Less than half an hour later, President Roberto Rivera confirmed his men had the great Hernan Flores in hand and called an emergency press conference once again. He gave the details of the raid and then provided a short speech he’d been working on in his head for literally years.
On the way back to his office, he paused behind a bullet-proof window and looked over the skyline of Mexico City. This. This was the pinnacle of his presidency. Mexico’s greatest days now lay before it. Only weaker cartels remained, and Rivera decided he’d offer more rewards to take down their leaders, as well.
Rivera smiled. This had all gone down on his watch. The history books would sing his praises for literally centuries to come.
He could imagine the entry about his presidency:
President Roberto Rivera entered office in the middle of Mexico’s darkest days.
Yeah, this wasn’t bad. Not bad at all, he thought. Maybe all the emotional stress and fear would prove worth it. Maybe his nearly failed presidency was worth it after all. And with that, he turned and walked back to his office to celebrate with Juan Soto.
Chapter 26
While President Roberto Rivera celebrated the capture of Hernan Flores with Juan Soto, the Butcher took the reins of the Godesto Cartel. He had two of Flores’s most loyal lieutenants killed and immediately began telling a few men to spread the message that Flores had been shanked in prison and was already dead. That would be the truth soon enough anyway.
At the same time, he promoted two of his best men to fill the spots of the lieutenants now resting in pieces, and he pulled his men together to begin planning their assault on the government. In addition, he upped his own personal security, since it was in the early hours of a coup that a new leader had to worry most about his own safety.
While the Butcher ramped up his planning, the exact opposite thing occurred in the operating base of Nick Woods’s unit. The press conference by President Rivera halted the frantic planning of how they’d exit the country under the nose of Rivera and Smith. The press conference and news of Flores’s arrest also led to mixed feelings in the ranks of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter.
Some wanted to celebrate. Flores was down, they’d get bonuses for completing the mission, and each was returning home in one piece. Not a bad couple of months work. But the cynics in S3 warned that Flores would probably be released, or that he would just run the Godesto Cartel from prison.
But as the debates about Flores’s demise (or lack thereof) raged, in the end each member knew it didn’t matter. President Rivera had sent word to the American Ambassador that with Flores now in custody, he no longer needed S3 operating in his country.
This was another suggestion by Juan Soto, and Rivera eagerly agreed with the idea. He was drunk -- literally -- from the success of Flores’s capture and the splendid operation of his Mexican police who had raided the warehouse.
Rivera had watched the entire operation on video from three drones flying high above. He had never seen three hundred men move with such synchronization and force and witnessing it had restored his confidence in the power of the Mexican government. Why he had ever feared Flores so much seemed remarkably strange now.
The American Ambassador sent word of Rivera’s wishes to the CIA Director, who sent a secure message to “Mr. Smith.” Nick Woods got the message ten minutes later.
Nick discussed the situation with Marcus and they cancelled the planning of their own top-secret extraction. Convinced the mission was over, they decided they might as well light a bonfire and get everyone shit-faced drunk. Or most everyone.
As the news spread through the unit, Preacher and a couple of other men who didn’t drink very often volunteered to stay sober and pull duty. Marcus decided it would be wiser for each squad to have its own fire since they had plenty of room on the farm.
“Don’t want any fights,” he said. “And too many alpha males from rival squads around the same fire is bound to cause that to happen.”
Nick agreed and told Marcus to handle the logistics of where each squad area would be stationed. He also told Marcus to grab one thousand dollars of petty cash from the Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter company account and send someone out for all the beer and hotdogs they could carry.
But not everyone was celebrating. One man waited alone, anxious and nervous. Miles and miles away from the Presidential office with its champagne bottles, and nearly as many miles from the field dotted with men from S3 throwing down beer and hotdogs, Hernan Flores awaited his arraignment. He sat in Mexico’s most secure prison -- the Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1 -- and he knew all too well how many miles away he was from the center of Mexico’s power. But with luck, they would have him arraigned soon.
Thankfully, they had him in isolation, which suited him fine. He felt confident his high-priced attorney -- the best defense attorney in Mexico -- would have him in better quarters in no time. Maybe even out on bond, but that seemed a stretch given the charges against him.
Still, Flores was restless for a meeting with him. And for a chance to plot out his counter attack, which he knew would prove a brilliant defensive strategy.
There were several non-profits whose executive directors owed Flores big-time. If he could get a message out through his attorney to a handful of them, they could go before the media and call the charges absurd. Yes. That’s what he needed. A few high-profile humanitarians standing behind him and defending his character in some media interviews.
These non-profit CEOs would also confirm that Flores was in the process of multi-million dollar donations to their respective nonprofits. Yes indeed. Flores could imagine the interviews and the doubts they would sow in the people’s minds… After all, would a true cartel leader honestly be giving so much money to nonprofits? And look at this man’s track record over the past ten years as a giver and businessman. This wasn’t a new thing for him that just began after the Mexican government charged him publicly.
Flores could imagine the interviews airing on TV. He smiled and laughed at the thought. Heh. Rivera may think he had the upper hand, but Flores still had plenty of cards that he planned to play.
As he mulled over the situation, he put his chances at getting out and free from incarceration within five years at better than fifty-fifty. And if the sentence was longer than five years, he’d be breaking out. For sure. Even here, in this high-security facility, he calculated his odds of escape as at least twenty-five percent. You could never overestimate the sway the Godesto Cartel wielded.
But none of this could happen until he met with his lawyer. He went to glance down at his watch and remembered they had taken that when they stripped him down and threw him in prison attire. Flores paced back and forth in his small cell. What the hell was the hold up with his attorney? That asshole better not be moving slow, he thought.
Flores speculated which judge his case would fall under. Several names came to mind as strong possibilities, but he wasn’t too worried about this part of his dilemma, either. He knew many of them, and most of them were in his pocket. Or in the pocket of some other important businessmen, who was in Flores’s pocket.
These businessmen could help sway their opinion. Flores laughed, his voice echoing in the small isolation cell. The ironic thing was that most of the judges’ wives were friends with Flores’s girlfriend. And with these other businessmen's wives, as well.
If the public knew about all those connections, there’d be riots in the streets. The number of get-togethers they shared was truly staggering. Christmas parties for various civic groups. Non-profit galas. Political functions. And they all sat together and asked about each other’s families and personal lives. It was truly a tight (and small) circle.
Flores shoved the thoughts down and wondered again just where his attorney was. Besides the PR strategy with the nonprofits, Flores wanted to find out the latest news and send a few quick messages to the Godesto Cartel.
Flores’s biggest worry in the coming months -- besides a possible conviction --
was the threat posed by the Butcher. That bastard might be moving against him in a coup attempt from the outside, but as long as Flores could get some messages out to a few key people, he felt confident his men would remain loyal.
Men almost always fall into line when they see decisive leadership. And hearing the PR plan and Flores’s orders would relieve everyone and keep anyone from stepping out of line. Surely they understood that he might get out on bond in a day or two. And should he not, then he’d eventually be released after his conviction. He simply needed them to know that they’d better not dare double-cross him.
But as the hours went by and no one approached his barely lit cell, Flores’s confidence began to drop. Surely President Rivera wouldn’t deny him a chance to meet with his attorney? He bristled at the idea. Could he, legally speaking?
Would he?
Flores struck the wall with his palm. Even without using his knuckles, it hurt his hand and he instantly regretted doing it. Damn, he was getting soft. And clearly his confidence and control were not what they once were. He swallowed down a creeping and growing fear.
While Flores paced and nursed his hand, the Butcher scrambled to find a way to kill him. Unfortunately, it was proving harder than he expected.
First, most of the Godesto Cartel and other cartel leaders still feared Flores would return to power, so they doubted the Butcher’s claims that he had wrested control of the cartel from Flores. And since the Butcher wasn’t as well-known as Flores, and considering Flores was the most powerful man in Mexico -- some said North America -- the Butcher was getting nowhere with his idea.
None of the officers in Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1 would kill Flores. Nor would they so much as release a prisoner for a few minutes to kill him. But finally, after spending ten million dollars in bribes from the Godesto Cartel’s flush accounts, the Butcher got enough people on board to make something happen.
Yet it wasn’t going to be simple. No one in the prison would move against Flores, and no amount of money or threats would change that. All were afraid they might attempt it and fail. And all knew that if that occurred, then the Godesto Cartel would come at them with all its fury. They would be tortured and killed for their efforts. Their families, too.
Besides the money, reputation, and influence, Flores also had dozens of men in the high-security facility who could protect him. These included guards who were on the cartel’s payroll, and cartel operatives who remained loyal after conviction.
The Butcher was about to give up his attempt when one guard mentioned in a phone call that they would allow a man in, but his safety would be up to him; they couldn’t guarantee his survival. And that man would have to take care of some guards, who were too straight-laced to be bought.
The Butcher knew just the man for such an assignment.
Two hours later, the Butcher was on his way to Federal Social Readaptation Center No. 1. Earlier, a pair of cops on the Godesto Cartel payroll had sent in a memo to prison officials saying that another inmate was being hastily transferred to their care, under cover of night. The memo stated the prisoner had very important information on a crucial federal case and his life had been threatened, thus no one was to know about his transfer.
This included the warden or his top men. The inmate was to be kept away from the other prisoners and off the electronic record, since it was feared the enemy had informants on the lookout for him. The VIP prisoner was to be placed in isolation until the next day. Nothing more. Nothing less.
It was a strange memo, but when you live in a country that’s lost fifty thousand lives to drug violence, weird things occur more regularly than you’d think. And one doesn’t live long, let alone move up through the ranks of law enforcement, by asking questions.
While the memo made its rounds inside the prison, the police officers delivered the Butcher to the castle-like facility. The Butcher had his head covered in a sack and wore a bullet-proof vest over the prison garb that he’d been handed by the officers. The paperwork was a bit of a stretch, but given the secrecy surrounding the “transfer,” they felt it just might work. At least for a few hours. And that’s all the Butcher needed.
He had learned that fortune favored the brave, and besides… He felt no fear of a prison. He’d been incarcerated before, and he knew that none of the inmates could intimidate him now. And certainly not touch him. Not even six men could take him now. And if anyone made the mistake of trying, they would be the ones who needed the officer protection, not the other way around. The Butcher’s days of being tortured and abused by bigger men were done. For good.
The officers drove him to the facility in the back of a prison van. He was handcuffed and had been searched. Since he would be searched again upon his entry, the officers had made clear that he couldn’t go into the prison carrying weapons. There were, after all, a lot of men putting their careers on the line to get him in. They needed this to succeed as much as the Butcher did.
The officers handed him off to the prison authorities. The Butcher was ushered through gates, doors, and halls, all of them running together. He tried to keep his bearings, but it was impossible. It was pitch black outside, so he couldn’t see out any windows, and the prison had been designed to be confusing to help deter breakouts.
Several guards searched and processed him. The Butcher talked to no one, as he had no idea which of the guards were in on his plans and which weren’t. He noticed no signals or clues from any of the guards, so he kept his head down and his shoulders hunched to appear as nervous and submissive as he could. The last thing he wanted was to appear threatening.
After probably forty minutes of processing, three guards escorted him to a cell and pushed him inside. The heavy door slammed behind him and he stood in the empty cell alone.
So far things had gone as planned. But, the joke might be on him, he thought. Could they know his real identity? Could they know his value as such a high-ranking member of the cartel? Could this be his home for the next twenty or thirty years?
The Butcher didn’t have time for these thoughts. He took a deep breath and blew out the air forcefully. Then he repeated this process ten times, just as he’d learned in his martial arts training. He followed the breathing with some push-ups and light stretching. Whether things went smoothly or his plan went awry, he wanted to be ready. Lithe. Warm. Prepared for anything.
His cell had solid walls on both of its sides and rear, and only the front had bars. There’d be no prisoners reaching in from the side cells to grab you or stab you in this place. Someone had designed it wisely.
Taking his eyes from the concrete walls that encased him, he looked across the hall, into the only cell he could fully see. There, it appeared a prisoner lay under the covers. Otherwise he could see nothing and hear only remote sounds of men talking, laughing, and cursing.
The isolation felt crushing, especially when he’d just left the protection afforded by hundreds of gunmen and millions of dollars.
He shook the thought from his head and stretched some more and took a few more deep breaths, trying to swallow down the idea that he might literally be the most stupid criminal ever. Who breaks into a prison? Voluntarily? And the most secure one in Mexico, at that?
He pushed the thought down and started shadow boxing. Throwing some kicks and strikes. Nice and loose. Maybe thirty percent power.
Perhaps Flores knew about his attempt to take over the Godesto Cartel and plan to enter the prison to kill him. How would Flores respond if he did? Did Flores have the power to have guards enter the cell and beat him to death?
The Butcher did fear a bunch of guards with nightsticks. He had skills, but not the kind of skills to fend off multiple men with sticks and basic training. Especially if they came with shields, helmets, and shin and elbow pads.
But if Flores’s plan was to have the guards allow a bunch of prisoners to kill him, then the Butcher felt much better about his chances. Although the cell was pretty small and tight. And prisoners were hardened animals. N
o question that if they rushed and tackled him in such a small place, where he couldn’t move and dodge, he was doomed.
It rocked him that mentally he was already beginning to weaken. Now that he was unarmed and trapped, his bravado was beginning to fade. He knew he needed to stop thinking so negatively.
He stopped visualizing failure and decided if a bunch of prisoners did come, he’d jump up on the top bunk and throw kicks from there until they drug him off. He could kick deadly fast and hard. He’d break some noses and fingers before they could get him down. And from there he could do far more damage.
The lights in the hall clicked off and darkness flooded the corridor to his front. Small night-lights barely lit the hallway. He wondered how long he should stay up waiting. Perhaps he should catch some sleep in case he had to fight for his life tomorrow in general population against twelve or fifteen of Flores’s men.
As he debated this, he kept bouncing from foot to foot. Nice and loose. Then a sound caught his attention. He recognized footfalls walking down the hall. No, it was two sets of footfalls. Wearing boots.
Then they were there, and he saw the silhouettes of two guards stop in front of his cell in the dark hallway. They looked up and down the corridor before unlocking the door and waving him forward.
The Butcher rolled his shoulders a couple of times and prepared himself. It would happen soon.
The guards led him down several corridors and gates. The Butcher was completely lost by this point, but his escape counted more on the officers who had accepted his bribes than it did on his ability to find his way out.
After pushing through yet another gate, the Butcher knew he was there. These cells weren’t like the other cells. Their front doors weren’t iron gates with bars that you could see and reach through, but steel doors that you couldn’t see out.
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 20