Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (38 page)

“So none
of our four aircraft are available?”

“Not
according to him, sir. Though he said to inform you that they were drafting
counter-motions that should be filed by this afternoon with the courts.”

“And?”
the Butcher asked.

“Well, he
said with luck they’d be available for use again possibly as soon as four days,
if the judge agrees with us and the motions are squeezed in on the court
calendar as he hopes.”

The
Butcher felt his stomach roll over. He wasn’t sure who he feared more, right
then. The Red Sleeve Cartel, the Venezuelan Brothers who were about to get
stiffed, or President Roberto Rivera and the government.

His mind
was racing and thinking of an exit plan. There might be a way to salvage this
sinking ship, but he didn’t see it.

This was
the final straw for him. He’d let someone else deal with it, since he had
enough money to get a new start somewhere else. Or maybe hide out on a beach
somewhere, living a life of leisure and martial arts.

But in no
way did he see his future tied to the Godesto Cartel anymore. As a small boy
bullied on the mean streets, he knew when it was time to run. And that time had
come.

Chapter
39

The
Butcher might have made a clean escape from Mexico City and all of his
problems, but one of his assistants saw him acting weird and heard him tell his
assistant Gabriel that he’d be back and didn’t need his security detail with
him.

That
struck the assistant as alarmingly odd, so he had made an excuse to get past
Gabriel and into the Butcher’s office. Then he checked the internet history on
the computer. And there, in plain sight if you knew how to search someone's
internet history, was a recent purchase of a first-class plane ticket at Mexico
City’s international airport.

And
though it was the riskiest thing the assistant had ever done, it was obvious
the Godesto Cartel was in shambles. Besides the news outlets practically
cheering their demise, the assistants had been talking among themselves about
the impending war with the Red Sleeve Cartel, money problems, and Army
incursions into Coacalco, Magdalena Contreras, and Allende. Things didn’t look
good.

But there
remained a ten million dollar reward on the Butcher’s head from the government…
And it suddenly looked like whoever turned on the man might actually live to
tell about it. Especially if provided a new identity.

And with
that, the underpaid and barely recognized assistant decided to make a call about
the Butcher’s departure.

President
Roberto Rivera stood to shake off his weariness. He felt exhausted, but alive.
Very alive.

And very
close to victory.

He had
kept the entire Cabinet in the Presidential Palace, as promised, and while he
had found time for a two-hour nap and shower, he could feel the Godesto Cartel
falling to its knees right before them as he monitored incoming reports and
media outlets.

And the
Cabinet members could feel it, too. Most had slept very little, and they had
thrown their full support behind the effort and offered additional suggestions.
Now, it was no longer a solo effort by President Rivera. Finally, when it was
almost too late to matter, the entire government of Mexico was aligning itself
against the Godesto Cartel as it had never done before. No longer did political
gain matter for the members. Now it was about winning before their government
fell apart in a dozen different investigations.

About the
only shortcoming so far, from Rivera’s perspective, had been Nick’s mission
into Neza-Chalco-Itza to capture the Butcher. Nick’s group from Shield,
Safeguard, and Shelter had been mercilessly ambushed and shot all to hell by
the Godesto. They had failed to even make it to their target building.

But
practically everything else was going Rivera’s way, including some of the
suggestions now being made by his Cabinet members as they jumped onboard with
his effort.

One of
those ideas brought forward by a Cabinet member was to have all tips into the
hotline involving the Godesto Cartel or the Butcher called directly into the
Presidential Palace, where actual Cabinet officials would man the phones. It
wasn’t like there were that many calls anyway, and having the calls come
directly into the Cabinet would throw a wrench into whatever informant system
that the Godesto Cartel had set up.

Rivera
considered this a wonderful idea. Once the phone lines were rerouted away from
the intelligence headquarters and directly to the Presidential Palace, three
Cabinet members assumed the first shift.

Besides
avoiding informants, the realignment paid dividends in terms of pace, since
President Rivera and his security forces could react to tips faster. In addition
to taking the possibility of informants out of the tip center, the Cabinet
members also avoided command units from alerting the Godesto Cartel by simply
ordering units to a certain location -- waiting until the units were a short
distance away to inform them of what the tip actually was. And the new
technique was scoring big wins.

But when
the phone rang regarding a tip about the Butcher flying out of the country,
Rivera knew that redirecting tips straight into the Cabinet had proven nothing
short of genius. And he knew he only trusted one man to take care of this one.

Nick
Woods felt exhausted, despite a shower and shave. He stood on the back porch of
the farmhouse -- S3’s humble but well-hidden headquarters -- and looked out at
the rising sun, wanting nothing more than a hard drink. Yet he knew he should
settle for some breakfast instead. But the memories from last night wouldn’t
let him be and had killed his appetite.

The unit
had turned around and limped out of Neza-Chalco-Itza in only seven trucks.
Three had been left smoking or burning, while two lay paralyzed with flat
tires, like beached whales unable to move any further forward.

Nick and
his men had rushed their wounded to a hospital in Mexico City and dropped their
dead at the morgue before returning to the farm.

By then
it was after three in the morning.

The final
tallies from Marcus and the squad leaders were thirteen dead and twenty-three
wounded. Even the Primary Strike Team had been bloodied badly. Preacher,
Bulldog, and Isabella had all been wounded and were in the hospital.

The
Lizard’s premonitions prior to the mission had proven true. He had been killed
with a bullet to the throat.

And for
what? What had they accomplished? They hadn’t even made it to their target
building, much less nabbed the Butcher.

Hell, by
not reaching the target building, they had done more than just missed grabbing
the Butcher. They had also failed to even grab any intel by raiding the
building that might have led to his whereabouts. No computers, no file cabinets
stuffed full of documents to scan for clues, no cartel punks to question for days
and days in an effort to break them.

What had
they accomplished? Nick asked himself.

Absolutely
nothing. Nada. Zilch.

A lot of
good men had died because of the foolhardy mission Nick had ordered. He knew
the plan came from the input of his men, as well, and Marcus had reminded him
this morning that each of them had gone out doing what they wanted to do, but
Nick couldn’t shake the gloom.

Why had
he survived with nary a scratch? He had given the punks inside Neza-Chalco-Itza
numerous opportunities to put a round in him as he had walked around and tried
to play brave commander.

But his
luck continued, as it had from the beginning. First, Afghanistan, against the
Soviets. Then his tussle with Whitaker and too many of his cronies to count.
And now last night.

He didn’t
understand it. Besides the thought of Lizard being dead and twelve others from
his command, Nick wanted to see Isabella. She lay in a hospital bed drugged up
and with two bullets in her, but Nick knew she’d survive barring any
complications.

Marcus,
who’d also survived without a scratch, was in classic Marine DI command mode.
Nothing knocked that man down. He had ordered the men to line the trucks up in
an orderly manner and spray the blood out of the truck beds and off the sides
of them.

Then he’d
had the men spray off and pack up the gear of the wounded. Then he’d ordered
them to clean their weapons and get showered up. Nick had cleaned his weapon,
as well, but he wondered for what?

His unit
was hardly combat ready. They had organized the survivors into two ragtag
squads in case some kind of mission was necessary, but his men had gotten the
shit kicked out of them, and failed to even accomplish their mission. They were
experienced veterans who had all seen their share of war, but fifty percent
casualties on a mission that in the end proved unsuccessful was pretty tough
mustard for anyone.

Nick,
leaning on the deck railing, spat onto the dusty ground and fought the urge to
go grab his liquor bottle. Last thing the men needed was a drunk commander, but
boy, that bottle had a powerful call.

Nick had
already reported the terrible mission results to Mr. Smith, who to his credit,
had been up all night waiting for their call and relaying information about the
Godesto Cartel from President Rivera, as well as intel that the NSA and CIA had
picked up.

Other
than the failed mission by Nick’s men, things were mostly going swimmingly for
Mexico and President Rivera, according to Mr. Smith. Maybe it wasn’t all a
waste, Nick thought. The men of S3
had
come up with the plans that were
now throttling and destroying the Godesto Cartel, so there was that. Plus, even
with their heavy casualties, they had helped gut the army of the Godesto in the
filthy streets of Neza-Chalco-Itza.

Nick’s
cellphone rang and he looked down at it. It was President Rivera’s cellphone
number. Now what, he wondered?

“How
would you like to get your hands on the Butcher?” President Rivera asked.

“Go on,”
Nick said.

“He’s
headed to an airport to fly out of Mexico. He’s fleeing, Nick, all because of
your plans.”

“They
were your plans. You make sure that’s how you phrase it to the public from here
on out. Now, where is that bastard?”

And
minutes after that question, Nick Woods and Dwayne Marcus raced toward the
Mexico City International Airport, the siren on their green police truck
roaring. As they flew down the interstate, Nick was glad that Marcus had asked
the men to spray down the trucks.

They had
to move fast for a chance to nab the little punk. President Rivera had decided
not to stop the plane or alert other authorities. The Butcher was fleeing, and
the last thing Rivera wanted was a court trial or to spook him and keep him in
the country, where he might re-assume control of the Godesto Cartel (or what
remained of it).

Nick
understood Rivera’s thinking, but he was just glad that the President was
giving him one final chance to get his hands on his prey. This was one final
chance for Nick to avenge the SEAL platoon and all the men of Shield,
Safeguard, and Shelter who had died or been wounded the night before.

He and
Marcus had changed into civilian clothes, and Marcus sported jeans, polo, and
some kind of hip shoes that Nick couldn’t place a finger on. Nick wore jeans, a
tight Sniper shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of work boots. His
look failed the undercover/CIA look, but there were plenty of rough looking
construction workers south of Texas and he was too square to go dressing like
Marcus.

They had
put a squad leader in charge of the entire unit back at the farm while they
were gone, and picked the truck with the fewest bullet holes punched into it.
President Rivera had stated that the Butcher’s flight would begin boarding in
one hour and twenty minutes, and since they were well over an hour away at
legal driving speeds, they needed to seriously cut down the driving time. After
all, they would have to find him
before
boarding began, since there’d be
no way to get him off the plane without attracting attention.

Now they
raced toward the airport at a hundred and twenty miles per hour in a truck that
should only do eighty. The big tires and heavy steel frame in the back for troops
made it hard to drive, but Marcus was handling it.

Nick was
trying to control his rage. He had a .357 revolver in the floorboard, but knew
he’d probably be going in unarmed on this one. And he was more than okay with
that. The Butcher would be unarmed, too, and he wanted to get his hands on this
bastard so badly he couldn’t stand it. He’d somehow get him in a bathroom or
hallway alone and then beat the shit out of him. And once the Butcher could no
longer defend himself, Nick would choke him out and hold the lock until the man
was dead.

They
arrived in Mexico City without any problems, and as they rushed into the mass
of parking lots and garages around the airport, Nick said, “Just pull up to the
front.”

“Roger
that,” Marcus said.

The
truck’s siren was off now, but Marcus kept the lights on as he raced past
stalled traffic in front of him. He drove down the road into oncoming traffic,
forcing cars to jerk off the road and up onto the curb.

Marcus
spotted an opening in traffic in the correct lane and jerked the truck back
over with the flow of traffic.

As more
cars began to block their path, Marcus was forced to jump the curb and drive
down the sidewalk the final half-mile. Marcus laid on the horn and pedestrians
dove out of the way as the truck ripped down the sidewalk.

By the
time they reached the airport entrance, two police cars were rushing toward
them with their sirens on.

“Ignore
them,” Nick said. “It might take half an hour to get the situation cleared up
before President Rivera can intervene. Pull up closer and I’ll jump out. Then
punch it and take these two on a wild goose chase.”

“No way,”
Marcus said. “I’m coming with you.” He had come too far to let Nick deal with
this alone.

“It’s the
only way this will work,” Nick said. “If you come in with me, we’ll be in
handcuffs trying to make a phone call and the Butcher will be gone.”

“We’ll
figure something out,” Marcus said, anger in his voice.