Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (29 page)

“Is there
a problem?” the Butcher asked?

“It’s a
complicated door,” the man said, sounding worried. “More like a safe or vault
than merely a reinforced door.”

The fat
man pointed at the bottom of the door.

“See
here?” he said. “Look at these slots where clearly hardened steel posts have
been pushed down into the floor.”

The
Butcher could see, but he didn’t want to hear it.

“Enough,”
he said. “I don’t want excuses.”

He stared
hard at the man and stepped closer, raising his katana until the point of it
pushed up the man’s lower jaw.

“Don’t
tell me about complications. The only complication we’re going to have is with
you if this door isn’t blown down in about sixty seconds.”

“Yes,
sir,” the man managed to say, careful not to move his mouth down.

The
Butcher withdrew the blade and stepped away.

The
sergeant got back to work and the Butcher lifted his radio to check on his
other teams. They’d get this door down, one way or the other.

Meanwhile,
two vanloads of men from the Godesto Cartel swarmed a bank on the outskirts of
Mexico City. They mowed down two pistol-toting security guards in a blaze of
gunfire from their assault rifles, executed three tellers until the bank
manager finally opened the safe, and swiped four million dollars in as
leisurely a pace as probably anyone has ever robbed a bank before.

The
robbery only multiplied President Roberto Rivera’s troubles...

Chapter
33

Nick
Woods waited outside President Roberto Rivera’s office again. The news
reporting on the prior day’s events had been brutal.

Juan
Soto? Killed. A major bank? Robbed. A SWAT team? Wiped out.

And that
didn’t take into account the nearly seventy cops killed within a fifteen-minute
period across Mexico City at roughly the same time. It was the bloodiest day
against law enforcement in Mexico’s history. Martial law had been imposed -- a
“temporary” martial law, Rivera called it in a late-night press conference --
and the President’s enemies in Congress were screaming for multiple
investigations into the day’s events.

To say
that President Roberto Rivera was on the ropes was the understatement of the
century. None of this really affected Nick. He hated to see the losses, but
they were to be expected when you’re at war. He had watched much of the
coverage the previous night with his team, and the members of Shield,
Safeguard, and Shelter had celebrated their reprieve. Though the carnage was
unfortunate, the team members were ecstatic that their mission would be
extended. They were like a sports team that had traveled a long distance to play
a championship game, and had been told the game was over just mid-way through
the first quarter. S3 was ready to get back in the game and even the score and
do what they had trained for years and years to do.

Once a
summary of the day’s events was mostly digested thanks to Isabella’s
translation, and once the talking heads and analysts on the news started
focusing on the upcoming investigations and political ramifications, Nick had
called Dwayne Marcus over for a private pow wow.

The two
had agreed that with their extension looking imminent, the men should enjoy one
last night of relaxation before things kicked back into high gear the next day.
And with that thought, they planned a rotating security schedule that would
allow everyone some time off and instructed each squad to spend some time
together out by their own fire, cooking hot dogs and melting marshmallows. They
also sent another couple of men out with one thousand dollars in petty cash to
stock up on food and beer.

The only
caveat this time was no fighting and a two-beer limit. The last thing they
needed were men dealing with hangovers the next day, since there was a small
chance they could be called to immediately jump into action.

Nick had
avoided mingling with the various squads of S3 this time, choosing not to
rotate around the fires like he had last time. He knew he should have, but the
near early end of their deployment had put the fear of living his life alone
again into his head, and there was nothing he had wanted more last night than to
spend it with his Primary Strike Team members.

Dwayne
Marcus, in typical fashion, lapped Nick in the physical and leadership
category, asking permission to PT instead of hanging out with the Primary
Strike Team. The former football standout from Florida then did a one-hour
calisthenics session before showering and checking in on the other squads, like
Nick knew he should have done.

Truck,
the former Army Special Forces soldier who had been kicked out for beating up
an officer, stayed true to form and broke the rules. Nick caught him drinking
four beers instead of two during the night, but didn’t say anything. Mostly,
because Truck drank twice as much as everyone else regularly, so the extra
wouldn’t faze him, but also because Nick didn’t want to ruin the evening -- for
either himself or Truck.

Lizard,
the Puerto Rican Marine vet of nine years, had looked nervous the whole night.
He fidgeted and avoided drinking at all. Nick reminded himself that Lizard’s
profile talked about how he had always wanted out of the Marine Corps, and how
he’d always dreaded combat, and yet the man had still done nine years and
pulled off two Bronze Stars for valor. When Nick had asked him if he was doing
okay, Lizard, staring into the flames, simply said, “I miss my family, but we
have a job to do. And I need the money.”

Lizard
was a fretter, but not much of a talker.

Bulldog,
the massive, 6’4” Navy SEAL from the streets of Baltimore, had arrived late to
the fire, having worked out for two hours prior to his arrival. He was easily
the biggest PT freak in all of Nick’s unit, and he had doubled the amount of
time that even Dwayne Marcus had exercised. And as if that wasn’t enough, even
once he showed up, he hardly relaxed. Bulldog declined the offered beer, hot
dogs, and marshmallows, choosing instead a protein bar and some kind of
gross-looking nutritional drink.

And of
course, Red, the short, cocky, and reckless asshole, had scoffed at Bulldog’s
selection, asking the giant man if he was there for a war or a bodybuilding
contest. Bulldog had threatened to crush the chain-smoking country boy, to
which Red then said that he didn’t fear men who shaved their legs and underarms
and put on a g-string after lotioning up real well.

Nick had
seriously thought he would have to step in between them, but Preacher, the
four-tour Marine who rarely said much, played peacemaker and settled Red and
Bulldog down.

Preacher
had even enjoyed a couple of hotdogs with the team before retiring early. The
man was a loner and preferred isolation almost as much as Nick did. Nick
assumed Preacher had left to either pray or meditate or maybe read his Bible.
But the man didn’t push his views and he was well liked, and with two of his
tours having been with MARSOC, Nick knew everyone respected the man who’d been raised
by missionaries as a boy.

Nick had
spent the night around the fire mostly quiet and simply watching. He had
relished the stories told around the crackling flames, tales that ranged from
firefights in foreign lands to barfights in shitty ports throughout the world.
The men had also indulged in some locker-room talk. And Isabella, the
consummate team player and cool chick, hadn’t minded.

The
laughs and taunts had lasted for three-plus hours, and Nick had watched his
team, and especially Isabella, savoring the entire time as they sat out under
the cloudless night, stars lighting up the night sky majestically.

If last
night hadn’t been heaven on earth, then Nick didn’t know what it was. But
eventually, he had picked up his M14 and headed back to the farmhouse,
exchanging a long look with Isabella before he left.

The night
had gotten better an hour later.

Nick
heard a soft knock and put down the shooting magazine he was reading. He opened
the door to see Isabella standing there.

“You
wanted to see me?” she whispered, with a coy grin on her face. She stood there
in a tank top and a pair of shorts.

“More
than anything in the world,” Nick said.

Nick
reached for her, yanked her into the room, and stuck his head out the door.
Confirming the hallway was clear, he then gently shut the door.

“Most men
would be more focused on what’s in the room,” Isabella said. She now stood
against the tall bed, her hips leaning against it, but her arms crossed in mock
rejection.

Nick
strode toward her, towered over her, and put his hand behind her neck. He
pulled her toward him and said, “I’m not most men.”

She
resisted, leaned back again.

“I could
find another,” she said.

“You
could, but you’re in my room.”

He pulled
her close again, kissing the spot where her ear and jawline met. He slowly
breathed in the scent of her hair, an intoxicating mix of strawberry and fire.

“You’re
awfully confident,” she said. “What makes you so sure?”

“I hit
what I aim at,” Nick said, lifting her chin and kissing her lightly.

“And I
always catch my man,” Isabella said.

Nick
pulled her to her feet, leaned forward, and kissed her. She responded, and soon
they were locked in deep kisses and passion that had been repressed for too
long.

Nick
picked her up, and she wrapped her arms and legs around him, her hands in his
hair.

They made
love, ferociously the first time that night, and later made love again, before
they drifted off to sleep with what little time remained.

Nick,
thinking back on it, couldn’t help but feel like he was on top of the world. A
night with friends, by the fire; a night with Isabella, so full of passion; and
now he was about to be handed a hunting license again by the President of
Mexico.

Life was
grand in his book. This was the life of a warrior. The thing every kid dreamed
of: a brave man, a hot lady, a phone call to save the day.

Even that
same hot secretary seemed to be looking at him differently this time. Not as
some country weirdo in Wranglers. But as something strong and desirable, unless
Nick’s eyes were playing tricks on him.

“Mr.
Woods?” the woman said.

He broke
away from his daydream and looked up.

“You may
go in now,” she said, and he thought he caught her checking him out as he
stood. Well, he didn’t do all that ab work and running for nothing.

She walked
him to the door and he liked the way she allowed her hand to drag down his arm.

Nick had
found his calling again and his time with Isabella had awakened a man he
thought dead. He knew deep down that Anne would be proud. She hated the
paranoid Nick, the man who kept a journal of suspicious activity, hid weapons
throughout the house, and lay hidden behind cover with his rifle in Montana,
waiting for hunter-killer teams that would never arrive.

But Anne
had loved him dearly, despite it all. She would be happy to see him opening up
and moving on. He was becoming the man she always knew he could be.

And, man,
he had loved her back. He knew a part of him always would love her. Although
she had struggled to understand his ways, Anne had always believed in him. And
even as time continued to take away the details of her face, her voice, and her
smile, he knew nothing would ever make him forget how much she had believed in
him. He owed Anne that much.

Nick
walked into the President’s office amazed at how much he had changed since this
mission to Mexico. The President looked nothing like he had the last time they
met. In fact, Nick wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Rivera faced away from him,
gazing out the bay window. The early morning sun shined through the glass,
creating long rays of light over his shoulder, dust particles dancing through
them at their own pace, oblivious to the somber mood of the room.

President
Rivera wore a wrinkled white Oxford shirt with no jacket. The sleeves were
pushed up carelessly and unless Nick was wrong, he held a glass of scotch in
his hand. Nick wasn’t sure what he should do since it appeared Rivera was
unaware Nick had stepped into his office, but he heard the secretary close the
door behind him. Nick eased up quietly to one of two chairs in front of the
desk. Uncertain what etiquette dictated in such a situation, he stopped between
the chairs and cleared his throat lightly to make his presence known.

Eventually
Rivera averted his gaze, turned from the window, and took a big sip of his
drink. He walked to his desk and sat down, placing his glass on the desk too
hard, splashing some of his drink onto the surface. He nodded to a chair and
Nick sat quietly. This felt spooky. And weird. Just plain weird. The confident,
charismatic man who had greeted him just days ago was gone.

Rivera poked
at the pooled liquor on his desk, and Nick realized that not only was he
unshaven, his hair was greasy and his collar was dirty. It looked like the man
hadn’t showered since the day before.

“You look
rough, Mr. President.”

“I lost
my best friend!” Rivera roared defensively.

Nick
realized the man was already drunk, and it was just a little after nine in the
morning.

He took
another swig and Nick raised his hand to stop him. “Sir, I think you need to
hold off. Your opponents --”

“You
don’t think you’d be drinking if you lost your best friend?” he snapped. “I
just got off the phone with Juan’s wife. She’s worse today than when I called
her last night to break the news.”

He sighed
and said in a lower voice, “I fear reality is sinking in for her.”

“Sir,”
Nick said, “I’m not trying to be critical of the fact you’re drinking. I’m not
even sure I’d show up to work the next day.”

“Yes, you
would,” the President said, sharply. “You’re like me: A workaholic who puts
duty first.”

Nick
paused, thinking back through the years. He could easily think of a few
instances where that was true. He nodded, saying, “Been known to do that a time
or two. You’re right.”

“I
thought so,” Rivera said, leaning forward. “I’ve researched your background
more since we last met.”

The man
was slurring his words pretty bad, Nick noticed.

“I can’t
believe I didn’t know you’d lost your wife, and I bungled that detail last
time. Her name was Anne, I believe?”

Nick
nodded.

“But I
know your story now. About Afghanistan. About the murder of your wife. About
how you hunted down the men behind her death, killing every one of them.”