This must be their isolation unit, the Butcher thought. The guards led him about three-quarters of the way down the hall and then looked back up the corridor behind them one more time to make sure the path was clear.
“Make it quick,” one of them said in a low voice, finally looking at him.
They placed a massive key in the lock and turned it a full turn, then yanked the heavy door open. Before the Butcher walked in, the officer who hadn’t said a word put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He turned and the man reached in his pocket and handed him a handmade shank.
The Butcher looked down at what had once been a flathead screw driver, but was now a ground-down piece of metal, its handle removed and replaced with tape, its point like a sharpened gaff.
The Butcher entered the dark cell.
Hernan Flores heard men approaching and finally relaxed. He was still reeling over how long it had taken his attorney to arrive. But, as the saying went, “Better late than never.” Especially when you were buried in the depths of Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1.
He started moving toward the door and blinding light, then stopped. Silhouetted in the door was a short man, who was clearly holding a shank.
“Miss me?” the man asked, and Flores instantly recognized his voice.
“You bastard.”
Flores rushed toward him with every intent to knock the little bastard out. Just knock him down, get the shank from him, and take him out. The Butcher was so small that Flores knew he could handle him. He had size and he’d been in his share of fights in his day, so to hell with all that bullshit martial arts the Butcher always practiced.
But as his fist swung hard and wide, he saw his nemesis step to the side as easy as if he were Bruce Lee, and as Flores’s momentum carried him forward, the little bastard kicked him in the back with a side kick that drove him twice as fast toward the opposite wall. Instant, earth-shattering pain in his lower back screamed through his nerves, so intense that he never felt the broken nose or front teeth that the steel wall had knocked out. And the only thing that surpassed the pain was the recognition that his legs had given out and he couldn’t move them as he slid down to the floor. He roared in pain and fear as he imagined having to live a life completely paralyzed, bound to a wheelchair for his remaining days.
The Butcher knew he had kicked him hard. As the fat asshole had come at him, he had simply side-stepped him to the left and leapt forward into a flying side kick as the man went past him, right into the fat piece of shit’s back. He knew the kick must have cracked something because he had hit him so hard with his heel that it had jarred his leg. Badly.
And the Butcher was used to hard kicks on even harder kicking bags, so he couldn’t imagine what Flores’s back must feel like. He might have even broken it, but ultimately it didn’t matter. He skipped forward -- light and fast -- and mounted Flores’s back just as he hit the ground. Without a moment’s hesitation he drove the shank into his right ear. Deep. The entire fight was smooth, fast, and flawless.
The guards watched the whole thing go down, shocked and stunned at the little man’s skills. The entire thing lasted two seconds. Not a moment of fear as the big man rushed him, just a Zen-like calm, a simple sidestep, a powerful flying kick, and cheetah-like speed as he darted forward, jumped on the man’s back, and drove the shank into his brain.
The little guy yanked the shank out of Flores’s head and wiped the blade on the back of the dead man’s prison uniform.
“Who’s next?” the man asked, a sick smile on his face.
The guards looked at each other, shrugged, and then pointed him toward his final destination. They walked him down a hall and guided him toward where their sergeant had instructed them to bring him next. There were three guards who weren’t involved in the bribes and this nighttime excursion. They needed to be killed before the Butcher could successfully get out.
As they led him down yet another hall, the guards wondered if the little man could pull off this final challenge. In all, twenty-one guards were in on the bribes from the Butcher and the Godesto Cartel. That much the Butcher knew. And he’d been told before entering the facility that nearly one hundred and fifty more guards on the night shift didn’t need to be involved, as they were either in different parts of the building, or stationed in guard towers or on reserve as reaction squads (and thus buried deep in the bowels of the building). These nearly one hundred and fifty guards were oblivious to who entered or left the prison. They had specific responsibilities usually involving the area directly around them. They’d never even know the Butcher was there.
But there were three guards too straight and honest to even approach, so the lieutenant in charge of the night shift (and the first guard to be paid off) had worked around them up to this point. But the Butcher could never leave in the middle of the night without these three knowing or asking questions, so they’d have to be taken out. And none of the guards were up for taking care of this nasty part of the plan themselves.
“We know them too well,” the lieutenant had said. “Plus, we can have you take them out in an area where there are cameras, and that will lend credence to the story we must concoct after you’re gone. After all, we must think of our own protection, as well.”
“And these men,” the Butcher asked, “will have billy clubs?”
“Yes,” the lieutenant said.
“And radios?” the Butcher asked.
“Yes. There’s no way we can get their radios off them without them knowing something is up. From day one in training, guards are taught to keep their radio on their body. Even when they go to the restroom. It’s their lifeline. There’s no getting their radios off them without putting them in high alert and possibly causing them to send out a warning. They know some of the guards aren’t honest. They’ve heard rumors of them slipping in drugs or weapons, or slipping shanks to certain prisoners. These three men aren’t stupid, and they’re very wary. Otherwise they would already be dead.”
“So, three men with three billy clubs,” the Butcher asked, “and I have to take them out unarmed?”
“Yes. Because if you used a weapon against them, the investigators would have to figure out where you got it, and that guard would be mercilessly questioned. His finances watched for years. He might be jailed based on suspicion alone. But these men’s guard should be down. I’ll ask them to meet me in the break room,” the lieutenant had said, “so they won’t be expecting anything.”
“All right,” the Butcher said. “I’ll take care of the men, unarmed. But what if they get a warning out on the radio?”
“You can’t allow that to happen.”
“You can’t block the signal or get them on the wrong frequency?”
“They’re already wary. And they barely trust me as it is.”
“And if they get a call out before I take them down?”
“All is lost.”
“Meaning?”
“I mean these officers you’ve paid off can’t ignore a distressed call. Obviously, that involves more than the twenty-one men who are in on this, and those twenty-one can’t be seen as not responding. That would look very suspicious. If one of those three gets a call out, a response force will come and they will beat you half to death.”
“And I’ll be thrown in a cell and you won’t be able to get me out?” the Butcher asked.
“Correct. Probably, the warden will be here within twenty minutes of it happening and there’s nothing I or anyone else can do. Plus, with any call out at this prison, an alert goes out to the Presidential Palace. There are just too many VIP prisoners here. Without question, they’ll figure out who you are and you’re toast.”
“Toast?”
“Yes, toast. For the rest of your life.”
That had been the conversation the Butcher had shared with the lieutenant prior to his entry, and as he neared the task of killing the three straight-laced guards, he fully understood the risks he faced.
The two guards and prisoner walked a
bit further, and then the guards stopped and put their arms out to halt the little man. The guard on the left put his hand on the Butcher’s arm and leaned toward him, placing his mouth mere inches from his ear.
“We can’t get any closer as we’ll soon enter one of the areas under video surveillance. But, go down this hallway and it’s the second door on the right.”
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.
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 21
