Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (22 page)

Chapter
26

While
President Roberto Rivera celebrated the capture of Hernan Flores with Juan
Soto, the Butcher took the reins of the Godesto Cartel. He had two of Flores’s
most loyal lieutenants killed and immediately began telling a few men to spread
the message that Flores had been shanked in prison and was already dead. That
would be the truth soon enough anyway.

At the
same time, he promoted two of his best men to fill the spots of the lieutenants
now resting in pieces, and he pulled his men together to begin planning their
assault on the government. In addition, he upped his own personal security,
since it was in the early hours of a coup that a new leader had to worry most
about his own safety.

While the
Butcher ramped up his planning, the exact opposite thing occurred in the
operating base of Nick Woods’s unit. The press conference by President Rivera
halted the frantic planning of how they’d exit the country under the nose of
Rivera and Smith. The press conference and news of Flores’s arrest also led to
mixed feelings in the ranks of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter.

Some
wanted to celebrate. Flores was down, they’d get bonuses for completing the
mission, and each was returning home in one piece. Not a bad couple of months
work. But the cynics in S3 warned that Flores would probably be released, or
that he would just run the Godesto Cartel from prison.

But as
the debates about Flores’s demise (or lack thereof) raged, in the end each
member knew it didn’t matter. President Rivera had sent word to the American
Ambassador that with Flores now in custody, he no longer needed S3 operating in
his country.

This was
another suggestion by Juan Soto, and Rivera eagerly agreed with the idea. He
was drunk -- literally -- from the success of Flores’s capture and the splendid
operation of his Mexican police who had raided the warehouse.

Rivera
had watched the entire operation on video from three drones flying high above.
He had never seen three hundred men move with such synchronization and force
and witnessing it had restored his confidence in the power of the Mexican
government. Why he had ever feared Flores so much seemed remarkably strange
now.

The
American Ambassador sent word of Rivera’s wishes to the CIA Director, who sent
a secure message to “Mr. Smith.” Nick Woods got the message ten minutes later.

Nick
discussed the situation with Marcus and they cancelled the planning of their
own top-secret extraction. Convinced the mission was over, they decided they
might as well light a bonfire and get everyone shit-faced drunk. Or most
everyone.

As the
news spread through the unit, Preacher and a couple of other men who didn’t
drink very often volunteered to stay sober and pull duty. Marcus decided it
would be wiser for each squad to have its own fire since they had plenty of
room on the farm.

“Don’t
want any fights,” he said. “And too many alpha males from rival squads around
the same fire is bound to cause that to happen.”

Nick
agreed and told Marcus to handle the logistics of where each squad area would
be stationed. He also told Marcus to grab one thousand dollars of petty cash
from the Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter company account and send someone out
for all the beer and hotdogs they could carry.

But not
everyone was celebrating. One man waited alone, anxious and nervous. Miles and
miles away from the Presidential office with its champagne bottles, and nearly
as many miles from the field dotted with men from S3 throwing down beer and
hotdogs, Hernan Flores awaited his arraignment. He sat in Mexico’s most secure
prison -- the Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1 -- and he knew all too
well how many miles away he was from the center of Mexico’s power. But with
luck, they would have him arraigned soon.

Thankfully,
they had him in isolation, which suited him fine. He felt confident his
high-priced attorney -- the best defense attorney in Mexico -- would have him
in better quarters in no time. Maybe even out on bond, but that seemed a
stretch given the charges against him. 

Still,
Flores was restless for a meeting with him. And for a chance to plot out his
counter attack, which he knew would prove a brilliant defensive strategy.

There
were several non-profits whose executive directors owed Flores big-time. If he
could get a message out through his attorney to a handful of them, they could
go before the media and call the charges absurd. Yes. That’s what he needed. A
few high-profile humanitarians standing behind him and defending his character
in some media interviews.

These
non-profit CEOs would also confirm that Flores was in the process of
multi-million dollar donations to their respective nonprofits. Yes indeed.
Flores could imagine the interviews and the doubts they would sow in the
people’s minds… After all, would a true cartel leader honestly be giving so
much money to nonprofits? And look at this man’s track record over the past ten
years as a giver and businessman. This wasn’t a new thing for him that just
began after the Mexican government charged him publicly.

Flores
could imagine the interviews airing on TV. He smiled and laughed at the
thought. Heh. Rivera may think he had the upper hand, but Flores still had
plenty of cards that he planned to play.

As he
mulled over the situation, he put his chances at getting out and free from
incarceration within five years at better than fifty-fifty. And if the sentence
was longer than five years, he’d be breaking out. For sure. Even here, in this high-security
facility, he calculated his odds of escape as at least twenty-five percent. You
could never overestimate the sway the Godesto Cartel wielded.

But none
of this could happen until he met with his lawyer. He went to glance down at
his watch and remembered they had taken that when they stripped him down and
threw him in prison attire. Flores paced back and forth in his small cell. What
the hell was the hold up with his attorney? That asshole better not be moving
slow, he thought.

Flores
speculated which judge his case would fall under. Several names came to mind as
strong possibilities, but he wasn’t too worried about this part of his dilemma,
either. He knew many of them, and most of them were in his pocket. Or in the
pocket of some other important businessmen, who
was
in Flores’s pocket.

These
businessmen could help sway their opinion. Flores laughed, his voice echoing in
the small isolation cell. The ironic thing was that most of the judges’ wives
were friends with Flores’s girlfriend. And with these other businessmen's
wives, as well.

If the
public knew about all those connections, there’d be riots in the streets. The
number of get-togethers they shared was truly staggering. Christmas parties for
various civic groups. Non-profit galas. Political functions. And they all sat
together and asked about each other’s families and personal lives. It was truly
a tight (and small) circle.

Flores
shoved the thoughts down and wondered again just where his attorney was.
Besides the PR strategy with the nonprofits, Flores wanted to find out the
latest news and send a few quick messages to the Godesto Cartel.

Flores’s
biggest worry in the coming months -- besides a possible conviction -- was the
threat posed by the Butcher. That bastard might be moving against him in a coup
attempt from the outside, but as long as Flores could get some messages out to
a few key people, he felt confident his men would remain loyal.

Men
almost always fall into line when they see decisive leadership. And hearing the
PR plan and Flores’s orders would relieve everyone and keep anyone from
stepping out of line. Surely they understood that he might get out on bond in a
day or two. And should he not, then he’d eventually be released after his
conviction. He simply needed them to know that they’d better not dare
double-cross him.

But as
the hours went by and no one approached his barely lit cell, Flores’s
confidence began to drop. Surely President Rivera wouldn’t deny him a chance to
meet with his attorney? He bristled at the idea. Could he, legally speaking?

Would he?

Flores
struck the wall with his palm. Even without using his knuckles, it hurt his
hand and he instantly regretted doing it. Damn, he was getting soft. And
clearly his confidence and control were not what they once were. He swallowed
down a creeping and growing fear.

While
Flores paced and nursed his hand, the Butcher scrambled to find a way to kill
him. Unfortunately, it was proving harder than he expected.

First,
most of the Godesto Cartel and other cartel leaders still feared Flores would
return to power, so they doubted the Butcher’s claims that he had wrested
control of the cartel from Flores. And since the Butcher wasn’t as well-known
as Flores, and considering Flores was the most powerful man in Mexico -- some
said North America -- the Butcher was getting nowhere with his idea.

None of
the officers in Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1 would kill Flores. Nor
would they so much as release a prisoner for a few minutes to kill him. But
finally, after spending ten million dollars in bribes from the Godesto Cartel’s
flush accounts, the Butcher got enough people on board to make something
happen.

Yet it
wasn’t going to be simple. No one in the prison would move against Flores, and
no amount of money or threats would change that. All were afraid they might
attempt it and fail. And all knew that if that occurred, then the Godesto
Cartel would come at them with all its fury. They would be tortured and killed
for their efforts. Their families, too.

Besides
the money, reputation, and influence, Flores also had dozens of men in the
high-security facility who could protect him. These included guards who were on
the cartel’s payroll, and cartel operatives who remained loyal after
conviction.

The
Butcher was about to give up his attempt when one guard mentioned in a phone
call that they would allow a man in, but his safety would be up to him; they
couldn’t guarantee his survival. And that man would have to take care of some
guards, who were too straight-laced to be bought.

The
Butcher knew just the man for such an assignment.

Two hours
later, the Butcher was on his way to Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1.
Earlier, a pair of cops on the Godesto Cartel payroll had sent in a memo to
prison officials saying that another inmate was being hastily transferred to
their care, under cover of night. The memo stated the prisoner had very
important information on a crucial federal case and his life had been threatened,
thus no one was to know about his transfer.

This
included the warden or his top men. The inmate was to be kept away from the
other prisoners and off the electronic record, since it was feared the enemy
had informants on the lookout for him. The VIP prisoner was to be placed in
isolation until the next day. Nothing more. Nothing less.

It was a
strange memo, but when you live in a country that’s lost fifty thousand lives
to drug violence, weird things occur more regularly than you’d think. And one
doesn’t live long, let alone move up through the ranks of law enforcement, by
asking questions.

While the
memo made its rounds inside the prison, the police officers delivered the
Butcher to the castle-like facility. The Butcher had his head covered in a sack
and wore a bullet-proof vest over the prison garb that he’d been handed by the
officers. The paperwork was a bit of a stretch, but given the secrecy
surrounding the “transfer,” they felt it just might work. At least for a few
hours. And that’s all the Butcher needed.

He had
learned that fortune favored the brave, and besides… He felt no fear of a
prison. He’d been incarcerated before, and he knew that none of the inmates
could intimidate him now. And certainly not touch him. Not even six men could
take him now. And if anyone made the mistake of trying, they would be the ones
who needed the officer protection, not the other way around. The Butcher’s days
of being tortured and abused by bigger men were done. For good.

The
officers drove him to the facility in the back of a prison van. He was
handcuffed and had been searched. Since he would be searched again upon his
entry, the officers had made clear that he couldn’t go into the prison carrying
weapons. There were, after all, a lot of men putting their careers on the line
to get him in. They needed this to succeed as much as the Butcher did.

The
officers handed him off to the prison authorities. The Butcher was ushered
through gates, doors, and halls, all of them running together. He tried to keep
his bearings, but it was impossible. It was pitch black outside, so he couldn’t
see out any windows, and the prison had been designed to be confusing to help
deter breakouts.

Several
guards searched and processed him. The Butcher talked to no one, as he had no
idea which of the guards were in on his plans and which weren’t. He noticed no
signals or clues from any of the guards, so he kept his head down and his
shoulders hunched to appear as nervous and submissive as he could. The last
thing he wanted was to appear threatening.