Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  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.

  Chapter 28

  The Butcher wasn’t the only one on the phone. President Roberto Rivera was discussing the death of Hernan Flores with his trusted friend and number one advisor Juan Soto.

  “How could this happen?” Soto yelled after hearing the news shortly after the 10 a.m. report from the head of the bureau of prisons.

 
“I told you,” Rivera said, sighing. “We’re still not sure yet.”

  It was the third time that Rivera had said they weren’t sure how it happened and he was beginning to wonder how many times he’d have to say it before Soto understood that they truly weren’t sure how it happened.

  “And why didn’t you call me this morning immediately after you learned the news?”

  “I was half drunk, you were half drunk,” Rivera said. “I figured you’d rather sleep since we had no facts yet anyway. I know if the situation were reversed I’d have wanted to sleep.”

  “You don’t become a billionaire by sleeping while something big is going down,” Soto said with intense anger in his voice.

  Rivera was taken aback by that. Soto rarely lost his temper and he was never self-righteous. It was a sign of weakness, he had once said. Soto’s reaction scared Rivera -- it underscored the terrible danger they now faced.

  But while Rivera agreed his political career was likely over, he didn’t want to put up with Soto’s shit. Not with this little sleep. Not on what was likely the worst day of Rivera’s life.

  “I think,” Rivera countered, “that someone is forgetting that we followed their plan. I never wanted Flores arrested in the first place. It’s why I called in more American support after the Navy SEAL Team was destroyed. Flores should have been killed by the Vigilantes, and then the Mexican people would have felt empowered. Now, thanks to your brilliant plan, the Mexican people either think we’re corrupt or incompetent, and I’m not real sure which is worse.”

  “Oh, you’re now placing this on me?” Soto asked.

  “No, just reminding you of the facts.”

  “Why didn’t this man have thirty guards around him? Was that really asking too much? Hell, you could have placed members of your Presidential Guard around him. They’ve got a much higher security clearance and I guarantee you that if you had used some of them, there’s no way he’d be dead. I just can’t believe he’s dead.”

  “Well, he is. I’ve seen pictures of the body.”

  “You still should have called me.”

  “Why?” Rivera screamed, slamming his hand down on his desk. “What would that have served? What could I have done? It was already too late!”

  “Bullshit,” Soto fired back. “You could have called up your elite Special Forces Battalion and rushed them there. They could have been there in thirty minutes and secured the site. And then you could have arrested every guard in the prison, separated them, and secured them in holding cells. We could have interrogated and sweated them and probably come up with what really happened.”

  Rivera couldn’t help but see the merit in this idea. Damn, why hadn’t he thought of that? Well, being half-drunk hadn’t helped.

  And why hadn’t any of his advisors thought of it? Ah, that’s right. He hadn’t called an emergency cabinet meeting, instead deciding to try to get a little more sleep. Could he have even managed a meeting in his impaired state? Who knew. And shit. Just the thought of not calling the cabinet meeting made him consider the hearings his opponents would demand once news broke.

  What did Rivera know and when did he know it? What was his response and why didn’t he react differently?

  Rivera buried his head in his hands. He needed more aspirin.

  Soto knew by the delay in any response from Rivera that his remarks had hit home.

  “Next time just call me,” Soto said, deciding to drop it.

  Rivera swallowed and said, “I will,” like a bloodied kid who’d just been pummeled by bully.

  “What do we know about this number two man -- the Butcher, I think they call him?” Soto asked.

  “We’re pulling together all we can on him, but already we know an impressive amount of information, mostly from informants. Let’s see...”

  Rivera pulled a file toward him and opened it.

  “Looks like he started out as a nobody. Just a really small kid who got bullied a lot. Fell into the wrong crowd, got busted for theft and grand larceny of a vehicle. Prison apparently really sucked for him. He made several formal complaints about being sexually molested.”

  Soto interrupted him.

  “Which reminds me,” Soto said, “we have to get that under control. Our prisons should be safe for both the guards and the inmates.”

  “We have a lot to get under control,” Rivera said, his voice biting. “Worrying about prisoners is pretty low down my priority list.”

  “That’s the wrong attitude to have,” Soto said, “but we can argue about this some other time. Like, when your entire career isn’t hanging by a thread.”

  Rivera ignored the remark. He didn’t feel like fighting anymore, so he scanned the memo further.

  “Continuing where we left off, the Butcher gives up on alerting the prison authorities about the sexual abuse he’s enduring and takes to weights and boxing.”

  Rivera flipped a page and continued, “Um, I’m assuming the weights and boxing didn’t work because he left prison and went on to develop a fierce reputation as a martial artist.”

  Rivera scanned some more, then said, “Hmm. Interesting. So, he apparently takes these newly acquired martial arts skills and tracks down nearly every man who had raped him in prison or bullied him as a kid.”

  “What did he do?” Soto asked. “Beat them up?”

  “No,” Rivera said. “He killed every one of them, supposedly. Either by beating them to death or slashing them up with either a short tanto blade or long katana blade.”

  “My God.”

  “No, it’s worse than that. He didn’t just put them away with a swift killing strike. Rather, he would cut and slice them up, often as many as eighty or ninety shallow slices until they bled out, according to the medical report.”

  “And why was he never arrested for these killings?” Juan Soto asked.

  “Warrants were put out for his arrest, but no luck in arresting him. At one point, one officer called in a suspicious person driving a vehicle he had been linked to, but before an arrest could be made or backup arrive, the officer was killed by heavy nine millimeter fire. Detectives suspected it was an Uzi used on the officer.”

  “So, that may not have been him?” Soto said.

  “No, it probably was. Says here that his second favorite weapon after his katana sword is an Uzi.”

  “Well, there’s little doubt that the man is a serious killer,” Soto said. “But can he lead? Running the Godesto Cartel would challenge even the strongest leader. It’s a huge organization with tons of people in it. That’s a lot of details to keep up with.”

  “Wow,” Rivera said. He hadn’t even been listening to Soto. The report was simply too interesting. “Looks like, according to one informant, he once famously killed one of Flores’s guards who tried to disarm him.”

  “But can he lead?” Soto asked louder.

  “Hell if I know. Guess we’ll find out.”

  Chapter 29

  “Nick, you’re going to want to come see this,” Isabella said.

  Nick stood from his desk, where he had been making some notes for a final report to submit to Mr. Smith. He followed Isabella out of his office, but stayed far enough behind her so that he could comfortably admire the view as she walked down the hall. Today she wore tight green fatigue trousers and a black tanktop that stretched across her chest tighter than anything he’d seen her wear.

  Nick didn’t know if it was Isabella’s goal to torture every man confined to the farm, but she was doing a damned good job at it. Well, their time with her was limited and running out, so what the hell, Nick thought.

  They walked into the living room where most of the Primary Strike Team and probably two dozen others from the three squads stood around a television. Dwayne Marcus looked up from it and saw the two approaching.

  “Make way for Nick,” Marcus said, his deep, drill instructor voice carrying across the room like a wave.

  The men shifted a bit and Nick slid into the half-circle. Marcus picked up the remote and
rewound the TV five minutes backward on the DVR.

  “Wait until you see this, Nick,” he said, dropping the remote to a chair. “This is unbelievable. Or on second thought, maybe it’s not.”

  The show resumed and Nick recognized the Mexican Presidential briefing room. Seeing that room was becoming a theme.

  The Mexican President walked up to the podium and looked down at a notecard he carried. He looked grim and Nick felt just a touch of uneasiness in his stomach.

  “I’ve come out today to make a statement and I apologize to the members of the media present today, but I will be unable to take any questions,” Roberto Rivera said, nodding to the reporters who stood around him, hovering like a flock of vultures.

  Nick noticed the man directly to his left -- Bulldog, the huge Navy SEAL from Baltimore -- step away from him and then Isabella slid into the circle. She moved in close, and he felt her breast against his crossed arm, then her hand on his lower back.

  Nick assumed no one was behind them because Isabella immediately began sliding her hand up and down his lower back, her nails cutting into him seductively. He tried to pay attention to the press conference, but it was taking all the focus he could muster. Between the feeling of her breasts and the sensation of her fingers running up and down his back, he was about to call the entire unit outside into formation while he took care of more pressing matters.

  “I am as shocked at this news as you are,” Rivera said, and Nick wondered what he was talking about. He focused harder.

  “While Hernan Flores was no friend of either mine or the Mexican people, he deserved better than to die in a prison.”

  Nick came fully to his senses. Flores? Dead?

  “Make no mistake,” Rivera said, “this was not justice. And while we were going to seek the sternest of sentences, this is not an equivalent punishment. Flores should have faced a judge. The Mexican people should have witnessed the cruel acts of this man, as the government presented its case against the most dangerous man in North America.