Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (16 page)

“We’re
not burning anything down,” Nick said. “Place caught on fire during the
firefight with the Vigilantes.”

What to
do afterward had been discussed prior to the mission, but Isabella hadn’t given
up on swaying Nick.

“We
should call President Rivera and turn in all this coke,” she said. “Let him
take partial credit for its seizure. Or he can pretend a raid elsewhere seized
it. It would buy him political capital with both the American government and
his people.”

“You
missed the part,” Nick said, “where I said I could give two shits about
President Rivera or the Mexican government. We’re here to take down this
asshole Hernan Flores and the Godesto Cartel. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Nick’s
right,” Marcus said. “We give this stuff up and it’s just a chance for some
police informer to get a look at us or pick up a clue when we do the handoff.
We don’t need that risk. Plus, you know damn well that this coke would
disappear from the evidence room and be back on the streets in two weeks.”

“Not
everyone in Mexico is dirty,” Isabella said.

“And
there’s not many naive Boy Scouts in our unit,” Nick said, “except for Preacher
there. And he’d cut your throat in a heartbeat. Just might pray for you as you
died.”

A couple
of men laughed, and Nick said, “Burn the place, and let’s get the hell out of
here.”

“What
about the prisoners?” Truck said. He had the look of a man who wanted to take
care of the problem before they left.

Nick
wasn’t to the point of executing men who were unarmed and bound. Yet.

“Marcus,
get some of the men to load them up and drop ’em off at some landmark,” Nick
said. “We’ll get our Mexican liaison to call President Rivera’s chief of
intelligence and let them know where they are. I’m sure they’d enjoy the
opportunity to interrogate them.”

Nick
turned and walked toward the van, and Marcus issued orders to grab the
prisoners and light the place up. They’d be leaving with several minutes
dispersion between vehicles and Marcus needed to get the departure coordinated
with the other two squad leaders, as well as the four scout snipers who needed
to be picked up.

Nick was
already dialed out of this op and planning the next, but Marcus appreciated not
being micromanaged. He knew delegation was difficult for Nick, and he didn't
intend to screw this exfil up.

The next
day, the Vigilantes uploaded and distributed a press release and video about
the church raid. Besides footage of the cocaine, dead bodies, and weapons in
the cathedral, they also inserted loads of evidence against Flores and the
Godesto Cartel in the video.

Isabella
had spent hours finding pictures of him online in various news clippings and
websites involved with the church and its priest, and she provided images of
Hernan Flores attending the church and articles describing him donating loads
of money to it. Plus, there were about a dozen photos of Flores and the priest
together at various events.

In the
end, it was a damning (and compelling) video against Flores, and it exploded
online and on dozens of news stations across Mexico. Analysts and commentators
broadcast and discussed the video to no end, and chat rooms across the internet
began to say that perhaps Flores truly was corrupt.

Chapter
18

Billionaire
Juan Soto arrived at the Presidential Palace just a few minutes after ten in
the morning. Soto hated to arrive late to any meeting, especially one involving
a friend, but the capital city had rings of checkpoints, blocked roads, and
vehicle barriers on all routes in. Following the attack on the Presidential
Palace a few weeks earlier, security had been amped up to its highest level in
recent years.

Juan
Soto’s limousine and two SUV escorts -- both crammed full of heavily armed
bodyguards -- had to be checked and allowed through each of these security
precautions, and this lengthy process had Mexico’s number one businessman
running late.

The
convoy finally pulled through the front gate, which was the most heavily
guarded of all. The Presidential Palace had dozens of men on numerous scaffolds
along its exterior, all painting and patching its heavily damaged walls. Soto
observed the workers with practiced eyes. He had overseen hundreds of building
and renovation projects and he wanted to confirm this was an all-out effort,
not some dog-and-pony show for him and the media. He stepped from his limousine
into his crowd of bodyguards and felt certain this was no matter of pretense.
This was a well-organized, effective undertaking, complete with foremen
yelling, architects looking over plans, and men rushing to finish assignments.

The
restoration task had been given to a rival company, despite the reality that
Soto owned the country’s most prestigious and sought-after construction firm.
But Soto had agreed with President Rivera that it would have looked terrible to
outsiders for Soto’s company to have won the job.

It did
chafe Soto a bit that he was donating $10 million toward the work, and that
part of his money was going to pad his competitor’s wallet, but such was life.
Plus, he had bigger things to worry about right now. He ran his hand over his
custom-fitted suit jacket and straightened it, entering the Presidential Palace
in a hurry.

A top
aide for Rivera greeted him at the door and four security men waved Soto’s
bodyguards to stop. The aide escorted him down numerous halls and switchbacks
to the President’s private office. The aide opened the door for him and
motioned Juan Soto in.

President
Roberto Rivera sat at his desk, a phone to his ear.

“Yes,
General,” Rivera said, his voice slightly strained. He looked up and saw his
friend and held up a finger. “That’s exactly what I want done. Now, I must go.”

Rivera
hung up the phone and stood. Soto saw a sense of frustration and weariness in
his friend before Rivera broke into his smile and covered his weary state with
a practiced veil wielded by all great leaders -- both in business and in
politics.

“It’s so
good to see you,” Rivera said.

“And you,
as well,” Soto said. “I know you’re extremely busy, but I wanted to stop by and
congratulate you on the magnificent first strike against Hernan Flores. The
Vigilantes taking down the cathedral was great, and the video was even better.”

Rivera’s
practiced, fake smile went wide into the real smile Soto knew so well.

“It has
only begun,” Rivera said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“It’s a
bit early, but we do have something that needs to be celebrated,” Soto said
with a grin.

Rivera
avoided calling a staffer and walked to a cabinet and poured the drinks
himself.

Soto
didn’t try to stop him. He had attempted to stop the President the first couple
of times that Rivera had rendered stiff drinks, insisting that no leader of
Rivera’s stature should serve a constituent, but Rivera had practically ordered
him to stand back and allow him to do it.

“You’re a
friend and I wouldn’t be here without your support,” Rivera had said back then.
“Plus, I must do something to keep myself humble. I can feel this power already
going to my head.”

So on
this day, Soto bit down any objections and watched Rivera pour the drinks. Soto
thought back to other drinks they had shared. Their first shared drink -- at
least since Rivera had reached the country’s most powerful position; they used
to share them regularly before that -- transpired about three in the morning on
the night of his victory. They both wanted to celebrate Rivera’s election as
President alone before returning to their wives.

They had
repeated the private occasion on the night that Rivera narrowly beat out his
primary opponent, who had been the head of the Congress of the Union. No one
expected the shaky, first-term President, even with Soto’s support, to pull off
defeating their older, more statesman-like rival. Some of Rivera’s first-term
supporters had even dumped him in favor of his opponent.

His rival
had pushed for peace with the cartels, especially the Godesto Cartel, and the polls
showed that the Mexican people desired that, also. And his earlier backers had
grown lukewarm in their support of him as the violence escalated following
Rivera’s strong moves against the cartels. But Rivera’s sincerity and charm had
pulled in barely enough of the older Mexican voters who felt pursuing peace
with the cartels was nothing short of naive and hopeless.

Rivera
handed Soto a glass and lifted his own in a toast.

“To the
defeat of Hernan Flores,” Rivera said.

“No.
Rather, to the death of Hernan Flores,” Soto said. “We cannot allow this man to
end up behind bars. He will run his cartel just as efficiently from there as he
does now.”

Rivera
nodded and they both swallowed their drinks.

Rivera
said, “You know I can’t say that.”

“I do,”
Soto said, “but had he tried to abduct your daughter, you might feel
differently.”

Rivera
nodded, looking down. “How is she?”

“She’s
still seeing a counselor five days a week,” Soto said. “She was scared out of
her mind, and she was close to several of her guards. They went with her
everywhere. Recitals, school activities, etc. They probably knew her better
than me.”

Rivera
couldn’t meet Soto’s eyes. The near kidnapping of his number one supporter’s
daughter still caused him great embarrassment. And Rivera couldn’t imagine how
a kid was supposed to get over seeing men blown apart right in front of their
eyes.

“How’s
Camilla?” he asked lamely.

Soto
shook his head.

“She
still thinks we should leave the country,” Soto said. “Camilla’s a good woman,
but we’ve seen a lot of death and too many close calls to count. For God’s
sake, I’m traveling in an armored limousine these days, and keeping two SUVs
with eight more men around me. That’s far more than I’ve had in the past. Every
day is like leaving for a war zone. She worries to no end.”

Soto saw
the words cutting into Rivera and knew he didn’t need to add more pressure.
Being President in Mexico in good years would be a brutal job; the country was
so poor and underdeveloped. But, facing down one of the most powerful cartels
in the country’s history would prove too much for most.

Soto
walked over and put his hand on Rivera’s shoulder.

“Just get
this bastard as fast as you can, Roberto, and everything will be just fine,”
Soto said.

“I will,
Juan, I promise you. Just give me some more time.”

They
shook hands and hugged, and both men departed feeling guilty. Soto, because he
had placed additional stress on his friend, and Rivera, because he had fallen
so short to date as President in his war against Hernan Flores. 

Just fifteen
miles away, their opposition likewise wrapped up a meeting.

Hernan
Flores and the Butcher had discussed and argued about their response to such a
devastating loss -- both in cocaine product and in Flores’s reputation.

In the
end, they came up with the perfect response. They polished the idea and
finalized their plans.

“Let’s
see if we can fight their fire with fire,” Flores said, as they both stood to
leave.

The
Butcher smiled his sick smile and picked up his duffel bag, crammed full of
gear, including his Uzi and katana swords.

Chapter
19

The
Godesto Cartel was moments away from striking back at President Roberto Rivera
when the phone in the Butcher’s pocket began vibrating. He debated not
answering it. He knew it was Flores, and he knew what Flores wanted, but he
still didn’t want to answer the phone. He took a deep breath and picked it up.

“Yes?” he
asked.

“What is
taking so long?” Flores asked.

The
Butcher cursed under his breath. It infuriated him to no end that Flores had
informants in the Butcher’s
assault
squads.
The Butcher had always suspected some of the men informed against him to
Flores, but having the proof now made the Butcher angrier. He assumed Flores
used the informers to undermine him, in addition to leaking out valuable
information.

These men
would make it harder to eventually move against Flores and take his position as
leader of the Godesto Cartel from him. And, the fact they existed also
definitively proved that Flores didn’t trust him, which would make any power
moves he made all the more frightening. It also meant the Butcher might need to
move the timetable up since Flores could be planning to move on him first.

The
number one rule of cartel politics was also the number one rule of conventional
warfare: Better to be on the offense and have the initiative than be caught off
guard and stuck reacting.

“Answer
the question,” Flores said. “What is taking so long?”

“This is
a complicated operation,” the Butcher said. “We’ll move soon.” And with that,
he slammed his phone shut, then turned it off vibrate.

The
Butcher looked up at his assembled men. He wondered who the informant was, but
knew that was something to worry about later.

“Is
everyone ready?” he asked.

Men nodded, confidence showing on their faces. Some of them
flashed cruel smiles, anticipating the bloodshed.

The
Butcher recognized that some were nearly as maniacal as he and he grinned back,
knowing he had transformed many into his own image.

“Let’s do
it then,” he said, and the group of men broke up and moved off to vehicles.
They knew the plans, they knew their assignments. They were ready.

Their
target was an isolated police station in Coyutla, a medium-sized city of 20,000.
The city lay alone and miles from help, and while it would have been easier to
hit a small police department in a tiny, rural town, that wouldn’t have been
impressive enough for either Flores’s or the Butcher’s tastes. So, they were
going after Coyutla in the central part of Veracruz.

The state
of Veracruz lay to the east of Mexico City. The city of Coyutla supported a
department of fifty police officers. On a late afternoon like today, there’d be
as many as twenty of them in their headquarters. But that wouldn’t matter. Not
today. Not against Flores and the Butcher.

The
convoy of cars, trucks, and SUVs sped toward the police department headquarters
in the heart of the city. Two of the officers from the department, who in the
past had provided the Godesto Cartel with occasional warnings prior to raids,
had each been paid one hundred thousand dollars cash to give detailed
information about the department’s headquarters, its shifts, and its
contingency plans.

The
building was pretty secure because of the threats from the cartels. It utilized
four steel doors with small, wire-reinforced windows as its entry and exit
points, instead of more typical glass doors that looked more aesthetically
pleasing and allowed in more light. The doors opened outward instead of inward,
and were designed that way to make breaching them inward with a breaching tool
an impossibility. They were located at the center of each side of the building:
north, south, east, and west.

Each door
had
an overhang to protect the police
officers from rain as they entered and exited, as well as two handrails. No
parking was allowed near the building for fear of car bombs. But the department
lacked the funding to place concrete vehicle barriers twenty feet from it, so
the place lay vulnerable. But car bombs weren’t Flores’s style, and they
weren’t the Butcher’s, either. Other cartels may use them, but not the Godesto.

Flores
and the Butcher had better ideas for attacking this police headquarters than
car bombs, which most of the people in Mexico considered cowardly and
especially heinous.

The
Butcher now sat in the passenger seat of a Toyota 4Runner a mere block from the
police department. He turned to a man in the back, who held a video camera
ready for use.

“Are you ready?” the Butcher asked.

The man
nodded “yes,” and the Butcher pulled up a bandana from his neck to cover his
face. The rest of the men in the vehicle did so, as well.

The
Butcher pulled a Motorola walkie-talkie up and said, “Begin operation. Let’s
kill all of the bastards.”

In the
backseat of the 4Runner, the cameraman flipped the simple Sony camcorder on and
aimed it at the man across from him. The man, wearing a low baseball hat and
speaking from behind a bandana-hidden face, said, “We are the Vigilantes and
this is our second operation, against the evil Hernan Flores and the Godesto
Cartel. These officers of this district are all corrupt and they will die for
their crimes against Mexico.”

The
speaker directed the cameraman to look over his shoulder and the man turned the
video recorder in time to barely catch a massive garbage truck speeding toward
the door to the police headquarters across from them. An officer stood under
the canopy shade, smoking as the late afternoon came to a close.

The
officer heard the truck heading toward him and suddenly realized the speed and
direction was a clear threat. He fumbled for his pistol. Caught off guard, his
brain couldn’t decide what to do. So the man indecisively tried to do three
things at once: throw the cigarette down, unholster his pistol, and jump out of
the way. But his legs tried to dart left, then right, while his hands tried to
desperately throw the cigarette down and get his pistol out so he could put a
bullet in the driver. The man looked like a squirrel in the middle of a road that
can’t decide which way to go.

So, the
officer failed at each desperate attempt, and merely looked like a bumbling idiot
on the video as the truck, dumpster lifted over its cab, tore through the
handrails and the screaming man, its massive bulk and momentum making the task
look easy.

Metal
pieces, concrete chunks, and bloody limbs flew forward as the truck slammed on
its brakes and bounced to a stop. The truck reversed fifteen feet and its arms
dropped its big, green dumpster right in front of the door before any officers
could react to the sound. The truck’s dumpster doors had been welded shut so
there would be no climbing through it. And with the massive, one-ton obstacle
in place, the door was utterly blocked unless someone had a couple of blocks of
C4.

On the
left side of the building, a second garbage truck slammed through another set
of guard rails and placed its welded-shut dumpster in front of that exit, as
well. This door lacked a smoker, so it was far less dramatic but just as
effective.

Now, of
the four doors into the police department building, two were blocked:
both the one across from the Butcher and the one to
his nine o'clock.

“Let’s
go. Let’s go!” the Butcher screamed. His driver floored it and the 4Runner
peeled out and raced into the street. As the two garbage trucks departed the
scene without their cargo, the Butcher’s 4Runner and several other SUVs
descended on the primary entrance, which was on the east side of the building. The
west and south side of the entry was now blocked.

The first truckload of men attacked from the building’s north
side. They jumped from their vehicle and ran to the opposite side of it for
cover. They hoisted AK’s and M-16s and aimed toward their target. None of the
officers saw this, though, as nearly every one of them had run toward the two
opposite doors to investigate the crashing sounds they had heard through the
walls.

The four
men from the first vehicle poured fire into the door and windows of the
building from its north side. The Butcher’s vehicle slid to a stop on the
building’s east side, and he and the men in it jumped to the street and rushed
behind it for cover. They opened up with glee, their plans working perfectly so
far.

The
Butcher heard automatic weapons open up to his right on the building’s north
side. He smiled. Now the police officers were taking automatic fire from two
sides and each opposite exit was blocked by dumpsters.

The
windows for the police department headquarters were narrow, long slits -- maybe
six or nine inches wide and probably eight feet tall. Designers purposefully
installed slender windows to prevent onlookers from seeing in, as well as
suspects from breaking out through them. From his earlier recon of the
building, the Butcher had assumed a man couldn’t slide through them to escape,
but he’d left a couple men watching both of the sides blocked by dumpsters just
in case. They’d have no chance though. Anyone trying would have to bust out the
glass, clear out the shards, and then try to slide out sideways. And in all that
time while they were focused on the windows, they’d be sitting ducks for his
men.

Inside
the building, rounds slammed into walls and skipped off metal lockers. Officers
dove for cover and slid behind desks and file cabinets.

“What the
hell is going on?” one screamed.

“We’re
trapped!” yelled another, who came running down the hall from one of the
blocked entrances. “There are dumpsters in front of both doors!”

A rookie
officer screamed, “There are about a dozen of them on this side!”

From the
other side of the building, another answered, “There’s probably that many over
here, too.”

Panic
spread as officers waited to hear what they should do. They lay about, pistols
drawn and fear growing. No manual or training exercise had instructed them on
what to do if someone waged an all-out assault on the police department. After
all, who would be that crazy?

A fat,
soft captain, who should have been in charge, lay curled up in the fetal
position, screaming his head off.

“God help
us! God help us!”

And
perhaps he could be forgiven. It wasn’t like he could call for reinforcements.
The city was too isolated and reinforcements from the state capital of Xalapa,
which sat nearly seventy miles away, would take almost an hour to arrive, at
best. And that’s assuming they were loaded up and ready to go. And while some
officers in Coyutla were out on patrol, no way would many of them respond to
such an overwhelming attack from men so heavily armed. Given morale these days
among the officers, some might drive the other direction or possibly even
abandon their car, shed their uniform, and rush home for safety. Many were so
scared for their family’s safety that they wore balaclavas to cover their faces
when cartel facilities were raided.

Besides
the captain curled up in terror, other officers sprawled under chairs and
desks, or clustered in groups in the halls, hoping for safety in numbers. But
the rifle fire from the two sides formed a perfect L-shaped crossfire that cut
through walls and obstacles and officers. The full-size battle rifles with
their military-designed ammo were doing precisely what they were issued to do: cut
through reinforced buildings and wound or kill the occupants inside. And on
this late afternoon, they were performing perfectly.

Screams
and shrieks spread inside the building and panic set in among the officers.
Some crawled toward windows to return fire with their pistols, but few could
see through the windows to find a target, and those who could, quickly found
themselves prime targets for the roughly twenty men on each side of the
building.

It was a
turkey shoot, and it was completely one-sided. A few officers, seeing the ease
with which their enemies’ bullets cut through the walls, decided to fight fire
with fire. They aimed at the walls at the same level of the entry holes and
shot back in an attempt to mount at least some defense.

But their
smaller, slower pistol rounds barely penetrated the walls and lacked the
accuracy of the long weapons firing from outside. A former soldier, who was
only a low-ranking police officer and had been hired barely weeks ago, couldn’t
take it anymore. If their pussy, paper-pushing captain and scared-shitless,
sack-of-shit sergeants wouldn’t lead, then he would.

“Let’s
go!” he yelled. “We need to get to the storage lockers and grab the rifles. The
SWAT Team has M-16’s stored there.”

No one
responded, so he screamed it again. Louder and with more authority this time.
Several officers near him crawled toward the locker and he stood to encourage
others.

“Let’s
go!” he screamed. “It’s our only chance!”

And like
that, with the herding instinct taking hold, officers jumped to their feet to
join the others. They scrambled for the desperately needed weapons. The small
police department had received fifteen surplus M-16A2’s several years ago,
which replaced their World War II vintage, .30 caliber M1 Carbines. The M16
rifles were shot-out hand-me-downs, which the U.S. Army had given to the
Mexican Army as used weapons more than fifteen years ago. And from there, the
weapons had been heavily used and beaten up by the Mexican Army for several
more years until finally they were “retired,” transferred, and issued to
officers in the Mexico City SWAT Team.