Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (24 page)

The
Butcher nodded and looked at the man for any final instructions.

The guard
said “good luck” in a low voice, and the Butcher noticed the man had sweat on
his forehead and looked very nervous.

The Butcher
leaned back into him and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

The guard
nodded and the Butcher turned and took a deep breath. He slipped off his prison
slippers. He’d prefer to do this with shoes on, but they were right that it
would look suspicious if the video later showed him wearing footwear that
someone had clearly provided. Thankfully, though the prison uniform was itchy
and bright orange, it did have the advantage of being loose enough for him to
kick high.

He rolled
his shoulders, made several tight fists, and then squatted down and did a
couple quick splits. He was ready.

He
slipped down the hall soundlessly, his bare feet silent on the tiled floor. He
stopped at the door and debated peeking through a small window on the upper
part of it. But his gut feelings told him that probably at least one of the
three guards was facing the door and would see him, so he decided to go with
surprise. It was his only chance.

He placed
his fingers around the handle, took a long and deep breath, and turned it
slowly. It twisted without a sound and he opened the door slowly. He didn’t
want to alarm them by yanking it open.

He
entered the room at a normal pace and then saw the startled faces of the men as
they looked up. They were the only ones in the room, sitting in a circle around
a table that seated four, all three of them facing the door at nine, twelve,
and three o’clock on the circular table. The table wasn’t a large one at all,
but more a cafe table -- one of four in the otherwise empty break room.

As the
men started to stand, the Butcher sprinted across the distance between them. It
was maybe twenty feet and the men hesitated as they stood, too shocked to know
what to do, whether to reach for their night sticks on their right hips or the
radios on their left hips.

The
Butcher never wavered. At full speed now -- an all-out sprint -- he leapt into
the air over the empty chair in front of him and threw a flying side kick
across the table aimed at the man now trying to stand at the twelve o’clock
position. He felt like a Chinese Shaolin Kung Fu warrior soaring through the
air as he arced toward his target. He skimmed over the table and hit the man at
twelve o’clock with his bare heel right in the chest.

Unfortunately
as the man flew back into a counter, doubtlessly compounding whatever injury he
received from the kick to the chest, the Butcher lost his balance and missed
his landing, tripping over the man he’d just kicked. From the ground and lying
on his side, he threw an elbow into the man who had yet to recover and knocked
at least three teeth practically down his throat.

He leapt
up and grabbed the chair that the guard had been sitting in, which now lay on
its side, and ferociously hurled it at the man who had been at three o’clock,
but was now positioned behind him and on his left.

It was
the one man the Butcher couldn’t see and he had learned from long experience
that it’s the man you can’t see that you must worry most about. The light, wire
chair flew nearly six feet before the man who had been coming toward him with a
billy club caught it with his face and arms, with which he tried to block it at
the last second. Of course, he didn’t actually catch it. He practically ate it,
causing major damage to his arms and face and knocking him off his feet.

That left
the third guard, who had been at nine o’clock but was now on the Butcher’s
right. He stood close by, but was wisely bringing his radio up to his mouth.

The
Butcher took a fast step and leapt up, throwing a hard front thrust kick
forward. It landed into the man’s elbow just as he pressed the button to sound
the alarm. The arm flew backward and whipped the man around, his radio bouncing
across the floor. As the man tried to recover, the Butcher glanced back at the
two other guards.

The one
he had attacked first with the flying kick and elbow on the ground, was trying
to stand, but blood poured from his mouth and he held his chest with his hand.
At a minimum, the guard had the breath knocked out of him, but the Butcher felt
confident he’d cracked his sternum and possibly ruptured his heart.

The guard
who had “caught the chair” held his elbow with one hand and his bloody face
with the other. He hadn’t recovered from the shock of such a hard hit. The
Butcher marked him as having a shattered elbow and probably a fractured orbital
bone. Maybe a broken nose, too.

The
glance had taken a half second, but the guard still standing had yet to pull
out his night stick -- his one remaining weapon. The Butcher stepped toward him
and faked a punch toward his face. The man raised his arms to block it and the
Butcher stopped the strike and kicked him with a front snap kick to the groin.
It was fast. It was impossible to block. Just a fake strike with your hand, the
opponent looking up, and BAM, a fast kick to the nuts. The Butcher had probably
practiced the strike twenty thousand times.

The guard
doubled over and grabbed himself. The Butcher slapped his palms to the man’s
ears, and before the man could react to that, he pulled the guard’s head down
into a powerful knee. The man took it right in the face, and his legs gave out
instantly.

The
Butcher glanced back around and was stunned to see the man who had taken the
shot from the chair was actually pulling his radio out. He lay eight feet away,
which might as well have been a mile.

The
Butcher panicked for a millisecond, then remembered the billy club on the man
he had just dropped. He reached down and grabbed it from the belt of the downed
guard, and with all his power, he turned, stepped into it, and hurled the heavy
bludgeon as hard as he could toward the guard.

The guard
saw the Butcher start to hurl the club and stopped his attempt to radio for
help. He ducked and raised his arms, but it was too little too late. The billy
club slammed into his arms and shoulder, and he dropped his last hope for
salvation like a panicked six-year-old infielder trying to hang onto a line
drive.

The radio
clanked and bounced on the ground, and the Butcher rushed toward him. As he ran
to the guard, he looked to confirm the man he had kicked against the counter
still lay barely moving. The man was a little more alert, but appeared badly
shaken and in pain.

He moved
toward the man he’d just clocked with the billy club and grabbed an
outstretched leg. He lifted it and then stomped his foot into the man’s open
groin. As the man reacted, the Butcher held his somewhat outstretched leg and
then drove his heel into the side of the knee. It cracked and broke sideways
and the man screamed. As the guard reached for it, the Butcher drove a sword
hand strike right into his throat. It was probably enough to kill him, but he
needed to be certain. He grabbed the billy club lying nearby and smashed the
man’s head twice, just to make sure.

The other
two died the same way: billy club strikes to the head, though the one at the
counter tried to block the first strike. The Butcher expected it and broke the
man’s arm with the first swing, and then finished him with similar strikes.

He
checked the pulses of all three men and confirmed he had fractured their skulls
and killed them. He had. With room to spare.

He took a
deep breath and noticed his hands were shaking. My, that was quite a rush, he
thought. Too bad he hadn’t been able to sneak in his sword. His katana would
have made the entire business far more fun.

Chapter
27

Back on
the farm, Nick Woods’s unit struggled to wake up and get moving. In the
post-dawn hours of early morning, most of the men were still hungover. Beer
cans and hot dog wrappers littered the grounds where the men had spent the
night drinking and laughing among their fellow squad members.

With the
capture of Hernan Flores and the word from President Roberto Rivera that
Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter was no longer needed or welcome in Mexico, the
men and one woman had spent the night relieving some much needed stress and
pondering their future employment options. Without question, Nick’s one
thousand dollar purchase of alcohol and food had been a big hit.

Nick had
spent most of the night with his Primary Strike Squad, hanging out with Marcus,
Isabella, Truck, Lizard, Bulldog, and Red. But like any good leader, Nick had
also stepped away to spend time at the other squad fires across camp -- the
three squads and the six-team Scout Sniper squad. Nick had learned many of the
men’s names and backgrounds from the other squads and managed to play the role
of funny, wise leader as he walked about.

Nick had
also walked the perimeter and checked in with Preacher and the other men who
had volunteered to stay sober and play guard so that the rest could enjoy their
night. Nick appreciated that these men had volunteered for duty and he spent
quite a while speaking with them.

As he
walked back to his own fire and the members of the Primary Strike Team, he
couldn’t shake the thought of what good men they all were. Without question,
Nick didn’t look forward to giving up command of Shield, Safeguard, and
Shelter.

By the
time the night ended (late into the morning), Nick realized he had enjoyed the
evening, but he had been frustrated that he hadn’t managed to get any time
alone with Isabella. He had caught her eyeing him across the fire several times
when he hung out with the Primary Strike Team, and once their eyes met while
the rest of the men were distracted by a story. She had smiled deeply and he
had found himself smiling back harder than he meant. She had looked beautiful
sitting there with the firelight dancing across her face and Nick knew that was
not a sight he’d forget any time soon, even if he never got to see her again.

And by
the looks of things, there was a good chance he wouldn’t get to see her again.
Or really see her, alone, and without the men noticing.

The men
were stirring from their drunken slumber, and Dwayne Marcus and the squad
leaders were rousting those not already up to get cleaned up and begin the process
of packing.

And in
truth, there wasn’t a lot to pack, so they’d be leaving in no time at all.
Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter was a small unit, living out of sea bags,
footlockers, and truck beds. They carried light weapons and didn’t have heavy
vehicles and all the required tools and parts that went along with them. There
just wasn't any way for Nick to stretch it out to get more time with Isabella.
Today was their final day, and it would be the last time he’d see her.

The unit
would drop her off at the capitol and she would go back to serving the Mexican
government and Nick would go back to what? Driving around the interstate in his
red Jeep Grand Cherokee, hoping he didn’t shoot some poor sucker who
accidentally looked at him twice?

Nick
sighed at the thought. He wasn’t sure what he’d return to, and he honestly
didn’t even want to think about it...

President
Roberto Rivera hung up the phone up as if it were a fragile piece of glass. He
leaned back in the chair and placed his hands on both sides of his face.

He was in
absolute shock.

He had
been woken up earlier that morning at 5:15 a.m. by a watch officer who had
patched in a phone call from the head of the prisons bureau. Rivera still
reeled from a deep drunkenness as he tried to make sense of what he was being
told by his head of prisons. It seemed impossible, but the man was telling him
that Hernan Flores was dead, shanked in his cell not even twelve hours after
being arrested.

Rivera
wanted to believe he was dreaming but his headache and shaky thoughts reminded
him that he was totally awake. No. He wasn’t dreaming, but this was a nightmare
all right. A real-life nightmare.

“How did
this happen?” Rivera managed to ask in his stupor. “Flores was supposed to be
kept in isolation without any visitors, even his attorney. My orders were
explicit.”

“We’re
not sure yet,” the administrator said.

“I want a
full report by ten a.m.,” Rivera said, and then slammed his phone down.

He had
crawled back under the covers, but found it impossible to fall back asleep,
despite the fact he’d only gone to bed at two in the morning -- an incredibly
late time for him. Now he regretted the heavy drinking he and Juan Soto had
done following his news conference announcing the arrest of Hernan Flores.

The death
of Flores inside Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1 would no doubt be a
blow to his presidency. Probably a serious one.

First
many would assume either he or Juan Soto were behind it. Not that the idea
hadn’t crossed his mind, but both were committed to the idea of following the
law as they should. Had they wanted to ignore the concept of justice, they
would have allowed the Vigilantes to skin Flores alive. But that wasn’t what
they wanted. Besides, they had a solid, strong case against Flores. Coupled
with an honest judge they’d selected, it was clear that they didn’t need to
kill him.

But many
of the voters (and certainly Rivera’s political opponents) wouldn’t believe any
of this for a second. He would be looking at a blitzkrieg of innuendo and
whisper campaigns, practically around the clock.

Second,
for those who didn’t assume he or Soto were behind it, they would certainly
fall back to the next most logical position: the government of Mexico couldn’t
be trusted. It was either corrupt or incompetent, both of which meant it was
hopeless. If the government couldn’t keep Mexico’s most wanted fugitive alive,
then what could it do?

Rivera
hung his hat on the hope that in a few hours, at ten, they would know what had
happened. With a small amount of luck, there’d be an elaborate story behind
Flores’s death that placed the murder squarely on one of the cartel’s
shoulders, and with just a little more luck, Rivera could get out in front of
the story. He’d schedule another emergency press conference, lay out the
absolute truth, and announce a major investigation.

Those
thoughts provided some comfort. With luck, the investigation would root out
additional corruption from his prison system that had survived his earlier
attempts. And with newly announced resignations and prosecutions, Rivera’s
reputation could be restored. His legacy would be reinforced. The columnists,
the historians, and the people would all say in one voice: Roberto Rivera would
not tolerate corruption or cartels of any kind. He made it the focus of his presidency.

But the
ten o’clock phone call from the head of the prisons bureau had left him in
shambles. He sat back in the chair, completely deflated, looking at the phone.

How could
it be?

The
prisons bureau had nothing. Well, actually, they had tried to pull together
some small threads to make it appear as though they had something, but Rivera
knew better from his years in government. They had nothing.

Somehow,
Flores had been killed, and three guards had died, as well. This was a disaster
of epic proportions, and Rivera saw no way out of it. His dream to crush
organized crime, the legacy he had worked to build throughout his career -- all
of it was over now.

The
Butcher was on the phone with the prison lieutenant who’d helped arrange the
takedown of Flores. Both took protective measures to avoid government
surveillance, with the Butcher on a throwaway cell phone, while the lieutenant
was on a pay phone deep within one of Mexico’s most dangerous drug slums.

Yet they
knew they could discuss precise details and names and not be caught. Mexico was
not America. There was no NSA to tape and sort and filter every phone call on
some massive supercomputer. But, the Butcher and the lieutenant both wanted to
play it safe since it was impossible to know how much support the Americans
were providing these days. Perhaps they were recording this as part of their
aid.

“Was
everything taken care of?” the Butcher asked.

“Yes,
sir, it was,” the lieutenant said. “The fake memo has been shredded.”

“Are you
sure?”

“Yes. I
shredded it myself.”

“And the
rest of the story?”

“It fits
well. We had your man rough up a couple of other guards, and his fellow
cellmates, so it looks like an actual escape.”

This was
the best part of the Butcher’s plan. Since they needed to hide the late-night
transfer, the two of them had decided that one of the Godesto Cartel’s most
evil men would “escape” and kill Hernan Flores on the way out.

It would
seem a little odd that the man wouldn’t rescue other Godesto Cartel members,
but the story being pushed to investigators was that Flores had planned to
eliminate the man, claiming he was a snitch who had caused the great cartel
leader’s arrest as part of a deal for a reduced sentence.

But the
man had caught wind of it and made his move. He’d beaten up his cellmates,
roughed up some guards, and shanked Flores first. Then, as he escaped, he
caught three guards unawares and killed them, as well, before finally
completing his escape.

So, in one
clean sweep, the Butcher had killed his number one nemesis and earned the
release of one of the cartel’s best shooters: a man named Felipe.

“The
investigators seem to be buying the story?” the Butcher asked the lieutenant.

“Yes,
sir. They do. The story has been bought hook, line, and sinker. And we’ve
edited videotapes, cleaned up records showing the entrance of a prisoner last
night, you name it. And I talked with the cops who made the delivery and
they’ve taken care of covering up their log entry of transporting a prisoner to
Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1. Believe me, everything is taken care
of. I wanted to make sure this was the case as much for myself as for you.”

“I’m glad
to hear it,” the Butcher said. Then he punched a button and ended the call.