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
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
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