Rivera offered Nick a cigar and Nick declined.
“As I was saying, your first thought would be to arrest them.” He lit the cigar and puffed on it to get it burning right. “Maybe even shoot them. But, that would quickly disappear once the cartel man mentioned that they knew where your wife worked and where your daughter went to school. Can you imagine that?”
“I’ve actually lost a wife in a similar situation, so yes, I can.”
Rivera stopped, like he had been punched in the nose.
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised. Rivera didn’t like walking into a trap like this and he reminded himself to chew his aide out later for not providing him with better intel. A mistake like this killed the momentum of a debate, and this was a discussion he needed to win.
While Rivera paused to recover from his misstep, Nick thought of Anne, bloody, in a nightgown in their backyard. He remembered the dew on the grass, the FBI agents standing over her, and him running his fingers through the dirt, swearing he would avenge her.
“As I was saying,” Rivera said, trying to get back on course, “many of these officers will have their families threatened, in addition to being offered untold amounts of money. The temptation to inform the cartels is very great.”
Nick couldn’t help but sympathize.
“I understand, Mr. President. And I need to remind myself that your country has been at war with the cartels for more than ten years.”
“It’s been longer than that, though the casualties were lower and the news coverage much less. Truth be told, we tried to keep it out of the news as much as we could. Didn’t want to hurt tourism, which is crucial for our economy.”
Nick nodded again and wished the man would make his point.
“Respectfully, Mr. President, you didn’t ask me to come in to give me a history lesson. I’m not much on sales pitches. Just ask your question.”
“Indeed,” Rivera said. He took another puff on his cigar, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and continued. “But I am in the presence of one of America’s greatest warriors? Am I not correct?”
Nick said nothing. He knew most of America’s greatest warriors were in graves -- marked and unmarked -- across the globe, but you couldn’t waste your time trying to educate everyone.
“A moment like this,” Rivera said, “in the presence of a man of your reputation, needs to be savored. Just like a great cigar,” he said, raising the cigar and smiling.
Nick half-smiled. The man was certainly charming. No wonder he’d been elected President.
“Nick,” Rivera said. “May I call you ‘Nick’?”
Nick made the smallest of nods.
Rivera stopped smiling and turned serious. He smashed his cigar into a silver ashtray and leaned forward.
“Nick, I need to ask you to stop the Vigilante act. Take down the website, stop making videos, and end the whole charade.”
Nick said nothing.
“I know I initially approved the creation of the Vigilante unit, but things have changed. After the assault on the police station in Coyutla, we can do this no more. I must ask that you stop operating in such a way.”
Nick stopped him.
“You don’t seriously think we did that?”
“Of course not. But that attack hurt your effort. And I’ve since come to realize two things. First, acting as a Vigilante unit encourages other residents to act out as vigilantes, and at some point, this will lead to lawlessness and innocent people being wrongly killed without a trial. Second, I’ve come to realize that it’s important for the prestige of Mexico to have government forces finally take down Flores and his cartel.”
Nick sighed and Rivera stopped.
“Wish you had come to this realization before my team packed up and came down here,” Nick said.
“I understand you’re upset, but I’m prepared to offer a compromise.”
“Not much to compromise on, is there?”
Rivera ignored the snide comment and said, “I’m not asking you to take your team out of the country. I confess, as much as it hurts my pride, that we need your help. I’m simply asking you to operate under the guise of being Mexican forces. Wear our uniforms. Keep a low profile. No one will ever know the difference.”
“I suppose,” Nick said, “that I should tell you I need some time to consider your offer.”
“I understand if that’s necessary,” Rivera said, holding his hands up in a conciliatory gesture and smiling as if he had won.
“It’s not,” Nick said.
“I’m sorry?” the President asked. “It’s not what?”
“It’s not necessary.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Rivera said.
“I reject your offer. Or your request. Or demand. Or whatever you want to call it. The original deal was we stay off the radar, we keep our homebase and operations off the government’s radar, and that we operate as the Vigilantes. That was the deal, which you approved before we ever came or even assembled our task force, and we reject any renegotiation of it.”
“But, Nick, surely you understand. Things have changed.”
“Nothing has changed,” Nick said, his voice loud. “Just your resolve and independence, apparently.”
Rivera slammed his hand on the desk, then winced, immediately regretting it. He recovered quickly and stood. “I’m sorry you feel as you do. Please, take a couple of days to reconsider. Your contact can call his liaison within my government with your decision.”
With that, Rivera turned away from Nick and looked out the window.
Nick harrumphed. Looks like diplomacy really isn’t my strong suit, he thought.
Chapter 24
Nick Woods left the Presidential Palace feeling defeated. The last thing he wanted to do was pack up the men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter and leave Mexico, but President Rivera was giving him no choice.
The selfish side of Nick wanted to keep going; maybe even come under Rivera’s command. Nick enjoyed being in command and carrying a gun again -- not just carrying a gun concealed, stateside, but carrying a gun in a war zone. A place you didn’t know. A place where danger resided around every corner and in every shadow.
Nick loved war. He loved the stress. The tension. The feeling of being alive. He lived for it, and now he was going to have to leave it again. Possibly for good, given his age. Once you turned forty-seven, your chances to serve started dramatically decreasing.
While Nick’s mind raced, his two Primary Strike vehicles executed a number of complicated maneuvers as they exited the capital city. The Primary Strike Team ditched their vehicles twice -- once in a packed mall parking lot, and another time in a dark downtown garage. They also made two different reverse courses. They traveled north for an hour before changing vehicles one final time and then driving south.
Nick had worried about the cost of buying so many vehicles, but Marcus had smiled and said, “Don’t worry, they’re not affecting our budget. At all.”
Nick immediately assumed they were stolen, but he asked no questions and didn’t want to know any more.
As they drove south, Nick tried not to dwell on the fact that all this was going away. These superb warriors. This incredible opportunity to make a difference. To defend the weak. To do what the men of S3 were all born to do.
He tried to shake these thoughts and realized at this point, about the only thing he wanted was a cold Mountain Dew, a Snickers, and a moment alone with Isabella. He wondered what part of his frustration with leaving Mexico resulted from knowing he’d have to leave her, and forget whatever chances they had to explore whatever existed between them.
He wasn’t sure how much of a role this played, but it certainly played more of a role than he wanted to admit, remembering the kiss and her hand on his body. He tried to pay attention to their route home as well as any possible threats, but it proved nearly impossible. His mind was simply racing too much, trying to find an angle to keep S3 engaged and prevent this all from being over.
N
ick’s various units returned to the farm over the next four hours. The squads and six sniper teams came from different directions and spread out their arrival times. Back at the base, Nick and Marcus had left just four men to keep the place secure, so once everyone returned, the first order of business was combing the site for intruders and listening devices. Once that was done, Nick called a meeting of all his leaders.
The three squad leaders arrived, along with Marcus and the leader of the six Scout Sniper teams. Nick briefed them on his meeting with President Rivera. (Nick had already met with Marcus and discussed their options privately.)
With the full leadership team in place, Nick relayed Rivera’s two demands: drop the Vigilante act and come in under the authority of the Mexican government.
“No way,” said the second squad leader. “I’m not trying to undermine you, Nick, but there’s no damn way I want to be a part of going under Mexican governmental authority. And I’m confident I speak for my men. They don’t trust hardly anyone down here, and one of them is Mexican himself, so that is saying a lot.”
“Same with my men,” said the first squad leader.
“Jimmy?” Nick asked, nodding to the third squad leader.
“The same.”
Nick glanced at Marcus.
“Good,” he said. “Then we’re all on the same page. Marcus and I have decided we’re not game for this change in plans. We feel it would be a death wish to come in under Rivera’s control.”
“Damn right,” his second squad leader said. “We know what happened to the SEALs, and as they proved, it doesn’t matter how good you are. If the enemy gets intel on you, you’re as good as dead.”
“Where does that leave us?” the leader of the Scout Snipers asked.
“Probably unemployed,” Marcus said.
“We assumed everyone would favor safety over salary,” Nick said.
“Agreed,” said Jimmy. “It’s one thing to risk your life on a mission for your country. Quite another to take a stupid chance because of the idiocy of a politician. Especially one that’s not even American.”
Nick saw several heads nodding.
“Then we’re in agreement. Go brief your men with the news and let’s meet up again in an hour to decide how we’re going to pull out. And just a heads-up, we plan to do so without alerting either Rivera, Flores, or Smith.”
The entire group reconvened an hour later and spent more than three hours planning their exfil. It wasn’t going to be simple.
Even after racking their brains, the best they could come up with was something extremely risky and arguably very dangerous. But it wasn’t a cakewalk these days getting across the border. After years of griping from the American people, Washington had listened. All the easy ways across were a thing of the past.
Now, a formidable obstacle awaited them. Walls. Cameras. Agents. All worked in concert to stop most of those illegals attempting the famous crossing of the Rio Grande into America. Tunnels were your best hope, but Nick’s team could hardly call up the Godesto Cartel and ask them to allow a crossing.
Marcus had joked, “Maybe if we promise to leave Flores alone, he’d grant us passage.”
“Fat chance,” Nick said.
The problem mainly lay in all the weapons. Each member of Nick’s team had legit passports, but trying to cross the border with enough weapons for a small army would certainly create some attention. And they couldn’t just use their company credentials from the fake corporation Nick had helped create since that would instantly alert Smith as well.
“So we’re left with leaving our weaponry and gear?” the second squad leader asked.
“Not an option,” Nick said. “If these weapons were ever used by the cartels, it would make Operation Fast and Furious, the walking guns case, look like nothing.”
“I’m not game,” Marcus said, “for a bunch of Congressional hearings and dealing with all those assholes in Washington.”
The Scout Sniper leader cleared his throat and asked, “Blow them up? Keep only our pistols?”
“We’re not putting this all on Nick,” Marcus said.
Nick knew that tactically it made sense to destroy the weapons, but he feared the repercussions. Smith and his folks would be pissed enough to learn they had refused Rivera’s request and left the country without alerting anyone. But to blow up several million dollars’ worth of weapons, too? That would be too much.
“Look,” Marcus said. “This is going to be complicated, getting our extraction planned out. Why don’t you ask Rivera for a couple more days to consider how we could work well with his government? Meanwhile, we figure out how we’re going to do this, and by the time Rivera is ready for your answer, we’ll already be gone.”
Nick liked that idea and nodded. “Sounds like a good plan.” And with that, he left the room to make the call.
Chapter 25
Hernan Flores and the Butcher were in the middle of a yet another ugly meeting. Shockingly, they were in the same room, something that didn’t happen much these days.
Partly, it was due to risk. Flores now had a ten million dollar reward on his head and there were plenty of impoverished Mexicans who’d like to have that kind of money dropped on them.
But the bigger reason for not meeting more often was crystal clear in the dingy warehouse office in which they met. Flores had increased his entourage to eight guards in the room with him instead of four, and he had more than thirty heavily armed men in the warehouse outside the room. The Butcher had upped his armament as well. He had his ever-present duffel bag on the floor next to him and a grenade, unbeknownst to Flores, in his right-hand coat pocket.
Neither man trusted the other, and the Butcher didn’t plan on hesitating. If Flores tried anything, he’d pull the pin on the grenade in his pocket and rush him, tackling and holding him close as the grenade blew them both to shark meat.
“What are you smiling at?” Flores asked.
“Just thinking about something.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer you pay attention,” Flores said, standing up from behind his desk -- a desk that had to be the cheapest one he had ever sat behind. “We need to plan our reaction to President Rivera’s move to try to incarcerate me.”
“We need to kill him,” the Butcher said. “Ambush his convoy. Attack the Presidential Palace. Whatever.”
“In case you’ve forgotten,” Flores said, “attacking the Presidential Palace is precisely what got us in this situation.”
“No, failing to kill him is what got us in this situation. We need to take out both him and Juan Soto. It’s really a simple equation. They’re the backbone of those who oppose us.”
“We’ve discussed this before,” Flores said. “We don’t want to completely remove the Mexican government. We just want to get the man we want in power as President.”
“While we’ve discussed this,” the Butcher said, “we clearly are not in agreement about the strategy, nor have we ever been. The way I see it, we take the government out, and you don’t have a ten million dollar reward on your head. You’ll be able to come out of hiding again. And ride around in Mexico City and attend your dinners and balls and galas. Life returns to normal.”
“Nonsense,” Flores said. “The Mexican people are too proud to accept such a reality. They’d rather have a weak, corrupt government than a government that’s been overthrown by drug runners. Even those who support the cartels want to at least have the appearance of having a country with its own independent government.”
“Believe what you want,” the Butcher said. “I stand by what I said.”
Flores sighed. He knew his number two man was talking behind his back and undermining him in increasingly regular intervals. Flores had hoped to win him over behind the deception of meeting about tactics, but the Butcher wasn’t going to budge.
The Butcher wanted the government overthrown. Flores wanted the government left in place, but with his man in charge.
This much was clear: neither were bud
ging. And with that clarity, Flores decided he would take out the Butcher once and for all.
Unfortunately for him, the Butcher was having the exact same thoughts.
Exactly six hours later, before Hernan Flores could move to yet another hidden location, cops and SWAT members descended on the warehouse where the meeting with the Butcher had gone down. President Roberto Rivera dispatched more than three hundred officers to conduct the raid once a tip on Flores’s location came in to the government hotline. The fear of Flores and the Godesto proved remarkable, as this had been the only tip since the press conferences.
Armored trucks and vans loaded with follow-up troops swarmed the building from four different directions. Once they broke cover and advanced the final few hundred yards, five helicopters toting snipers in their doors roared in from two directions and surrounded the building from above.
No one would be escaping.
Flores’s guards fought at first, but the well-trained, fully-decked out assault troops cut them down with little fanfare. The snipers from above picked off others. And within thirty seconds, the shock of such a force of three hundred men hitting the building convinced those inside to surrender.
Flores watched his men as they looked about and decided to give up. He didn’t blame them. His men didn’t have armor and helmets and weapons with Aimpoint sights. And certainly very few of his men had fired thousands of rounds in practice. Additionally, they hadn’t rehearsed and trained as a team, so those who tried to defend the warehouse died quickly.
And there was nothing like seeing the man in front of you take a bullet through the face to take the fight out of you. Flores’s men folded like a bunch of kindergartners forced to miss lunch, and he knew he was screwed. He’d have to surrender since this warehouse lacked a tunnel system or any other viable escape option.
But as he walked toward the officers with his hands held high, he surrendered knowing there was no judge and no jail who could hold him. He’d re-emerge soon, and he’d be stronger than ever. Of that he had no doubt.
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 19
