He called Mr. Smith back two hours later, after spending some time just driving and thinking as his rental car meandered across the desert of Mexico, heat pounding and testing the car’s air conditioner.
“What’s your decision?” Mr. Smith asked.
“War is about the only thing I’m good at,” Nick said.
“So, it seems,” Mr. Smith said. “What should I tell the men?”
Nick never paused.
“You tell them to get their lazy asses in shape. I’m headed back to the only home I know.”
Author’s Note:
One pretty big mistake I made in this book involves the position of Mexico’s president. I learned just weeks before my publishing deadline that Mexican presidents can’t actually seek re-election.
Unfortunately, a pretty good chunk of the book’s premise were the many political challenges President Rivera faced, and how the people had re-elected him with the sole mission of taking down the cartels.
Remove the need to get re-elected, and you cut down significantly much of the tension that he faces. And as an author, one of your key tasks is ramping up and increasing the tension.
Thus, after much deliberation and consideration on how to fix the book, I opted to leave it as it stood. Unfortunately, I just saw no easy way to correct the book and make it more accurate.
Certainly, there are probably more inaccuracies, but the cities and towns named all exist. As does Neza-Chalco-Itza.
There are a ton of people I need to thank, and what follows is a very incomplete list.
But to each of them, and those I’ve overlooked, a big thanks.
To my amazing wife Danah, who believes in me even when I don’t.
To Mark Allen, a hell of an author, and a man with whom I’ve spent literally hundreds of hours discussing stories and scenes. And debating the merits of leg stabs versus disembowelments.
A big thanks to my good friend April, who made the book immeasurably better.
To Tim Dittmer, an Army vet who served in Vietnam, who stumbled across me on the internet and wrote some crucial emails that helped me when I was doubting myself and the whole author gig.
To USMC Cpl Michael Pressley 1/8, '79-'83. A fellow brother in arms and a huge supporter.
To Ashley R. Luna, one of my newest supporters, and an increasingly big-time friend.
And to all the members of Mitchell’s Militia. Thanks a million for your words of encouragement and your assistance in spreading the news about my books.
Other works by Stan R. Mitchell:
Sold Out (Nick Woods, No. 1)
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2)
Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No.3)
Little Man, and the Dixon County War
Detective Danny Acuff, (Book 1)
Soldier On
About the author:
Stan R. Mitchell writes some of the most action-packed, fast-moving novels around. Tired of slow-paced, investigative novels that take 50 pages to excite you? Look no further!
Stan is the best-selling author of 5 novels in 3 different time periods. He's also a prior infantry Marine with Combat Action Ribbon, and a former journalist who spent ten years in the newspaper business, learning how to hook the reader, cut out the filler, and just tell the story.
In short, Stan is knowledgeable, he's fast, and his books will blow you away. You can learn more about him at http://stanrmitchell.com.
If you enjoyed “Mexican Heat (Nick Woods, No. 2),” please consider dropping a short review of it on Amazon. Reviews go miles and miles toward helping readers discover new authors, such as Mitchell.
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Don’t miss Mitchell’s other exciting book, Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No. 3)! (Free preview follows.) Book description:
The mission? Practically off-the-charts impossible.
Four men must infiltrate (on foot) 30+ miles into Pakistan and abduct a key VIP of the Taliban.
These men will be offered no support. No air support. No radios. No chance of rescue.
And if they’re caught or killed, America will deny their existence.
This is how the mission in Afghanistan begins for Nick Woods and your favorite members of S3 (Marcus, Truck, and Red).
And unfortunately for them, it only gets worse from there...
Nick Woods and his private, military security company (Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter) are deployed to Afghanistan by directive of the U.S. government. Their mission is nothing less than to save the government (and country) of Afghanistan.
A clock is ticking and the Taliban is poised to seize the capital city of Kabul, taking over the country for good. The Taliban are stronger than ever, and well-led by an impressive spiritual warrior, who is respected across the country by most of the people of Afghanistan.
Making matter worse, America's political leadership is sick of investing men and resources into a war that's now lasted 15 years.
Nick and his team are sent to somehow find a way of dealing with the looming threat, and though the mission is impossible enough as it’s already drawn up, they'll soon find out that their enemies aren’t only in Afghanistan.
Free Extended Preview of Afghan Storm (Nick Woods, No. 3)
Chapter 1
Present Day -- Just inside Pakistan near the border of Afghanistan
Nick Woods took a knee and wiped the ample sweat from his forehead, adjusting his pack in the cool night air. He made a mental note to thank the gods of war that this was the middle of summer, and not the freezing, bone-chilling winter that drove even the tough locals into their compounds and caves.
The three men accompanying him used the short break to adjust gear and sip water, while Nick’s brain worked in overdrive as he scanned his sector. He was definitely putting his men out on a limb this time -- more so than when he had led the assault on the Mexican slum of Neza-Chalco-Itza just six months ago.
The unit’s overall mission this time was as simple as it had been in Mexico: take down Rasool Deraz, a venerable elder who inspired hundreds of Taliban and al Qaeda fighters across the country and into Pakistan.
Over the years, Rasool Deraz had grown so powerful that most analysts and several computer simulations reported that under his leadership the Taliban would soon topple the Afghan government. And America felt that it had invested too much in the past fourteen years to allow the Taliban to once again assume control of Afghanistan.
Thus Nick’s company -- Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter, or S3 -- had been contracted by the Afghan government to ostensibly provide training for their police force and consult with the government at the highest levels to assist them in reducing the threat from the Taliban. Or at least that’s what it looked like on paper. S3, however, wasn’t just some private security firm. In reality, S3 was an arm of the CIA. A private company that filed annual paperwork and paid its taxes, which helped create enough distance to allow the U.S. government complete deniability.
S3’s job in Afghanistan had nothing to do with training the police. Although Nick and his band of headhunters had severely limited resources, the plan was simple: find Deraz, shoot Deraz, and hopefully set the Taliban back as much as they could.
However, actually executing the plan would prove to be no small challenge.
So far, they had made it past their first obstacle. The four men of S3 had snuck across the border of Afghanistan and into Pakistan nearly an hour ago with no problems. That, of course, was the easy part. But now, on this side of the border, they were completely on their own. Just four men with no chance of backup, air support, or extraction. In fact, the only guarantee they were given was
that America would deny any ties to S3 if they were captured or killed.
You sure know how to dig a deep hole, Nick thought to himself.
But at least he had brought three of his best men with him. He had Marcus, the tall, commanding Marine drill instructor, who served as his right-hand man. He had Truck, the merciless, insubordinate Special Forces trooper, who had seen as much combat as any man alive. And he had Red, the cocky, quick-tempered Marine, who carried a trainload of fight on his 5’5” frame. Red was also one of the best point men Nick had ever encountered.
Their objective on this raid was to infiltrate forty-plus miles into Pakistan (moving only in darkness). They would travel along a moderate mountain range, trekking at higher altitudes to avoid detection. Thankfully, this wasn’t the Hindu Kush mountain range, which spanned as high as 20,000 feet. Instead, this range had much lower elevations, being as Nick and his team were crossing into Pakistan roughly 100 miles south of Khost. That mean much lower elevations, which were much easier to traverse.
At the end of this forty-mile journey into one of the most dangerous countries in the world, they planned to raid a single compound and locate a man named Ahmud al-Habshi.
Ahmud al-Habshi was the primary communications man for the Taliban. Therefore, his private compound promised computers, probably several servers, and loads of files. Essentially, it was a smorgasbord, a tide-turning honey hole, of invaluable intelligence.
Then there was Ahmud al-Habshi himself, who knew the habits, movements, and possibly every hiding spot used by Rasool Deraz. Nick Woods and his three S3 shooters planned to wake him up late one night and take him on a one-way field trip to Afghanistan. If they failed, a drone strike would quickly silence al-Habshi, but it would in turn also destroy tons of evidence and any chance of taking down Rasool Deraz.
Thus, it was critical that Nick and S3 properly execute this raid. Failing to capture the intel from al-Habshi and eventually take down Deraz would certainly doom Afghanistan.
Deraz was seen as a respected leader and legend by the people in Afghanistan, most of whom supported him. Blessed with high esteem and a nation’s loyalty, his power and reach were difficult to fathom.
With just a few words delivered by messenger, Deraz could call upon local fighters among the people, who would spring up and strike an Afghan compound before disappearing into the countryside.
And the strength of Deraz knew no bounds. He had supporters in the countryside. He had supporters in the farmlands. He had supporters in the cities.
Without question, Rasool Deraz was the spiritual leader for many of the Afghan people, and Nick and S3 had to find a way to take him down or Afghanistan was doomed.
Chapter 2
Only two hours later, and the fun and enthusiasm had definitely worn off.
Now it was just dirty, grueling work, pure and simple. Each man hauled an 80-pound pack, a 20-pound assault vest, and a 5-gallon water jug (another 40 pounds) that had to be carried by hand. Even their trusty rifles had become burdens no longer welcomed.
No amount of training could prepare you for continuous slogging across such rough terrain. Steep slopes covered in loose rock in the dark made for a very strenuous and slow pace. For the men of S3, real-life missions such as these also meant they were constantly being forced to stop and take a knee to reposition gear, check their surroundings, or simply remove a stray rock wedged deep in a boot tread. And then there were the full-out halts at the slightest detection of any movement or sound that forced them all the way down into the prone.
So far, Nick and his S3 entourage had heard a lot more than they’d actually seen. The area was known for quite the array of wildlife, some of which were often large and catlike. So the sudden rustle or the cascading of rocks was a common occurrence. Luckily, almost every incident, after further inspection at the evidence (paw prints, a startled bird’s cry, scat, and other fecal material) was agreed to have been animal-based. Apparently, four over-loaded and heavily armed men stumbling across a mountain top worked wonders when it came to deterring curious wildlife.
But then there had been a few close calls of the human variety. This was a very rural area, and its inhabitants were not scared of the treacherous terrain or predatory creatures that came out after dark.
There had been the occasional stray, unarmed villager, including a set of young boys, both no more than ten, playing a game that involved whacking each other with sticks. It would have been a pleasant moment if the damn kids, so enthusiastically lost in their play, hadn’t chased one another all over the hill, and at one point gotten close enough that Nick and his men were forced to fall back and hold until the boys tired of their antics and left.
They had also spotted several goatherders, who thankfully seemed to prefer managing their flocks in the lower lying areas. Perhaps they were avoiding predators or working their goats back home.
However, there had been one very unique exception. After a good hour without seeing another human soul they suddenly spotted a particularly hearty goatherder literally hopping up the daunting slopes with apparent ease all the while singing a peppy tune. Based on the numerous inserted “baa’s,” Nick guessed the song had been composed by the man himself and in dedication to his much-loved goats.
Nonetheless, all had been oblivious to the four heavily armed, English-speaking men who most certainly didn’t belong in this part of Pakistan.
Still, from a distance and under the cover of darkness, they might have remained safe, if spotted. They had worked hard to make an effort to blend in as much as possible, carrying Communist Bloc weapons and wearing Afghan-style clothing: boots, loose pants, and turbans.
But even with distance and darkness to aid them, it was their packs that could easily give them away. Although theirs were foreign in make, packs in general were uncommon in this area. Sure, there was the occasional shoulder bag or belt pouch, but the closest thing to a pack one might see in this part of Pakistan was the random small child’s backpack, maybe. Most families couldn’t even afford those.
And it didn’t help that these particular packs were massive. Any local transporting a load of this size would almost always use a mule, truck, or dirt bike. Even if all a witness could make out was a rough silhouette in the dark, the sheer size and odd shape of the packs could easily draw unwanted attention.
But Nick couldn’t do anything about the packs. He, Marcus, Red, and Truck needed everything from food to water to ammo, and you didn’t go wandering forty miles into a foreign country -- uninvited -- unless you brought along some toys in case you were discovered.
Nick’s back was already screaming in pain, and he was certain his men were hurting, too. Nick raised his fist, signaling a halt. The darkness allowed for hand and arm signals to be passed, as stars and a half-moon shone down unimpeded by clouds or fog.
The men of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter passed the signal up and down the line, then stopped, spreading into a defensive circle on the side of the steep hill. Each man eased his pack to the ground and sprawled behind it, facing outboard behind their weapons. They reached for canteens and bits of chocolate or other energy snacks.
Nick’s whole body protested loudly -- several hours of hard rucking was tough for a man in his mid-forties -- as he attempted to lay his pack down as quietly as he could. He wanted to rest a few minutes, like his men, but knew he needed to at least appear unfazed by the three miles they had covered tonight.
Three miles didn’t seem like much, but the unforgiving terrain and need to keep every sense on high alert really took every ounce of energy out of you. Especially when you added in the adrenaline rushes that came from hearing a disturbance or seeing something in your night vision googles.
Despite wanting to rest, Nick heaved himself up and walked toward his point man. He knelt beside Red and put his hand on his shoulder, looking out to their front. The small man was breathing hard and sweating heavily.
“How you holding up?” Nick whispered.
“This ain’t shi
t,” Red said with a smile.
Nick imagined that the weight they were carrying had to be especially difficult for a man of Red’s size. Being the smallest man on the team meant that proportionally, he was carrying much more than the rest of them.
“Good,” Nick said. “Go ahead and relax a few minutes. Then you and I can check our maps and compare where we think we are.”
“Roger that, boss.”
Feeling his legs and back threaten to mutiny if he attempted to stand from a kneeled position again, Nick made a mental note to stay on his feet as he moved over to Truck. The big man was laid down behind a RPK machine gun. The gun’s bipod legs supported its weight on the front, while the rear of the gun lay on its seventy-five round box.
“Hey, Truck. How you holding up?”
“Good. I was wondering if you might give your pack up so I could make this more of a challenge?” the smartass managed to choke out between deep gulps of air.
Nick smiled, shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah. Now shut your mouth,” Nick said, “or you’ll be carrying three of them.”
“Shit, sir. I’m Special Forces. I could carry three packs plus little Red up there.”
Nick patted Truck on the head and said, “I’m glad you’re on our side. And you better pray that Red didn’t hear that little comment. Because there is no way I’m carrying your big, dead, dumb ass through these mountains.
Lastly, Nick walked up to Marcus, who was leaning against a nearby rock to keep him from squatting and having to stand again.
“How you holding up, man?” Nick asked.
“I’m hurting,” Marcus admitted. “Damn packs are heavy as hell, and I’m twice as big as Red and in way better shape than Truck. We’ll need to keep an eye on them.”
Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) Page 36