Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (10 page)

Nick
figured Marcus would be the natural leader of the entire group, having reached
the rank of gunnery sergeant in the Marine Corps, while also having done a
three-year stint as a drill instructor at Parris Island, South Carolina: that
bastion of discipline and hell which consistently forged some of America’s
greatest warriors.

Marcus
had been a football standout at the University of Florida -- a ferocious middle
linebacker and team captain, who most analysts pegged as a guaranteed
first-round pick in the NFL should he leave at the end of his junior year. And
he’d have certainly been a first-round pick if he waited until after his senior
year and remained injury-free.

Instead,
the massive event that would come to be known as September 11 intervened, and
Marcus dropped out of college and walked straight into the Marine Corps
recruiting station. His dad had been a Marine, so it was the natural thing to
do.

Marcus
had done several tours in Afghanistan and Iraq as a rifleman, then squad
leader, and then platoon sergeant before heading to the drill field to become a
drill instructor.

Marcus
had the size, charisma, and intelligence to be an officer, but his records
indicated he turned down offer after offer from his superiors to go to Officer
Candidate School. His file quoted him as saying he’d rather be behind a rifle
on the line than in the rear behind a map.

Nick pointed
toward the men who had looked at Marcus when Nick had asked who was in charge.

“Those
men say you’re in charge,” Nick said.

“They
didn’t put anyone in charge when we arrived,” Marcus said. “I led some
exercises, a couple of runs, and settled some disputes. I’m happy to lead, but
I’m betting you’re not looking for leaders, but trigger pullers instead. So,”
Marcus said, stepping forward and coming across as intimidating as anything
Nick had seen in awhile, “mark me down as nothing but a rifleman and pick me to
go. You won’t regret it.”

Nick
instantly liked Marcus. While Marcus held the rank of gunny in the Marine
Corps, his file stated that the man had grown tired of the politics of the
upper-echelon ranks, which had led him to apply to the CIA. Now, even at the
age of thirty-three, Marcus had the build and tough look of a hard-nosed
sergeant, not some older gunny beaten down by hard deployments.

Marcus
hadn’t allowed the higher rank and increased benefits to soften him, like so
many others had.

“You made
the team,” Nick said. “Now step over here and talk to me.”

Nick
walked with Marcus a good thirty feet from the men. Nick stopped and angled
around so that he could see the crowd, but Marcus’s back was to them -- the
angle would help prevent the men from hearing what Marcus would say.

“I need
your help,” Nick said. “We don’t have much time. In fact, we need to have some
men land in Mexico in just a few days -- our timetable got pushed forward that
much -- so I’m not going to be able to interview and test the men the way I’d
want. Hell, we’re barely going to have time to even train together.”

“I
understand,” Marcus said, “but I’m still in. How can I help?”

“I need
to know who you’d pick if you were in my shoes,” Nick said. “You’ve been with
the men for two days or more, and while I’ve studied their files, you’ve been
around them more so I’d like to lean heavily on your recommendations.”

“They’re
all a solid group, but I’ve noticed some standouts,” Marcus said.

And with
that, Marcus began discussing some of the superstars he’d seen.

Chapter
12

Hernan
Flores paced behind his desk. Things were going well and he knew he shouldn’t
be pacing, but it was hard not to be a bit antsy when you had a meeting set up
with the Butcher.

Flores
had been working with the Butcher for nearly five years now, and the crazy
bastard made him uneasy. Flores had brought him on board once he was already a
force worth fearing. Legend had it that the Butcher -- no one knew his name, or
at least spoke of it -- started like most Mexican youth: broke, discouraged,
and underfed.

A small
boy, he was bullied from the beginning and soon fell into the wrong crowd. He
got arrested and sent to prison for theft and grand larceny of a vehicle, and
it was in prison that the Butcher learned there were far worse things than
being bullied by gang members.

Such a
small man, and lacking any cartel connections or protections behind bars, he
was beaten and regularly sexually assaulted. Even as he took to weights and
tried to defend himself, he discovered he was too small to add enough muscle to
win any fights with force, and none of the boxing or punches he tried to teach
himself proved effective.

Discharged
six years later, and knowing that with his career path he would eventually end
up in prison again, he dove headlong into martial arts; something that wouldn’t
discriminate against his small size. Fueled by the painful memories, he threw
himself into karate. He studied it. Practiced it. Mastered it.

When he
wasn’t stealing or selling drugs, he was obsessively pursuing the skills of the
fighting arts, and not just karate -- he branched off into dozens of styles.
And while he developed skill, he never achieved the peace and enlightenment so
many usually gained from it. He had been bullied, beaten, and raped too many
times for that.

With his
new martial arts skills, the Butcher went on to track down many of his
attackers -- from both his days as a youth and his days as an inmate, once the
men were released. In every case, he had used his martial arts skills and his
affinity for a blade -- sometimes a full-sized sword, other times a short tanto
blade -- to beat or slash a man to death.

Not that
he was opposed to gun work; he knew they were necessary, and he certainly was
practiced with them, as well, but he simply preferred blades and the fear they
put into someone. Also, he loved how long it took for a man hacked and sliced
sixty or eighty times to die, while they progressed from resistance to sheer
terror to submission and begging for mercy. Not that mercy was ever given. He
was the Butcher, after all, and his heart and desire for mercy had been crushed
under the weight of several three-hundred-pound men.

No one
messed with the Butcher. He was unstable, easily provoked, and completely sick
in the head. He enjoyed hurting people and lived to practice new fighting
techniques on people. Kicks to the knee, watching the effects of a
hyper-extended leg. Swordhand strikes to the neck, hearing an opponent gasp
desperately for air. Hand strikes to the eyes, feeling the soft tissue tear
under the steel-like pressure of his hardened fingers.

Hernan
Flores hated even thinking about the Butcher. He continued his pacing and took
a swig of Jack Daniel’s. He knew he should kill the Butcher, and soon, but the
man was so valuable that it was hard to do. Under Flores’s tutelage, he had
gone from a psycho who lived on minor drug sales and stolen valuables to a
hired hitman, good with gun and blade.

Flores
had asked for four of his best bodyguards to be at this meeting instead of the
typical two, but it wouldn’t matter. The Butcher would be armed, and Flores
sure as hell wasn’t going to try to disarm him again. He had tried that once
inadvertently and the results had been disastrous.

It
happened the first time Flores and the Butcher were to meet. As was standard
procedure, Flores’s guard at the front door had tried to take the man’s weapons
from him -- no one entered the building to see the cartel leader without being
checked and disarmed.

The bodyguard
-- a huge man -- carried a pistol and had an AK stacked in a closet, but he
hadn’t seen any threat worth taking seriously with the small man before them.
He hadn’t been warned who was arriving, which turned out to be a big oversight
by Flores.

The guard
noticed the duffle bag the little man carried, and while the man looked unarmed
with his tight black T-shirt and loose-fitting, black karate pants, complete
with thin-soled martial arts shoes, the guard knew a weapon could be concealed
in the bag (if not even a small weapon on the small man). And so the guard had
walked around the desk to check out the mysterious man after confirming the man
had an appointment with Flores.

The small
man -- built like a gymnast and not a bodybuilder -- had stepped back and said,
“I’m not going upstairs or even another foot inside this building without this
bag and the weapons it contains. This is Flores’s headquarters and I have no
idea why he has summoned me, so I’m not going without this duffle bag, but I’m
just one man, and I’m coming at Flores’s request, so I hardly think I’m a
threat.”

“It’s
standard policy,” the guard said, bored, but with attitude creeping into his
voice. He moved forward toward the little man.

The
Butcher took another step back to keep his distance and said, “I’m sure it is,
but I’m not comfortable with it and I decline to be disarmed. And again, I am
here at Flores’s request.”

“Listen
here you little shit,” the guard said, stepping forward again. “If you think
your karate and your fancy karate shoes can help here, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Last
warning,” the Butcher said, his back now against a wall.

The guard
had fought plenty of guys this man’s size. Sure, most knew martial arts, but
the guard knew a fair amount as well. And he knew as long as he avoided several
joint locks and arm breaks, while also protecting his groin, throat, and his
eyes, he’d be fine. He’d manhandle this little shit and not only get rid of
some pent-up stress, but also break up a job that had increasingly become too
boring for him. The guard missed his days of being out on the street and
messing people up for Flores.

The guard
reached for him with both arms, cautious to avoid any arm-break attempts. But
the wannabe karate kid simply dropped the duffle bag, seemingly surprised. The
guard gripped the man by the shoulders and was in the process of slinging him
across the room into the other wall when he heard the sound of metal scraping
against plastic.

The guard
recognized the distinctive sound of a blade being unsheathed from a scabbard.
And then the guard felt the sharp pain of a slice between his legs. He looked
down to see a full-sized katana blade rip up in a sweeping arc from between his
legs, just as the pain of having his entire manhood slit open hit him with a
sickening shock.

He
screamed in pain and grabbed himself, witnessing more blood than he’d ever seen
explode out of his gashed-open suit pants. And bent over, trying to stop the
bleeding -- and going into complete shock as he imagined the damage to his
manhood -- he never saw the Butcher step to the side, swing the blood-covered
katana in a full circular arc, and come down on the back of his neck with an
immense amount of speed and power. The blade severed the guard’s head right off
at the base of the neck, and the Butcher watched it fall and roll.

The
guard’s body fell hard onto the ground and the Butcher ran both sides of his
bloody sword along the back of the guard’s suit to get the long blade mostly
clean. Then, he sheathed it and replaced it in the bag, yanking out an Uzi and
looking behind him to see if more guards were entering the lobby, rushing in as
backup.

Seeing it
was clear, he placed the Uzi back in the duffle bag and exited the building,
hailing a cab as if nothing had occurred. Flores smiled as he recalled the
taped footage of the slaughter. He had watched the entire event go down dozens
of times, pausing the silent video as the Butcher reached into a hidden sleeve
of the duffel bag, where the sword scabbard was apparently stored in some kind
of special pouch in the bag.

In the
video, the guard had barely flinched before the surprise upward swing struck
the man’s groin. And then Flores recalled the splendid side-step and downward
arc of the blade into the back of the guard’s neck.

It had
been sheer artistry and Flores had been captivated by it for weeks. Even
better, the Butcher had made Flores wait a full three months before agreeing to
meet again. He’d ignored the calls of Flores’s aides. He’d ignored the personal
calls Flores made himself. He’d even turned down a number of gifts that
Flores’s men had delivered to his home, including a gold, 24-karat AK-74.

Flores
had been top dog for so long that he had been intrigued by this man who ignored
his power. Flores’s aides begged Flores to have the man killed -- either blown
to bits in a drive-by massacre or taken alive and slowly tortured.

But
Flores wanted this man on his team. Anyone could kill with a gun, but this man
had panache. He had guts. He lacked fear.

Flores
reached for his glass of Jack Daniel’s. He took a large swallow -- far more
than he meant -- and slammed his glass down. My, what a difference five years
had made.

The
Butcher had gone from his golden boy, a superb hitman who acted as some kind of
ninja-like assassin, to a right-hand man who now consistently undermined Flores
behind his back. Flores had heard that the Butcher thought Mexico’s most
powerful cartel leader was weak. That the Butcher thought Flores was too
concerned with his public image and the women and the money and food. Food,
damn it!

Flores
swallowed the rest of his drink and slammed the glass down so hard that this
time it cracked. Flores had conceived, planned, and executed one of the most
horrific attacks in Mexican history, and still this short little shit saw him
as fat and soft. Nothing but a drunkard and sex addict, as he had heard his
informers pass along to him.

Flores
slid his cracked glass across the table and walked to grab another. He filled
it half and half with Jack and Coke and took another swallow. How could the
Butcher not give him credit for what he’d done?

His men
had ambushed and decimated a Navy SEAL team that had been hunting down and
harassing his organization. Hernan Flores had been planning this ambush for
weeks, and once again, perfect intel, evil cunning, and brutal force had won
the day.

You
didn’t build the most powerful cartel in Mexico or take down a SEAL team or
strike brutally at the President while he’s inside his own compound if you were
soft. Flores couldn’t deny the sex addiction or the fat remarks, but damn it,
he was a great cartel leader.

Flores
walked over to a desk drawer and pulled out a bag of Funyuns. He grabbed
several out and threw them into his mouth. He washed the chips down with a big
swallow of Jack and Coke, nearly finishing off the glass, which would be his
third of the day, and it wasn’t even two o’clock yet.

Flores
ignored this thought; he knew he wasn’t an alcoholic. He was just under a lot
of stress. Stress that a mere hitman like the Butcher couldn’t possibly
imagine.

Flores
grabbed three more Funyuns before throwing the nearly empty bag in the drawer.
Christ, I have to stop drinking and eating so much, he thought. He burped,
leaned forward, and moved his big frame toward his bar to pour himself a new
Jack and Coke.

Flores
took a long drink and smiled. Damn, it felt good. Up in his eight-story building,
he wondered what Rivera and Soto were thinking right now. Stupid idealists,
Flores thought. How they possibly thought they could stand up to the cartels,
most of which operated under Flores’s command, was beyond him.

But,
President Rivera and Mr. Goody-Good billionaire Juan Soto were not immediate
concerns. For now, Flores needed to focus on the Butcher, who’d be arriving at
any moment.

The
Butcher made his way up to Flores’s office. He had four of Flores’s guards
around him in the elevator, but he wasn’t scared. He knew he intimidated the
shit out of them. He had enough martial arts skills to disarm and kill each of
these men even if he were unarmed, but under his straining arm, he had his
duffle bag with all his weapons in it. These men were barely a threat to him.
He knew it. They knew it.

The
elevator arrived at the top floor and they moved toward Flores’s corner office.
The Butcher smiled at Flores’s busty secretary and walked with the four guards
past two more armed sentries, who opened the doors for them. The Butcher
noticed the heavier-than-usual security and smiled. The old man was letting his
fear really show.

Hernan
Flores waited behind his desk, and the Butcher knew the man had been pacing.
The old Flores used to make a habit of forcing him to wait outside his office.
Sometimes for fifteen or twenty minutes, appointment or not.

Yes, the
Butcher thought, looking at the fat man before him. Indeed, this man had fallen
far. Even in near victory, at what should have been the height of his power,
Flores proved soft and weak, both physically and mentally.