Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 23

  “I regret that at this time we’re not more sure of what happened yet, but our facts do show that Flores was killed by another prisoner. I want to emphasize that point. This was not a corrupt guard who killed him. Of that we are certain.

  “In fact, my press secretary will distribute the name and photo of the prisoner who executed this vicious attack and who also in the process managed to escape from Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1. As you will note in the profile we will hand out, this man is a member of the Godesto Cartel. We’re not sure if this is part of a coup inside the organization or personal revenge taken by this man. We intend to find that out though, and once we do, we will alert you, the public immediately. It’s crucial that the Mexican government have your assistance in this fight against the Godesto Cartel and the other elements of organized crime.

  “Now, before I step away, I want to address two misconceptions that I’ve already heard. Some have said the Mexican government, or possibly even myself, had a hand in Hernan Flores’s death. I want to assure you this is false. Quite frankly, had we wanted him dead, then we could have killed him in the raid that netted him. Our officers could have claimed it was self-defense. Thus, you can be confident that neither I nor the Mexican government wanted this man killed in prison.

  “The second misconception I’d like to address is that Hernan Flores’s death is either proof of the Mexican government’s incompetence, or possibly even our corruption.”

  The President looked down and swallowed.

  “It is true that we still struggle with both incompetence and corruption, but you all elected me to tackle these two issues and I’m proud of our record and the improvements that we have made to date. Our government is more competent and less corrupt than when I took office. And I want the Mexican people to know that every day we improve the quality of our police and military and root out more corruption. But this remains a monumental task. Nonetheless, I plan to continue this fight, and returning for a moment to the matter of Hernan Flores, I pledge to you that once our full investigation is complete, I will announce and release its findings to the Mexican people. I furthermore pledge to continue to be transparent and diligent --”

  Isabella had removed her hand at some point and Nick turned to look at her. She looked pale and had crossed her arms protectively. Nick remembered her dead father, and brother. Had Flores been responsible for their deaths? Nick recalled her file saying they had died at the hands of a drug cartel, but he couldn’t remember if it had been the Godesto or one of the others.

  She had lost a lot, and that didn’t account for the fellow officers and attorneys and judges she had known who’d been killed in this war.

  Nick turned and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. He glanced around and saw that none of the men seemed to notice. They were all focused on the TV as their entire lives hung in the balance of what Rivera might say and their focus was obvious.

  Nick knew he had checked out as a leader and he knew it was bad and “unsat” by every military standard he had ever held himself to, but here she was, and God, why did he feel this way about her?

  He pulled her tighter and she leaned further into him. Some of his men saw them, but Nick decided to hell with it. It was their last day. He’d never see the members of S3 again.

  Nick was beyond caring.

  Nick kissed the top of her head and released her. She wiped an eye and composed herself. Nick turned and looked back at the scene and saw Rivera was prattling on.

  Nick had heard enough, and the clock was ticking, so he grabbed Isabella’s hand and led her toward his office. There, they talked for some time about her family, and about Nick’s past, as well as the future for both of them, but the impending separation kept an insurmountable gulf between their desires.

  One hundred miles away, another man was ignoring Rivera’s press conference, as well. The Butcher was sleeping soundly, resting up for his planned assault the next day. The Butcher’s time to control the Godesto Cartel had come, and he had a single goal: to topple the Mexican government.

  Tomorrow, the strike he had planned for many years would be a major step in that direction.

  Chapter 30

  The next morning, Nick sat in his office. In the corner, his bags and footlocker waited, packed and ready for the trip home. His locked and loaded M14 stood propped by his gear.

  Nick knew this was the last day with Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter in Mexico, and he had called a brief formation earlier behind the farmhouse. He had thanked the men for their service and diligence, and wished them all luck wherever their paths took them once they returned to the States.

  Now Nick wanted to talk to his Primary Strike Team members one-on-one. Most likely, they would separate at the border, and this would be his last chance to take his time and talk with his men, man-to-man. (Nick and Marcus would take the equipment up to Quantico and then Mr. Smith could take it from there. By that point, Nick would hardly care.)

  Nick had been dreading this day since his unit had gotten word from Smith that they were to pack up and leave. Nick had barely slept the night prior; his dread of departing from this mission -- and returning to his old life -- almost too much to take.

  He’d be losing the mission he had poured himself into, and he’d be losing the camaraderie and friendship he had with these men. That would be a big blow to a loner like Nick. Of that, he had no doubt.

  And he certainly wasn’t looking forward to being dragged away from Isabella. Between the mission, the men, and her, he wasn’t real sure how he’d re-adapt to his old life.

  “Send the first man in, Marcus,” he yelled.

  Truck walked in, wearing a ratty T-shirt that was half tucked in and did little to improve his look. And the look wasn’t much -- a bald, middle-aged man with the start of a gut.

  But he did have a look of ferocity in his eyes and a pair of hulking arms and chest to back them up. Nick had a natural affinity for the man who had given so much to America, and fallen so far. Nick smiled at the man who probably struggled with more demons than anyone could ever guess.

  “Well, thanks for not beating me up,” Nick said, laughing now.

  Truck shrugged and gave an embarrassed smile.

  “Ah, hell, I’ll never live that down. Beat up one dumb-ass officer and it follows you the rest of your career.”

  Nick laughed harder.

  “Well, it did get you kicked out of Special Forces and the Army. And then you had to forget you were a contractor and go charging up the hill and kill those Afghans instead of just driving on, like you were supposed to do.”

  Truck shrugged and smiled. “I’d do it again. Lost too many friends over there and I don’t take kindly to getting shot at day in and day out by the same jackasses.”

  Nick stood and reached out to shake his hand. They shook, two strong grips, and Nick said, “Truck, it’s been an honor to serve with you. I just wanted to say thanks for all you’ve done and if I’m ever lucky enough to get in the shooting biz again, I’ll be giving you a call. You’re a damn fine man.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  And that’s the way it went with each Primary Strike Team member. Nick had their profiles down by heart, and he wanted just a few words with each of them.

  Lizard, the small Puerto Rican who always seemed nervous and scared. But just like his nine years in the Marine Corps, the little Brazilian Jiu-jitsu black belt had never backed down or shied away from danger.

  Bulldog, the 6’4”, 250-pound Navy SEAL from Baltimore. He was black, he was big, and he was always motivated, even once the mission end was announced. “There’s always a need for good trigger pullers. We’ll be fine, men,” he had said after the formation broke up, while so many others seemed crushed, as if they had lost a bloody skirmish and left quite a few comrades on the field of battle.

  Preacher, the quiet, religious man of average size, who had done four tours with the Marine Corps, two of them with the special unit MARSOC. He had lived up to his bill
ing. Devout. Avoider of nicotine and alcohol. Rarely, without a small Testament in one of his cargo pockets.

  Red, the crazy 5’5” Marine who wanted to fight everyone and go on every mission and stand every guard post. The thin man seemed to live on Marlboro Reds, which powered him through impossible levels of sleep deprivation. Nick wasn’t sure if Red’s name came from smoking Marlboro Reds 24/7 or the red, short-cropped hair that topped his freckled face. Nick had seen the action-addict side of Red since they had left the States, and he understood why the man transferred from one Marine combat unit to the next deploying one while he served in the Corps.

  Nick had decided not to call in Isabella for any final words. They had exchanged phone numbers the day before and Nick didn’t want to deal with talking yet one more time to a woman he had feelings for.

  Without question, he’d grown to really respect her professionally. She was the unlikely warrior, who had gone from lawyer to cop to detective. And she was as motivated by justice and the goal of serving her country as any person Nick had ever seen. No doubt, she’d have jumped on a grenade and given her life if it helped fix the wreck her country had become. And hell, Nick thought, if he had lived her life and lost a father and brother to cartels, he’d probably be the same way.

  Nick also spoke with the departing squad leaders and the Scout Sniper squad leader, since he had gotten to know them all pretty well. Nick encouraged each of them to talk with their men as he had -- to say a few words and thank them individually for their service.

  He said a few final words to his CIA contact, who had proven as loyal and faithful as one could ask, and then ended his work by talking with Marcus.

  The 6’1” University of Florida football star was among one of the greatest men Nick had ever met. He was all-Marine and full of courage and skill, but he also had the discipline and charisma that only a drill instructor can carry. The man never looked flustered or unprepared. He was the textbook example of what a Marine leader should be, and Nicked thanked him to no end for how much work he’d shouldered.

  Marcus had taken it all in the position of parade rest and ended the conversation by only saying, “Nick, it’s been an honor to serve with you.”

  And with all the goodbyes said, and the hour of departure approaching, Nick sat back in his chair and felt a deep sadness come over him. In just a few hours, he’d have nothing again: no mission, no Isabella, no men to joke with, no command to challenge his wits and determination.

  Nick looked over at his secured footlocker and considered pulling out his bottle of Jack Daniels, but knew he should hold off. At least for a little while longer. But something told him he might just drown in the bottle in the months to come.

  “You’ve seen too much and done too much, Nick,” he said to himself. “Pretty soon, you’ll just be a washed-up old man down at the VFW.”

  But then he remembered how much he hated being around other people and recalled how his life had been after the death of Anne. The two years in Montana, expecting the government to double-cross him again after making a deal with them. And then the realization that they weren’t coming, and the awareness that he was going crazy, all alone in the mountains, constantly on alert for government troops that weren’t coming.

  And then his time on the road in his Jeep Grand Cherokee, as paranoid as before, making a cross-country trip, completely aware of how people looked at him. Of how crazy they must think the man that moved cautiously and walked like some wild animal on the prowl. It had been great seeing much of the country, but Nick couldn’t shake the nightmares and paranoia, even with the scenery and big-city traffic.

  Afghanistan. His betrayal by a man named Whitaker. His dead spotter. Evading more than a thousand Soviet troops. A changed identity and his time as Bobby Ferguson. Anne and all the sweetness and beauty that went with that name. Her murder. Meeting Allen Green. Hunting down Anne’s killers.

  Nick shook his head and stood. He had to get these thoughts out of his head. And with that he reached for his footlocker.

  “Just one drink, Nick,” he told himself. “Only one today, and no more thinking about Anne or what you’re going to do tomorrow when this is all done. Just one, small drink.”

  Chapter 31

  Nick Woods may have been saying his goodbyes and thinking too much about his past and especially his future, but that wasn’t true of the Godesto Cartel. Not even close. Under its new leadership, the cartel was in the process of carrying out one of its most ambitious operations since the three-pronged nighttime attack on the Navy SEALs, their reinforcement column of Mexican troops, and the Presidential Palace.

  This time, the Godesto Cartel would hit billionaire Juan Soto.

  The Butcher had been looking forward to this attack for months and months. Few last-minute preparations were needed, as the operation had been planned for more than a year. But the attack hadn’t gone down because Hernan Flores -- the soft bastard -- wouldn’t green light it, arguing that such an attack would cross the line and go too far, turning the people against the Godesto Cartel. Flores argued that it would be seen as an all-out assault on an innocent civilian.

  The Butcher had argued against Flores, stating that Soto provided a crucial pillar of support to the Mexican government. Flores wouldn’t hear of it, but with Flores no longer in the picture, the Butcher had ordered his men to begin making arrangements for the attack moments after returning from the prison with Felipe.

  The Butcher asked his lieutenants to update the plans and begin recon of the target while he and Felipe caught up on rest and sleep. The next morning, the Butcher awoke at 4:45 and made some last-minute adjustments to the plans before sending his men off. It was now 7:30 a.m. and the Butcher looked up from his watch and took one final, deep breath.

  Their target Juan Soto resided on the top floor of an eight-story building in Mexico City. Soto owned the building for security measures and lived there most of the work week, before heading off for weekends to his mountain estate with his wife and family.

  The Butcher waited with eight Godesto gunmen in a mid-sized van, parked in an alley near Soto’s building downtown. The eight men were jammed in tight, three bodies per bench seat in the back, with the Butcher sitting in the passenger seat next to the driver up front. The six men in the back were mostly hidden behind the dark-tinted windows of the white van, and the van provided adequate camouflage on the busy streets of Mexico City.

  It was just a white, industrial passenger van. Unmarked. No business logos. It could have belonged to a hundred different companies or just been a rental. But if any cop made the mistake of checking them out, the Godesto members would quickly be found out since the plates were stolen. Not that it mattered. They had no reservations about gunning down cops.

  All eight gunmen wore SWAT uniforms and full battle gear. Helmets, assault vests, and MP5s slung just like they carry them on SWAT teams. Their uniforms failed to precisely match Mexico City’s SWAT team, but they were close enough, including the black combat boots and the patches on their shoulders.

  “Let’s go,” the Butcher said.

  The eight of them climbed out as calmly as they could and made final checks of their weapons. Their 9 mm MP-5s wouldn’t do at long range, but they were perfect for the kind of close-in work planned for today.

  “Ready?” the Butcher asked.

  His men nodded in affirmation and made final adjustment of helmets, slings, and assault vests. With the van parked deep in an alley between two tall buildings, and behind three dumpsters, they weren’t concerned with being seen.

  The Butcher double-checked his MP-5 and confirmed that his M9 Beretta was strapped down on his thigh holster. He didn’t need it falling out during any ducking and rolling he might have to do. Behind him, his men racked slides and checked magazines. Other than the sounds of metal clicking on weapons and rocks grinding under boots on the pavement, the early morning was quiet.

  Traffic passed down the busy road in front of them, but it was rush hour in the middle of
Mexico City and commuters had one thing on their minds: getting to work before the clock struck eight. Looking for odd sights like a van disgorging SWAT guys just wasn’t high up on their priority list.

  The eight men formed up in a single file with the Butcher taking the third position. He preferred to take point, but he couldn’t lead and make sound decisions if he was looking for targets and other dangers. The eight men exited the alley at a leisurely pace, their weapons hanging loose from their slings and aimed toward the ground.

  In their planning, the Butcher had reiterated numerous times that they were to seem as relaxed as possible when they broke cover from the alley. And as expected, the moment they stepped onto the sidewalk and started down the street, they came under intense scrutiny from passersby and residents living in apartments up and down the street.

  “Stay calm,” the Butcher said, his voice just loud enough for his men to hear.

  They only had a block to cover before they would arrive at Juan Soto’s building. And if their recon was accurate, they wouldn’t come under observation from any guards inside until they were about fifty yards from the front door. It was one of the few security weaknesses of the building.

  The group walked in a file toward their target, heads mostly down and bodies seemingly relaxed. The eight men looked unalert and disinterested. A few people on the streets took note, but just barely. Seeing well-armed Mexican police or soldiers on the street was all too common in the cartel-riddled country. And this group didn’t seem concerned about danger, so people went about their business without fear of being blown up or caught in a massive firefight with drug runners.

  They strolled right up to the front of Juan Soto’s building with shocking ease, thanks to the cover of the uniforms. And once the first man opened the massive glass door, the Butcher knew there was no stopping them now. The SWAT uniforms had served their purpose well.