Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2)

by Stan R. Mitchell

  “Well, I guess,” Nick said, flinching as two bullets smacked into the truck, “that we now know why the police won’t come up in here anymore.”

  In the bed of the truck behind them, the members of the Primary Strike Team lit up shadows that moved and fools who silhouetted themselves. Their M4s, and Bulldog’s light machine gun over the cab of Truck 1, blasted away, jarring the night and cutting into buildings and bodies.

  “Stop the convoy,” someone said on the radio.

  Truck hit the brakes and Nick said into the radio, “We’re not stopping. What’s the situation? Give me a sitrep. Immediately.”

  “Truck 7 stopped,” someone said. “I think they had a tire shot out.”

  Bullets flew by the cab and Nick flinched, despite his best efforts not to. Someone from the Primary Strike Team fired over the cab and Nick heard Red say, “Nice shot.”

  A garbled transmission came back. Nick hit the mic button and said, “Second Squad and Third Squad, ditch the truck with the flat. Put its occupants in another truck and make sure you grab any ammo or valuables from the back of it. We have to keep the convoy moving.”

  The moment Nick let go of the transmit button, a nervous voice came over the air. “Man down in Truck 8. I say again, man down in Truck 8.”

  The incoming fire was picking up as fighters from throughout the slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza closed in on the men of S3. Nick looked back down the road behind him. The convoy was strung out more than three hundred yards, with ten- or fifteen-yard gaps between trucks. Nick wrestled with whether they should push ahead and leave the supplies in the truck. Every second they sat, he knew other fighters would be zeroing in on their location and rushing toward them. Not to mention it was giving the Butcher more time to get away, which was the true reason for this insane thrust into this hornet’s nest.

  “Man down,” another voice said on the radio.

  “Damn it,” Nick yelled, slamming the dash with his fist.

  “Dismount,” Nick said into the radio. “Take cover no more than fifteen feet from your primary vehicle. Engage targets and be ready to move.”

  Nick felt the truck shaking as the Primary Strike Team members jumped from his truck and more rounds zipped by. He kicked his own door open and stepped out, aiming his M4 toward an alley up ahead where he had seen movement.

  This was not how he had drawn up the mission.

  The Butcher and nearly two hundred of his men rushed toward the sound of automatic weapons. It sounded like a war zone up ahead. Automatic weapons roaring. Rifles booming. And pistols and Uzi’s popping like small firecrackers.

  His men had put away their sidearms and toted long weapons as they rushed forward. They carried everything from AK’s to H&K G3’s to full-length shotguns.

  They looked like a band of guards you’d expect to see around some terrorist leader in the mountains of Afghanistan. An oval-shaped mass of men, alert, angry, and aggressive.

  One of the Butcher’s men came running toward them from the firing up ahead. The Butcher, and the nearly two hundred men around him, slowed and spread out, weapons outboard and aimed toward possible threats.

  “What is it?” the Butcher asked the breathless scout.

  “Maybe ten trucks or so. Who knows. Maybe fifty or a hundred troops total?”

  “Why didn’t you get a better count?” the Butcher asked.

  “They are shooting anyone who shows their face. Not just those with weapons,” the man said.

  The Butcher had often wondered why the Mexican Army followed such strict rules of engagement. The cartels and gangs regularly used unarmed women and children to act as spotters. Looked like the army had finally learned its lesson.

  “Are they army troops? Or Mexican Marines?” he asked.

  “No, sir. They appear to be Mexican SWAT.”

  This made no sense to the Butcher. First, he had a great inside source with the Mexican police force and there was no way they’d have launched a raid without this man warning the Godesto Cartel. Second, it was nothing short of pure lunacy to launch a raid into the middle of Neza-Chalco-Itza with so few men. Only a hundred? Against a thousand? Who knew the area and had pre-planned defense locations?

  The Butcher looked at one of his lieutenants who stood nearby.

  “And you talked with the other lookouts in the other sectors? No other units are coming from either the north or west or south?”

  “Yes, sir. I just called them all again before we woke you up. All sectors are quiet.”

  “Call each of them again,” the Butcher said, dismissing the man with a wave.

  The Godesto Cartel kept advance guards posted for miles around, not to mention all the typical dealers and informants who called in suspicious behaviors for cash payouts.

  It just didn’t add up to the Butcher, though.

  Ten trucks or so? Fifty or a hundred troops? And Mexican SWAT at that?

  Why would so few troops so bravely raid Neza-Chalco-Itza? There were so many cartel members and addicts and gang members in the slum that they had literally stopped an army battalion of more than a thousand soldiers several years ago.

  There were probably eighteen hundred gunmen the Butcher could call up with enough warning, though this group had managed to make the raid without advance notice from their informant network. But the Butcher worried that there had to be something else going on.

  No way would so few SWAT members enter alone. Perhaps there were dozens of helicopters on their way in with more troops. Or maybe an army battalion stationed just outside the slum. Maybe two or three of them, actually. That’s what the Butcher would do if he were in charge of Mexican forces: Send in at least three battalions of army troops.

  President Roberto Rivera was certainly in desperate straits. Would he have called up an all-out assault of Neza-Chalco-Itza? That made more sense than just sending in fifty or a hundred cops in unarmored trucks. Losing so many cops -- or perhaps the entire SWAT unit-- would only inflame the President’s critics and opponents.

  And then the Butcher had another thought. What if Rivera wanted all these cops killed?

  It might very well create sympathy for the federal government and the embattled President. The media might cite it as another example of out-of-control ruthlessness by the drug cartels. More unnecessary deaths of the brave and honorable police who were merely trying to do their jobs, they would say.

  This idea sealed the Butcher’s decision. Either more troops were on their way, or it was a huge public relations move by President Rivera. Either way, staying and fighting was a bad idea.

  “Pull everyone back,” he said to his lieutenant.

  “Why? We can take these guys. Let’s kill them all.”

  His lieutenant, one of his loyal aides who had been recently promoted up -- and not one of Hernan Flores’s that had remained -- still thought the way the Butcher used to think. You hit the enemy every time you had the advantage.

  But, things were more complex once you were in charge of an entire cartel organization, and not just the striking arm of it. And with the firefight roaring in the distance, the Butcher didn’t have time to explain that more troops could be on the way or the political implications.

  They were too close to toppling President Rivera to mess it up now by either a costly battle against thousands of hardened army troops or a terrible media disaster that could be spun out for days of public sympathy.

  “No,” the Butcher said. “Pull everyone back. Keep some scouts on the convoy and see where they go, but tell our men to pull back and leave them alone.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, lifting his radio to pass along the new orders.

  The stalled convoy attracted additional fighters and emboldened their enemy. Nick realized this and cursed his inability to right the situation. He was their commander. How had he lost control so quickly? His blood pressure continued to rise as the element of surprise drifted away...

  Suddenly, an M60 blasted to their front -- a fighter dispersing dozens of rounds
down the street from the direction the convoy intended to go. The 7.62 bullets tore down the street, and Nick and the rest of the Primary Strike Team dove for cover. The Vietnam-era medium machine shredded their truck. Several of the members tried to rise up and engage its brave (or suicidal) user, but the bullets were flying everywhere with complete unpredictability. And they came in waves, not like just some three- or four-second burp from an AK.

  The gunner was probably firing it from the hip. Nick remembered being pinned down in Afghanistan and tried to will himself to lift his head and find the shooter. At least here he had a helmet, unlike in Afghanistan where he had just worn a boonie cover.

  He pushed his M4 up above the car he lay behind on the side of the road. He thankfully had an engine block between him and the gunner, but already several rounds had walloped into the clunker he hid behind.

  Nick lowered the barrel of his M4 above the hood to an angle that he guessed would be in the general proximity of the gunman. He then fired off a full mag in the direction of the shooter. Other Primary Strike Team members were doing the same thing, except for crazy-ass Red, who had his weapon up in his shoulder and was firing at the gunman using his sights. He was totally exposed like the insane madman that he was. No wonder the big guys left him alone. The 5’5” Red was batshit nuts, but Nick was glad he was on his side.

  As the Primary Strike Team regained fire superiority on the front end of the convoy, Nick reloaded and popped up behind his carbine. He wanted to find the shooter in his scope and put the punk down for good. And with the streetlights shining on the area to their front, he felt confident he’d nail the gunman.

  Then he saw him, as the M60 opened up again with a fresh belt toward Red and some of the other team members. Nick could just make out the silhouette of the man behind the yellow flame of the bullets coming out the front of it. Nick placed the red dot on the target roughly eighty yards away and fired four 5.56 rounds into the man.

  It was spitting distance for the M4, and was as easy as dropping a piece of crumpled paper in a trash can right next to you if you were a sniper of Nick’s caliber. Not that there were many snipers of his caliber, but the bullets -- even in the low light and hasty firing position -- whacked into the man in less than a three-inch group. Under the one minute of angle expected of snipers, but it was night, he wore assault gear, and his breathing was out of control.

  The shooter crumpled and Nick put two more rounds into the body, just to be sure he didn’t get up anytime soon. Another cartel member darted out to the gun, just as Nick expected, and he mercilessly put three bullets into him without having to adjust his aim much. Nick kept the M60 and the two bodies in his scope a few more seconds, but allowed his ears to hear the battle around him. Trying to get a feeling for how the rest of the members of S3 were doing.

  Without question, his men were getting hammered. They were outgunned, outnumbered, and still probably half a mile from the target. Nick imagined the nightmare scenario of trying to surround the target building and actually enter it. It seemed impossible. And absurd, now that he saw the ground and resistance before them.

  He heard someone slide up beside him, their clothing and equipment scuffing against the ground as they skidded up next to him.

  “It’s me, Nick,” Marcus said.

  Nick didn’t turn, keeping his Aimpoint sight on the M60 and two bodies.

  “We’re in the shit, huh?” Nick said. “Having fun?”

  “You know it.”

  “What do you think?” Nick asked.

  “I just ran down the column,” Marcus said, still breathing hard, “and we have nine wounded and five KIA.”

  Nick kicked himself for getting personally tied up in a small part of the firefight with the M60 gunner and not doing what Marcus had done. He should have known to not get locked into using his rifle, instead relying on his leadership skills and radio.

  “Oh,” Marcus said, “and we also have two trucks already out of commission. Maybe three.”

  Nick recalled the M60 chewing up the lead truck, right through the grill and into the motor when it initially opened up.

  “Four trucks out of commission,” Nick said. “That M60 out there hammered Truck 1 before we stopped him.”

  Nick cursed. “This isn’t going to happen, is it?”

  “That’s kind of what I was hoping you’d say,” Marcus said. “I know you’re prone to stubbornness, but I think we collect ourselves and get the hell out of here. We gave it a whirl, but they were waiting on us. No point in being stupid and losing a bunch more good men.”

  It burned Nick to agree, but facts were facts. And if a leader of Marcus’s talent felt the same way as Nick, then they needed to pull back. And fast.

  “All units,” Nick said into the mic, “load up. We’re turning around and heading back. All squad leaders, confirm you have all your men and report in. Leave any trucks that aren’t running, but leave no gear.”

  Nick stood, fired half a mag down the street toward some movement on the other side, and moved toward Truck 1, which looked like it wouldn’t be driving anytime soon. You just can’t avoid the Mexican heat, he thought, even at night.

  He started grabbing gear and maps from the cab to throw into another truck. His men fired and moved, fired and moved, covering each other, working in pairs as they had trained. Nick threw his gear into the cab of Truck 2 and watched as his unit moved and operated like pros. And in that moment, even in defeat, Nick felt pride in his unit. They had been repulsed, but not beaten.

  Chapter 38

  The day following the massive firefight in the slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza, the Butcher quickly wished he had never gotten out of bed. His assumptions about the convoy from the night prior had been wrong. No other army battalions had entered their slum, and the government under President Rivera wasn’t decrying the dead troops.

  He had missed an opportunity to wipe out an entire SWAT team.

  Now the Butcher felt numb, like he needed to puke. He was in the middle of an “emergency meeting” with his CFO; the skinny little puke sat in front of him, wearing a three thousand dollar suit.

  The Butcher couldn’t stand the guy. The little shit had a finance degree, got weekly manicures, and played racquetball. Worse, he had never lifted a weight a day in his life and couldn’t possibly imagine life in prison or anything else that the Butcher had gone through.

  But now the skinny, soft prick looked as shocked and scared as someone on the street, who had just been robbed and nearly beaten to death.

  “What do you mean the money’s gone?” the Butcher yelled.

  The man shifted nervously and cleared his throat.

  “I, uh, got a call at 8:01 from one of our banks. And I’ve since checked the status on all of our other accounts, as well, and, um, most of its gone.”

  “What do you mean it’s gone? And how much are we talking here?”

  “I’ve still got three of my assistants calculating out the exact figures, but my worst-case estimate is that ninety-one percent of our money is gone.”

  “And when you say ‘our money,’ are you talking my personal money or the Godesto Cartel money?”

  “The Godesto Cartel money, sir.” The man flinched when he said it. The Butcher hadn’t gotten his name from being a reasonable or forgiving person.

  “That’s worst-case. And what’s your best-case estimate of how much money is gone?”

  “Eighty-seven percent?”

  “Eighty-seven percent?” the Butcher asked. “But you said the worst-case estimate was ninety-one percent. That’s not much of a range.”

  “It’s all digital and computerized these days,” the accountant explained, “so there’s not much guess work. Unfortunately, we’re quite certain that most of the corporation’s money is gone.”

  The Butcher ignored the man calling the Godesto Cartel a “corporation.” He despised the man feigning ignorance at how they derived their income and had berated him about it before, but not today. No, not with the way this c
onversation was going.

  “What did you do with the money that still remains?” the Butcher asked, trying to breathe and repress the panic seeping into his chest.

  “We’ve moved it into new accounts, just to be safe. Although doing so does present some risks. Even at roughly ten percent, that’s a lot of assets to be moving, but I deemed it the prudent course of action.”

  The Butcher gritted his teeth and scowled. This couldn’t be happening. How had the Feds seized that much of the cartel’s money without any of his informants warning them? It was inconceivable. The Godesto Cartel even had a man in President Rivera’s Cabinet. This just couldn’t happen without notification.

  “Forget the numbers for a moment,” the Butcher said. “How much money will we have after we make our payouts and payroll checks for this week?”

  The CFO cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.

  “We can’t make them,” the man said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “What?” The Butcher sprang to his feet and slammed his fists on the desk and then threw a side kick that drove a hole in the wall. “What are you saying?” he screamed.

  The man flinched and shrunk down lower.

  “I’m saying we’re bankrupt.”

  “But we can get this money back, right?” the Butcher asked. “I’m not an attorney, but we have the best legal team that money can buy. In thirty days, maybe sixty, we’ll get the money back. You need to figure out how to handle this until then.”

  “We owe too many suppliers, too many gangs, too many other cartels to wait that long,” the finance man said, desperation in his voice. “Just the one shipment we moved north of the border today has a twenty-five million dollar payment that we owe the Venezuelan Brothers, and they’re expecting that wire transfer today.”

  “And how much do we have that’s been moved to other accounts? That we could pay them with?”