Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (37 page)

Without
question, his men were getting hammered. They were outgunned, outnumbered, and
still probably half a mile from the target. Nick imagined the nightmare
scenario of trying to surround the target building and actually enter it. It
seemed impossible. And absurd, now that he saw the ground and resistance before
them.

He heard
someone slide up beside him, their clothing and equipment scuffing against the
ground as they skidded up next to him.

“It’s me,
Nick,” Marcus said.

Nick
didn’t turn, keeping his Aimpoint sight on the M60 and two bodies.

“We’re in
the shit, huh?” Nick said. “Having fun?”

“You know
it.”

“What do
you think?” Nick asked.

“I just
ran down the column,” Marcus said, still breathing hard, “and we have nine
wounded and five KIA.”

Nick kicked
himself for getting personally tied up in a small part of the firefight with
the M60 gunner and not doing what Marcus had done. He should have known to not
get locked into using his rifle, instead relying on his leadership skills and
radio.

“Oh,”
Marcus said, “and we also have two trucks already out of commission. Maybe
three.”

Nick
recalled the M60 chewing up the lead truck, right through the grill and into
the motor when it initially opened up.

“Four
trucks out of commission,” Nick said. “That M60 out there hammered Truck 1
before we stopped him.”

Nick
cursed. “This isn’t going to happen, is it?”

“That’s
kind of what I was hoping you’d say,” Marcus said. “I know you’re prone to
stubbornness, but I think we collect ourselves and get the hell out of here. We
gave it a whirl, but they were waiting on us. No point in being stupid and
losing a bunch more good men.”

It burned
Nick to agree, but facts were facts. And if a leader of Marcus’s talent felt
the same way as Nick, then they needed to pull back. And fast.

“All
units,” Nick said into the mic, “load up. We’re turning around and heading
back. All squad leaders, confirm you have all your men and report in. Leave any
trucks that aren’t running, but leave no gear.”

Nick
stood, fired half a mag down the street toward some movement on the other side,
and moved toward Truck 1, which looked like it wouldn’t be driving anytime
soon. You just can’t avoid the Mexican heat, he thought, even at night.

He
started grabbing gear and maps from the cab to throw into another truck. His
men fired and moved, fired and moved, covering each other, working in pairs as
they had trained. Nick threw his gear into the cab of Truck 2 and watched as
his unit moved and operated like pros. And in that moment, even in defeat, Nick
felt pride in his unit. They had been repulsed, but not beaten.

Chapter
38

The day
following the massive firefight in the slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza, the Butcher
quickly wished he had never gotten out of bed. His assumptions about the convoy
from the night prior had been wrong. No other army battalions had entered their
slum, and the government under President Rivera wasn’t decrying the dead
troops.

He had
missed an opportunity to wipe out an entire SWAT team.

Now the
Butcher felt numb, like he needed to puke. He was in the middle of an
“emergency meeting” with his CFO; the skinny little puke sat in front of him,
wearing a three thousand dollar suit.

The
Butcher couldn’t stand the guy. The little shit had a finance degree, got
weekly manicures, and played racquetball. Worse, he had never lifted a weight a
day in his life and couldn’t possibly imagine life in prison or anything else
that the Butcher had gone through.

But now
the skinny, soft prick looked as shocked and scared as someone on the street,
who had just been robbed and nearly beaten to death.

“What do
you mean the money’s gone?” the Butcher yelled.

The man
shifted nervously and cleared his throat.

“I, uh,
got a call at 8:01 from one of our banks. And I’ve since checked the status on
all of our other accounts, as well, and, um, most of its gone.”

“What do
you mean it’s gone? And how much are we talking here?”

“I’ve
still got three of my assistants calculating out the exact figures, but my
worst-case estimate is that ninety-one percent of our money is gone.”

“And when
you say ‘our money,’ are you talking my personal money or the Godesto Cartel
money?”

“The
Godesto Cartel money, sir.” The man flinched when he said it. The Butcher
hadn’t gotten his name from being a reasonable or forgiving person.

“That’s
worst-case. And what’s your best-case estimate of how much money is gone?”

“Eighty-seven
percent?”

“Eighty-seven
percent?” the Butcher asked. “But you said the worst-case estimate was
ninety-one percent. That’s not much of a range.”

“It’s all
digital and computerized these days,” the accountant explained, “so there’s not
much guess work. Unfortunately, we’re quite certain that most of the
corporation’s money is gone.”

The
Butcher ignored the man calling the Godesto Cartel a “corporation.” He despised
the man feigning ignorance at how they derived their income and had berated him
about it before, but not today. No, not with the way this conversation was
going.

“What did
you do with the money that still remains?” the Butcher asked, trying to breathe
and repress the panic seeping into his chest.

“We’ve
moved it into new accounts, just to be safe. Although doing so does present
some risks. Even at roughly ten percent, that’s a lot of assets to be moving,
but I deemed it the prudent course of action.”

The
Butcher gritted his teeth and scowled. This couldn’t be happening. How had the
Feds seized that much of the cartel’s money without any of his informants
warning them? It was inconceivable. The Godesto Cartel even had a man in
President Rivera’s Cabinet. This just couldn’t happen without notification.

“Forget
the numbers for a moment,” the Butcher said. “How much money will we have after
we make our payouts and payroll checks for this week?”

The CFO
cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

“We can’t
make them,” the man said, his voice barely a whisper.

“What?”
The Butcher sprang to his feet and slammed his fists on the desk and then threw
a side kick that drove a hole in the wall. “What are you saying?” he screamed.

The man
flinched and shrunk down lower.

“I’m
saying we’re bankrupt.”

“But we
can get this money back, right?” the Butcher asked. “I’m not an attorney, but
we have the best legal team that money can buy. In thirty days, maybe sixty,
we’ll get the money back. You need to figure out how to handle this until
then.”

“We owe
too many suppliers, too many gangs, too many other cartels to wait that long,”
the finance man said, desperation in his voice. “Just the one shipment we moved
north of the border today has a twenty-five million dollar payment that we owe
the Venezuelan Brothers, and they’re expecting that wire transfer today.”

“And how
much do we have that’s been moved to other accounts? That we could pay them
with?”

“Eighteen
point six million.”

“So, not
even enough to pay the Venezuelan Brothers?”

“No, sir,
but we could require some advances from our various entities. Those who rent
buildings from us, and some of those who lease territories to operate from.”

The
Godesto Cartel allowed some gangs and organized crime groups to tax businesses
in areas it controlled but lacked the manpower to effectively manage. These
smaller groups paid a tax to the cartel, while the Godesto Cartel focused on
international growth instead of petty, small-turf scuffles over mostly
irrelevant amounts of money.

But, the
Butcher could envision the rumors spreading among these armed groups and other
cartels if they asked for an advance on money owed. These were men of the
street. They could smell weakness from a mile away, and they’d turn on the
Godesto Cartel in a minute if they sensed that the tides had turned and that
the mighty cartel that had ruled for so long suddenly lacked strength.

Especially
since the Godesto had really turned the screws into many of these groups,
requiring too much, if truth be known. And these groups knew the truth, but had
been too powerless in isolated groups to act. But, if the cash started running
dry, all of them would turn on their despised landlord.

It was no
different than a pack mentality among a pride of lions. The moment the older
male showed injury or weakness, he would be attacked and driven off by a rival.
Leadership was only held by strength, poise, and confidence.

And this
news of their accounts being seized by the government, combined with the news
he’d heard earlier this morning about the Red Sleeve Cartel breaking their
truce, was enough to make him ready to run.

One of
his lieutenants had told him earlier that news stations were reporting that the
Red Sleeve Cartel had declared war on the Godesto. The Butcher had immediately
called the leader of the rival cartel on his direct line and the man had
neither answered nor returned his call. Several immediate calls to the
Butcher’s subordinates across the country had led to reports that the members
of the Red Sleeve Cartel were acting strange, packing heavy today, and ignoring
nods and attempts to communicate from members of the Godesto Cartel.

The
Godesto Cartel and the Red Sleeve Cartel had enjoyed a shaky alliance for
years, but at their core they were rivals who had temporarily put aside
differences for a more unified front against the government. It had been the
biggest coup pulled off by Hernan Flores and had catapulted him and the Godesto
Cartel to unprecedented levels of power. And it was this alliance that had
first brought the Navy SEALs to Mexico.

The
Butcher struggled to get his arms around the situation. Money seized. Reports
of a declared war by the Red Sleeve Cartel, evidenced by strained relations
among the troops in contact with each other.

One of
his lieutenants knocked hard on the door and said, “Sir, turn on the TV.”

The
Butcher ignored the CFO for a moment and flipped on the television. The news
showed a man lying in a pool of blood. He turned the volume up when he saw the
name Edgar Argel appear next to a picture of the corpse. A pretty news anchor
had a look of concern on her face and she said with great gravity that the
high-ranking man in the Godesto Cartel had been shanked in prison. And even the
Butcher could clearly see the symbol of the Red Sleeve Cartel slashed into the
man’s back.

Photos
don’t lie, and Edgar Argel, who had several distinctive tattoos on his lower
back and legs, was clearly the man who lay dead and carved up in the photo of
the news broadcast. Already police were identifying, the cute news anchor said,
one of the well-known Red Sleeve Cartel members, who was also housed in the
same prison as the killer.

“Get out,
both of you,” the Butcher said.

They shut
the door behind them and he collapsed in his chair. The Butcher cursed the fact
that he needed to set in motion a reprisal for the death of Edgar Argel or be
seen, once again, as weak by those on the streets.

The news
anchor followed the report regarding Edgar Argel by talking about the
catastrophe that had occurred in the federal prison in Nayarit. He pushed away
the idea of reprisal against the Red Sleeve Cartel and focused back on the TV.
For five minutes he sat glued to the broadcast. As the shock set in, fear
started to grow.

He just
couldn’t believe what was being reported. The anchor said the federal prison in
Nayarit had faced a huge breakout attempt, but the Butcher hadn’t authorized
any such escape. This, too, made no sense.

The
population of the federal prison in Nayarit was mostly composed of Godesto
Cartel members, so they shouldn’t have attempted an escape unless he gave the
order. And why would he? From this prison, the Godesto Cartel controlled a
nationwide embezzlement operation of all the prisons.

The news
anchor reported that a fire had broken out during the attempted escape and most
of the inmates had died. The Butcher couldn’t believe it. These were some of
the Godesto Cartel’s heaviest hitters. Men who rotated out on parole to take
primary shooter slots in the Godesto Cartel. Men who mentored young gang members
out on the street and new prisoners who had just arrived. Men who younger
members looked up to as examples of what they should aspire to.

And now
they were gone. The backbone of the Godesto Cartel had died gasping in smoke or
burned alive. Well, not that the cartel had the money to support them anymore,
the Butcher reminded himself, turning the TV off with disgust.

He
wondered if all this was propaganda, but the news station had shown a reporter
on the scene. They had provided video of a burning prison, which looked exactly
like the compound as the Butcher remembered it.

The phone
on the desk rang, but he didn’t have it in him to answer it. He gripped the
back of his head and buried his face in his arms.

This
couldn’t be happening. It was just a bad dream.

But then
someone knocked on his door and he knew it was real. The Godesto, and the
Butcher, were in some seriously deep shit.

“Come
in,” he said.

One of
his most trusted lieutenants stuck his head in the door and said, “I’m sorry to
bother you, but we’ve got problems.”

“What is
it?” the Butcher asked, sounding more exhausted than he wanted.

“I’m
hearing that the Mexican Army has entered Coacalco, Magdalena Contreras, and
Allende.”

The
Butcher couldn’t believe it.

Coacalco
and Magdalena Contreras were two of the strongest footholds the Godesto Cartel
had, after Neza-Chalco-Itza. Both were on the outskirts of Mexico City and they
had helped provide the base of operations that had allowed Hernan Flores to
take over the country. If they were being hit by the army in strength, then
loads of supplies and men were likely going to be lost.

And
Allende, the third city mentioned, was their primary northern base of
operations. It was hundreds of miles away from Mexico City, just south of
Texas, and was a linchpin in helping them hang onto the north, as well a great
base of operations for excursions across the border into Texas.

“Are you
sure?” the Butcher asked.

“Absolutely,”
his lieutenant said. “We’re pulling together casualty figures now, and while
our men are trying to get away with some of the supplies, they apparently hit
us before six a.m. and our men were completely unprepared. We had no warning.”

“Keep me
up to date with the latest,” the Butcher said. “Now, give me some space so I
can process this.”

The door
shut and the Butcher pressed the button for his assistant.

“Gabriel,”
he said, “call our pilots and have them fire my jet up. And also, arrange
transportation to the airport for me.”

He hung
up on his assistant before the man could say anything and took a deep breath.
He just needed to get away from it for a few days. There might still be a
chance. Perhaps he could still handle all of this. If a fat, Funyun-gobbling
grandpa could run this organization and navigate an untold number of obstacles,
then surely he could, too.

The phone
buzzed back.

“What?”
the Butcher asked, punching the button hard. Gabriel knew to leave him alone.
What the hell was his problem?

“Sir, one
of the calls that came in while you asked me to hold them is from one of our
attorneys representing the aviation wing of our corporation. He said that he
had been served with a federal warrant this morning and all aircraft had been
temporarily seized.”