Roberto Rivera, and certainly the government of Mexico, needed more men like Juan Soto to stand up and say “enough.” And with the knowledge that Soto wouldn’t be leaving Mexico -- taking away his money and support -- Rivera felt renewed strength, despite the unprecedented setback his government had just suffered.
While Juan Soto was squaring his shoulders for a fight, the government of the United States was doing the exact opposite. Even before the news had leaked that nearly an entire Navy SEAL Platoon had been lost, the President of the United States had decided to abandon his shaky neighbor to the south. No more troops. Reduced aid. And nothing that could stick to him with his re-election campaign around the corner.
Public opinion polls showed Americans staunchly opposed to intervening in Mexico, and the President already faced the calls for congressional hearings on why a Navy SEAL Platoon had been there in the first place when the War on Terror was still in full swing. With the election approaching, he knew his opponents would work this angle as hard and for as long as they could. So, following the grueling meeting with his staff, he wanted it very clear: No more involvement that could be traced back to the U.S. government. Period.
Without troops from the Defense Department or more financial resources from the State Department, only one tool remained to help buttress President Roberto Rivera’s besieged government: The CIA.
But the CIA was stretched to the max. Operatives from the Agency stalked and hunted terrorists and extremist groups literally across the globe. From the cities of Pakistan to the mountains of Afghanistan, from the deserts of Saudi Arabia to the prayer mats of mosques in Syria, from the shanties in Yemen to the very edges of north, south, and west Africa, the CIA was fighting an all-out, win-at-all-costs war of both offense and defense.
All that activity, however, meant the Agency was over-extended, exhausted, and under-manned. It lacked enough quality operatives, spies, and analysts to fully pursue the War on Terror, as it was still called. So, regardless of what the President wanted, or what the CIA Director wanted, or what Mexican President Roberto Rivera needed, shifting forces to take on a uber-powerful drug lord in Mexico -- one who had nearly taken down the entire government in a single strike, while also batting down a full platoon of SEALs as if it had been no challenge -- was not something the CIA was looking forward to adding to their list of priorities.
Inside the CIA, an endless parade of meetings was held, from low-level strategists all the way up to the Director. They all knew the President wanted something to happen -- off the radar, of course -- but none of them knew how to make it happen without undermining more important efforts elsewhere. (Unsaid was that if a terrorist attack happened in America, or even against America but in a foreign land, they’d be blamed for that, as well.)
The overall opinion at the CIA was that little could be done in Mexico. And frankly bigger battles needed to be fought. Battles against radicalism and terrorism around the globe, not localized border drama to America’s south.
Plus, Mexico was corrupt through and through. Anyone sent there would be dimed out by ten different Mexican officials before they even arrived, so why bother? Wasn’t that what almost certainly happened to the Navy SEAL Team? Besides, the drug cartels mostly left America alone so why go after them? And even if you toppled the latest cartel and its leader, in this case the Godesto Cartel and Hernan Flores, they would be replaced by a successor before the predecessor was even buried in the ground.
Yet still, the folks at the CIA knew they had to do something. The President insisted that Mexican President Roberto Rivera be supported, yet only in a way that was off the books and couldn’t be placed back on the United States, which really meant him and his re-election effort.
So, the Director continued to press for more meetings until they had solutions -- any solutions.
And in the palpable desperation of one of these follow-up meetings, a name was sarcastically spat out. It was a joke that under the circumstances was funnier than hell. Without question, jokes and laughs were what the meetings had all turned to -- after all, they couldn’t justify the displacement of operatives that had spent years infiltrating terrorist groups to now up and go gallivanting around in Mexico.
The only solution they had was literally a joke.
But that name that started out as a funny and cruel joke began circulating. And every time it was brought up in a different meeting, the same pattern emerged: rip-roaring, hard laughs followed by slow consideration as the idea was chewed on. And sometimes one of the braver people in the room -- or one with the least to lose -- would say something along the lines of, “He actually might be the perfect person.” Or “solution.” Or as one analyst said, “the only son of a bitch crazy -- and paranoid -- enough to pull it off.”
And as meeting notes were shared, a consensus emerged. Nearly everyone agreed there was no other person better suited.
If it could be done, Nick Woods was the man. And if something needed to be done, who better to send than the man who had wrecked more Soviet Spetsnaz and CIA operatives than any other living man.
And on the flip side, if the mission were to fail as most felt it would, Nick Woods was no big loss. The CIA Director could legitimately tell the President they were sending their best man, the situation would remain in the background, and the President would either be re-elected or not. But most importantly, the CIA would be maintaining its most important priority around the globe.
No way would the CIA endanger American lives at the whims of a President worried about his re-election effort. And so the decision was made: Nick Woods would be found. And he would be convinced to pick up his rifle again in service of his country.
All that was left was to decide who among them was ballsy enough to actually recommend Nick and in the process put their own career in the hands of a madman.
Chapter 8
The man crazy enough to finally approach Nick was having the worst day of his life. He was still tied to a chair with a Claymore mine aimed toward the only exit. Blood ran down his face from a nasty head wound and his arms throbbed from a rope tied far too tightly around them.
Nick Woods sized up the man and repeated what his hostage had just said.
“Mexico?” Nick asked. “You need my help in Mexico? I thought our wars were in Iraq, Afghanistan, and a half-dozen countries in Africa and the Middle East. What the hell are we doing in Mexico? The drug cartels mostly leave us alone.”
“Our focus is on most of those places, and that’s where our resources are. But, recent events tell us that Mexico is about to completely destabilize. A drug cartel leader named Hernan Flores has nearly toppled the government. President Roberto Rivera has almost been pushed from power by Flores and this Godesto Cartel. And the country’s largest businessman -- or at least largest lawful businessman -- is about to exit the country, removing his family and all his assets. Our analysts and strategists do not believe the country can survive his departure, so we’re offering serious aid.”
Nick nodded. “And this aid involves that major dust-up with the Navy SEALs down there, and the attack on the Mexican Presidential Palace?”
“Yes. Hernan Flores hurt us bad. Wiped out much of an entire SEAL Team Platoon. He also simultaneously embarrassed and devastated President Roberto Rivera.”
“Why not just kill this Flores fellow? How hard can that be?”
“We can’t. He’s beloved by most Mexicans and he owns several legitimate businesses including numerous newspapers and TV stations. He’s wiped his trail so clean that Rivera’s government can’t even get a warrant against him, and even if they did, most of the Mexican people would think it was because the President feels threatened by the possibility of Flores running against him.”
“Are you sure he’s not clean?”
The man looked exasperated. “Of course we’re sure. He runs his operations through several henchmen, who he claims are merely friends. But we’re sure that Flores has an extensive network and is behind it all.”
“We already did, remember?” the agent said. “And Flores wiped out nearly an entire SEAL Team Platoon and we barely left a mark on him. And the CIA literally lacks the resources to send our own task force down there. Our military units and intelligence assets are deployed all over the place, obviously very heavily concentrated in Afghanistan and Pakistan, not to mention Iraq. Plus nearly a dozen African countries. We lack the manpower, and even if we had it, the same thing would happen. We’d send a team, the details of their deployment would get leaked, and they’d be dead in no time.”
“And you think it’d be different if I went?” Nick asked. “There’s barely an honest cop or merchant in Mexico right now. I’d be dead in no time, as well.”
“We don’t think so,” the agent said. “You’ve led a hunter-killer team against the Soviet Spetsnaz in a country where you could trust no one. A few years ago, you evaded some of our best CIA strike teams for weeks and weeks with almost no external support. You have a nose for danger unlike anyone we’ve ever seen. We think you’re the best man we have available to go into Mexico.”
“You want me to go alone?” Nick asked, nearly incredulous.
“No, of course not. Develop a plan and come pitch it to us. You’ll lead the effort. We have the money to make whatever you want happen, as long as we keep it off the books, and as long as we’re not pulling men from our current ranks. The President wants this kept quiet.”
“How do I know this isn’t some scam?” Nick asked. “Just some trick to get me filleted, and outside the country, at that?”
“If we wanted you dead, even as good as you are, we could have snuffed you out a hundred times by now since our agreement a couple of years ago. Drones. Snipers. Car accidents. Our opportunities have been endless and we haven’t done a thing. No one wants you dead, believe me, but I understand after being betrayed so many times that you’ll be fighting those demons for years to come.”
“Why would I want to do this? You’ve read my file. I’ve got a lot of money stored away. I’ve got my guns. Why do this?”
The agent smiled, as if he already knew he’d accomplished his mission.
“Two reasons. First, you’re bored. You know this. We know this. Second, you’re a sucker for duty. Our country desperately needs your services and we intend to pay very well. But, it’s duty that will eventually win you over. Our country can’t allow Hernan Flores and the Godesto Cartel to win and completely destabilize Mexico. We don’t need a Third World country directly on our border, and you’re the best man for the job.”
Nick turned, thinking about what he had been told.
“One other thing,” the agent said. “We know what you went through a couple of years ago and we know you still have some unfinished business with the man behind it all. It just so happens we want to deal with him, too. His corruption and abuse of power has grown too much, so we’re prepared to tell you his identity and help you eliminate him if you’ll help us in Mexico first.”
Nick turned and knew they had him. The agent knew, too, and smiled. “Now, can you cut these ropes before I lose a limb?”
Chapter 9
Nick Woods was sitting off to the side of a conference table crowded with men and just a few women. He stood, knowing full well that he looked as out of place as a janitor carrying a dripping mop through the final moments of a wedding ceremony in a marvelously decorated sanctuary. These folks wore expensive suits and ties. He wore jeans, work boots, and a Carhartt duck jacket.
He’d been asked to remove his pistol from under the jacket, but there were some things Nick didn’t believe in. Going for even one second without a piece of steel on his side was one of them. Two nervous agents had acceded to his objections, but only because someone in charge had walked up and cooled down the situation after they asked him to take his gun (or guns, if they had searched him and found his back-up pistol on his ankle).
Nick didn’t know any of the names of the folks around the table, and he didn’t care about them either. They probably didn’t give two shits about the country bumpkin standing before them, whom they’d all flown down to hear. He was a tool for them. A piece of meat that would solve a problem, or not. Probably barely mattered to any of them, except to keep the heat from on high off their back.
Nick looked at them and knew he’d never again make the mistake of thinking that those above him gave two shits about whether he lived or died on some mission. But the missions still needed to be done, and someone had to do them. Nick knew where he stood, and he knew their attitudes wouldn’t change the fact that he wanted to help solve this problem.
Three days had passed since he’d been approached by the brave federal agent and he’d fallen for the offer just as these assholes had probably expected.
Duty truly was a bitch, and if you were born and raised in the South, you ingested that shit morning, noon, and night. Nick had spent less than thirty minutes making up his mind after he’d untied that agent.
Nick had no Anne. He had no life. And he missed command. And truth be known, he knew deep down that he was one of the best. One of the most battle-hardened veterans that America had ever produced. If he said “no,” they’d send someone else. And that someone else wouldn’t be as good, which could lead to more men dying than necessary in yet another godforsaken land far from American shores.
Nick Woods was a cinch for the mission, and he’d spent the next three days after the CIA’s invitation either brainstorming in a hotel room or conducting research at a library in nearby Columbia, South Carolina. He’d worked nearly around the clock, limiting himself to three hours sleep per night and surviving on Mountain Dews, Snickers bars, and pizza.
Now he felt weak from the marathon, around-the-clock effort, but he felt as alive and content as he’d felt in years. Certainly since he’d been back at home with Anne, working construction during the day and sharing dinner each night with her. He’d been so into Anne -- despite their arguments over his paranoia -- that he’d literally had no other friends. A few acquaintances, but life for him back then had been completely about Anne and his guns.
He tried to clear his head of his last sight of Anne -- her body lying dead in the grass -- as he realized some analyst had ended a long point and was introducing him.
“This mission is critical,” the analyst continued, “but we’ve got to keep it off the books. We think our best option is the plan Nick will present to you today. And we think he’s the right man to lead this effort. He has shown himself to have great gut instincts when he operated against the Spetsnaz in Afghanistan. He nearly single-handedly took down Whitaker and his hunter-killer teams, which had grown out of control in their off-the-books operation. And he’s a master at killing those who need to be killed while avoiding the best-laid traps. With that, let me introduce you to Nick Woods.”
Nick nodded to the man who had introduced him. He stood, looking around the table at the CIA bigwigs and analysts who had flown down and rented a conference room to hear what he had to say. They ranged in age from mid-twenties to high sixties. All looked soft and only one looked like he’d ever carried a weapon before.
“Let’s get to it,” Nick said. “Hope you weren’t expecting some kind of PowerPoint presentation. Didn’t make one of those.”
He shrugged, then continued, “Now, you all described to me the problem of this man named Hernan Flores and the Godesto Cartel, and I’ve spent the past few days figuring on how we’re going to take him down. Out of curiosity, who here knows how we took down the Colombian drug lord who used to be public enemy number one, Mr. Pablo Escobar?”
After ten seconds of silence, one of the men cleared his throat and said, “We used triangulation of his phone and radio signals, which he didn’t realize we could track. We used everything from fixed sites to a plane to make it happen, since the area was mountainous or super urban and packe
d. Wasn’t easy, but that’s how we finally got him. Triangulation, sir.”
A few of the suits at the table smiled and nodded, impressed someone had remembered.
“Partly, you’re right,” Nick said. “But if you remember correctly, it was hardly needed after the Colombian people got sick of him. Do you remember the death squads they created? A vigilante group known as Los Pepes, short for Los Perseguidos por Pablo Escobar. For you non-Spanish speaking folks -- myself included -- that means,” Nick looked down at his notecards he’d brought with him and continued, “the people persecuted by Pablo Escobar.”
A few people laughed and Nick said, “Yeah, pretty simple name. But the point is the same. This group went after him, his family, his associates, and they went all out. They used propaganda, threats to his associates, and broke numerous laws. Hell, they even used car bombs, just like terrorists, which also killed some civilians. But they basically are the reason why Pablo Escobar had to flee and go into hiding in shitty shanties and apartments, instead of his well-guarded compounds. And once he was on the run, it was only a matter of time before he ended up dead with a bunch of bullet holes in his body.”
Nick flipped to his next notecard. “And it’s the plan of Los Pepes that I’d like to see executed in Mexico.”
After detailing the plan and answering some questions, Nick was given a cell phone since he didn’t have one and was told they’d be in touch.
Chapter 10
Nick Woods’s contact called two days later. It was the same poor bastard from the gas station that Nick had promptly abducted and tied to a chair for some of the scariest minutes of his life.
The agent reported the mission as a go after Nick’s plan had been passed up the chain of command. He also confirmed that Nick would head up the entire op.
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 6