Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Read online

  Nick looked at his band of forty-four warriors.

  “I’m not one for speeches, and you guys aren’t the type to need them. But I still wanted to say a few words before we go in. You all haven’t given me or Marcus a lick of trouble and we’ve certainly jerked you around from the beginning. Most of it was beyond our control, but in war, a commander is supposed to protect his men from silly games and unnecessary stress and Marcus and I have failed you in that regard.

  “But goat rope or not, we’re here now and this is exactly what we all signed up for. Tonight we finally -- finally -- get a chance to really go after these bastards. We’ve been issued our hunting licenses, and there’s no bag limit.”

  “Hell yeah,” Red hollered with a smile. Nick noticed how small Red looked, even in his combat gear.

  “Now,” Nick continued, “you all know the plans, and you know there aren’t hardly any plans at all. It’s ‘hey diddle diddle, right up the middle.’ This shit-hole slum we’re going into -- Neza-Chalco-Itza -- is one of the largest slums in the world. And not even the Mexican government knows if there’s one million or four million people in it.

  “But we do know practically the entire slum is loyal to the Godesto Cartel. It’s the heart of their operation and we know it’s dangerous as hell and rarely entered by police forces. Every time they go, they end up in a big fight, so they don’t go much anymore. Haven’t in years. But we’re not going in to arrest people, and we’ll see how eager they are to mess with us when we’ve splattered a few of them.

  “I have no idea if we’ll be fighting our entire way in or if we’ll drive in, pull up to the Butcher’s building, and just take it down. As you all know, we have no snipers providing intel and we aren’t even sure if the Butcher will be at home. If he’s not, we grab every computer and piece of intel that we see and we get the hell out of there. With luck, the intel will give us more clues on how to break the back of the Godesto Cartel and hopefully tell us where the Butcher might be hiding if he’s not there.

  “You don’t have to be a genius to know this mission has about a hundred things that could go wrong. Hell, it has ‘catastrophe’ written all over it and with any lesser unit, I’d cancel the entire thing right now. But tonight’s our only chance and I think you all want this as bad as I do.

  “Remember, we have no support. It’s just us. If you get hit, administer self first-aid. If we’re under fire, ignore your buddies who get hit. We’ll need every weapon facing outboard so this doesn’t turn into something like Blackhawk Down in Mogadishu. And don’t think if we get in deep we’ll get rescued. We won’t. We’re on our own. We know this is the reality before we even step off, so don’t go expecting anything different. We fight in, we try to grab this bastard, we fight out.”

  Nick put his helmet on and stood, now towering over them. “That’s how this plays out. We either accomplish the mission or we all go down together in the middle of one of the biggest shitholes in the world. I suppose that’s how most battles play out. Been that way since the Romans marched off to war. Probably earlier, but I’m not much on history. Anyway, if dying together is what it comes to, I can say that I’m proud to be your skipper and there’s not another set of guys I’d rather go down fighting with.”

  Nick looked at each of his men, from left to right, and nodded solemnly. Not a single one broke off their eyes. They were as ready as him.

  “Let’s go do this,” he said, his voice quiet and soft.

  A few of the men screamed war yells, while others said a few words to their buddies. Others just had a look of determination that Nick appreciated.

  What they lacked in numbers, they made up for in experience. They were older than most armies, had been blooded, and they’d definitely give better than they received tonight. Whether that would be enough in Neza-Chalco-Itza, Nick wasn’t sure.

  The forty-four members of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter loaded up and the twelve trucks lined up, their police lights now flashing in the dark parking lot. All of the trucks had rails that encircled the entire bed, and the rails had been well designed. Not only were they round and padded, they also rose about a foot higher than the top of the cab and came roughly chest high. The height allowed the men to loop their arms over them to hang on or lay their rifles across them for additional accuracy.

  “Hold up here,” Nick said to Truck, his driver. Nick’s vehicle was the lead truck, and Nick sat in the passenger seat, with two GPS’s and several maps spread across his lap.

  Nick looked back over his shoulder and made sure his men were lined up and ready. He pressed the push-to-talk button on his vest and spoke into the microphone that hung down from his helmet.

  “Task Force Leatherneck, this is Six Actual. Radio check and confirm you’re ready to move.”

  Nick listened as each truck checked in. The formation was set up in a KISS simple formation. The Primary Strike Team provided the tip of the spear. The eight members of the Primary Strike Team were spread out in the first truck.

  Nick and Marcus had decided to place as much firepower as possible up front in case they needed to shoot through any roadblocks. Thus, Nick’s truck had the most shooters in it. He had Truck, the most experienced driver in S3, driving the lead vehicle with him.

  Behind Truck and Nick in the bed of his truck were Bulldog, Red, and Preacher. Bulldog manned a light machine gun, an M249 SAW, which rested on the rail above the cab.

  Bulldog’s M249 Squad Automatic Weapon faced forward, or twelve o’clock. On Bulldog’s left, Red stood with his M4 watching the nine to eleven o’clock sector, while Preacher leaned over the rail on the right watching one to three.

  Behind Red, Bulldog, and Preacher were Lizard and Isabella. Lizard leaned out the left alongside Red. Lizard was responsible for seven to nine while Isabella watched the right behind Preacher. Isabella covered three to five. And in the middle of the truck bed was Marcus. He was there for command and control reasons and to provide additional firepower to whichever side might need it.

  Behind the crammed, lead truck -- or, Truck 1, as it was named -- came each of the three remaining squads, in their numerical order for the sake of simplicity. The squads were spread out among eleven trucks. And in the rear of the convoy, in Trucks 11 and 12, were the six Scout Sniper teams.

  Everyone in S3 carried M4 carbines tonight. The M4s were the upgraded version of the long-serving, military-issue M16-A2s. These M4s were shorter and lighter than the full-sized M16s, and far better suited for close-quarters battle. They also had upgraded handguard rails that allowed all manner of sights, lasers, and attachments to be added, and Nick’s unit had the budget and brains to soup the weapons up to their most optimal level.

  The entire team, including the six Scout Snipers in the rear truck, toted M4s on this mission that included Aimpoint red dot sights, as well as AN/PEQ-16A modules on the side of their carbines. The AN/PEQ-16A was a sighting tool for use in low-light situations. It was currently issued to Marines and other U.S. special operators and the little device did nearly everything. It had a super-bright flashlight that could easily be turned on and off by a button on the rifle, as well as an infrared aiming laser that couldn’t be seen by the naked eye, but only by night-vision devices.

  And since each of the members of S3 was well-supplied and had a night-vision monocular attached to their helmet (the top-of-the-line, military-issue AN-PVS-14), they would have a significant advantage over the Godesto Cartel members in combat in the dark. They could see and shoot in nearly complete blackness. The Godesto? Not so much.

  The unit had also packed some light machine guns before leaving America, as a just-in-case measure since they wouldn’t be operating in conjunction with government forces. Hence, each squad had two M249 SAWs, the standard light machine gun of the American military.

  These M249 SAWs fired 5.56 mm rounds -- the same caliber as the M4s -- but they had plastic drums attached with 200 rounds of ammo instead of a mere thirty-round magazine.

  Nick figured he had en
ough men and firepower to allow the unit to get in and fight its way out, but he had ordered the six Scout Sniper teams to pack their sniper rifles and plenty of heavy 7.62 ammo just in case. If they were stuck in the middle of the shithole come morning, Nick wanted the snipers putting full-size hunting rounds through anyone dumb enough to lift their head. The snipers, being good snipers, had brought hard cases to protect the rifles and scopes, since the weapons would be bouncing around in the back of the trucks with the rest of the gear.

  They were ready, Nick knew. They had the guts, they had the weaponry, and they had enough ammo to invade a small island. Now it was time to see if they had enough skill and men.

  Chapter 37

  The Butcher went to bed early. His men had asked if they should send up some women to his room, but he harshly told them “no” and headed straight for his bedroom. He felt exhausted. Too tired to think straight. The past few days had drained him.

  The infiltration of the prison to kill Hernan Flores. The huge assault on Juan Soto’s downtown building. The distribution (and arguing that went along with it) of the money from the bank heist.

  Then there had been the editing and formatting of the video of Juan Soto’s execution -- it had to be perfect. And coordinating with various members of Congress who were on the payroll of the Godesto Cartel. They sensed victory at hand, but were so incompetent and carried such huge egos that the Butcher could barely keep them on track and wrangled in.

  All of this had sucked every ounce of energy that he had. He’d had too little sleep, too many adrenaline shots, and too many close calls.

  Now, all he wanted to do was sleep. And nine o’clock or not, he had ordered silence among his foot soldiers. No partying tonight. No bumping music. No fighting or womanizing.

  The boss man wanted to sleep in peace and the men knew to give him his way or face his unpredictable nature. Blissful or not from all the successful actions, the new head of the Godesto Cartel was just as likely to pull a pistol on you as the prior head had been to cram down a bag of Funyuns.

  The Butcher undressed down to his boxers and pulled back the sheets. He kept his Uzi and katana next to his bed, but he felt mostly at peace. He had two hundred gunmen in and around the apartment building, and dozens of low-level gangsters surrounding him on street corners for miles.

  On this night, when he was a mere day or two from achieving his short-term goal of driving President Roberto Rivera from office, he didn’t need a bevy of girls or a grandiose celebration with his men. He simply needed sleep. Just one good night of sleep.

  His first step in what would be the total downfall of the Mexican government was nearly complete, but he had pushed himself too hard these past few days. He wanted to be fresh so he didn’t screw up his final moves.

  Rivera would soon either flee the country or be hauled off to prison in cuffs for his role in the death of the SWAT team members, and the Butcher didn’t care which.

  All that mattered was that the Godesto Cartel was on the cusp of achieving in mere days what Hernan Flores had failed to achieve in ten-plus years: a President allied on their side, who would look the other way and allow them to seek expanded distribution into America. And with that alliance (or “ignorance” of what the cartel was doing by the President and his appointees), they would explode in size and strength.

  The Butcher smiled. That wouldn’t be enough though. His ultimate dream? First, topple the Mexican government in a few years. And then in the civil war that would likely follow as states fought other states, he would create his own.

  His own independent state didn’t have to be big, at least not at first. But he wanted a place in which the Godesto Cartel could be truly safe. A place so thorny and strong that no foreign power would even bother with them.

  And it didn’t have to be good ground. Las Vegas had blossomed in the desert, after all. The Butcher would take a mountain stronghold, or a wet, marshy area. They would establish a puppet government, of course, since the people had to believe they had some power. But once such a state was established, then the power for him and the Godesto Cartel could really come. They could trade for military hardware with other countries. Only a few would recognize the new cartel-backed government. Maybe Syria, Iran, Cuba, and a few others. But that would be enough.

  They could import tanks, anti-air missiles, maybe even some attack choppers. Such a country only needed one thing to fuel it, and that was a strong income. The Saudi’s had oil. Africa had diamonds. The Butcher would build his with drug profits from the U.S.

  And with that thought, he turned off his light and climbed under the sheets.

  Roughly fifty miles away from the Butcher’s bedroom, the twelve-truck convoy of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter rolled out of the abandoned warehouse parking lot and moved toward Neza-Chalco-Itza. The first leg of the journey was low to no danger, so the men were not wired up tight or very alert. Their first goal was to just get closer to their objective, and most of it was down an entirely safe route. This was the men’s last chance to mentally prepare themselves for what was to come.

  The trucks sped down the interstate, their lights flashing and their spacing tight. They avoided using their sirens; few cars were out and those that were quickly pulled to the side of the road. All the troops of S3 were ducked down in the beds of the trucks, as facing outboard with intimidating weapons was both unnecessary and likely to draw attention.

  The men sat or lay in the truck beds and shielded their eyes from the sixty-mile-per-hour winds as they raced down the interstate toward their target. In the bed of Truck 1 at the front of the convoy, the six members of the Primary Strike Team enjoyed their last few minutes of tranquility.

  “I can’t wait,” Red yelled over the roar of the truck to Lizard, patting his M4.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Lizard said, just barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. The small Puerto Rican pulled a wooden rosary that hung around his neck out from under all his armor and rubbed it.

  “That Lizard, he’s always nervous as hell,” Bulldog hollered with a laugh, keeping his heavy M249 SAW aimed toward the night sky.

  “Not everybody,” Red yelled back, “is a big, black thug from the tough streets of Baltimore. Shit’s a lot scarier when you’re small fry like us, right, Lizard?”

  “I don’t have a good feeling about this,” Lizard repeated, shaking his head.

  Preacher yelled from the back of the bed, where he leaned against the tailgate. “Leave him alone, Bulldog. He hasn’t ever not pulled his weight or had our back, and the man’s got two Bronze Stars, so until you can claim the same thing, just let the man worry.”

  “You know,” Bulldog yelled back to Preacher, “that half of what I did in the SEALs can’t be recognized since it quote ‘never happened.’ Hell, I would have earned a dozen Bronze Stars by now if they did. Though, you know, we SEALs have a higher medal standard than Marines.”

  Preacher laughed and said, “Sure, just like you SEALs have tougher schools.”

  That elicited several laughs from the mostly Marine team in the back of the truck. Preacher, a MARSOC Marine, knew most Force Recon Marines and MARSOC Marines believed they were every bit as good as the SEALs.

  “All right, guys,” Marcus said, looking up from a map and squinting at an upcoming sign. “Let’s get our game faces on and save all the testosterone for the enemy instead of each other.”

  The former Marine drill instructor and Florida Gator football standout met each of his men’s eyes, offering them brief nods or mere looks of respect. When he arrived to the last one, Isabella, he was again stunned by her beauty.

  She smiled at him, hotter than ever in her helmet and heavy modular tactical vest. He leaned over to her and said in her ear, “On the one hand, I wish Nick wasn’t here. I think had he not been, I’d have had a better shot at you.”

  He leaned back and smiled at that, stretching his arms out in front of him. He laughed, leaned in, and said, “But on the other hand, I might be
as smitten with the guy as you are.”

  Isabella grinned from ear to ear and leaned toward Marcus. “Don’t be so sure,” she said with a wink. She then patted him on the cheek and said, “Watch yourself. No stupid Marine stuff. Keep your head down in Neza-Chalco-Itza. This place is no joke.”

  Marcus nodded at her and patted her leg twice. He leaned back in to her and said, “I’ll keep my head down, and in all seriousness...” He paused, then leaned back in. “I think Nick needed what you have. He’s been in a dark place.”

  Isabella made the smallest of nods and leaned back in a final time. “He wasn’t the only one. We both needed it.”

  The convoy drove another few minutes and slowed, the twelve trucks dropping their speed from sixty down to twenty as they turned onto an exit ramp toward the slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza. The police trucks worked their way through ten more miles of commercial and residential area, their flashing lights illuminating buildings and homes on the dark night. The team members could feel the area getting rougher and creepier. More empty commercial buildings, fewer working streetlights, nervous people either fidgeting on corners or darting across streets.

  The convoy passed a sign that said “Welcome to Neza-Chalco-Itza” in Spanish and English below it. The team members knew the slum’s stats, though on paper it was actually identified and listed as a city. It had been founded in the 1930s and formed as a municipality in the ’60s. It was part of the greater metropolitan area of Mexico City, and listed as twenty-four square miles crammed full of one million residents. At least that’s what the city claimed, but Mexican intelligence and the CIA believed more than four million people resided, hid, or barely survived there, many of them with no identification, no job, no life.

  Neza-Chalco-Itza contained 86 neighborhoods and a crime rate higher than nearly any other part of Mexico. The city was poor -- so poor, in fact, that trash collection was handled by carts pulled by donkeys in much of the city. The city also boasted one of the largest landfills in the world. The sprawling landfill covered nearly four hundred acres and had approximately twelve million tons of trash, but had mercifully been closed in 2006.