Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2)

by Stan R. Mitchell

“Mr. Woods?” the woman said.

  He broke away from his daydream and looked up.

  “You may go in now,” she said, and he thought he caught her checking him out as he stood. Well, he didn’t do all that ab work and running for nothing.

  She walked him to the door and he liked the way she allowed her hand to drag down his arm.

  Nick had found his calling again and his time with Isabella had awakened a man he thought dead. He knew deep down that Anne would be proud. She hated the paranoid Nick, the man who kept a journal of suspicious activity, hid weapons throughout the house, and lay hidden behind cover with his rifle in Montana, waiting for hunter-killer teams that would never arrive.

  But Anne had loved him dearly, despite it all. She would be happy to see him opening up and moving on. He was becoming the man she always knew he could be.

  And, man, he had loved her back. He knew a part of him always would love her. Although she had struggled to understand his ways, Anne had always believed in him. And even as time continued to take away the details of her face, her voice, and her smile, he knew nothing would ever make him forget how much she had believed in him. He owed Anne that much.

  Nick walked into the President’s office amazed at how much he had changed since this mission to Mexico. The President looked nothing like he had the last time they met. In fact, Nick wasn’t prepared for what he saw. Rivera faced away from him, gazing out the bay window. The early morning sun shined through the glass, creating long rays of light over his shoulder, dust particles dancing through them at their own pace, oblivious to the somber mood of the room.

  President Rivera wore a wrinkled white Oxford shirt with no jacket. The sleeves were pushed up carelessly and unless Nick was wrong, he held a glass of scotch in his hand. Nick wasn’t sure what he should do since it appeared Rivera was unaware Nick had stepped into his office, but he heard the secretary close the door behind him. Nick eased up quietly to one of two chairs in front of the desk. Uncertain what etiquette dictated in such a situation, he stopped between the chairs and cleared his throat lightly to make his presence known.

  Eventually Rivera averted his gaze, turned from the window, and took a big sip of his drink. He walked to his desk and sat down, placing his glass on the desk too hard, splashing some of his drink onto the surface. He nodded to a chair and Nick sat quietly. This felt spooky. And weird. Just plain weird. The confident, charismatic man who had greeted him just days ago was gone.

  Rivera poked at the pooled liquor on his desk, and Nick realized that not only was he unshaven, his hair was greasy and his collar was dirty. It looked like the man hadn’t showered since the day before.

  “You look rough, Mr. President.”

  “I lost my best friend!” Rivera roared defensively.

  Nick realized the man was already drunk, and it was just a little after nine in the morning.

  He took another swig and Nick raised his hand to stop him. “Sir, I think you need to hold off. Your opponents --”

  “You don’t think you’d be drinking if you lost your best friend?” he snapped. “I just got off the phone with Juan’s wife. She’s worse today than when I called her last night to break the news.”

  He sighed and said in a lower voice, “I fear reality is sinking in for her.”

  “Sir,” Nick said, “I’m not trying to be critical of the fact you’re drinking. I’m not even sure I’d show up to work the next day.”

  “Yes, you would,” the President said, sharply. “You’re like me: A workaholic who puts duty first.”

  Nick paused, thinking back through the years. He could easily think of a few instances where that was true. He nodded, saying, “Been known to do that a time or two. You’re right.”

  “I thought so,” Rivera said, leaning forward. “I’ve researched your background more since we last met.”

  The man was slurring his words pretty bad, Nick noticed.

  “I can’t believe I didn’t know you’d lost your wife, and I bungled that detail last time. Her name was Anne, I believe?”

  Nick nodded.

  “But I know your story now. About Afghanistan. About the murder of your wife. About how you hunted down the men behind her death, killing every one of them.”

  “No,” Nick said, “there’s one left. But he’s higher up and I haven’t figured out who he is yet. I’ve narrowed it down to one of three men.”

  “The man must be very high up to have stayed out of your reach?” Rivera noted. “Possibly even the CIA Director or a Senator?”

  Nick felt a deep hatred flare up in his chest and quickly swallowed it down, trying to regain control of himself. He cleared his throat and said, “I promise you, once I figure out who he is, he’ll get his due. You mark my words on that.”

  Rivera leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head, looking at Nick strangely. It seemed to Nick like he was being sized up and measured, as if Rivera saw him as some strange animal. And now that Rivera had confirmed his past, the man needed to take it all in and think a moment before going on. Nick felt like a lion trapped in a cage at a zoo. Some strange creature that fascinated some member of a different species. But with Rivera’s grief and unpredictability, Nick didn’t want to say anything. So, he decided to wait and say nothing, and he knew how to wait.

  “I didn’t call you in to talk about your past, but I needed to get a better measure of you,” Rivera finally said. “They’ve got me in a hell of a jam now.”

  “I can help with part of that jam,” Nick said.

  The President continued, as if he hadn’t even heard Nick. “The bastards in Congress are launching multiple investigations. They say I hastily ordered a response from the SWAT team to save Juan Soto, and that a lack of planning led to their deaths. And hell, it’s true.”

  He took another drink. Placed the glass too hard on the desk. Nick waited.

  “They say I ignored intelligence reports that said the Godesto Cartel was planning something. That’s a complete lie, but a good one, I must say.”

  Rivera looked at the glass again, but it was mostly empty.

  “They say I shouldn’t have arrested Hernan Flores. That he was innocent. Or that he wasn’t innocent, but was a decent human being, who gave to charity and all.”

  Rivera had waved his right hand when he said “and all,” and now looked off again. Nick realized the man was completely, absolutely, drop-dead drunk. Drunk from both shock and liquor, and the lack of sleep wasn’t helping. Rivera was struggling to stay focused.

  “I’m going to get that little bastard.”

  Nick nodded.

  Rivera looked off yet again.

  Probably a full minute passed and Nick worried that Rivera might actually fall asleep on him, but suddenly Rivera turned back toward him.

  “The bastard used a sword,” he slurred, “and Juan’s wife saw the footage. His daughter, too.”

  Nick had seen the video, too, along with the rest of Mexico. The Butcher had taped the whole thing, the complete bastard that he was. It looked like one of his men had followed behind him with the video recorder when they had blown the door off Juan Soto’s safe room. The video showed a Godesto man in front of the Butcher fire a long burst from an AK toward the ground on the right, presumably at a bodyguard. The man on the ground hadn’t returned fire in the footage, so it wasn’t clear whether he was concussed or already dead. Regardless, he certainly died from the long burst.

  And there stood Juan Soto, the camera jerky as it moved away from the man who had fired toward the corner and now held Mexico’s richest man, who stood with his hands up in the international signal of surrender. He looked shocked. Dust covered his face and crisp, white shirt. Blood dripped from his ears.

  The Butcher asked him if he had any last words, but Soto merely shrugged in confusion, presumably deaf from the blast. And then with two men locked in on him with their weapons, the Butcher turned to the camera.

  “This man,” the Butcher said with a sneer pointing back at Soto, �
��is responsible for hundreds of crimes against the people of Mexico. For years, he has believed that money, the President, and this safe room could protect him from the repercussions of these crimes. But no more.

  “This man is guilty of stealing billions from the backs of the Mexican people. He has practically forced people into slavery, paying them pitiful wages, all the while propping up a corrupt President after buying him the election. This man deserves no trial. His wealth alone proves his guilt.”

  And with that, the Butcher turned, letting his Uzi hang from the sling, and withdrew his sword ceremoniously. Soto either didn’t believe what was about to happen, or more than likely hadn’t heard what the Butcher had said, since his eardrums had just been ruptured.

  The Butcher pulled back the blade and chambered it far behind him, stepped into the stroke, and swung the blade toward Juan Soto’s neck. He drove the sword through swiftly and beheaded Juan Soto as cleanly as was probably possible. The stroke looked crisp and perfect. Well-practiced, for sure.

  The news channels had blurred out Juan Soto’s head falling -- at least partially; they still wanted their ratings, and thus it was just obvious from what they blurred out that the man’s head had fallen and his body had crumpled, headless and helpless.

  The CIA had studied the footage that had been released to news organizations across Mexico. Several computer programs verified what the human analysts suspected: The culprit with the sword was most definitely the man known as the Butcher. The CIA had immediately compiled a file on the man and sent it to Nick by encrypted document. Nick had begun studying a frustratingly short file on him since he woke this morning at 5:30 a.m.

  “Mr. President,” Nick said, “that sword isn’t going to do him any good when I get him in my sights.”

  “I want him dead,” Rivera said.

  “We can get him,” Nick said. “No problem.”

  “No,” Rivera said, slapping the desk with both hands, as hard as he could. “I know you can capture him, but I want him dead. I do not want him taken prisoner under any circumstances. He will not rule from prison. He will not be shanked in prison. I want him killed in the take-down.”

  Nick nodded.

  “And, don’t worry,” Rivera said, “I’ll deal with the coroner and after-action report. But this man beheaded one of the greatest men in Mexico. He murdered my friend. And he will die for doing so. Even if it’s my last act in office.”

  And with that, Rivera stood, refilled his glass, and went back to his window. Nick waited a full five minutes, but Rivera never looked back at him. Nick wasn’t sure if the President had forgotten he was there or if that was all he had to say on the matter. That Rivera simply wanted his final request done.

  In the end, Nick finally stood and walked out of the room.

  Chapter 34

  Nick Woods received a more-detailed briefing on the situation the day after his meeting with President Rivera, and the situation was not good. In fact, it was worse than either Nick or Rivera could have imagined.

  But even without knowing that, Nick had decided to do what all warriors do in dead time: Sharpen the sword.

  Once Nick returned from his meeting with Rivera, he had ordered the men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter to gather their gear for some much-needed training. The men of S3 had rehearsed immediate reaction drills, fired tons of ammo at a remote mountain range, and exercised with moderation -- about three-fourth’s of their capacity, since Nick didn’t want the men sore the next day. Just ready and relaxed for whatever was coming down the pike. And it would definitely be coming, Nick knew.

  The entire team had trained hard, shot well, and completed their PT (a mountain run with full gear and weapons) with lots of motivation. Nick and Marcus were ready to move, and that turned out to be a good thing. Mr. Smith called later that evening, after the team had cleaned up and scrubbed down their weapons.

  Mr. Smith shared that both the CIA and the Mexican Ambassador were afraid that Rivera might only have another day or two remaining in office.

  “His poll numbers are in the teens,” Mr. Smith said. “The public has bought into the fact that he treated Juan Soto special when he directly, and personally, ordered that SWAT response. And the cartels are really playing the poor-versus-the-rich card, dropping in some talking points about high unemployment and government corruption.”

  “And his opponents smell blood,” Nick added.

  “Correct,” Mr. Smith said. “They see an opening, and the first of several hearings starts tomorrow. Plus, Rivera hasn’t done a very good job staying away from the bottle. But that’s changing. He realizes he’s in serious trouble. The NSA is intercepting the emails and phone calls of his opponents, and our Ambassador will have him prepped as much as possible for the hearings, but we’ve role-played these hearings many times, and Rivera is totally screwed. He has days left in office. Not weeks. And certainly not months or years.”

  “Where does that leave us?” Nick asked.

  “Nowhere good. The head of the Congress, who will likely be sworn in after Rivera is gone, is already talking about a truce with the Godesto Cartel, and a return to how things were. Less war. Fewer military ops. More peace and stability.”

  “So, turning a blind eye to it all?” Nick asked.

  “Precisely. The public is weary. It’s what they want to hear.”

  “What does that mean for us?” Nick asked.

  “It means you probably have two days to take down the Butcher and the Godesto Cartel.”

  “Impossible,” Nick said.

  “Probably,” Mr. Smith said, “but it’s reality. Get with your team and figure out how you can pull this off in two days. The Butcher dead. The Godesto Cartel broken in half.”

  Nick didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

  “Look,” Mr. Smith said. “You’ve got the talent and brains around you to pull this off. But know that if you haven’t succeeded within two days, we will have to extract you, for both your safety and our country’s relationship with the new President. There’s no way President Rivera’s replacement will sanction S3 being in the country. And we don’t want that interim President leaking your info or, worse, using the Mexican military to arrest you all. You have two days. Period.”

  And with that, Nick had been left hearing a dead dial tone in his heavy, encrypted phone. It was a new experience being the one hung up on. Nick glanced down at his watch and saw that it was 5:50 p.m. They needed to move fast. Like, immediately.

  Nick and Dwayne Marcus mustered the entire S3 team, placing the need of garnering input from every single man over the need for security at the farm. Nick and Marcus wanted to hear every possible sound idea that might be out there among the forty-four team members.

  The men formed up behind the house at 6:15 p.m., in a platoon-sized formation of five squads. All of the members of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter wore uniforms and web gear, and carried their M4s that they had been issued before leaving America.

  The S3 members had ditched their undercover civilian clothes and looked uniform and sharp, dressed in olive drab trousers, S3 T-shirts with the logo on the left chest, black jungle boots, and OD green boonie covers. Despite their uniform appearance, Nick could name them all.

  They had grown close, though their time together had been short. With no one allowed to leave the farm, they’d practically lived on top of each other in the moderately-sized farm house built for a family of four. Given that each squad had to squeeze all eight of its members into a single bedroom, they practically slept on top of each other on green, Army surplus cots placed just inches apart. Gear was stored mostly in sea bags and footlockers under their cots.

  But Nick believed strongly in unit cohesion and the farmhouse had provided more than seclusion and anonymity. It had taken a bunch of superbly trained and experienced warriors and forged them into a tight unit. The men -- and one woman -- of S3 would take a bullet for each other, and they had created this tight fraternity in mere weeks together. And now they
faced a completely unfair deadline that would doubtlessly cost several -- or many -- of them their lives.

  “All right, men, listen up,” Nick said, walking up with Dwayne Marcus to the assembled formation. His voice halted any light chatting going on in the loose formation.

  Nick looked across the formation. They were a good unit. Some of the best men he’d ever seen assembled.

  In the front row were the six members of the Primary Strike Team, not counting himself or Marcus, which made eight. Behind them were the three squads of eight. All good men, veterans from the Marine Corps and Army.

  In the fifth row stood the six Marine Scout Sniper teams he had requested. Quiet men, tall and lean, and their service records showed that each of them had confirmed kills.

  Not in the formation, but inside the house was his CIA contact, who he had still failed to name. Nick had asked the CIA contact to keep watch on their Mexican liaison, so that the man wouldn’t hear what was said and thus couldn’t possibly sell them out.

  Nick took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips, standing tall and pushing his chest out.

  He knew he had earned the men’s respect, but he needed to nail this set of orders and squeeze every ounce of love and respect he could from them. They’d be knee-deep in shit in just a matter of hours and the lives of his team depended on each of them trusting him enough to die for him. He didn’t usually sweat how he looked, but today he and Dwayne Marcus had coordinated their attire.

  Nick wore a tight black T-shirt with a Marine sniper rifle logo on the left chest. Each of the men knew the story of Nick working with Allen Green to take down an out-of-control CIA unit, since Allen had published the entire story as part of a blockbuster, New York Times bestselling work. And the book delved into more of Nick’s work in Afghanistan against the Soviets than the mere article had that had been published originally in The New Yorker. (Though technically, it had been published, retracted by The New Yorker, and then re-published, though Allen had told them to jump in a creek when they had offered him his old job and a double-pay contract for an expanded story of his original work. Allen had refused to expand it and saved those details for his book.)