But unlike the old 1911 under the seat, the newer pistol on his hip, a Kimber 1911 .45, carried no sentimental value. It was kept for use. Instant use.

The Kimber was also customized and upgraded: green Tritium 3-dot night sight, adjusted trigger pull, and custom grips. Of course, like any good gunman, Nick had loaded a round in the chamber prior to loading the seven-round mag into the pistol, so he toted eight rounds of .45 caliber ammo instead of seven.

Under his blue jean jacket, he also had two more magazines of seven rounds for the gun. Twenty-two rounds total, plus an emergency .38 pistol strapped to the inside of his left ankle, and a one-hand opening knife clipped to the right pocket of his jeans.

Nick had been accused of being paranoid, and he knew it to be true. It was also true that he had needed every weapon on him -- and more -- several times just for being who he was, so he didn’t mind being labeled paranoid. He understood that to mean “prepared.”

Nick stood by the door of his red Grand Cherokee, pausing a moment before walking away. The vehicle provided cover and held a number of better weapons than what he could carry with him concealed. Like his M14. And his 12 gauge pump loaded with double-ought buck. And of course his trusty, scoped M40 bolt gun in .308/7.62.

Besides the weapons, the Jeep was most importantly his best chance of getting away if things suddenly got hairy. And Nick never walked away from escape possibilities lightly. He shuddered at the memory of hundreds of Soviet troops hunting him in the mountains of Afghanistan a decade earlier.

Nick shook his head to erase the terrifying thoughts, and, breathing deeply, set to burying the pains of so many old war wounds. He looked about and refocused on the present. He scanned the gas pumps nearest him, looking quickly in a 360 around him as unobtrusively as possible. He gave the thick woods opposite the gas station a once over and finally took a long look at the customers in the gas station.

Some of them waited in line. Others picked junk food off the aisles. No one looked frightened or frozen in fear, as if a hold-up was underway. So far, so good.

Taking another deep breath, Nick adjusted the Kimber .45 on his hip, and walked toward the door. He dreaded the people he’d have to interact with, having spent the better part of two years in solitude up in the mountains of Montana.

He had expected the government to double-cross him again. The deal they made was very similar to one they made many years ago and that one certainly didn’t end up sticking. Nick Woods had been sold out -- twice, actually -- and he fully expected the government to come after him in Montana.

But a damn strange thing happened: They never came. He’d been prepared, waiting for them with an almost eager, expectant intensity, but the dawns and dusks passed with him hidden behind his guns, no one in sight.

He’d grown tired of waiting and realized he probably needed to be around people again. He was mentally losing it, becoming crazier and lonelier by the day, and thus a big reason for this cross-country trip was to tear down his paranoia and get him comfortable being around people again.

Anne would be proud, Nick thought, to see him making such progress.

I’m trying, baby. I’m trying.

He smiled at her memory and wished she hadn’t been taken so soon. Or, “shot in self defense” if you wanted to believe the bullshit police report from the FBI.

He didn’t believe it, and in the end what the report said didn’t really matter: Nick had gunned down the pencil pusher who’d killed her that night.

Nick pushed this bloodshed -- that brutal, ugly rifle shot -- from his mind, just as he’d pushed the screams from Afghanistan out of his mind moments earlier.

As Nick headed toward the double doors of the gas station, motion brought him fully to the present. A gray, unmarked police cruiser pulled into the gas station, slow and unthreatening. But Nick still paused, unsure. And suddenly he was aware that he had stopped mid-stride and stood transfixed on the cruiser.

The driver seemed to be watching him from behind the tinted window. Nick stood frozen, watching the car. Unmoving. He looked guilty as hell, and he knew it, and yet he didn’t care.

No question, he was guilty as hell. He had no concealed carry permit and he had two loaded weapons on him, not to mention the locked and loaded long guns in the Jeep. And once they found his rucksack with the thousands of rounds, the grenades, and the Claymore mines -- all stuff he’d bought off a man he strongly suspected typically armed drug cartels and militias in the Midwest -- he’d be completely toast.

Not that they’d ever get him in cuffs. Nope. No siree.

They’d either kill him or he’d kill them first. Nick Woods didn’t trust cops, federal agents, or even the service members defending the flag. All of them had worked to either sell him out or put his ass in the ground, so he’d trust the cold steel on his hip and not another damn thing. (After all, how could anyone know whether their intel was accurate and truthful? Nick had sure been misled enough times as a young Marine, and so had hundreds of men who had come after him.)

Nick considered drawing and rushing forward and blowing the man’s head off as he watched the officer through the tinted driver’s-side window. Nick couldn’t let him get on his radio, so if the man made one move toward the radio in the console, he was a dead man. He was only twelve feet away and Nick couldn’t let him call in the cavalry.

But then the man did the damndest thing ever. He turned the car away from Nick, so slow that the movement bordered on bizarre. Still stranger, the man raised both hands up, palms forward, in the motion of surrender. It was the damndest thing ever, and Nick kept his eye on the man with his peripheral vision and scanned the woods beyond the cruiser.

He saw nothing, and though the hair on his neck hadn’t stood up, Nick wasn’t the type to take chances. He yanked the pistol from his hip so fast that it was a blur. A motion practiced so many thousand times that it would take a slow-motion video to pinpoint each individual movement.

But now the man’s head was centered in Nick’s sights and a woman was screaming. Folks scurried and hid and frantically dialed cell phones. Nick saw this movement around him, but kept his focus on the man in the cruiser. He could feel all the eyes on him and his mind raced, wondering how fast the 911 calls happening all around him would get the local boys on the scene.

He’d want his M14 for them -- take a few out before running for it into the woods. Otherwise, they’d just pit-maneuver him on the interstate with their powerful pursuit cars.

As Nick considered his moves, he noticed the man was saying something behind the tinted window. He strained to hear and picked up the man saying his name.

“Nick Woods, it’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

Nick leaned forward a bit and saw fear and pleading in the guy’s face, and he heard the words again, clearer this time: “Nick Woods, it’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

Nick advanced toward the car -- fast and agile for a man who looked too country to be a runner. But a runner Nick was. And he was damn near a ninja, too. A martial arts addict, he could jump and roll and strike and kick with the best of them.

And now he stood at the window, his pistol six inches from the glass and the man’s head. The man looked beyond frantic now.

“Don’t shoot,” he screamed. “Don’t shoot. I need to talk to you. Just talk.”

Nick grabbed the door handle with his left hand while keeping the pistol in the man’s face. He ripped the door open, moving his pistol out of its arc, before stepping in closer and placing the pistol against the man’s forehead hard enough to drive him on his back. Nick was now leaning in the car, the pistol pressed with all his might against the man’s cranium.

“Motherfucker, you squirm one inch and I’ll blow a hole so big out the back of your head that the mortician will have to attach a bowl to keep the embalming fluid in. Now, you have ten seconds before I drag you from this car and throw your ass in my Jeep. What do you want? Why were you looking at me? How did you know my name?”

“Nick,” the man said, struggling against the console in his back and the pistol being pressed hard into bone. “I’ve just come to talk with you.”

“Talk,” Nick said, not letting up.

“My name doesn’t matter, but I volunteered to make contact with you. Nick, we need your help.”

“Last time you all needed my help, you sold me and my partner out five hundred miles inside Afghanistan. Forgive me if I’m a little hesitant to sign up again.”

“That was a rogue operation run by a dishonorable man. You have to trust us on that.”

“I’ll decide who I trust,” Nick said, remembering the shredded body of his spotter. And then flashing to the sight of his wife lying dead in the grass, her white gown ruined by blood and mud.

“Nick, let me up and I’ll call the police off before they get here. Whether you accept our offer or not, you don’t need to be on the run again. You don’t need any more dead cops to your name.”

Nick considered the idea, and realized he either needed to blow the man’s brains out or take him hostage. Either way the clock was ticking and the cops were certainly racing on their way to the gas station.

“Get up and don’t try anything stupid,” Nick said, grabbing the man by his throat and jerking him up. They exited the police cruiser awkwardly, both men aware of the loaded gun and the danger each posed to the other.

They stood now -- the man with his hands up; Nick with his pistol covering him.

“Everyone, calm down,” the man said, looking toward those around him. “This is simply a training exercise. An anti-terrorism drill. There is no need to panic. My friend here is playing the part of a quote terrorist.”

He looked back at Nick and said, “Let me get my phone out of my jacket pocket and I’ll get the cops called off.”

“Move damn slow,” Nick said.

The man, who wore a black suit and looked about thirty, reached inside the jacket and slowly pulled out a cell phone. He dialed three numbers, which Nick assumed was 911.

“Yes, ma’am. I am a member of Federal Task Force Apache. Code Number 894673-736492.”

He paused, then said, “Yes, ma’am. Please call Gen. Compton to confirm, and then please call off the responding units before we have any blue-on-blue accidents.”

The suited man closed his phone, pointed to his inside coat pocket, and said, “May I?”

Nick, .45 pointed at his center mass, said, “Slowly. Damn slowly.”

The man replaced the phone and said, “If you’ll let me lock the car, we’ll take a ride in your Jeep and talk.”

“Car doesn’t need to be locked. It’s a police cruiser. Nobody’s going to touch it.”

Nick waved the pistol toward his Jeep.

“Let’s go, hoss. And you better pray I don’t decide to shoot you between here and there.”

They walked to Nick’s Jeep Grand Cherokee and the man opened the passenger door, slowly climbing in and sitting down. Nick followed and stayed behind him, about four feet away. Just enough distance to make sure the man didn’t get cute and try something stupid.

“You got any weapons on you?” Nick asked.

“Hell, no,” the guy said. “We were afraid that would set you off.”

Nick could tell he was telling the truth.

“Any cuffs?” Nick asked once he was seated and buckled in.

“I’m not a cop. I work for the government.”

Nick never hesitated, expecting that very answer. With no give away, Nick swung the pistol and cracked the man in the head with its barrel. The strike knocked him out, his head falling forward and body slumping. The seat belt kept him in place, mostly, and Nick pushed his right arm in and closed the door.

Nick holstered his pistol and smiled to those watching, none of whom were sure whether this was a prank, the real thing, or just a realistic training exercise.

Nick smiled. “Nothing to see folks. He’s just a good actor and playing along. I love these rubber guns, they look so real. Ya’ll have a good day.”

By the time the agent woke up, Nick had driven a short distance to the next decent-sized town, rented a room at a rundown hotel, and carried the agent inside, binding his arms and legs to a chair.

“About time,” Nick said when the agent came to.

While the man had been knocked out, Nick had made preparations for an assault, though he didn’t anticipate one. No police or government personnel had followed him or tried to stop him once he hurried out of the gas station, so it looked like the agent was telling the truth.

Nick had already learned the hard way a couple years ago that when the government really wants you, there’s not a hell of a lot you can do. In that instance, they had brought out the drones, teams of special operators in Blackhawks, and who knew what else.

Still, serious preparation had saved Nick’s neck on more than one occasion, so he had placed a C-shaped Claymore mine four feet from the door, dragging a dresser behind it to help protect him from the backblast in such an enclosed space. The wire from the Claymore ran back to a bedpost, which he’d knotted it around so no one would trip on it and knock the Claymore down. Or worse: twist it around so that it aimed away from the door and toward Nick and the agent.

The clacker for the Claymore lay on the bed, along with Nick’s M14, shotgun, and pack. The pack itself was crammed with magazines, shotgun shells, and other necessary gear.

Nick sat on the bed next to the gear, sipping on a Mountain Dew he’d bought at a vending machine from the hotel, near where they kept the ice. Besides getting the Dew, he’d also taken his much-needed piss that he’d missed out on at the gas station, which was the number one reason he’d stopped there in the first place. He still didn’t have his Snickers bar yet, but he always kept stowed away in his pack a good dozen or so packs of peanut-butter-and-cheese crackers. He was nearly finished scarfing down a pack of them when the agent awoke.

The man had a hell of a wound on his head, and blood had coagulated in his hair and run down and ruined his suit. But that was the least of the agent’s problems, Nick hoped the man knew.

“You wanted to talk, let’s talk,” Nick said. He downed the final cracker and then hoisted the M14 and aimed it toward the agent.

The man shook his head in a feeble attempt to fully wake up, and he pulled his arms against the ropes with a strain. Nick knew his arms had to hurt like hell. Nick had tied them behind the agent so tight that he’d need to loosen them in ten minutes or so to get the circulation flowing.

Right now, the ropes were tighter than a tourniquet.

The man swallowed hard and gave up on straining against the ropes. Nick figured the man’s mouth was so dry that he probably could barely swallow. Nick considered grabbing a plastic cup by the sink and giving the man some water, but decided against it.

The man seemed too shocked to say anything and Nick wondered if he honestly thought this meeting was supposed to have gone down across a table at a Waffle House. Maybe share some coffee and buttered toast and just be the best of friends.

Fat chance.

Nick rose from the bed, spun the weapon, and butt-stroked the man in the head. About half-power. He wanted to get his attention, not fracture any facial bones.

“Listen up, hoss. This isn’t a fucking game. I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer them. If you delay answering them, or if I sense you’re lying -- believe me, I’m good at reading faces -- or if I just get bored, then I’m going to wrap a rope around your neck and garrote your ass.”

Nick saw a flash of terror cross the man’s eyes. He figured the man had read Nick’s file, and knew about the time he’d killed a hotel manager with 550 cord. With the man’s full attention, Nick began.

“How’d you know my name?”

The man, a baby-faced guy who looked fit and squared away in his suit, said, “I’ve read and memorized your file. I was the only one who would volunteer to approach you.”

“Why were the others afraid?”

The man looked incredulous. He looked as if he was trying to find a way to soften his answer. Nick didn’t want softened answers.

“Just say it,” Nick said.

“Everyone thinks you’re crazy.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. I think you’ve reacted exactly as I would have, given everything you’ve been through.”

“And you still believe that?”

The man -- two nasty wounds to his head, an M14 aimed at him, and his arms probably numb and tingling -- clearly had some doubts now. He looked off and swallowed.

“I may have been wrong,” he said. He looked and sounded scared shitless.

Nick knew the feeling. He’d felt it the first time he and his spotter had crossed over into Afghanistan from Pakistan. The Soviets had thousands of troops there and neither Nick nor his spotter could speak the language. They only marginally trusted the mujahideen they were to link up with.

Nick stood and walked to the windows. He pulled a curtain back and scanned the parking lot. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. He slid it closed and sighed. Wow. What a mess he had on his hands. The loneliness of Montana didn’t seem so bad now compared to this.

Nick returned to the bed and sat back down.

“Earlier, you said ‘approach’ me,” Nick continued. “Let’s get to the bottom line so I can decide what to do with you. Why were you to approach me?”

“We need your help.”

“Who’s we?”

“The CIA, of course.”

“Spit it out. I’m tired of asking questions,” Nick said angrily. “Why do you need my help? Want to send me overseas? Get me to do some dirty work? Then sell my ass out again?”

“No, sir. We need your skill set in Mexico.”

Chapter 1

Present Day Mexico

A two-ton iron gate swung open from the presidential compound and an armada of vehicles roared out into the early morning dawn. Six armored Humvees -- the first three bearing 7.62 mm machine guns followed by three more hauling massive .50 caliber heavy machine guns -- led a convoy that included an additional twelve more SUVs crammed with Mexican troops in full battle gear. Behind all this firepower came the Mexican President’s armored limo, and then an additional twelve more SUVs packed full of troops.

At the rear of the convoy, a tail element of six additional Humvees -- again three with medium machine guns and three with heavy machine guns -- protected the line of vehicles. Besides the twelve armored Humvees, twenty-four SUVs, and a hundred-plus hand-picked soldiers, six helicopters bearing snipers zoomed around the convoy, buzzing in toward threats and flying forward to confirm the route lay clear.

In addition to these precautions, more than two hundred police officers were blocking off roads and screeching around Mexico City in front of the convoy with sirens ablaze, looking for the smallest hint of trouble.

This was the state of affairs in Mexico these days. A country and government so threatened by a single drug cartel that moving the President around looked more like an act of war than a simple escort.

But while the convoy may have looked the same today as it did any other day, this was no normal day in Mexico.

President Roberto Rivera rode in the single limo, heading to a meeting that towered above being the most important event of his political career. After consulting with his advisers and several economists this morning, he knew the meeting could be the most important of Mexico’s history.

President Rivera had unfortunately confirmed through several sources that his friend and strongest supporter had finally had enough. Juan Soto, despite being Mexico’s richest businessman, had decided that he could no longer live or operate his businesses within the confines of the war-ravaged country.

Though Juan Soto loved his battered and wrecked homeland of Mexico, he apparently felt he could no longer risk everything by staying. That the country was lost and on the verge of complete anarchy.

President Rivera rubbed his temples and shuddered at the thought that the billionaire might leave the country. Soto’s exit would mean he would sell off his numerous companies, and Rivera knew who the buyer would be: Hernan Flores, a fellow billionaire. But Flores and Soto were two completely different people.

Juan Soto was a businessman: honest, ethical, and legit.

Hernan Flores was a cartel leader: dishonest, evil, and dirty.

Yet, President Roberto Rivera, even though he knew these things about Hernan Flores, could not say them. People who spoke the truth about Flores always ended up dead. And, there just wasn’t enough evidence to support the whispers amongst the people -- that Flores was dirty and working to topple the government and Rivera along with it.

Not that Flores would want to be President. No, he would most likely install one of his cronies. Someone to overlook all the activities and allow Flores to sleep easier at night.

Rivera’s resolve still reeled from the news. He couldn’t shake the growing anxiety that if Soto left the country, both he and his already shaking administration would be left standing completely alone. And would soon either topple or be pushed from power by the rampant intimidation and relentless pressure from Hernan Flores’s drug ring, the Godesto Cartel.

Thirty minutes after departing the Presidential Palace, President Roberto Rivera’s convoy arrived at the headquarters of Juan Soto, an eight-story building in the heart of the city. The presidential convoy stopped at the front of the building and dozens of armed men leapt from the numerous vehicles and secured the area. A phalanx of hyper-alert men circled around the limo and when one finally opened the limo door, Rivera exited and moved quickly toward the front doors, thankful for the ring of submachine gun-toting men clustered tightly around him. Rumors of another serious assassination attempt had been growing, and Rivera didn’t want to relive another near miss.

Juan Soto met President Rivera at the front doors and the two said little as they walked to the elevators and ascended to the top floor. Rivera shook some hands and nodded to some employees and senior executives as they worked their way to Soto’s inner sanctum. Once there, Rivera excused his closest security personnel and finally entered a conference room. It was just him and Soto now.

With the door closed, blinds shut, and total privacy finally ensured, the two men smiled -- this time deeply -- and hugged. Rivera thought that Juan Soto looked as thin and sharp as ever. The man took discipline and ambition to levels that even Rivera could not reach.

“My good friend,” Juan said. “Why did you not call? I would have gladly come to you to prevent you having to be out in the city any more than necessary.”

“I wanted to honor and respect you by coming to your office,” President Rivera said sincerely.

“We only received word ten minutes ago. Otherwise, we would have prepared a better welcome.”

“We’ve increased my security measures with the latest threats of assassination,” Rivera said. “Even our top police did not know my destination.”

“But how did you know I’d be here?”

Rivera smiled. “I believe you had a hastily scheduled meeting with our finance minister in twenty minutes?”

Juan Soto grinned as he realized his old friend had shown his sense of cunning once again -- something Juan had been following since the man began his political career.

“Your conference room has been updated,” Rivera said, looking around at the modern interior.

“Twice, maybe three times since you were here.”

Rivera looked down. He had been too busy and away too long.

“I haven’t been here since I was governor,” he said, with real regret in his voice. “But, we must skip the small talk, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, of course. And I think I know why you’re here.”

“Then, is it true? You’re leaving?”

Juan Soto looked away. He could not stand to disappoint his friend.

“It is, isn’t it?” Valez asked.

“Yes, my friend. I’m very sorry, but I decided yesterday and my staff and I are planning the steps involved.”

Rivera reached across the table and grabbed Juan’s forearm.

“You can’t, Juan. I need you! Your country needs you.”

Juan yanked his arm away. “My country has failed me,” he said, angrier than he meant.

Rivera looked away. Said nothing. He stood, walked over to the bar, and poured himself a glass of brandy. He savored the taste, felt the warmth, and, taking a deep breath, turned back to Juan.

“Juan, I am so sorry about what happened to Gabriella,” Rivera said, referring to a recent kidnapping attempt of Juan’s daughter that killed three of her bodyguards.

“It’s not just about Gabby,” Soto said. “Did you hear about my shift supervisor yesterday? Or my chief financial officer a month ago? Or any of the other twenty-plus employees who have been killed in the past two months?”

Rivera looked down at his brandy. “I did not, my friend. I am truly sorry.”

Juan walked to a seat at the head of the conference table and sat. Heavily. He no longer looked angry, but Rivera saw that the normally energetic and unstoppable entrepreneur now looked tired. And defeated.

Rivera walked toward him and sat in a chair next to him. He said nothing and thought of honest friends he knew who had gambled their lives by joining his government and trying to take back their country from the cartels. And now with the looming threat of the ruthless Godesto Cartel, Rivera thought of all the newly appointed police captains across cities and towns far and wide who would certainly be hunted down or executed if he failed.

He looked up at Juan, who sat looking at him.

“Juan, could you give me six months? Just six months to fix it?”

“I’m sorry, Roberto, but not even you, with all your energy and intellect could fix the country in six months. You haven’t been able to in three years. What makes you think you can in six months?”

“We’ve done much in those three years,” Rivera said. “Made important police appointments and purged many dirty officials. And.” Rivera paused, and swallowed. “I’ll finally get help from the Americans. I’ll tell them we’re in desperate need.” Rivera was talking fast now. “We’ll get special troops down here and we’ll go after that bastard Hernan Flores. I know he’s behind it all.”

Juan Soto smiled.

“Now, Roberto,” he said, “are you forgetting that even your appointed Attorney General admitted in a news conference that there is no real evidence against Flores?”

“Then we’ll make some!” Rivera said. “That bastard keeps killing and silencing people, so to hell with the law. If you’re on the verge of leaving, then we’ll have to fight fire with fire. This is for Mexico’s own sake.”

Juan reached across the table and laid his hand on the top of Rivera’s forearm. “My friend. Do not soil your soul. It is your integrity that sets you apart. It is your integrity and faith that inspires millions of Mexicans. Do not become like Flores.”

Rivera realized the horror of what he’d considered and sat there ashamed at what he had spoken.

“You are right, Juan. Forget I said that,” Rivera said, now looking him in the eyes.

“We all have our moments of weakness, my friend, but you have your strength and you still believe. I, however, no longer do.”

Rivera grabbed Juan’s hand and enclosed it in both of his. “Please don’t say that, Juan. Please, give me just six months. I beg of you. If not for your country, for me. And for my family. You know we will not survive without your support.”

Juan looked at Rivera and felt the man’s desperate grip. He knew he could say “no” to him in the darkness of night and with a greater distance between them, but he simply could not abandon the man when he had to look him in the eyes. Not without giving him one more chance. He stood and pulled Rivera to him.

“I’ll give you six months, my friend, though I must tell you that I doubt you will be successful. Privately, I will continue planning my departure and liquidation of my assets. However, I will appear optimistic in all public appearances to my employees and friends, and I say in all honesty that if it can be done, it is you who will achieve it.”

Rivera let go of Juan’s hand and grabbed him in a hard hug.

“Thank you, my dear friend. Thank you. I will not let you down.”

Juan held Rivera a moment and then stepped back. He straightened Rivera’s jacket and said, “Now compose yourself, my friend. Our country is depending on your strength and nerve.”

Rivera stood straighter and pulled his jacket down.

“Don’t go looking at properties elsewhere,” Rivera said. “It will be a waste of time and energy.”

“Now that’s the President I’m used to seeing,” Juan Soto said. “Call me if I can be of assistance.”

To continue reading, purchase it from here: Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2).

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74