Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (26 page)

Chapter
30

The next
morning, Nick sat in his office. In the corner, his bags and footlocker waited,
packed and ready for the trip home. His locked and loaded M14 stood propped by
his gear.

Nick knew
this was the last day with Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter in Mexico, and he had
called a brief formation earlier behind the farmhouse. He had thanked the men
for their service and diligence, and wished them all luck wherever their paths
took them once they returned to the States.

Now Nick
wanted to talk to his Primary Strike Team members one-on-one. Most likely, they
would separate at the border, and this would be his last chance to take his
time and talk with his men, man-to-man. (Nick and Marcus would take the
equipment up to Quantico and then Mr. Smith could take it from there. By that
point, Nick would hardly care.)

Nick had
been dreading this day since his unit had gotten word from Smith that they were
to pack up and leave. Nick had barely slept the night prior; his dread of
departing from this mission -- and returning to his old life -- almost too much
to take.

He’d be
losing the mission he had poured himself into, and he’d be losing the
camaraderie and friendship he had with these men. That would be a big blow to a
loner like Nick. Of that, he had no doubt.

And he certainly
wasn’t looking forward to being dragged away from Isabella. Between the
mission, the men, and her, he wasn’t real sure how he’d re-adapt to his old
life.

“Send the
first man in, Marcus,” he yelled.

Truck
walked in, wearing a ratty T-shirt that was half tucked in and did little to
improve his look. And the look wasn’t much -- a bald, middle-aged man with the
start of a gut.

But he
did have a look of ferocity in his eyes and a pair of hulking arms and chest to
back them up. Nick had a natural affinity for the man who had given so much to
America, and fallen so far. Nick smiled at the man who probably struggled with
more demons than anyone could ever guess.

“Well,
thanks for not beating me up,” Nick said, laughing now.

Truck
shrugged and gave an embarrassed smile.

“Ah,
hell, I’ll never live that down. Beat up one dumb-ass officer and it follows
you the rest of your career.”

Nick
laughed harder.

“Well, it
did get you kicked out of Special Forces and the Army. And then you had to
forget you were a contractor and go charging up the hill and kill those Afghans
instead of just driving on, like you were supposed to do.”

Truck
shrugged and smiled. “I’d do it again. Lost too many friends over there and I
don’t take kindly to getting shot at day in and day out by the same jackasses.”

Nick
stood and reached out to shake his hand. They shook, two strong grips, and Nick
said, “Truck, it’s been an honor to serve with you. I just wanted to say thanks
for all you’ve done and if I’m ever lucky enough to get in the shooting biz
again, I’ll be giving you a call. You’re a damn fine man.”

“Thank
you, sir.”

And
that’s the way it went with each Primary Strike Team member. Nick had their
profiles down by heart, and he wanted just a few words with each of them.

Lizard,
the small Puerto Rican who always seemed nervous and scared. But just like his
nine years in the Marine Corps, the little Brazilian Jiu-jitsu black belt had
never backed down or shied away from danger.

Bulldog,
the 6’4”, 250-pound Navy SEAL from Baltimore. He was black, he was big, and he
was always motivated, even once the mission end was announced. “There’s always
a need for good trigger pullers. We’ll be fine, men,” he had said after the
formation broke up, while so many others seemed crushed, as if they had lost a
bloody skirmish and left quite a few comrades on the field of battle.

Preacher,
the quiet, religious man of average size, who had done four tours with the
Marine Corps, two of them with the special unit MARSOC. He had lived up to his
billing. Devout. Avoider of nicotine and alcohol. Rarely, without a small
Testament in one of his cargo pockets.

Red, the
crazy 5’5” Marine who wanted to fight everyone and go on every mission and
stand every guard post. The thin man seemed to live on Marlboro Reds, which
powered him through impossible levels of sleep deprivation. Nick wasn’t sure if
Red’s name came from smoking Marlboro Reds 24/7 or the red, short-cropped hair
that topped his freckled face. Nick had seen the action-addict side of Red
since they had left the States, and he understood why the man transferred from
one Marine combat unit to the next deploying one while he served in the Corps.

Nick had
decided not to call in Isabella for any final words. They had exchanged phone
numbers the day before and Nick didn’t want to deal with talking yet one more
time to a woman he had feelings for.

Without
question, he’d grown to really respect her professionally. She was the unlikely
warrior, who had gone from lawyer to cop to detective. And she was as motivated
by justice and the goal of serving her country as any person Nick had ever
seen. No doubt, she’d have jumped on a grenade and given her life if it helped
fix the wreck her country had become. And hell, Nick thought, if he had lived
her life and lost a father and brother to cartels, he’d probably be the same
way.

Nick also
spoke with the departing squad leaders and the Scout Sniper squad leader, since
he had gotten to know them all pretty well. Nick encouraged each of them to
talk with their men as he had -- to say a few words and thank them individually
for their service.

He said a
few final words to his CIA contact, who had proven as loyal and faithful as one
could ask, and then ended his work by talking with Marcus.

The 6’1”
University of Florida football star was among one of the greatest men Nick had
ever met. He was all-Marine and full of courage and skill, but he also had the
discipline and charisma that only a drill instructor can carry. The man never
looked flustered or unprepared. He was the textbook example of what a Marine
leader should be, and Nicked thanked him to no end for how much work he’d
shouldered.

Marcus
had taken it all in the position of parade rest and ended the conversation by
only saying, “Nick, it’s been an honor to serve with you.”

And with
all the goodbyes said, and the hour of departure approaching, Nick sat back in
his chair and felt a deep sadness come over him. In just a few hours, he’d have
nothing again: no mission, no Isabella, no men to joke with, no command to
challenge his wits and determination.

Nick
looked over at his secured footlocker and considered pulling out his bottle of
Jack Daniels, but knew he should hold off. At least for a little while longer.
But something told him he might just drown in the bottle in the months to come.

“You’ve
seen too much and done too much, Nick,” he said to himself. “Pretty soon,
you’ll just be a washed-up old man down at the VFW.”

But then
he remembered how much he hated being around other people and recalled how his
life had been after the death of Anne. The two years in Montana, expecting the
government to double-cross him again after making a deal with them. And then
the realization that they weren’t coming, and the awareness that he was going
crazy, all alone in the mountains, constantly on alert for government troops
that weren’t coming.

And then
his time on the road in his Jeep Grand Cherokee, as paranoid as before, making
a cross-country trip, completely aware of how people looked at him. Of how
crazy they must think the man that moved cautiously and walked like some wild
animal on the prowl. It had been great seeing much of the country, but Nick
couldn’t shake the nightmares and paranoia, even with the scenery and big-city
traffic.

Afghanistan.
His betrayal by a man named Whitaker. His dead spotter. Evading more than a
thousand Soviet troops. A changed identity and his time as Bobby Ferguson. Anne
and all the sweetness and beauty that went with that name. Her murder. Meeting
Allen Green. Hunting down Anne’s killers.

Nick
shook his head and stood. He had to get these thoughts out of his head. And
with that he reached for his footlocker.

“Just one
drink, Nick,” he told himself. “Only one today, and no more thinking about Anne
or what you’re going to do tomorrow when this is all done. Just one, small
drink.”

Chapter
31

Nick
Woods may have been saying his goodbyes and thinking too much about his past
and especially his future, but that wasn’t true of the Godesto Cartel. Not even
close. Under its new leadership, the cartel was in the process of carrying out
one of its most ambitious operations since the three-pronged nighttime attack
on the Navy SEALs, their reinforcement column of Mexican troops, and the
Presidential Palace.

This
time, the Godesto Cartel would hit billionaire Juan Soto.

The
Butcher had been looking forward to this attack for months and months. Few
last-minute preparations were needed, as the operation had been planned for
more than a year. But the attack hadn’t gone down because Hernan Flores -- the
soft bastard -- wouldn’t green light it, arguing that such an attack would
cross the line and go too far, turning the people against the Godesto Cartel.
Flores argued that it would be seen as an all-out assault on an innocent
civilian.

The
Butcher had argued against Flores, stating that Soto provided a crucial pillar
of support to the Mexican government. Flores wouldn’t hear of it, but with
Flores no longer in the picture, the Butcher had ordered his men to begin
making arrangements for the attack moments after returning from the prison with
Felipe.

The
Butcher asked his lieutenants to update the plans and begin recon of the target
while he and Felipe caught up on rest and sleep. The next morning, the Butcher
awoke at 4:45 and made some last-minute adjustments to the plans before sending
his men off. It was now 7:30 a.m. and the Butcher looked up from his watch and
took one final, deep breath.

Their
target Juan Soto resided on the top floor of an eight-story building in Mexico
City. Soto owned the building for security measures and lived there most of the
work week, before heading off for weekends to his mountain estate with his wife
and family.

The
Butcher waited with eight Godesto gunmen in a mid-sized van, parked in an alley
near Soto’s building downtown. The eight men were jammed in tight, three bodies
per bench seat in the back, with the Butcher sitting in the passenger seat next
to the driver up front. The six men in the back were mostly hidden behind the
dark-tinted windows of the white van, and the van provided adequate camouflage
on the busy streets of Mexico City.

It was
just a white, industrial passenger van. Unmarked. No business logos. It could
have belonged to a hundred different companies or just been a rental. But if
any cop made the mistake of checking them out, the Godesto members would
quickly be found out since the plates were stolen. Not that it mattered. They
had no reservations about gunning down cops.

All eight
gunmen wore SWAT uniforms and full battle gear. Helmets, assault vests, and
MP5s slung just like they carry them on SWAT teams. Their uniforms failed to
precisely match Mexico City’s SWAT team, but they were close enough, including
the black combat boots and the patches on their shoulders. 

“Let’s
go,” the Butcher said.

The eight
of them climbed out as calmly as they could and made final checks of their
weapons. Their 9 mm MP-5s wouldn’t do at long range, but they were perfect for
the kind of close-in work planned for today.

“Ready?”
the Butcher asked.

His men
nodded in affirmation and made final adjustment of helmets, slings, and assault
vests. With the van parked deep in an alley between two tall buildings, and
behind three dumpsters, they weren’t concerned with being seen.

The
Butcher double-checked his MP-5 and confirmed that his M9 Beretta was strapped
down on his thigh holster. He didn’t need it falling out during any ducking and
rolling he might have to do. Behind him, his men racked slides and checked
magazines. Other than the sounds of metal clicking on weapons and rocks
grinding under boots on the pavement, the early morning was quiet.

Traffic
passed down the busy road in front of them, but it was rush hour in the middle
of Mexico City and commuters had one thing on their minds: getting to work
before the clock struck eight. Looking for odd sights like a van disgorging
SWAT guys just wasn’t high up on their priority list.

The eight
men formed up in a single file with the Butcher taking the third position. He
preferred to take point, but he couldn’t lead and make sound decisions if he
was looking for targets and other dangers. The eight men exited the alley at a
leisurely pace, their weapons hanging loose from their slings and aimed toward
the ground.

In their
planning, the Butcher had reiterated numerous times that they were to seem as
relaxed as possible when they broke cover from the alley. And as expected, the
moment they stepped onto the sidewalk and started down the street, they came
under intense scrutiny from passersby and residents living in apartments up and
down the street.

“Stay
calm,” the Butcher said, his voice just loud enough for his men to hear.

They only
had a block to cover before they would arrive at Juan Soto’s building. And if
their recon was accurate, they wouldn’t come under observation from any guards
inside until they were about fifty yards from the front door. It was one of the
few security weaknesses of the building.

The group
walked in a file toward their target, heads mostly down and bodies seemingly
relaxed. The eight men looked unalert and disinterested. A few people on the
streets took note, but just barely. Seeing well-armed Mexican police or
soldiers on the street was all too
common in the cartel-riddled country.
And this group didn’t seem concerned about danger, so people went about their
business without fear of being blown up or caught in a massive firefight with
drug runners.

They
strolled right up to the front of Juan Soto’s building with shocking ease,
thanks to the cover of the uniforms. And once the first man opened the massive
glass door, the Butcher knew there was no stopping them now. The SWAT uniforms
had served their purpose well.

Up on the
eighth floor, Soto was far more relaxed than usual as he dressed for work. He
had eight men -- all prior SAS, Special Forces, and Navy SEALs -- protecting
him, which always made him feel pretty safe. But today, with Hernan Flores
dead, he felt safer than he’d felt in years.

It seemed
a lifetime since he had called President Roberto Rivera and threatened to leave
the country and close all of his businesses. And while he didn’t know what
Flores’s replacement was like, it was inconceivable that he was more of a
concern than Flores had been.

Hernan
Flores had posed a special kind of danger because of his ability to win over
public support, thanks to how he played the role of businessman and
philanthropist. And Flores, having come from the depths of poverty, could
relate to the poor. During his reign over the Godesto Cartel, he had often
enjoyed more popular support than the President.

Now, with
the Godesto Cartel back under the control of a much more common thug, it would
be easier for President Rivera to rally the people and the country’s law
enforcement agencies. Finally, the tide against the government would be
permanently checked and momentum turned against the country’s parasites.

Juan Soto
examined the knot in his tie in a mirror and adjusted it, cinching it perfectly
against his two hundred dollar, custom-tailored dress shirt. He confirmed his
shirt was tucked tight into his belt, showing off his thirty-one-inch waist
that he ran miles and miles each day to maintain.

Soto
glanced at the clock on his nightstand and noticed he was several minutes ahead
of schedule. He smiled. Nothing like getting rid of Mexico’s worst enemy -- and
his archenemy -- to put a spring in his step and propel him through his morning
routine faster.

There was
the possibility that President Rivera would face serious repercussions from the
murder of Flores in one of Mexico’s most secure prisons, but Soto couldn’t
worry about that right now. His day was too crammed and he needed to be focused
on what mattered in the short term. He would call Rivera and they could
strategize later tonight about how to handle the political fallout. Until then,
it was business. And a lot of it.

Soto’s
schedule for the day began with a trip out to one of his rock quarries, where
production was down and there’d been a curious, deep drop in profits. But
Soto’s chief financial officer suspected profits hadn’t fallen, but rather the
plant manager was pocketing increasing amounts of cash.

Soto
planned to confront him and give the man a chance to explain what was
happening, before they had the man fired and arrested. As he had done before in
similar situations, he’d show up with his top legal counsel and some extra
security personnel, in addition to his eight bodyguards he regularly kept on
hand. And if the man couldn’t explain how he suddenly owned a new car and home
under Soto’s intense questioning, then he’d be in for a long day. (It was nice
having more than a dozen private investigators on staff who could keep a close
eye on employees.)

After
dealing with the quarry manager, Soto had to meet with his braintrust about a
wealth management firm he was in the process of purchasing. Soto wanted to make
a decision and either buy it or move on. He hated over-studying issues and
letting them divert his focus, and his team of advisers had been considering
purchasing the firm for nearly three months, which Soto figured was probably
two months too long.

Finally,
the last thing on his day’s schedule was a symposium on economic development
with the Mexican Chamber of Commerce. Today’s topic delved into convincing Arab
countries to invest a portion of their vast sums of cash into beachfront real
estate along Mexico’s coast. And part of the reluctance from the Arab countries
involved the cartels and their demand for payments, but Soto couldn’t wait to
explain the significance of the death of Hernan Flores to the Godesto Cartel,
as well as how that death would reduce the stranglehold the Godesto had on the
country.

Soto
owned much of that beachfront real estate, and he had almost sold a two hundred
million dollar beachfront hotel project to a Saudi prince a couple of years
ago. And since he owned miles and miles of similar property, he was looking
forward to unloading much of it. For a hefty profit, of course, since he had
bought it dirt-cheap.

Suddenly,
the sound of an explosion rocked Soto from his thoughts. It had sounded close,
very close, and he walked to his bedroom door -- a four-inch thick vault-like
slab -- and opened it.

“Gordon,
what was that?” Soto asked.

Gordon,
an SAS veteran dressed in a suit, stood with his finger pushing his earpiece
further in.

He held
up a finger and then said, “Sir, we’re still trying to figure that out. Not
sure how close to us that was.”

But Soto
could tell the decorated veteran with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan was far
more on edge than usual.

Gordon
noticed Soto looking at him and said, “Sir, please step back in your room.”

Soto
resisted and said, “Has anyone alerted the authorities yet?”

“Sir,”
Gordon said, with tension in his voice, “we don’t even know what it was. We’ve
got this, sir. Let us do our job.”

Soto
stepped back in his room and slammed the heavy door. He’d deal with Gordon
later. The man was good, but he was too confident. And only a year into working
security in Mexico, he seemed in Juan Soto’s opinion to consistently
underestimate the power of the cartels. It was as if all his deployments into
combat zones, and the insane talent he had in close quarters battle, had
created too much confidence in the man.

Soto
walked to his eighth floor window to look for a rising smoke plume. But as he
looked out his four-inch bullet-proof window, he saw no smoke anywhere. He
rushed to the window at the other side of the room and saw no smoke there,
either. But then his peripheral vision caught movement, and he looked down in
the street below him to see several SUVs and cars squealing to a stop, men
jumping from them carrying automatic weapons and rocket launchers.

“Gordon!”
Soto yelled.

He raced
across his bedroom for the door. The door opened and Gordon no longer looked
like a dignified bodyguard in a suit. Now he was cinching down a tactical vest
loaded with pockets and magazines. He pulled a submachine gun sling across his
body and looked up at his billionaire VIP. 

“Sir,
we’ve got a problem,” Gordon said.

“No
shit,” Soto said. “Call the police.” He pointed back toward the bedroom
windows. “There are dozens of them down there!”

“We’re on
it,” Gordon said. “But we need you in your room.”

Gordon
pushed Soto back and when Soto tried to rush by him, Gordon slung him across
the room. Soto landed in a heap against the wall and Gordon stepped into the
room. He slammed the thick steel door, locked it, and then turned a foot-wide
aluminum wheel in the center of the door that pushed eight-inch steel posts
into the reinforced floor and upper wall. Soto’s room was essentially a vault,
encased in four inches of steel. It was fireproof, bombproof, and definitely
bullet proof.