Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (39 page)

Nick
pushed open his door a few inches. “Marcus, that is a direct order.”

Marcus
cursed and slowed, and Nick slipped out the door. Marcus floored it and took
off again. Nick hoped the two cruisers hadn’t noticed him, and it stood to
reason that they hadn’t. They were still a couple hundred yards away and there
were nearly a hundred moving cars and probably three hundred people streaming
in and out of the airport between them.

Nick
avoided looking back and simply immersed himself in a large group of tourists
headed toward the entry doors. He entered the lobby and saw a huge line in
front of a security checkpoint up ahead. Being from the South, he hated to be
an ass, but the Butcher’s plane would be boarding at any time.

He rushed
down the line past the impatient travelers, walking fast and hearing people
bitching and gasping as he moved forward. At the front of it, he said to a
tired looking family, “I’m very sorry, but I have to break line. My son is up
ahead and my wife has lost him. It’s an emergency, please.”

The wife
shrugged, clearly unable to understand him.

“I’m
sorry,” Nick said, and he walked toward the two federal agents.

“Do you
need help finding him?” a security agent said in barely understandable English.
He was reaching for his radio with concern.

“She’s
already working with airport security,” Nick said. “No need.”

He placed
his wallet and keys in the tray and said, “If you could just help me get
cleared quickly, we’re both really nervous about this.”

“Of
course,” the man said. “I have a son, too. I can only imagine how terrifying it
must feel.”

Nick
stepped through the metal detector and waited for his keys and wallet in the
tray. They took forever to come through the slow-moving belt and he practically
ripped them from the agent.

“Thank
you,” he said, “and I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go.”

He rushed
away and headed for a directory. He found the wing where the Butcher’s flight
would depart and headed that way. He looked down at his watch and saw only
fifteen minutes remained before boarding began.

Nick
wanted to jog, but also knew that the Butcher might be waiting out of range of
the departure area, wary and alert. Nick slowed and decided to keep his cool,
walking as calmly as possible.

He
scanned the crowd, ignoring old men, harried moms, and screaming kids. There
also seemed to be a huge percentage of well-dressed businessmen and women, who
were looking down at iPhones, laptops, work they had brought with them.

And then
he spotted a possible fit. A short man, walking away from him. The man carried
a black duffel bag, walking as smoothly as a gymnast or ninja. Nick closed the
distance toward him, taking larger steps. His gut told him this was the
Butcher.

He caught
up to him and slowed, staying just a couple feet behind him while his brain
tried to work on the fly. He knew a fight in the open corridor would only lead
to both of them being arrested, and he had promised President Rivera that he
wouldn’t take the man alive.

“No
trial,” Rivera had reminded him on the phone.

“Oh,
there definitely won’t be a trial,” Nick said, determination and anger slipping
into his voice more than he’d intended.

Neither
Rivera nor the country needed a long trial or the chance for the Butcher to
rule from behind bars. Or possibly escape at some point down the road.

Besides,
after last night and all the dead and wounded from S3, Nick wanted him in a
cheap pine box as badly as Rivera did. Nick sped up and came alongside the
short man and put his hand on his shoulder.

“Juan
Pelo,” Nick said, using the man’s real name, which hardly anyone knew, and
which no one in the Godesto Cartel dared called him. He had built up the image
of “the Butcher” and he delighted in its sound.

The man
tensed under Nick’s hand, and Nick knew he had the right man.

“Don’t do
anything stupid,” Nick said. “And don’t act like you don’t understand English.
I've read your file. Trust me. For your own good, just keep walking like we’re
friends. I have an offer for you.”

“Who are
you?”

“Roberto
Rivera sent me, but that doesn't matter. You see, I have a proposition for
you.”

“I don’t
need to hear your proposition,” the Butcher sneered. “I could make one call and
you’d be cut up into fish bait.

“Well,
you could,” Nick said, emphasizing his Southern drawl, “but we already know you
don’t have your security detail with you. And I kind of doubt you could get
your phone up and dialed before I ripped it from your little hand.”

“I’m not
worried about some redneck taking a phone from me. I could break you in half
with my eyes closed.”

“And if
you try,” Nick said, “security would rush up, arrest us both, and I’m betting
they’d probably figure out who you are without needing to break out the
fingerprint kit. You’re kind of famous now, you know, so if you want to have
the chance to leave the country in a few minutes, you’ll listen to my
proposition.”

“I’m
listening,” the Butcher said.

“Option
one is I cause a ruckus and get security over here to arrest you. We know that
gets you into prison after a painful and long court trial that will probably
last at least two or three years, with you inside the pen. No parole for you.”

“What’s
option two?” the Butcher asked.

“Option
two is you step into an empty hallway with me without causing a scene.
President Rivera wants you dead, and he’s looking to avoid a trial or you
enjoying the easy life in jail, like you cartel members always seem to do.
Plus, he can’t kill you in jail because after the Hernan Flores shanking
incident, the public would come unhinged if another major cartel leader died in
custody. So, option two is we mosey over into an empty hallway and see who
walks out. I figure you have about twenty-five minutes before your plane
leaves, which gives you time to take care of me, clean up, and leave on
schedule. You won’t get to board early, but you’ll have plenty of time to
depart and fly off into the sunset.”

“How do I
know I won’t be arrested anyway, assuming I win?”

“President
Rivera would rather have you gone from the country than on trial or in jail, so
that’s why I’m here. I get one chance and you only have one final obstacle.”

“This
could be dangerous for you,” the Butcher said, a smile creeping across his
face.

“I’m
accustomed to danger. Plus, I was paid good money by the U.S. government to
come down here and deal with Mr. Flores and the Godesto Cartel. You took care
of Flores for me, which I appreciate, but you still bear a right smart amount
of blood on your hands. Besides all the Mexican people you’ve killed or leeched
off of, you guys took out a bunch of Navy SEALs. And last night, you killed
some of my men in Neza-Chalco-Itza. So, it’s kind of personal, you might say.”

“Hah,”
the Butcher laughed, as they continued to walk through the bustling airport.
“That was you? I should have known only cocky-ass Americans would be so stupid
as to enter Neza-Chalco-Itza with so few men.”

Nick
swallowed down his anger. He felt the fire and hatred building up.

And he
thought back on everything that this little asshole had done. He remembered the
video of the Butcher entering the police station and chopping up officers who
couldn’t defend themselves because of the tear gas. He remembered the brutal
decapitation of billionaire Juan Soto’s head in his room. And he reflected on
the helplessness he had felt just hours ago in the slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza,
fighting off hundreds of rabid dogs who were snapping at the convoy.

Nick had
felt so helpless dragging and carrying his wounded men into the hospital. And
then offloading the dead at the morgue, once they had stripped them of their
gear to limit the questions from emergency personnel.

“I still
can’t believe you tried to enter Neza-Chalco-Itza with so few men,” the Butcher
said. “Didn’t Rivera tell you that the cops and army never enter Neza-Chalco-Itza?
And did he not tell you that I’m not afraid to die? You don’t know me, country
boy. I don’t give a shit if I live or die.”

“Join the
club,” Nick said. “You see, you messed up last night. Because not only did you
kill a lot of good men, which I have to live with for the rest of my life, but
you also shot up my girl.”

The
Butcher laughed. “You talk a lot, country boy.”

“Not
usually,” Nick said. “But ask yourself this. How come President Rivera had
barely made a dent against the Godesto until last night? You ever wonder that?”

Nick felt
the Butcher tense again underneath his hand. “That’s right,” Nick continued.
“You can thank us cocky-ass Americans for tearing apart your entire
organization in a single night. How long did you spend building that thing up?
Thirty years? And poof.” Nick snapped the fingers of his free hand. “Gone in
one night.”

The
Butcher stopped walking and said, “You’re going to be wishing you had called
those security guards in just a few minutes, country boy.”

“Well,
it’s true,” Nick said, “that some have said I’ve got no sense. But, we’ll just
have to see if you’re man enough to do what so many others couldn’t. Tell you
what, let’s try this hall up here.”

Nick
angled him toward a sign that said “fire exit” on it.

They
entered the hall and Nick was relieved that no alarm went off. A chair sat
inside the hall next to an old trash can with a pile of cigarette butts in it.
Clearly some guard or janitor used the place to sneak a smoke. But it looked
dingy and rarely visited otherwise -- the perfect place for a fight to the
death.

The
Butcher moved down the hall and when he was a safe distance away, Nick grabbed
the chair by the trash can and blocked the door behind him with it, wedging it
against the handle at an angle. The last thing he wanted was a janitor, cop, or
tourist trying to stop them.

Thankfully,
the hall was a wide one, built so that golf carts and other emergency vehicles
could navigate it. Probably even wide enough for ambulances to drive through.

There’d
be plenty of room to dance in here, Nick thought, and then he saw that the
Butcher was smiling.

“What’s
so funny?” Nick asked. “Oh, that’s right. You like being locked up with bigger
men. I seem to recall reading in the police file on you that you had a great
time in prison. This bring back some pleasant memories for you?”

The
Butcher smiled at him, and the little shit had the creepiest of looks. Nick
couldn’t read his face. It was the strangest damned thing.

“What’s
so funny?” Nick asked. “You really think your little goober karate moves are
going to work against me?”

“Probably,”
the Butcher said, “but not as well as this.”

And with
that he yanked his katana from the duffel bag.

“Well,” Nick
admitted, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Turns
out,” the Butcher said with a smirk, “that a ton of money won’t get an Uzi
through security, but it will get a sword through.”

Nick was
barely listening. He suddenly regretted that the hall was so wide. Or that he
had blocked the door behind him with the chair.

No doubt
if he turned his back to grab it he’d be a shish kebab. The Butcher would
skewer him straight through his back like a piece of meat pierced by a
stainless steel cooking rod.

Nick’s
brain raced, looking for something. Now it was the Butcher’s turn to have fun.

“What was
the term I used earlier?” the Butcher asked. “I believe it was ‘cocky-ass
American.’ And look, here you’ve made yet another horrendous mistake, just like
last night.”

Nick stood
facing him, his legs shoulder-width apart and his empty hands held out to his
sides. What the hell had he gotten himself into? And how in the world did you
dodge a swift swinging sword? Especially from a little karate dick who knew how
to use it?

“I could
kill you so quickly,” the Butcher said, “like a stork stabbing a fish out of
water, but I wonder… I wonder if you know how powerless it feels to be cut time
and time again and not be able to do anything about it.”

Here
comes the sadistic, cruel side of the man, Nick thought.

The
Butcher held the sword in a two-hand grip directly in front of him and he
looked like he knew what he was doing. He had unsheathed it with ease and
grace, then positioned the sword expertly. Yeah, he definitely knew what he was
doing.

And there
was something unnerving about a long blade. Much more intimidating than a
pistol or submachine gun, despite the absurdity of such a comparison. Perhaps
it was the slow death such a weapon would cause.

“I’ll
bet,” the Butcher said, “that I have you giving up and begging for your life
after just six or eight slices. Sharp cuts bleed a lot and they burn. They’re
really no fun, I promise you.”

“I
thought martial artists didn’t use weapons against unarmed people?” Nick asked.