Sold Out (Nick Woods Book 1) (28 page)

The man shook his head in a feeble attempt to fully wake up,
and he pulled his arms against the ropes with a strain. Nick knew his arms had
to hurt like hell. Nick had tied them behind the agent so tight that he’d need
to loosen them in ten minutes or so to get the circulation flowing.

Right now, the ropes were tighter than a tourniquet.

The man swallowed hard and gave up on straining against the
ropes. Nick figured the man’s mouth was so dry that he probably could barely
swallow. Nick considered grabbing a plastic cup by the sink and giving the man
some water, but decided against it.

The man seemed too shocked to say anything and Nick wondered
if he honestly thought this meeting was supposed to have gone down across a
table at a Waffle House. Maybe share some coffee and buttered toast and just be
the best of friends.

Fat chance.

Nick rose from the bed, spun the weapon, and butt-stroked the
man in the head. About half-power. He wanted to get his attention, not fracture
any facial bones.

“Listen up, hoss. This isn’t a fucking game. I’m going to ask
you some questions and you’re going to answer them. If you delay answering
them, or if I sense you’re lying -- believe me, I’m good at reading faces -- or
if I just get bored, then I’m going to wrap a rope around your neck and garrote
your ass.”

Nick saw a flash of terror cross the man’s eyes. He figured
the man had read Nick’s file, and knew about the time he’d killed a hotel
manager with 550 cord. With the man’s full attention, Nick began.

“How’d you know my name?”

The man, a baby-faced guy who looked fit and squared away in
his suit, said, “I’ve read and memorized your file. I was the only one who
would volunteer to approach you.”

“Why were the others afraid?”

The man looked incredulous. He looked as if he was trying to
find a way to soften his answer. Nick didn’t want softened answers.

“Just say it,” Nick said.

“Everyone thinks you’re crazy.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. I think you’ve reacted exactly as I would have, given
everything you’ve been through.”

“And you still believe that?”

The man -- two nasty wounds to his head, an M14 aimed at him,
and his arms probably numb and tingling -- clearly had some doubts now. He
looked off and swallowed.

“I may have been wrong,” he said. He looked and sounded
scared shitless.

Nick knew the feeling. He’d felt it the first time he and his
spotter had crossed over into Afghanistan from Pakistan. The Soviets had
thousands of troops there and neither Nick nor his spotter could speak the
language. They only marginally trusted the mujahideen they were to link up
with.

Nick stood and walked to the windows. He pulled a curtain
back and scanned the parking lot. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. He slid
it closed and sighed. Wow. What a mess he had on his hands. The loneliness of
Montana didn’t seem so bad now compared to this.

Nick returned to the bed and sat back down.

“Earlier, you said ‘approach’ me,” Nick continued. “Let’s get
to the bottom line so I can decide what to do with you. Why were you to
approach me?”

“We need your help.”

“Who’s we?”

“The CIA, of course.”

“Spit it out. I’m tired of asking questions,” Nick said
angrily. “Why do you need my help? Want to send me overseas? Get me to do some
dirty work? Then sell my ass out again?”

“No, sir. We need your skill set in Mexico.”

Chapter 1

Present Day Mexico

A two-ton iron gate swung open from the presidential compound
and an armada of vehicles roared out into the early morning dawn. Six armored
Humvees -- the first three bearing 7.62 mm machine guns followed by three more
hauling massive .50 caliber heavy machine guns -- led a convoy that included an
additional twelve more SUVs crammed with Mexican troops in full battle gear.
Behind all this firepower came the Mexican President’s armored limo, and then
an additional twelve more SUVs packed full of troops.

At the rear of the convoy, a tail element of six additional
Humvees -- again three with medium machine guns and three with heavy machine
guns -- protected the line of vehicles. Besides the twelve armored Humvees,
twenty-four SUVs, and a hundred-plus hand-picked soldiers, six helicopters
bearing snipers zoomed around the convoy, buzzing in toward threats and flying
forward to confirm the route lay clear.

In addition to these precautions, more than two hundred
police officers were blocking off roads and screeching around Mexico City in
front of the convoy with sirens ablaze, looking for the smallest hint of
trouble.

This was the state of affairs in Mexico these days. A country
and government so threatened by a single drug cartel that moving the President
around looked more like an act of war than a simple escort.

But while the convoy may have looked the same today as it did
any other day, this was no normal day in Mexico.

President Roberto Rivera rode in the single limo, heading to
a meeting that towered above being the most important event of his political
career. After consulting with his advisers and several economists this morning,
he knew the meeting could be the most important of Mexico’s history.

President Rivera had unfortunately confirmed through several
sources that his friend and strongest supporter had finally had enough. Juan
Soto, despite being Mexico’s richest businessman, had decided that he could no
longer live or operate his businesses within the confines of the war-ravaged
country.

Though Juan Soto loved his battered and wrecked homeland of
Mexico, he apparently felt he could no longer risk everything by staying. That
the country was lost and on the verge of complete anarchy.

President Rivera rubbed his temples and shuddered at the
thought that the billionaire might leave the country. Soto’s exit would mean he
would sell off his numerous companies, and Rivera knew who the buyer would be:
Hernan Flores, a fellow billionaire. But Flores and Soto were two completely
different people.

Juan Soto was a businessman: honest, ethical, and legit.

Hernan Flores was a cartel leader: dishonest, evil, and
dirty.

Yet, President Roberto Rivera, even though he knew these
things about Hernan Flores, could not say them. People who spoke the truth
about Flores always ended up dead. And, there just wasn’t enough evidence to
support the whispers amongst the people -- that Flores was dirty and working to
topple the government and Rivera along with it.

Not that Flores would want to be President. No, he would most
likely install one of his cronies. Someone to overlook all the activities and
allow Flores to sleep easier at night.

Rivera’s resolve still reeled from the news. He couldn’t
shake the growing anxiety that if Soto left the country, both he and his
already shaking administration would be left standing completely alone. And
would soon either topple or be pushed from power by the rampant intimidation
and relentless pressure from Hernan Flores’s drug ring, the Godesto Cartel.

Thirty minutes after departing the Presidential Palace,
President Roberto Rivera’s convoy arrived at the headquarters of Juan Soto, an
eight-story building in the heart of the city. The presidential convoy stopped
at the front of the building and dozens of armed men leapt from the numerous
vehicles and secured the area. A phalanx of hyper-alert men circled around the
limo and when one finally opened the limo door, Rivera exited and moved quickly
toward the front doors, thankful for the ring of submachine gun-toting men
clustered tightly around him. Rumors of another serious assassination attempt
had been growing, and Rivera didn’t want to relive another near miss.

Juan Soto met President Rivera at the front doors and the two
said little as they walked to the elevators and ascended to the top floor.
Rivera shook some hands and nodded to some employees and senior executives as
they worked their way to Soto’s inner sanctum. Once there, Rivera excused his
closest security personnel and finally entered a conference room. It was just
him and Soto now.

With the door closed, blinds shut, and total privacy finally
ensured, the two men smiled -- this time deeply -- and hugged. Rivera thought
that Juan Soto looked as thin and sharp as ever. The man took discipline and
ambition to levels that even Rivera could not reach.

“My good friend,” Juan said. “Why did you not call? I would
have gladly come to you to prevent you having to be out in the city any more than
necessary.”

“I wanted to honor and respect you by coming to your office,”
President Rivera said sincerely.

“We only received word ten minutes ago. Otherwise, we would
have prepared a better welcome.”

“We’ve increased my security measures with the latest threats
of assassination,” Rivera said. “Even our top police did not know my
destination.”

“But how did you know I’d be here?”

Rivera smiled. “I believe you had a hastily scheduled meeting
with our finance minister in twenty minutes?”

Juan Soto grinned as he realized his old friend had shown his
sense of cunning once again -- something Juan had been following since the man
began his political career.

“Your conference room has been updated,” Rivera said, looking
around at the modern interior.

“Twice, maybe three times since you were here.”

Rivera looked down. He
had
been too busy and away too
long.

“I haven’t been here since I was governor,” he said, with
real regret in his voice. “But, we must skip the small talk, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, of course. And I think I know why you’re here.”

“Then, is it true? You’re leaving?”

Juan Soto looked away. He could not stand to disappoint his
friend.

“It is, isn’t it?” Valez asked.

“Yes, my friend. I’m very sorry, but I decided yesterday and
my staff and I are planning the steps involved.”

Rivera reached across the table and grabbed Juan’s forearm.

“You can’t, Juan. I need you! Your country needs you.”

Juan yanked his arm away. “My country has failed me,” he
said, angrier than he meant.

Rivera looked away. Said nothing. He stood, walked over to
the bar, and poured himself a glass of brandy. He savored the taste, felt the
warmth, and, taking a deep breath, turned back to Juan.

“Juan, I am so sorry about what happened to Gabriella,”
Rivera said, referring to a recent kidnapping attempt of Juan’s daughter that
killed three of her bodyguards.

“It’s not just about Gabby,” Soto said. “Did you hear about
my shift supervisor yesterday? Or my chief financial officer a month ago? Or
any of the other twenty-plus employees who have been killed in the past two
months?”

Rivera looked down at his brandy. “I did not, my friend. I am
truly sorry.”

Juan walked to a seat at the head of the conference table and
sat. Heavily. He no longer looked angry, but Rivera saw that the normally
energetic and unstoppable entrepreneur now looked tired. And defeated.

Rivera walked toward him and sat in a chair next to him. He
said nothing and thought of honest friends he knew who had gambled their lives
by joining his government and trying to take back their country from the
cartels. And now with the looming threat of the ruthless Godesto Cartel, Rivera
thought of all the newly appointed police captains across cities and towns far
and wide who would certainly be hunted down or executed if he failed.

He looked up at Juan, who sat looking at him.

“Juan, could you give me six months? Just six months to fix
it?”

“I’m sorry, Roberto, but not even you, with all your energy
and intellect could fix the country in six months. You haven’t been able to in
three
years. What makes you think you can in
six months?”

“We’ve done much in those three years,” Rivera said. “Made
important police appointments and purged many dirty officials. And.” Rivera
paused, and swallowed. “I’ll finally get help from the Americans. I’ll tell them
we’re in desperate need.” Rivera was talking fast now. “We’ll get special
troops down here and we’ll go after that bastard Hernan Flores. I know he’s
behind it all.”

Juan Soto smiled.

“Now, Roberto,” he said, “are you forgetting that even your
appointed Attorney General admitted in a news conference that there is no real
evidence against Flores?”

“Then we’ll make some!” Rivera said. “That bastard keeps
killing and silencing people, so to hell with the law. If you’re on the verge
of leaving, then we’ll have to fight fire with fire. This is for Mexico’s own
sake.”

Juan reached across the table and laid his hand on the top of
Rivera’s forearm. “My friend. Do not soil your soul. It is your integrity that
sets you apart. It is your integrity and faith that inspires millions of
Mexicans. Do not become like Flores.”

Rivera realized the horror of what he’d considered and sat
there ashamed at what he had spoken.

“You are right, Juan. Forget I said that,” Rivera said, now
looking him in the eyes.

“We all have our moments of weakness, my friend, but you have
your strength and you still believe. I, however, no longer do.”

Rivera grabbed Juan’s hand and enclosed it in both of his.
“Please don’t say that, Juan. Please, give me just six months. I beg of you. If
not for your country, for me. And for my family. You know we will not survive
without your support.”

Juan looked at Rivera and felt the man’s desperate grip. He
knew he could say “no” to him in the darkness of night and with a greater
distance between them, but he simply could not abandon the man when he had to
look him in the eyes. Not without giving him one more chance. He stood and
pulled Rivera to him.

“I’ll give you six months, my friend, though I must tell you
that I doubt you will be successful. Privately, I will continue planning my
departure and liquidation of my assets. However, I will appear optimistic in
all public appearances to my employees and friends, and I say in all honesty
that
if
it can be done, it is you who will achieve it.”

Rivera let go of Juan’s hand and grabbed him in a hard hug.

“Thank you, my dear friend. Thank you. I will not let you
down.”

Juan held Rivera a moment and then stepped back. He
straightened Rivera’s jacket and said, “Now compose yourself, my friend. Our
country is depending on your strength and nerve.”

Rivera stood straighter and pulled his jacket down.

“Don’t go looking at properties elsewhere,” Rivera said. “It
will be a waste of time and energy.”

“Now that’s the President I’m used to seeing,” Juan Soto
said. “Call me if I can be of assistance.”

To continue reading, purchase it from here:
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2)
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