Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 2

  “I may have been wrong,” he gulped. 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?” Rivera asked.

  “Yes, my friend. I’m very sorry, but I decided yesterday and my staff and I are planning the steps involved.”

  Rivera 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 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 kidna
pping 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 swiveled his drink in his hand as he 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 five years. What makes you think you can in six months?”

  “We’ve done much in those five 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 blurted out. “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.”

  Chapter 2

  President Roberto Rivera wasted no time following his meeting with billionaire Juan Soto. Rivera used his cell phone to call the American Ambassador and informed him he needed to meet. Immediately.

  President Rivera’s senior executive assistant passed along the change of plans and the new destination to the head of Rivera’s security, and after some griping from the head of police about unplanned schedules and complications, the massive convoy circled around and headed for the American Embassy. Traffic snarled around Mexico City and drivers cursed as the police cordon maneuvered the twelve armored Humvees and twenty-four SUVs through red lights and intersections of the downtown district. Rivera ignored the screaming sirens and ear-shattering helicopters around him as he rehearsed what he would say to the American Ambassador.

  Inside his own protected fortress, the Ambassador hastily cleared his schedule and canceled several meetings. He also called Washington, D.C., and alerted the Secretary of State about the emergency meeting.

  In his three years as Ambassador to Mexico, he had never been called to an emergency meeting with President Rivera.

  The Secretary of State ended the call and immediately called the CIA. Most of the internal communication inside Mexico’s government was monitored by the National Security Agency, who sent weekly -- and at times, daily -- reports to the CIA. The CIA compiled that info, and the head CIA man who oversaw the Mexican Bureau confirmed to the Secretary of State that neither the NSA nor the CIA had a clue as to what the emergency meeting was about.

  The Secretary of State ordered the man to double-check with his staff, and to find out if there were any recent communications in the past hour. The Secretary of State hung up the phone and sighed, a sense of fear growing. He decided he’d better alert the Department of Defense just in case. It seemed there was a chance a coup d'état was about to take place in Mexico. And, he decided he’d better alert the President of the United States, as well. Or, at least the President’s Chief of Staff.

  Inside the walled compound of the American Embassy, President Rivera’s hundred-plus hand-picked soldiers deployed and escorted the President and his aides out into the brutal heat that was rocking Mexico. As Juan Soto had done at his own building earlier that day, the American Ambassador met Rivera at the door. And as the American aides greeted their Mexican counterparts, the two walked off in haste toward the inner sanctum.

  Minutes later, inside the Ambassador’s bug-proof room, guarded outside by two hulking Marines, Rivera laid out the situation.

  “Mr. Ambassador, if Juan Soto sells his assets, we’re talking dozens of major companies, thousands of employees, and miles and miles of property and real estate that will be sold at probably half of its value under duress to cartel leaders such as Hernan Flores. And these companies and properties will almost certainly stop paying even half of the taxes they owe. Not to mention how they’ll be used to hide and traffic more drugs to your country.”

  Rivera noticed a flash of panic cross the Ambassador’s face.

  “Is it possible,” the Ambassador asked, “that Soto was exaggerating? Six months is very little time. Would he seriously consider abandoning his empire at a loss?”

  “Juan is not bluffing,” Rivera said. “He did not even inform me of this situation. I learned of it from rumors as his top executives began looking for buyers for his companies and properties.”

  “I believe Mr. Soto was one of your closest supporters? A major donor and advisor. Even a family friend.”

  “He is all of those things,” Rivera said with a sigh. “I’m assuming he did not tell me because he feared disappointing me. Or he was ashamed.”

  “Do you think he still wants to leave?” the Ambassador asked.

  “I do,” Rivera said. �
��His daughter was nearly kidnapped in an attempt that killed three of her bodyguards. And just today Juan told me a shift supervisor was killed. And this follows his chief financial officer for all of his companies getting killed a month ago.”

  Rivera looked away, feeling overwhelmed and helpless. He wondered what the Ambassador thought of him in this moment. Did he see a broken man? A defeated man? A weak man?

  Rivera sat up straighter and composed himself. He lifted his head and spoke deeper and surer.

  “Juan Soto told me that he has lost twenty-plus employees in the past two months, but let’s ignore the negative facts for a moment. He gave me six months and I take him at his word. Now, what can America do to help me save this country and prevent its collapse? I presume you really don’t want a toppled government controlled by the Godesto Cartel just across from your border?”

  The Ambassador smiled and said, “No, I imagine that would be quite unpleasant. The President has made it clear that he will offer whatever assistance he can in your efforts against the Godesto.”

  President Rivera stood and stepped closer to the Ambassador, who had stood, as well. He gripped the man’s hand as hard as he could and said, “We will need more than words, weapons, and communication intercepts. We need your best troops here immediately.”

  “Mr. President,” the Ambassador said, “I will see if I can get some support for you in a week or so.”

  “Not good enough,” Rivera said. “Not even close to being good enough. We need either your Special Forces or Navy SEALs here within the next few days. Period. Non-negotiable.”

  The Ambassador laughed.

  “Come now, Mr. President. That’s nearly impossible. We have our active units all over the world, and the ones that aren’t active are on leave or in training.”

  President Rivera stepped closer and the Ambassador shifted uncomfortably.