Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 9

  Flores swallowed the rest of his drink and slammed the glass down so hard that this time it cracked. Flores had conceived, planned, and executed one of the most horrific attacks in Mexican history, and still this short little shit saw him as fat and soft. Nothing but a drunkard and sex addict, as he had heard his informers pass along to him.

  Flores slid his cracked glass across the table and walked to grab another. He filled it half and half with Jack and Coke and took another swallow. How could the Butcher not give him credit for what he’d done?

  His men had ambushed and decimated a Navy SEAL team that had been hunting down and harassing his organization. Hernan Flores had been planning this ambush for weeks, and once again, perfect intel, evil cunning, and brutal force had won the day.

  You didn’t build the most powerful cartel in Mexico or take down a SEAL team or strike brutally at the President while he’s inside his own compound if you were soft. Flores couldn’t deny the sex addiction or the fat remarks, but damn it, he was a great cartel leader.

  Flores walked over to a desk drawer and pulled out a bag of Funyuns. He grabbed several out and threw them into his mouth. He washed the chips down with a big swallow of Jack and Coke, nearly finishing off the glass, which would be his third of the day, and it wasn’t even two o’clock yet.

  Flores ignored this thought; he knew he wasn’t an alcoholic. He was just under a lot of stress. Stress that a mere hitman like the Butcher couldn’t possibly imagine.

  Flores grabbed three more Funyuns before throwing the nearly empty bag in the drawer. Christ, I have to stop drinking and eating so much, he thought. He burped, leaned forward, and moved his big frame toward his bar to pour himself a new Jack and Coke.

  Flores took a long drink and smiled. Damn, it felt good. Up in his eight-story building, he wondered what Rivera and Soto were thinking right now. Stupid idealists, Flores thought. How they possibly thought they could stand up to the cartels, most of which operated under Flores’s command, was beyond him.

  But, President Rivera and Mr. Goody-Good billionaire Juan Soto were not immediate concerns. For now, Flores needed to focus on the Butcher, who’d be arriving at any moment.

  The Butcher made his way up to Flores’s office. He had four of Flores’s guards around him in the elevator, but he wasn’t scared. He knew he intimidated the shit out of them. He had enough martial arts skills to disarm and kill each of these men even if he were unarmed, but under his straining arm, he had his duffle bag with all his weapons in it. These men were barely a threat to him. He knew it. They knew it.

  The elevator arrived at the top floor and they moved toward Flores’s corner office. The Butcher smiled at Flores’s busty secretary and walked with the four guards past two more armed sentries, who opened the doors for them. The Butcher noticed the heavier-than-usual security and smiled. The old man was letting his fear really show.

  Hernan Flores waited behind his desk, and the Butcher knew the man had been pacing. The old Flores used to make a habit of forcing him to wait outside his office. Sometimes for fifteen or twenty minutes, appointment or not.

  Yes, the Butcher thought, looking at the fat man before him. Indeed, this man had fallen far. Even in near victory, at what should have been the height of his power, Flores proved soft and weak, both physically and mentally.

  The Butcher remembered a quote from Alexander the Great, which he completely accepted as truth. The quote was, “An army of sheep led by a lion is better than an army of lions led by a sheep.”

  The Butcher inspected the man who’d gone from a suave middle-aged man to a fat, dumpy grandpa. The Butcher noticed crumbs on the shirt of Flores’s protruding stomach and he knew that Flores had been eating his favorite food prior to his arrival.

  He’d probably just eaten an entire bag of Funyuns, he thought. And by the look of his flushed, red face, he’d probably drunk enough to get three men wasted.

  The Butcher put aside his repulsive feelings toward Flores and got down to the point of the meeting.

  “Have you made up your mind about the attack?” the Butcher asked. “I’ve had two additional sources confirm that the President will be there.”

  Flores smiled and sat down in his chair. The Butcher never changed. He always acted how he fought -- straightforward, economical, and aggressive.

  “Would you like something to drink,” Flores asked, “before we get started?”

  “No, we need to move quickly if we’re going to pull off this attack,” the Butcher said.

  “Ah, yes, the attack,” Flores said, turning and looking out over the capital city of Mexico as he swallowed down more Jack and Coke. He wondered how to explain it to this man.

  Yes, it was true that an opportunity lay before them. Multiple sources reported that President Roberto Rivera would be meeting with the mayor of Mexico City in an outdoor ribbon cutting in just a few hours. Rivera had confirmed it himself through his most trusted source, just to be sure. But how did you explain to this simpleton that one had to balance the use of force, and that though an incredible opportunity stood before them, now was not the right time?

  Attack and appear too heavy-handed, and pride might persuade the people to fall in behind the country’s colors. Nationalism was a powerful force, and no one -- even a poor Mexican peasant -- wanted to live in a weak country. Flores had spent years pushing propaganda that made Rivera and his predecessors appear corrupt, uncaring, and ineffective in providing services to the people. And so the people had come to care little about their government.

  But if they made the government look too weak, and if the cartel suddenly appeared as a heartless bully, then they might lose the people. It was a delicate balancing act, and a mighty hard thing to explain to a man who never left home without a duffle bag full of weapons.

  Flores turned and looked at the small man, who stood surrounded by the cartel leader’s four body guards. He had to admit that the Butcher had come far, trading in his ridiculous ninja-like attire from a few years ago for sharp suits that he wore with an open collar. But his aggressive nature was as present as ever, so Flores finally opted for the direct answer.

  “No,” he said. “We’re not moving against the President today.”

  “Why not?” asked the Butcher. “We know he’s going to be there and even if we fail to kill him, we will further show the people that their government is powerless.”

  “You’re right, and that’s why we’re not going to do it. What if the people rally behind the government after this attack? Have you not seen the footage of the thousands who have gone downtown to view the damage on the Presidential Palace? They’ve placed flowers along the outer walls and some have even cried for those we killed. This isn’t the government raiding people’s homes or taxing them too much. This is us attacking a government that, in case you've forgotten, is necessary.”

  The Butcher wanted to scream at the weak man before him. They were so close to complete victory. He decided to make one final pitch.

  “But we could have so much more power without any central government,” the Butcher said. “What does it actually do? They can’t stop crime, they can’t take care of the poor, they are too corrupt to even enforce their own laws. All of these things the cartels do better. We don’t need any government at all.”

  Flores sighed.

  “Don’t you see?” Flores asked. “If we topple the entire government, there would be consequences. Probably America would invade or send forces here to support pro-democracy forces. It would be better to have a government as it is, but with one of our men in power. Then we would have a truce with the government and our profits would be maximized. We could live without fear with our families.”

  “I have no family,” the Butcher said.

  Flores turned away from him, exacerbated.

  The Butcher threw his bag down, lowered his voice, and growled, “We’re missing a huge opportunity here. It’s a big mistake. A huge one.”

  He looked at Flores with disgust, then reached d
own, grabbed the handles of his duffle bag, and growled, “Call me if you change your mind.”

  And with that, he turned, shouldered the nearest bodyguard out of the way, and exited the office.

  Chapter 13

  Two weeks had passed since Nick Woods had been introduced to Marcus and the other candidates. In that time, a lot had happened.

  Nick had selected his team, outfitted them, and deployed an advance party of four men to scout their operating area.

  The men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter were the real deal. Bad-ass trigger pullers who wanted to get into the shit regardless of the odds. For some men, action beat boredom, as long as the action was for a good cause and not some irrelevant bullshit ordered by some harebrained politician.

  Nick was reminded of a World War II story he’d read about. An officer had stood in front of a group of Gurkha Special Forces -- men from Nepal who served as an elite division for Britain. The officer had asked the Gurkha men for volunteers to parachute in behind Japanese enemy lines. Only a few of the men stepped forward and the British officer was stunned that so few of these legendary fighters would volunteer for a mission.

  It defied everything the British officer had heard about the Special Forces soldiers. Then, one of the men who hadn’t volunteered sheepishly raised his hand and asked if he could have a parachute. That if he could have a parachute, he would go on the mission, as well, with the others who had volunteered. Instantly the rest of the men raised their hands with smiles and volunteered to go as long with the rest if they were issued parachutes.

  That’s the way Nick felt about the men of S3. They would have volunteered to go on the mission even if they’d been told they would have to walk there, and even if it required arriving in Mexico without weapons. They still would have gone, and they would have stolen, borrowed, or bought weapons as they could.

  These men were fearless, tenacious, and hungry for revenge after being briefed on the exact details of the SEAL team ambush. They wanted payback. And blood. Lots of it.

  But even if they hadn’t known about the ambush, they’d be raring to go. Not because they were bloodthirsty killers, but because they possessed a combined hatred of bullies and thugs. The mere thought of so many Mexicans having their lives destroyed by the cartel was enough to motivate these men.

  They’d already risked their lives in places like Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq to help protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, and they were more than willing to do so again.

  Now, the men of S3 were pulling up to the Texas-Mexico border. Nick’s CIA contact had suggested that Nick’s company “lease” armored Yukons from the federal government. He’d even had ten of them delivered to Camp Lejuene, convinced that Nick would agree.

  “They’re ‘surplus,’” the contact said, raising his fingers and putting quote marks around the word surplus. And he even smiled with a big shit-eating grin. “And the lease paperwork has already been filled out and approved. We just need your signature.”

  Nick stared at the man.

  “You’re getting them at a great deal, too,” the man said, smiling, and throwing in a wink for good measure.

  He apparently had misread Nick’s look, but Nick wasn’t amused.

  “We going to put American flags on them?” Nick asked.

  Immediately, the contact sensed trouble.

  “No, why?”

  “Well, we might as well,” Nick said. “Thanks for the offer, but we’ll pass. We’ll purchase vehicles ourselves, and if I need anything else from you, I’ll let you know.”

  And with that Nick walked off. He then delegated the task of acquiring vehicles to a few of his men. He wanted various styles -- SUVs, compacts, even a couple of trucks. And he wanted them in different colors and in various exterior conditions. The overarching idea was that they not stick out in any way, shape, or form.

  No fancy wheels. No dark tint. Nothing sporty or aggressive.

  Nick knew the contact thought the Yukons would be a welcome gift -- they were armored, after all -- but Nick didn’t plan on rolling to his destination in a formation of matching vehicles, impressive though that might have been.

  Instead, Nick wanted his men to infiltrate Mexico without Hernan Flores ever learning of the team’s existence or entry. Not that this was easy to do. The contact had “suggested” that the entire convoy show up at 2 p.m. and he and a foreign diplomat from Mexico’s government could get them through the checkpoint with all their weapons and gear. The contact had promised quick entry through a checkpoint manned by special Mexican troops whose loyalty to President Rivera was beyond question.

  Nick thought the idea bordered on sheer lunacy.

  “If we want Flores to know we’re coming so badly, why don’t we just issue a press release?” Nick asked.

  Nick fought with the contact for the next two days and finally convinced headquarters to obtain vehicle passes that could be handed out to the men. The passes were dated with a three-day window from the Mexican government and would allow entry of a vehicle through any Mexican checkpoint without it being searched. The passes operated like diplomatic pouches, except they were for the entire vehicle and its occupants.

  In Nick’s mind, his plan was KISS simple, though he couldn’t imagine how much hand-wringing had gone on while the deal was negotiated, since no such pass existed. But that was a problem for the bureaucrats. It was their job to negotiate. Not his.

  His goal was to get the team in safe, and under the radar. He knew there was no way the Godesto Cartel would have enough men to watch every border crossing for twenty-four hours a day for three days straight, especially since his men would be entering in unmarked, impossible-to-profile vehicles.

  And even if the Godesto could watch that many crossings -- Nick figured there were probably hundreds of them across the border -- Flores’s men would be too spread out to strike any of the vehicles. Flores would have too few men to go toe-to-toe with the well-trained, well-armed men of S3.

  Even if he did, that was no sweat. Nick was bringing thirty-two men to this fight. He could afford to lose a vehicle or even two or four of them as they crossed over.

  But saying he was bringing thirty-two men to the fight wasn’t exactly accurate. Besides the thirty-two men, he was stuck with three others, all of whom he had argued against.

  Problem number one was his contact, who was the original CIA agent that had volunteered to approach Nick. The CIA had insisted that Nick had to keep the man as a part of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter, and take him with them to Mexico.

  Nick had bitched to no end, but lost that battle. Nick was instructed to “hire” the man. No exceptions. He could reportedly shoot and fight, but Nick still considered him dead weight.

  Problem number two was even worse. Nick had blown a gasket when he was informed that besides his CIA contact, he’d also have to bring along a cultural expert.

  “We’re there to hunt down Hernan Flores and destroy his organization,” Nick said. “Why the hell do we need a damn ‘cultural expert?’”

  “We’ve reviewed your plan,” the contact, who was now unfortunately a full part of S3, said. “And the strategists at the CIA believe you’re going to need a cultural expert to prevent saying or doing something offensive. Public opinion is crucial in this operation. You’ve said so yourself.”

  “He better be able to shoot and take care of himself,” Nick said. “I’m not babysitting any damn paper-pushers. And I’m definitely not assigning men to protect his ass.”

  “Actually, he is a she,” the contact said.

  “What did you say?” Nick said, advancing toward the man.

  “I said he is a she. It’s a woman. Not a man.”

  “No way,” Nick said. “No way in hell are we taking a woman on the front line. Are you out of your mind? The last thing these men need is the distraction of some hot little filly.”

  “She’s the best cultural expert we have,” the contact said.

  “Then we don’t need the best.
Give me the second best, or third best. As long as it’s a man.”

  “There are no second or third bests,” the CIA contact said. “There may be a thirtieth best, but all our other experts are working with the State Department or ATF or DEA. There’s no way we can get our hands on any of them. She’s the best option we have. She was raised in Mexico and spent most of her life there.”

  “I’m not taking on some native,” Nick said. “How do we know she’ll be loyal?”

  “Her father was killed by a cartel, and her brother died in a nasty street fight,” the contact said. “He was jumped by a gang and stabbed to death. Just thirteen at the time.”

  “What’s her occupation? Just a housewife or mom who sought asylum in America?”

  “No, you’ll like the sound of this,” the contact said. “She’s educated and began her career as a lawyer, but after seeing some corruption in the judicial field that allowed some drug dealers to go free, she dropped the legal profession and became a cop. Worked her ass off and made a name for herself and was later promoted to detective.”

  “Why’d she stop being a detective?” Nick asked.

  “The truth is pretty gray, but our DEA folks believe she came to think some police higher-ups were getting paid off. Some weird things started happening. Some cases taken away from her. Some witnesses killed when they were supposed to be protected. Some last-minute getaways from folks they were on the way to collar.”

  “She turn them in and then they turned on her?”

  “No, even better. A couple of the police higher-ups died in suspicious circumstances. Drug deaths, they were listed as, but most in the police department believed she did it.”

  “How’d she end up with us?”

  “The cartels put a price on her head. She had to run to America or end up on the front page of the paper.”

  “Not bad,” Nick said, “but she has to qualify in front of me and I get final say on whether she’s a go or not.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What’s the final thing?” Nick asked. “You said there were three problems.”