But Flores had pushed too far with the violence. He had lost the public’s support and this group of Vigilantes had sprung up. Flores needed to win it back, quickly. Even if he discovered who these Vigilantes were, he’d need to be careful. Attack them too ruthlessly and they’d only multiply like weeds.
Flores recalled the footage of the wrecked Presidential Palace and the convoy of shot-up Mexican troops. No one in Mexico had cared about the dead Navy SEALs, but the news footage of the Palace and bullet-riddled convoy littered with dead Mexican soldiers had played for days.
And the Palace had looked terrible in the TV footage and front-page newspaper photos, even after the bodies had been removed. Smoke plumes rose from the riddled, pock-marked Palace walls and bloody spots stained the street among the charred ruins of the convoy.
The Mexican people were poor, but proud, and the sight of their government power center shattered and their military embarrassed on a city street had proved too much. And Flores had known it before the day’s news ended. The media pounced on the footage as if it were war coverage from World War II.
Flores, sensing the rising public anger and humiliation, immediately offered his assistance to help insulate himself. He publicly donated $10 million to the federal government’s campaign to rebuild the Presidential Palace. Best of all, Flores earned some great news coverage after President Roberto Rivera refused to be pictured with Flores. Rivera claimed to be too busy overseeing the defense of the country and its war against the cartels, but several media outlets slapped him on the wrists for not appearing with Flores. “What better way to help raise funds than to appear with those who were donating so generously?” the papers asked.
And Flores’s assault against President Rivera and Juan Soto had done more than turn public opinion against the Godesto. It had also inspired the straight-laced billionaire Soto not to leave the country. Flores knew that President Rivera could not survive without Soto’s support, and Flores had been so close to driving Soto out of the country after he’d killed several of his employees and nearly successfully kidnapped his daughter.
Flores gulped down the final half of his drink and refilled his glass. He’d conveniently brought the bottle from the cabinet to his desk.
What to do with the Vigilantes... As he considered them, he remembered other times he had been pushed to the breaking point. And with those thoughts, a smile crept across his face. This wasn’t close to being his biggest challenge. He remembered so many times he’d faced nearly insurmountable hurdles as he had risen up from the ranks.
He’d climbed to the top of the Godesto Cartel from the very bottom, beginning as a mere foot soldier packing a pistol, rising to a corner captain, then a neighborhood shot caller, and finally to the highest ranks, within the very brain of the organization. And once he was within the ranks of the top twenty leaders of the Godesto, all of whom were jockeying to lead, he’d ascended to the head of it through betrayals, double-crosses, and anonymous tips to the government.
That was achievement enough. Becoming the head of the Godesto Cartel was a monumental task, one aided by luck and intuition and guile.
And yet that had proven a cakewalk compared to his next task: Becoming the most powerful cartel leader in Mexico. By the time Flores had wrested control of the Godesto Cartel from its former leader, who had fled Mexico when he learned of Flores’s intentions to seize power from him, the cartel was holding itself together by a thread -- partly due to the former leader’s weakness, and partly due to Flores’s internal coup.
Regardless, Flores fought internal and external pressures for months as he stabilized the organization and convinced those both under and around him that he was not one to be trifled with or underestimated. He had meted out retribution when he could, and parlayed for peace with other cartels where he was outgunned.
And slowly but surely, he strengthened the Godesto Cartel and plotted his future moves. When Flores took over the Godesto, six major cartels existed. Twenty years later, only three remained: the Godesto, the Red Sleeve Cartel, and a newly formed upstart that at some point he would squash like a bug. The Godesto had an alliance with the Red Sleeve Cartel, which was probably thirty percent as powerful as the Godesto. And the upstart cartel was perhaps four percent as powerful.
Flores reached for more liquor, but stopped when he remembered he needed to stay sober. The announcement of the creation of the Vigilantes pushed back the timetable of Flores’s plans, but he had endured setbacks before. He’d destroy them no differently than he’d destroyed his prior enemies.
He reached for his phone and realized he’d totaled it in his earlier tirade.
“Maria,” he yelled. “Call the TV stations. I’m holding a press conference in two hours.”
Chapter 16
“Nick, you better get in here,” Dwayne Marcus said.
Nick pushed into the command center, which he and Marcus had decided would be in the room that housed the small study/library of the farmhouse.
“What is it?” Nick asked.
“Hernan Flores is about to hold a press conference,” Marcus said. “Isabella has been scanning the news channels and came across it.”
“We got anyone who can take a shot at him?” Nick asked. He knew they had two scout teams of Spanish-speaking undercover agents from the squads of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter out tracking the man’s movements and learning his patterns. The teams were already in Mexico City trying to stake out the number one enemy of Mexico. They didn’t have sniper rifles with them, but they were packing M4s in the trunks of their vehicles.
“Sir,” said Isabella, “we can’t shoot him in front of twenty or thirty cameras and untold millions of Mexicans watching live.”
“The hell we can’t,” Nick countered. “You give me the shot and I’ll shoot through three reporters to bore a hole through that bastard.”
“We’re trying to win public opinion,” Isabella reminded him.
“No, we’re only trying to win over public opinion so that we can take this bastard down,” Nick said. “That’s part one of our directive: Take Flores down. And the first chance we get to drop his ass, we drop him. That’s step one, then we go after his cartel. Public opinion only matters in the short term, and since it’s hot as hell down here, I’m all for getting him sooner rather than later.”
“Sir,” Isabella said, beginning to question him, but Nick held up his hand to stop her and pointed at the TV.
Hernan Flores exited two doors from the entrance of the tower from which he worked. He cautiously walked toward the cameras and looked up and down the road, as if he were worried.
“He’s putting on an act,” Isabella said. “I’ve watched hundreds of hours of footage of him and he’s usually loud and pushy and cocky.”
“He’s hamming it up for the cameras,” Nick said.
“As if he doesn’t have about forty armed men in a cordon around the media,” Marcus added.
“I thought he always wore Hawaiian shirts?” Nick asked, looking toward Isabella. “He looks like a stuffed pig in that suit.”
“He normally does,” she said. “I don’t like this. He hates wearing suits. He doesn’t even wear them to fundraising galas, and no one cares because he donates so much that half of the galas are named in his honor.”
Flores trudged up to a podium. Dozens of microphones and tape recorders were propped or standing in front of him, and a hungry crowd of reporters with cameras and notepads stood eagerly awaiting. Flores looked up and down the street again and leaned toward the microphones.
Nick tapped Isabella on the arm and said, “You translate what he says.”
She nodded as Flores began to speak.
“I appreciate you all coming out today, and I apologize for my men having to search you a few minutes ago,” he said.
Flores took a handkerchief out and wiped his brow, which has already begun to sweat. The man was a fat piece of shit, Nick thought, and hardly looked like a formidable adversary. And yet that’s what made
him so dangerous. He was a chameleon. He changed his colors to whatever was necessary. Businessman and philanthropist by day, mobster and murderer by night.
“As you might have heard,” Flores said to the cameras, “a group of law-breaking citizens has come out and claimed they intend to hunt me down.”
Flores paused and looked down. He swallowed, brushed his forehead again, and continued. “I can’t tell you how distressing this is and we’re obviously taking these threats very seriously, as you can see by the security around you. I have made arrangements to fly my family out of the country and I’m trying to determine if I can manage to leave the country myself.”
He looked up and down the street -- like a scared alley cat, Nick thought, caught out in the open on a bright summer day -- before continuing.
“As you all know, I own dozens of legitimate businesses, contrary to what these Vigilantes claim. And while I can afford to quit today, I cannot bring myself to do that for the sake of the thousands of employees and families who depend on those jobs. Not to mention the ongoing contributions those businesses provide to several charities. I’d hate for it to come to this, but I must say that if I can’t move freely or even stay in the country without fear of harm coming to me or those I love, then that giving will have to decrease.”
Now Flores leaned into the microphones and Nick detected the first hint of violence that he’d seen yet. But it was subtle and probably most of the public would miss it. Nick only caught it because he couldn’t understand the language and focused completely on every gesture and action. Looking straight into the cameras, Flores said, “I call on President Roberto Rivera to crack down on these Vigilantes. And while I’ve been a big supporter of his -- including my recent donation to rebuild the Presidential Palace after this horrific attack by terrorists -- I sadly cannot continue to endorse a leader who so blatantly is losing control of his country. I don’t want to endorse a government changeover in the middle of his presidential term, but if he cannot bring these people to justice and cannot stop the attacks on our brave government forces, then we will have to consider whether a handover of power is not the right course of action.”
“Wow,” Isabella said in disbelief. “Did he just say he’s been a big supporter of President Rivera?”
“Probably most folks don’t know how much he funded and worked for Rivera’s opponent,” Nick said. “All they see is this old, scared businessman. The man who reminds them of their grandfather and who they’ve seen hundreds of times on TV during various charity events. They see a businessman and philanthropist who’s reasonable and fighting for them.”
“Nice bit of reverse psychology that he’s using,” Marcus said.
“He’s a pro,” Nick said. “That’s for sure.”
“It’s all bullshit,” Isabella said. “He’s not sending his family out of the country. They have a mountain enclave, and have complete control of the city he was raised in. No way is he letting them leave the country where he can’t guarantee their safety as well.”
Nick didn’t respond. He needed some quiet to think over Flores’s power move. Without a word, he turned and exited the room.
The blowback from Hernan Flores’s performance in front of the country reached Nick Woods two days later.
His CIA contact rushed into the command post where Nick and Marcus hovered over a map. He held a brick-sized phone that was apparently some kind of super-encrypted, satellite phone, Nick had been told.
“It’s for you, sir,” his contact said. “It’s headquarters, and I warn you they’re pissed.”
Nick noted that his contact had his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and looked as flustered as an eight-year-old about to get a spanking.
“It’ll be okay, Hoss,” Nick said. “I’ve dealt with headquarters before.”
The contact handed Nick the phone and darted from the room, looking relieved.
Nick looked over at Marcus, shook his head, and smiled.
“Kids,” Nick said. Marcus laughed.
Nick paused and made headquarters wait a full fifteen seconds. He lifted the heavy phone, but Marcus raised his head to say something.
“I’m going to walk the lines,” Marcus said, holding up his M4.
Nick nodded and leaned into the phone.
“Nick, here.”
“This is Mr. Smith. You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing down there?”
Nick smiled. Smith was the high-level CIA official who truly was in charge of Nick’s operation. Or, so Smith thought. Of course the pencil-neck piece of shit didn’t want anyone to know his name in case the whole mission went down in flames.
A real courageous man.
Nick had called him Mr. Smith once the man had said it was best if he didn’t share his name with Nick. It wasn’t like the man would have told Nick his real name anyway, so at least the name “Mr. Smith” was easy to remember.
“You know exactly what we’re doing,” Nick said. “Your contact updates you at least twice a day, of that I’m confident. He’s too scared not to.”
“President Rivera’s popularity has dropped another ten points since Hernan Flores responded to the Vigilante’s video. Do I need to remind you that he already has a low approval rating and doesn’t have a lot of room to give?”
“Do I need to remind you that you approved of our plan prior to our departure?” Nick asked. “Best I remember, you thought us producing and releasing that video was a great idea. A quote ‘way to win over the people,’ I believe was what you said.”
“The plan wasn’t to release the video and do nothing for the next couple of days while Flores destroys the movement in the press before it really even begins.”
“I didn’t realize we were doing nothing,” Nick said. “I bet that’s news to all the guys patrolling the compound and spread all over Mexico City pulling surveillance in this god-awful heat.”
“You need to make something happen soon. I’ve got the Director on my ass and you-know-who on his ass.”
Nick knew he meant the President, but that wasn’t his problem. He wouldn’t risk a single man rushing his plans.
“I said before I accepted the post that I would work at my own pace. I’m not risking any men because you or your boss can’t take an ass-chewing. Your job is to run interference so that we can get the job done, so go run some interference. Make up some kind of an excuse, whatever the hell you want.”
“Listen here,” Smith said, but Nick didn’t hear another word. He hit the “end call” button and tossed the phone into a chair. He’d heard enough from Headquarters today.
Dwayne Marcus moved about the farmhouse’s interior, his M4 cradled in his arms. He peeked out windows and surveilled the lines from inside the home. Satisfied with what he saw, he leaned his M4 against the wall near the door and confirmed his .45 was concealed under his untucked shirt.
Nick had set strict rules for the unit that no one was to be seen outside with a long weapon of any kind during daylight hours. Though the farm was pretty remote and the population surrounding it mostly sparse, nothing was supposed to be done that could arouse suspicion from outsiders.
Not that long weapons weren’t out at the positions, but they had been moved there during night hours and were kept concealed under tarps and rifle cases.
Nick had also mandated that only street clothes were to be worn outside while in the compound to further hide the fact that this small farm had been transformed into an outpost for a large group of armed men.
“I want us to look like some regular ol’ field hands,” Nick had said. “Or maybe local workers or something.”
Marcus glanced down to confirm he was in blue jeans and T-shirt and stepped out of the home. Marcus took his time and walked the perimeter in a nonchalant manner. He certainly didn’t want to look military in his bearing, but at the same time he couldn’t shake how happy he felt to be in an armed camp again in a foreign country.
This was what he was built for: leading men on dangerous mission
s. And as he talked with the men in various hidden positions around the perimeter, he couldn’t shake how fragile it all felt. How worried he was -- already -- that when this ended he’d have to return to an administrative leadership position in the Marine Corps. Or, even worse, have to leave the Corps and move on to some shitty civilian job.
And nothing scared Marcus more. He’d known nothing but guns and forced marches since the day he dropped out of college and left his lucrative destiny with the NFL for something grittier, scarier, and tougher. But just like the NFL, which veteran football players knew stood for “Not For Long,” in the military -- even in the blood and guts Marine Corps -- the opportunities to serve in harm’s way were few and far between. Units rotated. Orders changed. You got promoted too high to be on the front line.
And yet Nick Woods had given him that opportunity again and there hadn’t been a moment since that he wasn’t nearly euphoric.
Marcus had seen serious military talent waste away under the weight of serving in a safe location stateside, or under the burden of being forced into an administrative leadership position like supply or logistics. But here he stood. Hundreds of miles away from any kind of reinforcements. The Mexican Army and Police had no idea where they were.
The men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter were completely on their own. Just three eight-man teams, plus eight more counting Nick and Marcus in the Primary Strike Team. Thirty-two members in S3, plus the CIA contact and Mexican liaison. Marcus supposed they could handle a weapon if all hell broke loose and the entire unit was surrounded.
Hardly an army or task force, and they were about to tangle with the billion-dollar Godesto Cartel, which probably had a thousand trigger pullers, a couple hundred police-department moles, and maybe as many as five thousand people on their payroll as snitches. It was why Nick had insisted on telling the Mexican government practically nothing.
The Mexican government had only one form of intel on S3, their Mexican liaison, and Nick kept that poor man so in the dark that he didn’t know a damn thing. Besides blindfolding him for hours prior to his arriving at their farm, Nick also kept a 24/7 firewatch on the man. If you had the watch and needed to take a piss, you had to get another member of S3 to watch him.
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 11