And minutes after that question, Nick Woods and Dwayne Marcus raced toward the Mexico City International Airport, the siren on their green police truck roaring. As they flew down the interstate, Nick was glad that Marcus had asked the men to spray down the trucks.
They had to move fast for a chance to nab the little punk. President Rivera had decided not to stop the plane or alert other authorities. The Butcher was fleeing, and the last thing Rivera wanted was a court trial or to spook him and keep him in the country, where he might re-assume control of the Godesto Cartel (or what remained of it).
Nick understood Rivera’s thinking, but he was just glad that the President was giving him one final chance to get his hands on his prey. This was one final chance for Nick to avenge the SEAL platoon and all the men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter who had died or been wounded the night before.
He and Marcus had changed into civilian clothes, and Marcus sported jeans, polo, and some kind of hip shoes that Nick couldn’t place a finger on. Nick wore jeans, a tight Sniper shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a pair of work boots. His look failed the undercover/CIA look, but there were plenty of rough looking construction workers south of Texas and he was too square to go dressing like Marcus.
They had put a squad leader in charge of the entire unit back at the farm while they were gone, and picked the truck with the fewest bullet holes punched into it. President Rivera had stated that the Butcher’s flight would begin boarding in one hour and twenty minutes, and since they were well over an hour away at legal driving speeds, they needed to seriously cut down the driving time. After all, they would have to find him before boarding began, since there’d be no way to get him off the plane without attracting attention.
Now they raced toward the airport at a hundred and twenty miles per hour in a truck that should only do eighty. The big tires and heavy steel frame in the back for troops made it hard to drive, but Marcus was handling it.
Nick was trying to control his rage. He had a .357 revolver in the floorboard, but knew he’d probably be going in unarmed on this one. And he was more than okay with that. The Butcher would be unarmed, too, and he wanted to get his hands on this bastard so badly he couldn’t stand it. He’d somehow get him in a bathroom or hallway alone and then beat the shit out of him. And once the Butcher could no longer defend himself, Nick would choke him out and hold the lock until the man was dead.
They arrived in Mexico City without any problems, and as they rushed into the mass of parking lots and garages around the airport, Nick said, “Just pull up to the front.”
“Roger that,” Marcus said.
The truck’s siren was off now, but Marcus kept the lights on as he raced past stalled traffic in front of him. He drove down the road into oncoming traffic, forcing cars to jerk off the road and up onto the curb.
Marcus spotted an opening in traffic in the correct lane and jerked the truck back over with the flow of traffic.
As more cars began to block their path, Marcus was forced to jump the curb and drive down the sidewalk the final half-mile. Marcus laid on the horn and pedestrians dove out of the way as the truck ripped down the sidewalk.
By the time they reached the airport entrance, two police cars were rushing toward them with their sirens on.
“Ignore them,” Nick said. “It might take half an hour to get the situation cleared up before President Rivera can intervene. Pull up closer and I’ll jump out. Then punch it and take these two on a wild goose chase.”
“No way,” Marcus said. “I’m coming with you.” He had come too far to let Nick deal with this alone.
“It’s the only way this will work,” Nick said. “If you come in with me, we’ll be in handcuffs trying to make a phone call and the Butcher will be gone.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Marcus said, anger in his voice.
Nick pushed open his door a few inches. “Marcus, that is a direct order.”
Marcus cursed and slowed, and Nick slipped out the door. Marcus floored it and took off again. Nick hoped the two cruisers hadn’t noticed him, and it stood to reason that they hadn’t. They were still a couple hundred yards away and there were nearly a hundred moving cars and probably three hundred people streaming in and out of the airport between them.
Nick avoided looking back and simply immersed himself in a large group of tourists headed toward the entry doors. He entered the lobby and saw a huge line in front of a security checkpoint up ahead. Being from the South, he hated to be an ass, but the Butcher’s plane would be boarding at any time.
He rushed down the line past the impatient travelers, walking fast and hearing people bitching and gasping as he moved forward. At the front of it, he said to a tired looking family, “I’m very sorry, but I have to break line. My son is up ahead and my wife has lost him. It’s an emergency, please.”
The wife shrugged, clearly unable to understand him.
“I’m sorry,” Nick said, and he walked toward the two federal agents.
“Do you need help finding him?” a security agent said in barely understandable English. He was reaching for his radio with concern.
“She’s already working with airport security,” Nick said. “No need.”
He placed his wallet and keys in the tray and said, “If you could just help me get cleared quickly, we’re both really nervous about this.”
“Of course,” the man said. “I have a son, too. I can only imagine how terrifying it must feel.”
Nick stepped through the metal detector and waited for his keys and wallet in the tray. They took forever to come through the slow-moving belt and he practically ripped them from the agent.
“Thank you,” he said, “and I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go.”
He rushed away and headed for a directory. He found the wing where the Butcher’s flight would depart and headed that way. He looked down at his watch and saw only fifteen minutes remained before boarding began.
Nick wanted to jog, but also knew that the Butcher might be waiting out of range of the departure area, wary and alert. Nick slowed and decided to keep his cool, walking as calmly as possible.
He scanned the crowd, ignoring old men, harried moms, and screaming kids. There also seemed to be a huge percentage of well-dressed businessmen and women, who were looking down at iPhones, laptops, work they had brought with them.
And then he spotted a possible fit. A short man, walking away from him. The man carried a black duffel bag, walking as smoothly as a gymnast or ninja. Nick closed the distance toward him, taking larger steps. His gut told him this was the Butcher.
He caught up to him and slowed, staying just a couple feet behind him while his brain tried to work on the fly. He knew a fight in the open corridor would only lead to both of them being arrested, and he had promised President Rivera that he wouldn’t take the man alive.
“No trial,” Rivera had reminded him on the phone.
“Oh, there definitely won’t be a trial,” Nick said, determination and anger slipping into his voice more than he’d intended.
Neither Rivera nor the country needed a long trial or the chance for the Butcher to rule from behind bars. Or possibly escape at some point down the road.
Besides, after last night and all the dead and wounded from S3, Nick wanted him in a cheap pine box as badly as Rivera did. Nick sped up and came alongside the short man and put his hand on his shoulder.
“Juan Pelo,” Nick said, using the man’s real name, which hardly anyone knew, and which no one in the Godesto Cartel dared called him. He had built up the image of “the Butcher” and he delighted in its sound.
The man tensed under Nick’s hand, and Nick knew he had the right man.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Nick said. “And don’t act like you don’t understand English. I've read your file. Trust me. For your own good, just keep walking like we’re friends. I have an offer for you.”
“Who are you?”
“Roberto Rivera sent me, but that doesn't matter
. You see, I have a proposition for you.”
“I don’t need to hear your proposition,” the Butcher sneered. “I could make one call and you’d be cut up into fish bait.
“Well, you could,” Nick said, emphasizing his Southern drawl, “but we already know you don’t have your security detail with you. And I kind of doubt you could get your phone up and dialed before I ripped it from your little hand.”
“I’m not worried about some redneck taking a phone from me. I could break you in half with my eyes closed.”
“And if you try,” Nick said, “security would rush up, arrest us both, and I’m betting they’d probably figure out who you are without needing to break out the fingerprint kit. You’re kind of famous now, you know, so if you want to have the chance to leave the country in a few minutes, you’ll listen to my proposition.”
“I’m listening,” the Butcher said.
“Option one is I cause a ruckus and get security over here to arrest you. We know that gets you into prison after a painful and long court trial that will probably last at least two or three years, with you inside the pen. No parole for you.”
“What’s option two?” the Butcher asked.
“Option two is you step into an empty hallway with me without causing a scene. President Rivera wants you dead, and he’s looking to avoid a trial or you enjoying the easy life in jail, like you cartel members always seem to do. Plus, he can’t kill you in jail because after the Hernan Flores shanking incident, the public would come unhinged if another major cartel leader died in custody. So, option two is we mosey over into an empty hallway and see who walks out. I figure you have about twenty-five minutes before your plane leaves, which gives you time to take care of me, clean up, and leave on schedule. You won’t get to board early, but you’ll have plenty of time to depart and fly off into the sunset.”
“How do I know I won’t be arrested anyway, assuming I win?”
“President Rivera would rather have you gone from the country than on trial or in jail, so that’s why I’m here. I get one chance and you only have one final obstacle.”
“This could be dangerous for you,” the Butcher said, a smile creeping across his face.
“I’m accustomed to danger. Plus, I was paid good money by the U.S. government to come down here and deal with Mr. Flores and the Godesto Cartel. You took care of Flores for me, which I appreciate, but you still bear a right smart amount of blood on your hands. Besides all the Mexican people you’ve killed or leeched off of, you guys took out a bunch of Navy SEALs. And last night, you killed some of my men in Neza-Chalco-Itza. So, it’s kind of personal, you might say.”
“Hah,” the Butcher laughed, as they continued to walk through the bustling airport. “That was you? I should have known only cocky-ass Americans would be so stupid as to enter Neza-Chalco-Itza with so few men.”
Nick swallowed down his anger. He felt the fire and hatred building up.
And he thought back on everything that this little asshole had done. He remembered the video of the Butcher entering the police station and chopping up officers who couldn’t defend themselves because of the tear gas. He remembered the brutal decapitation of billionaire Juan Soto’s head in his room. And he reflected on the helplessness he had felt just hours ago in the slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza, fighting off hundreds of rabid dogs who were snapping at the convoy.
Nick had felt so helpless dragging and carrying his wounded men into the hospital. And then offloading the dead at the morgue, once they had stripped them of their gear to limit the questions from emergency personnel.
“I still can’t believe you tried to enter Neza-Chalco-Itza with so few men,” the Butcher said. “Didn’t Rivera tell you that the cops and army never enter Neza-Chalco-Itza? And did he not tell you that I’m not afraid to die? You don’t know me, country boy. I don’t give a shit if I live or die.”
“Join the club,” Nick said. “You see, you messed up last night. Because not only did you kill a lot of good men, which I have to live with for the rest of my life, but you also shot up my girl.”
The Butcher laughed. “You talk a lot, country boy.”
“Not usually,” Nick said. “But ask yourself this. How come President Rivera had barely made a dent against the Godesto until last night? You ever wonder that?”
Nick felt the Butcher tense again underneath his hand. “That’s right,” Nick continued. “You can thank us cocky-ass Americans for tearing apart your entire organization in a single night. How long did you spend building that thing up? Thirty years? And poof.” Nick snapped the fingers of his free hand. “Gone in one night.”
The Butcher stopped walking and said, “You’re going to be wishing you had called those security guards in just a few minutes, country boy.”
“Well, it’s true,” Nick said, “that some have said I’ve got no sense. But, we’ll just have to see if you’re man enough to do what so many others couldn’t. Tell you what, let’s try this hall up here.”
Nick angled him toward a sign that said “fire exit” on it.
They entered the hall and Nick was relieved that no alarm went off. A chair sat inside the hall next to an old trash can with a pile of cigarette butts in it. Clearly some guard or janitor used the place to sneak a smoke. But it looked dingy and rarely visited otherwise -- the perfect place for a fight to the death.
The Butcher moved down the hall and when he was a safe distance away, Nick grabbed the chair by the trash can and blocked the door behind him with it, wedging it against the handle at an angle. The last thing he wanted was a janitor, cop, or tourist trying to stop them.
Thankfully, the hall was a wide one, built so that golf carts and other emergency vehicles could navigate it. Probably even wide enough for ambulances to drive through.
There’d be plenty of room to dance in here, Nick thought, and then he saw that the Butcher was smiling.
“What’s so funny?” Nick asked. “Oh, that’s right. You like being locked up with bigger men. I seem to recall reading in the police file on you that you had a great time in prison. This bring back some pleasant memories for you?”
The Butcher smiled at him, and the little shit had the creepiest of looks. Nick couldn’t read his face. It was the strangest damned thing.
“What’s so funny?” Nick asked. “You really think your little goober karate moves are going to work against me?”
“Probably,” the Butcher said, “but not as well as this.”
And with that he yanked his katana from the duffel bag.
“Well,” Nick admitted, “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Turns out,” the Butcher said with a smirk, “that a ton of money won’t get an Uzi through security, but it will get a sword through.”
Nick was barely listening. He suddenly regretted that the hall was so wide. Or that he had blocked the door behind him with the chair.
No doubt if he turned his back to grab it he’d be a shish kebab. The Butcher would skewer him straight through his back like a piece of meat pierced by a stainless steel cooking rod.
Nick’s brain raced, looking for something. Now it was the Butcher’s turn to have fun.
“What was the term I used earlier?” the Butcher asked. “I believe it was ‘cocky-ass American.’ And look, here you’ve made yet another horrendous mistake, just like last night.”
Nick stood facing him, his legs shoulder-width apart and his empty hands held out to his sides. What the hell had he gotten himself into? And how in the world did you dodge a swift swinging sword? Especially from a little karate dick who knew how to use it?
“I could kill you so quickly,” the Butcher said, “like a stork stabbing a fish out of water, but I wonder… I wonder if you know how powerless it feels to be cut time and time again and not be able to do anything about it.”
Here comes the sadistic, cruel side of the man, Nick thought.
The Butcher held the sword in a two-hand grip directly in front of him and he looked like he knew what he was doin
g. He had unsheathed it with ease and grace, then positioned the sword expertly. Yeah, he definitely knew what he was doing.
And there was something unnerving about a long blade. Much more intimidating than a pistol or submachine gun, despite the absurdity of such a comparison. Perhaps it was the slow death such a weapon would cause.
“I’ll bet,” the Butcher said, “that I have you giving up and begging for your life after just six or eight slices. Sharp cuts bleed a lot and they burn. They’re really no fun, I promise you.”
“I thought martial artists didn’t use weapons against unarmed people?” Nick asked.
“I’m no martial artist,” the Butcher said. “I’ve just mastered their moves for times like this.”
Nick searched the hallway for anything. His mind raced through scenarios and calculated angles, distances, and possibilities. He knew he had roughly four feet to his rear that he could step back toward. On the wall just behind to the Butcher hung a heavy, red fire extinguisher, and that would be nice, but how to get eight feet forward against a man wielding a sword?
Nick cursed himself for not even having his Benchmade tactical knife on him. What kind of country boy travels without a knife, he wondered. With a knife, he might have had a chance, but the fact this was going down in an airport that had forced him to enter it without any kind of weapon had hurt his chances considerably.
Shut up, Nick, he thought. A three-inch blade only helps so much against a sword that long. And you have your fingers. With a properly trained man, they’re blades. And you have your boots. With a properly trained man, they’re hammers. You’re going to get cut no matter what, but if you start thinking too much or having regrets, you’re going to die right here in this dusty, dingy corridor.
“Come on, you little shit,” Nick said. “You’ve talked enough. You’re the one holding the sword. Why don’t you come poke me with it?”
“That sounds dirty,” the Butcher said with a laugh.
“Probably does to a man who’s had as many boyfriends as you.”
That had enraged the Butcher and Nick saw the man’s jaw tighten and flinch before he charged. He rushed in, the sword aimed right at Nick’s chest, and Nick made himself wait. He knew moving too soon or reacting too early would allow the Butcher to alter the swing.
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 34