Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 33

  “Eighteen point six million.”

  “So, not even enough to pay the Venezuelan Brothers?”

  “No, sir, but we could require some advances from our various entities. Those who rent buildings from us, and some of those who lease territories to operate from.”

  The Godesto Cartel allowed some gangs and organized crime groups to tax businesses in areas it controlled but lacked the manpower to effectively manage. These smaller groups paid a tax to the cartel, while the Godesto Cartel focused on international growth instead of petty, small-turf scuffles over mostly irrelevant amounts of money.

  But, the Butcher could envision the rumors spreading among these armed groups and other cartels if they asked for an advance on money owed. These were men of the street. They could smell weakness from a mile away, and they’d turn on the Godesto Cartel in a minute if they sensed that the tides had turned and that the mighty cartel that had ruled for so long suddenly lacked strength.

  Especially since the Godesto had really turned the screws into many of these groups, requiring too much, if truth be known. And these groups knew the truth, but had been too powerless in isolated groups to act. But, if the cash started running dry, all of them would turn on their despised landlord.

  It was no different than a pack mentality among a pride of lions. The moment the older male showed injury or weakness, he would be attacked and driven off by a rival. Leadership was only held by strength, poise, and confidence.

  And this news of their accounts being seized by the government, combined with the news he’d heard earlier this morning about the Red Sleeve Cartel breaking their truce, was enough to make him ready to run.

  One of his lieutenants had told him earlier that news stations were reporting that the Red Sleeve Cartel had declared war on the Godesto. The Butcher had immediately called the leader of the rival cartel on his direct line and the man had neither answered nor returned his call. Several immediate calls to the Butcher’s subordinates across the country had led to reports that the members of the Red Sleeve Cartel were acting strange, packing heavy today, and ignoring nods and attempts to communicate from members of the Godesto Cartel.

  The Godesto Cartel and the Red Sleeve Cartel had enjoyed a shaky alliance for years, but at their core they were rivals who had temporarily put aside differences for a more unified front against the government. It had been the biggest coup pulled off by Hernan Flores and had catapulted him and the Godesto Cartel to unprecedented levels of power. And it was this alliance that had first brought the Navy SEALs to Mexico.

  The Butcher struggled to get his arms around the situation. Money seized. Reports of a declared war by the Red Sleeve Cartel, evidenced by strained relations among the troops in contact with each other.

  One of his lieutenants knocked hard on the door and said, “Sir, turn on the TV.”

  The Butcher ignored the CFO for a moment and flipped on the television. The news showed a man lying in a pool of blood. He turned the volume up when he saw the name Edgar Argel appear next to a picture of the corpse. A pretty news anchor had a look of concern on her face and she said with great gravity that the high-ranking man in the Godesto Cartel had been shanked in prison. And even the Butcher could clearly see the symbol of the Red Sleeve Cartel slashed into the man’s back.

  Photos don’t lie, and Edgar Argel, who had several distinctive tattoos on his lower back and legs, was clearly the man who lay dead and carved up in the photo of the news broadcast. Already police were identifying, the cute news anchor said, one of the well-known Red Sleeve Cartel members, who was also housed in the same prison as the killer.

  “Get out, both of you,” the Butcher said.

  They shut the door behind them and he collapsed in his chair. The Butcher cursed the fact that he needed to set in motion a reprisal for the death of Edgar Argel or be seen, once again, as weak by those on the streets.

  The news anchor followed the report regarding Edgar Argel by talking about the catastrophe that had occurred in the federal prison in Nayarit. He pushed away the idea of reprisal against the Red Sleeve Cartel and focused back on the TV. For five minutes he sat glued to the broadcast. As the shock set in, fear started to grow.

  He just couldn’t believe what was being reported. The anchor said the federal prison in Nayarit had faced a huge breakout attempt, but the Butcher hadn’t authorized any such escape. This, too, made no sense.

  The population of the federal prison in Nayarit was mostly composed of Godesto Cartel members, so they shouldn’t have attempted an escape unless he gave the order. And why would he? From this prison, the Godesto Cartel controlled a nationwide embezzlement operation of all the prisons.

  The news anchor reported that a fire had broken out during the attempted escape and most of the inmates had died. The Butcher couldn’t believe it. These were some of the Godesto Cartel’s heaviest hitters. Men who rotated out on parole to take primary shooter slots in the Godesto Cartel. Men who mentored young gang members out on the street and new prisoners who had just arrived. Men who younger members looked up to as examples of what they should aspire to.

  And now they were gone. The backbone of the Godesto Cartel had died gasping in smoke or burned alive. Well, not that the cartel had the money to support them anymore, the Butcher reminded himself, turning the TV off with disgust.

  He wondered if all this was propaganda, but the news station had shown a reporter on the scene. They had provided video of a burning prison, which looked exactly like the compound as the Butcher remembered it.

  The phone on the desk rang, but he didn’t have it in him to answer it. He gripped the back of his head and buried his face in his arms.

  This couldn’t be happening. It was just a bad dream.

  But then someone knocked on his door and he knew it was real. The Godesto, and the Butcher, were in some seriously deep shit.

  “Come in,” he said.

  One of his most trusted lieutenants stuck his head in the door and said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but we’ve got problems.”

  “What is it?” the Butcher asked, sounding more exhausted than he wanted.

  “I’m hearing that the Mexican Army has entered Coacalco, Magdalena Contreras, and Allende.”

  The Butcher couldn’t believe it.

  Coacalco and Magdalena Contreras were two of the strongest footholds the Godesto Cartel had, after Neza-Chalco-Itza. Both were on the outskirts of Mexico City and they had helped provide the base of operations that had allowed Hernan Flores to take over the country. If they were being hit by the army in strength, then loads of supplies and men were likely going to be lost.

  And Allende, the third city mentioned, was their primary northern base of operations. It was hundreds of miles away from Mexico City, just south of Texas, and was a linchpin in helping them hang onto the north, as well a great base of operations for excursions across the border into Texas.

  “Are you sure?” the Butcher asked.

  “Absolutely,” his lieutenant said. “We’re pulling together casualty figures now, and while our men are trying to get away with some of the supplies, they apparently hit us before six a.m. and our men were completely unprepared. We had no warning.”

  “Keep me up to date with the latest,” the Butcher said. “Now, give me some space so I can process this.”

  The door shut and the Butcher pressed the button for his assistant.

  “Gabriel,” he said, “call our pilots and have them fire my jet up. And also, arrange transportation to the airport for me.”

  He hung up on his assistant before the man could say anything and took a deep breath. He just needed to get away from it for a few days. There might still be a chance. Perhaps he could still handle all of this. If a fat, Funyun-gobbling grandpa could run this organization and navigate an untold number of obstacles, then surely he could, too.

  The phone buzzed back.

  “What?” the Butcher asked, punching the button hard. Gabriel knew to leave him alone. What the hell was hi
s problem?

  “Sir, one of the calls that came in while you asked me to hold them is from one of our attorneys representing the aviation wing of our corporation. He said that he had been served with a federal warrant this morning and all aircraft had been temporarily seized.”

  “So none of our four aircraft are available?”

  “Not according to him, sir. Though he said to inform you that they were drafting counter-motions that should be filed by this afternoon with the courts.”

  “And?” the Butcher asked.

  “Well, he said with luck they’d be available for use again possibly as soon as four days, if the judge agrees with us and the motions are squeezed in on the court calendar as he hopes.”

  The Butcher felt his stomach roll over. He wasn’t sure who he feared more, right then. The Red Sleeve Cartel, the Venezuelan Brothers who were about to get stiffed, or President Roberto Rivera and the government.

  His mind was racing and thinking of an exit plan. There might be a way to salvage this sinking ship, but he didn’t see it.

  This was the final straw for him. He’d let someone else deal with it, since he had enough money to get a new start somewhere else. Or maybe hide out on a beach somewhere, living a life of leisure and martial arts.

  But in no way did he see his future tied to the Godesto Cartel anymore. As a small boy bullied on the mean streets, he knew when it was time to run. And that time had come.

  Chapter 39

  The Butcher might have made a clean escape from Mexico City and all of his problems, but one of his assistants saw him acting weird and heard him tell his assistant Gabriel that he’d be back and didn’t need his security detail with him.

  That struck the assistant as alarmingly odd, so he had made an excuse to get past Gabriel and into the Butcher’s office. Then he checked the internet history on the computer. And there, in plain sight if you knew how to search someone's internet history, was a recent purchase of a first-class plane ticket at Mexico City’s international airport.

  And though it was the riskiest thing the assistant had ever done, it was obvious the Godesto Cartel was in shambles. Besides the news outlets practically cheering their demise, the assistants had been talking among themselves about the impending war with the Red Sleeve Cartel, money problems, and Army incursions into Coacalco, Magdalena Contreras, and Allende. Things didn’t look good.

  But there remained a ten million dollar reward on the Butcher’s head from the government… And it suddenly looked like whoever turned on the man might actually live to tell about it. Especially if provided a new identity.

  And with that, the underpaid and barely recognized assistant decided to make a call about the Butcher’s departure.

  President Roberto Rivera stood to shake off his weariness. He felt exhausted, but alive. Very alive.

  And very close to victory.

  He had kept the entire Cabinet in the Presidential Palace, as promised, and while he had found time for a two-hour nap and shower, he could feel the Godesto Cartel falling to its knees right before them as he monitored incoming reports and media outlets.

  And the Cabinet members could feel it, too. Most had slept very little, and they had thrown their full support behind the effort and offered additional suggestions. Now, it was no longer a solo effort by President Rivera. Finally, when it was almost too late to matter, the entire government of Mexico was aligning itself against the Godesto Cartel as it had never done before. No longer did political gain matter for the members. Now it was about winning before their government fell apart in a dozen different investigations.

  About the only shortcoming so far, from Rivera’s perspective, had been Nick’s mission into Neza-Chalco-Itza to capture the Butcher. Nick’s group from Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter had been mercilessly ambushed and shot all to hell by the Godesto. They had failed to even make it to their target building.

  But practically everything else was going Rivera’s way, including some of the suggestions now being made by his Cabinet members as they jumped onboard with his effort.

  One of those ideas brought forward by a Cabinet member was to have all tips into the hotline involving the Godesto Cartel or the Butcher called directly into the Presidential Palace, where actual Cabinet officials would man the phones. It wasn’t like there were that many calls anyway, and having the calls come directly into the Cabinet would throw a wrench into whatever informant system that the Godesto Cartel had set up.

  Rivera considered this a wonderful idea. Once the phone lines were rerouted away from the intelligence headquarters and directly to the Presidential Palace, three Cabinet members assumed the first shift.

  Besides avoiding informants, the realignment paid dividends in terms of pace, since President Rivera and his security forces could react to tips faster. In addition to taking the possibility of informants out of the tip center, the Cabinet members also avoided command units from alerting the Godesto Cartel by simply ordering units to a certain location -- waiting until the units were a short distance away to inform them of what the tip actually was. And the new technique was scoring big wins.

  But when the phone rang regarding a tip about the Butcher flying out of the country, Rivera knew that redirecting tips straight into the Cabinet had proven nothing short of genius. And he knew he only trusted one man to take care of this one.

  Nick Woods felt exhausted, despite a shower and shave. He stood on the back porch of the farmhouse -- S3’s humble but well-hidden headquarters -- and looked out at the rising sun, wanting nothing more than a hard drink. Yet he knew he should settle for some breakfast instead. But the memories from last night wouldn’t let him be and had killed his appetite.

  The unit had turned around and limped out of Neza-Chalco-Itza in only seven trucks. Three had been left smoking or burning, while two lay paralyzed with flat tires, like beached whales unable to move any further forward.

  Nick and his men had rushed their wounded to a hospital in Mexico City and dropped their dead at the morgue before returning to the farm.

  By then it was after three in the morning.

  The final tallies from Marcus and the squad leaders were thirteen dead and twenty-three wounded. Even the Primary Strike Team had been bloodied badly. Preacher, Bulldog, and Isabella had all been wounded and were in the hospital.

  The Lizard’s premonitions prior to the mission had proven true. He had been killed with a bullet to the throat.

  And for what? What had they accomplished? They hadn’t even made it to their target building, much less nabbed the Butcher.

  Hell, by not reaching the target building, they had done more than just missed grabbing the Butcher. They had also failed to even grab any intel by raiding the building that might have led to his whereabouts. No computers, no file cabinets stuffed full of documents to scan for clues, no cartel punks to question for days and days in an effort to break them.

  What had they accomplished? Nick asked himself.

  Absolutely nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  A lot of good men had died because of the foolhardy mission Nick had ordered. He knew the plan came from the input of his men, as well, and Marcus had reminded him this morning that each of them had gone out doing what they wanted to do, but Nick couldn’t shake the gloom.

  Why had he survived with nary a scratch? He had given the punks inside Neza-Chalco-Itza numerous opportunities to put a round in him as he had walked around and tried to play brave commander.

  But his luck continued, as it had from the beginning. First, Afghanistan, against the Soviets. Then his tussle with Whitaker and too many of his cronies to count. And now last night.

  He didn’t understand it. Besides the thought of Lizard being dead and twelve others from his command, Nick wanted to see Isabella. She lay in a hospital bed drugged up and with two bullets in her, but Nick knew she’d survive barring any complications.

  Marcus, who’d also survived without a scratch, was in classic Marine DI command mode. Nothing knocked that man down. He
had ordered the men to line the trucks up in an orderly manner and spray the blood out of the truck beds and off the sides of them.

  Then he’d had the men spray off and pack up the gear of the wounded. Then he’d ordered them to clean their weapons and get showered up. Nick had cleaned his weapon, as well, but he wondered for what?

  His unit was hardly combat ready. They had organized the survivors into two ragtag squads in case some kind of mission was necessary, but his men had gotten the shit kicked out of them, and failed to even accomplish their mission. They were experienced veterans who had all seen their share of war, but fifty percent casualties on a mission that in the end proved unsuccessful was pretty tough mustard for anyone.

  Nick, leaning on the deck railing, spat onto the dusty ground and fought the urge to go grab his liquor bottle. Last thing the men needed was a drunk commander, but boy, that bottle had a powerful call.

  Nick had already reported the terrible mission results to Mr. Smith, who to his credit, had been up all night waiting for their call and relaying information about the Godesto Cartel from President Rivera, as well as intel that the NSA and CIA had picked up.

  Other than the failed mission by Nick’s men, things were mostly going swimmingly for Mexico and President Rivera, according to Mr. Smith. Maybe it wasn’t all a waste, Nick thought. The men of S3 had come up with the plans that were now throttling and destroying the Godesto Cartel, so there was that. Plus, even with their heavy casualties, they had helped gut the army of the Godesto in the filthy streets of Neza-Chalco-Itza.

  Nick’s cellphone rang and he looked down at it. It was President Rivera’s cellphone number. Now what, he wondered?

  “How would you like to get your hands on the Butcher?” President Rivera asked.

  “Go on,” Nick said.

  “He’s headed to an airport to fly out of Mexico. He’s fleeing, Nick, all because of your plans.”

  “They were your plans. You make sure that’s how you phrase it to the public from here on out. Now, where is that bastard?”