Up on the eighth floor, Soto was far more relaxed than usual as he dressed for work. He had eight men -- all prior SAS, Special Forces, and Navy SEALs -- protecting him, which always made him feel pretty safe. But today, with Hernan Flores dead, he felt safer than he’d felt in years.
It seemed a lifetime since he had called President Roberto Rivera and threatened to leave the country and close all of his businesses. And while he didn’t know what Flores’s replacement was like, it was inconceivable that he was more of a concern than Flores had been.
Hernan Flores had posed a special kind of danger because of his ability to win over public support, thanks to how he played the role of businessman and philanthropist. And Flores, having come from the depths of poverty, could relate to the poor. During his reign over the Godesto Cartel, he had often enjoyed more popular support than the President.
Now, with the Godesto Cartel back under the control of a much more common thug, it would be easier for President Rivera to rally the people and the country’s law enforcement agencies. Finally, the tide against the government would be permanently checked and momentum turned against the country’s parasites.
Juan Soto examined the knot in his tie in a mirror and adjusted it, cinching it perfectly against his two hundred dollar, custom-tailored dress shirt. He confirmed his shirt was tucked tight into his belt, showing off his thirty-one-inch waist that he ran miles and miles each day to maintain.
Soto glanced at the clock on his nightstand and noticed he was several minutes ahead of schedule. He smiled. Nothing like getting rid of Mexico’s worst enemy -- and his archenemy -- to put a spring in his step and propel him through his morning routine faster.
There was the possibility that President Rivera would face serious repercussions from the murder of Flores in one of Mexico’s most secure prisons, but Soto couldn’t worry about that right now. His day was too crammed and he needed to be focused on what mattered in the short term. He would call Rivera and they could strategize later tonight about how to handle the political fallout. Until then, it was business. And a lot of it.
Soto’s schedule for the day began with a trip out to one of his rock quarries, where production was down and there’d been a curious, deep drop in profits. But Soto’s chief financial officer suspected profits hadn’t fallen, but rather the plant manager was pocketing increasing amounts of cash.
Soto planned to confront him and give the man a chance to explain what was happening, before they had the man fired and arrested. As he had done before in similar situations, he’d show up with his top legal counsel and some extra security personnel, in addition to his eight bodyguards he regularly kept on hand. And if the man couldn’t explain how he suddenly owned a new car and home under Soto’s intense questioning, then he’d be in for a long day. (It was nice having more than a dozen private investigators on staff who could keep a close eye on employees.)
After dealing with the quarry manager, Soto had to meet with his braintrust about a wealth management firm he was in the process of purchasing. Soto wanted to make a decision and either buy it or move on. He hated over-studying issues and letting them divert his focus, and his team of advisers had been considering purchasing the firm for nearly three months, which Soto figured was probably two months too long.
Finally, the last thing on his day’s schedule was a symposium on economic development with the Mexican Chamber of Commerce. Today’s topic delved into convincing Arab countries to invest a portion of their vast sums of cash into beachfront real estate along Mexico’s coast. And part of the reluctance from the Arab countries involved the cartels and their demand for payments, but Soto couldn’t wait to explain the significance of the death of Hernan Flores to the Godesto Cartel, as well as how that death would reduce the stranglehold the Godesto had on the country.
Soto owned much of that beachfront real estate, and he had almost sold a two hundred million dollar beachfront hotel project to a Saudi prince a couple of years ago. And since he owned miles and miles of similar property, he was looking forward to unloading much of it. For a hefty profit, of course, since he had bought it dirt-cheap.
Suddenly, the sound of an explosion rocked Soto from his thoughts. It had sounded close, very close, and he walked to his bedroom door -- a four-inch thick vault-like slab -- and opened it.
“Gordon, what was that?” Soto asked.
Gordon, an SAS veteran dressed in a suit, stood with his finger pushing his earpiece further in.
He held up a finger and then said, “Sir, we’re still trying to figure that out. Not sure how close to us that was.”
But Soto could tell the decorated veteran with tours in Iraq and Afghanistan was far more on edge than usual.
Gordon noticed Soto looking at him and said, “Sir, please step back in your room.”
Soto resisted and said, “Has anyone alerted the authorities yet?”
“Sir,” Gordon said, with tension in his voice, “we don’t even know what it was. We’ve got this, sir. Let us do our job.”
Soto stepped back in his room and slammed the heavy door. He’d deal with Gordon later. The man was good, but he was too confident. And only a year into working security in Mexico, he seemed in Juan Soto’s opinion to consistently underestimate the power of the cartels. It was as if all his deployments into combat zones, and the insane talent he had in close quarters battle, had created too much confidence in the man.
Soto walked to his eighth floor window to look for a rising smoke plume. But as he looked out his four-inch bullet-proof window, he saw no smoke anywhere. He rushed to the window at the other side of the room and saw no smoke there, either. But then his peripheral vision caught movement, and he looked down in the street below him to see several SUVs and cars squealing to a stop, men jumping from them carrying automatic weapons and rocket launchers.
“Gordon!” Soto yelled.
He raced across his bedroom for the door. The door opened and Gordon no longer looked like a dignified bodyguard in a suit. Now he was cinching down a tactical vest loaded with pockets and magazines. He pulled a submachine gun sling across his body and looked up at his billionaire VIP.
“Sir, we’ve got a problem,” Gordon said.
“No shit,” Soto said. “Call the police.” He pointed back toward the bedroom windows. “There are dozens of them down there!”
“We’re on it,” Gordon said. “But we need you in your room.”
Gordon pushed Soto back and when Soto tried to rush by him, Gordon slung him across the room. Soto landed in a heap against the wall and Gordon stepped into the room. He slammed the thick steel door, locked it, and then turned a foot-wide aluminum wheel in the center of the door that pushed eight-inch steel posts into the reinforced floor and upper wall. Soto’s room was essentially a vault, encased in four inches of steel. It was fireproof, bombproof, and definitely bullet proof.
Its only weaknesses were the two windows, but even they were four inches thick and could handle anything up to a fifty caliber round -- or at least a couple of them. If they got hit with a steady stream, they’d be screwed, especially when the bullets started ricocheting inside the steel vault they were now stuck in.
In truth, Gordon knew there shouldn’t have been any windows, but billionaires get what billionaires want, and Soto refused to spend his nights in a room where he couldn’t look out over Mexico City.
Gordon tossed his submachine gun on the bed and balled his hands into fists.
“Shit!” he said.
“How bad is it?” Soto asked.
“They’ve breached the building,” Gordon said. “Killed our two men at the door and will be having it out with the rest of my men soon.”
“How many men do you have left?” Soto asked. “Five, right?”
“Correct,” Gordon said. “They should be able to hold them off. These men are the best. I just hate that we lost Sherwood and Craddock at the front door. And I hate that I’m stuck in this room as a last line of defense and not out there with my men,
where I belong.”
Soto walked back to the window and saw a derelict school bus screech to a halt below. Gang members carrying AKs and pistols rushed off the bus and into the street. There were dozens of men running about and taking up positions on corners and behind newspaper stands.
“Gordon, your men will never hold off this many,” Soto said, a deep dread in his voice.
Gordon walked over and looked down at the street below. Seeing the look of horror spread over the stoic man’s face, Soto grabbed for his phone.
The moment Rivera picked up, Soto blurted out, “Roberto, they’re coming for me.”
Hearing the shakiness of his own voice made Soto realize how scared he actually was.
Sounds of machine gunfire and explosions roared in the background.
“What?” Rivera asked, hearing the sounds of battle, as well. “Hang in there, Juan. Let me call for help. I’ll call you right back.”
Hands shaking, Soto slid his phone in his pocket and moved back to the window. His attackers had parked their cars horizontally in the road, completely closing it off. And the gangsters and thugs had lit tires on fire in the road. Smoke rose from the tires ominously and Soto saw weapons pointed outboard from half-hidden men kneeling in shadows and behind pieces of cover, waiting for anyone insane enough to approach.
What was this? A siege? A warzone?
Soto wasn’t sure, but he was quite certain he was on the losing side right now. By quite a bit. And vault or not, he didn’t feel safe. But he prayed it would suffice until a quick response from the Mexican police or Army broke through.
Back downstairs, before the situation exploded and flooded with armed cartel in view of Juan Soto’s bullet-proof window, things had been quiet and calm, same as any other morning. Then Soto’s two security men at the entrance to the building noticed the SWAT team out front walking toward them.
Soto’s building, privately owned, was about half glass, like most of the other skyscrapers downtown. The difference was that Soto’s building didn’t just have massive glass windows that could survive a bad storm. No, his windows had all been replaced and were now blast and bullet-proof.
Additionally, since Soto had purchased the building, he had turned it into a fortress. No tenants. They were moved out. And no visitors, except by appointment.
Visitors had to come through a single entry point, and even then, they had to be buzzed in. Most weren’t. Under any circumstances. Soto’s security was too important, and threats too many for any kind of other security posture.
So when Soto’s two security men saw the SWAT team, they stood and walked out from behind a desk for a better look. The SWAT team looked unalarmed and casually walked up to the door. The lead man pointed at the door and one of Soto’s suited security men buzzed them in.
“How can we help you?” the smallest guard said, raising his hand to stop them as they walked through the door. “No one called us with an alert so I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you here.”
The uniforms and calm demeanor had clearly worked. Neither of Soto’s men had even drawn their weapons. Then suddenly the point man for the faux SWAT team quickly raised his MP-5 -- it had just been hanging from its sling and directed toward the ground in as non-threatening manner as possible. He brought the smaller guard’s face into his sights and fired four rounds on fully automatic. It happened smooth and fast, the rounds shattering the relative silence of the morning.
The larger guard was reaching for his weapon when the second man in the stack fired a round through his knee. The bullet shattered the man’s knee and he shrieked in pain as he tumbled to the ground. He slid backward on his hands and good leg, dragging his lifeless limb behind him, desperate to gain some distance from the threat. Somehow ignoring the pain, the guard moved his hand to his jacket reaching for his gun a second time.
The Butcher, shoving men out of his way, charged forward. He kicked upward, catching the man in the bottom of his jaw with the toe of his assault boot. Teeth crunched and the man’s head lifted and then banged into the tile floor. Blood poured from his mouth.
The Butcher grabbed the guard’s lapels, lifted him off the floor, and removed the .45 from its holster inside his jacket. He handed it to a cartel member near him, who shoved it in a pouch on his web belt. The Butcher then released his grip, allowing the man’s head to again smack the ground.
He looked half out of it. Definitely suffering from a concussion, in addition to the wrecked knee and remodeled dental work. The Butcher figured he was a prior Special Forces soldier. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be protecting a billionaire who could afford the best. Also, no civilian would still be conscious and trying to resist.
Time to end that illusion, the Butcher thought.
“You’re going to tell us what we need to know,” the Butcher said, “or you’re going to be wishing you had. Either way, I don’t care.”
Two of his men grabbed the guard by his arms and yanked him back to his feet. He stumbled on his good leg, leaning on them for support. One of the Butcher’s other men circled behind the guard, checking him for more weapons and found a revolver strapped to his ankle. He ripped it off the man’s leg and threw it away from them. It skidded across the floor.
The Butcher looked out the front entrance and saw SUVs and cars sliding to a halt in front of the building. He smiled at how easy this would now be. He planned to send a reward to the police captain who had allowed the Godesto Cartel to borrow the SWAT uniforms. Juan Soto’s guards had never stood a chance, and now that his men had made their breach into the building, Soto didn’t, either.
The Butcher watched his men deploy in the streets in front of the building. The rest of his men would be here soon, riding in SUVs, sports cars, and even a bus -- basically, whatever form of transportation they could get their hands on. The Butcher hadn’t sweated that detail, and it ultimately wouldn’t matter. They’d be abandoning many of them and they could steal or buy more vehicles later.
What mattered wasn’t how they got here, but that they got here. They’d have to fight their way out of the city, and they needed sheer numbers of fighters for that. Of course, sheer numbers weren’t a problem for the largest cartel in North or South America.
Not only did the Butcher have nearly two hundred of his own men streaming in from various directions, he had also ordered the various gangs affiliated with the Godesto Cartel to do a single task: kill at least one or two cops in their sector. Ten thousand dollars if they killed one; twenty-five thousand if they killed two, which provided a nice incentive for aiming high, since $25k for a street gang was a lot of money.
The Butcher needed chaos, and a lot of it, across the entire city. And if these gangs wanted to keep profiting off the high-quality coke that only the Godesto Cartel could provide, then they would start shooting at cops in their area beginning at 7:40 this morning -- and not a minute earlier; the orders were clear.
His men out in front of the building looked confident as they rushed from vehicles and looked for targets. He knew they fed off of having their leader actually taking part in the operation. Not some fat ass, wannabe politician safely waiting in some tower cramming down Funyuns anymore. No, now they had someone who would share in their victories and defeats. Who’d put his own life on the line on every mission from here on out.
And he knew they were especially excited that a bank heist would be going down once the police had committed to responding to the assault on Juan Soto’s building. The men appreciated the boldness, and the promised bonuses they’d be getting from the bank robbery.
The Butcher turned from watching the street and refocused on his SWAT team. They had put the wounded guard back on the floor and pinned him down. One of them was screaming questions into his face while another one was stabbing a Kabar knife through the man’s hand and into the tile floor. He’d need a new knife after this, but it looked like an effective technique to the Butcher, who knew a thing or two about sadistic torture.
“Hurry up,” he said to his
men, looking down at his watch. They had a short window of no more than twenty-five minutes to finish this. And he wanted Soto’s head on his wall, not some overpaid guard who fancied himself a former war hero.
The Butcher looked at the screaming man and wondered if the big salary he earned protecting Soto was worth it now. But then the knife slammed through the hand again and the Butcher got his answer through the man’s ragged screams. No matter how much you made, sometimes no amount of money was enough.
The Butcher pulled out a tactical radio to check in on his teams outside the building that he couldn’t see. The government forces would be coming soon.
Juan Soto watched the scene below in the street in sheer horror. He felt hopeless, but couldn’t force himself to stop watching. Gordon was pacing, calling into his sleeve mic for updates from the five men below, but they were safe so far. Five men downstairs. Three upstairs. That’s all that stood between Soto and the army below.
Twenty minutes ago, it had seemed overkill. Now, it seemed ridiculously shortsighted.
Juan’s cellphone rang. He looked down and saw it was President Roberto Rivera’s number.
“Juan, hang in there,” Rivera said. “You’re going to be fine. We have an armored SWAT truck on the way. It has thirty men in the back who are armed to the teeth.”
Rivera sounded a little too shaken for Soto’s liking, as if something else was wrong.
“What is it?” Soto asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me, damn it,” Soto shouted. “It’s my life on the line here!”
Rivera sighed into the phone.
“The Godesto Cartel is doing more than just attacking your building,” Rivera admitted. “Apparently, there have been dozens of cops murdered across the city in what must be a coordinated attack of some kind. We’ve got all law enforcement pairing up into groups of four and they’re breaking out shotguns and assault rifles until we figure out what’s happening.”
“Meaning?” Soto asked, frustrated.
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 24