Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (13 page)

The man
dropped the paper and looked up at the camera.

“Mr.
Flores, you murderer of thousands of good and decent people, we are coming for
you. Your days of poisoning our country and our youth with your drugs and your
guns and your wads of cash are coming to an end.”

The man
nodded and the camera was turned off.

Nick
couldn’t understand what the man had said -- it was in Spanish, after all --
but he’d read the message in English that Isabella had prepared and thought it
was perfect. Soon, the video would be delivered to several major news stations
in Mexico City. With luck, it would go viral within hours.

Nick
smiled and thought, “Thanks, Allen Green. I owe you for this one.”

And
indeed Nick did. Allen Green, the veteran reporter from New York, was a master
of public opinion and had taught Nick much of what he knew. It had taken a
while for Nick to come around to believing in the power of public opinion and
social media, but he was on board with Allen’s arguments about media strategy
now. After what they had been through, Allen was one of the only people that
Nick trusted and respected without question.

Nick
turned so the men wouldn’t see him and as he walked down the hall, he smiled.
Round One just went to Team USA. Or, Team Mexico, really. Nick shifted the .45
on his hip and anticipated the upcoming fight between the Godesto and S3.

Now with
their opening media strategy over, it was time to start spilling blood. And
Nick? Well, he couldn’t wait for that to begin. There were a dozen-plus SEALs
that Nick planned to soon avenge.

Chapter
15

Hernan
Flores finished watching the Vigilantes’ homemade broadcast and threw the
remote as hard as he could against his widescreen TV that was built into a
cabinet inside his office. The remote cracked the screen and Flores slammed his
hand on the desk.

Despite
the cracked screen, the television now showed a foxy news anchor discussing the
newly formed Vigilante group with a university professor who was an expert on
the cartels. Flores just wanted to turn the damn thing off and cover his ears,
but realizing the remote was now ten feet away, he grabbed the coffee mug off his
desk and hurled it as hard as he could at the TV. The mug penetrated two
inches, the TV popped, and the picture died in a shower of sparks. The
widescreen now smoked and Flores stood still long enough to ensure no flames
climbed from the guts of the worthless piece of scrap. Confirming there were
none, he collapsed into his chair and buried his hands in his hair.

Who were
these people?

He hit
his intercom and said, “Maria, how many stations played that tape?”

There was
a considerable pause, and then his secretary said, “We’re still trying to
figure it out, sir, but we think pretty much all of them did.”

Flores
jumped to his feet. He grabbed the phone from his desk and threw it as hard as
he could toward the wall.

“Fuck!”
he screamed.

The phone
made it four feet before the cord stopped its progress and jerked it back in
Flores’s direction. He attempted to lift his arms in time to block it, but it
caught him in the front of the shoulder and he yelped in pain.

Maria
heard the curse and howl of pain. In any other circumstance this might have
been funny, but in her case, she worked for an insane cartel leader. And when
the fat man grew angry and then topped it off by getting hurt and embarrassed,
people usually died. Maria, assuming she could be on some hidden camera, showed
nothing and continued her work, pretending she hadn’t heard a thing. The pay
was too good, and the fear too great, to do anything but that.

Flores
rubbed his shoulder and sunk into his chair. He sat there for a moment and
decided to pour himself a drink. He realized he was hungry, too, though it was
only a couple hours after he had eaten breakfast. Well, a few Funyuns wouldn’t
hurt.

Drink
poured and chips opened, he sipped and munched at his desk. In between bites,
he considered this new problem. In truth, vigilantes presented the greatest
threat a cartel leader could face.

The
public was vital in one’s war against the government. After all, the government
dominated the cartels in terms of troops, dollars, and vehicles. Plus, the
government could operate in the open with armored cars and heavy weapons. But
the government also had to keep the public happy.

The
cartels struggled under the requirement to stay below the radar. They couldn’t
tote long weapons out in the open or assemble in groups near their targets or
bases, except in some of their mountain fortress areas. And even there, it was
best to not attract attention.

The
cartels needed the public’s support. It was crucial. Other than public support,
the only other weapons wielded by cartels were loads of cash and
out-of-this-world violence. Violence that topped what the government could
bring. If you could create sheer terror among individual police officers and
prosecutors, then you could thrive and survive.

But
Flores had pushed too far with the violence. He had lost the public’s support
and this group of Vigilantes had sprung up. Flores needed to win it back,
quickly. Even if he discovered who these Vigilantes were, he’d need to be
careful. Attack them too ruthlessly and they’d only multiply like weeds.

Flores
recalled the footage of the wrecked Presidential Palace and the convoy of
shot-up Mexican troops. No one in Mexico had cared about the dead Navy SEALs,
but the news footage of the Palace and bullet-riddled convoy littered with dead
Mexican soldiers had played for days.

And the
Palace had looked terrible in the TV footage and front-page newspaper photos,
even after the bodies had been removed. Smoke plumes rose from the riddled,
pock-marked Palace walls and bloody spots stained the street among the charred
ruins of the convoy.

The
Mexican people were poor, but proud, and the sight of their government power
center shattered and their military embarrassed on a city street had proved too
much. And Flores had known it before the day’s news ended. The media pounced on
the footage as if it were war coverage from World War II.

Flores,
sensing the rising public anger and humiliation, immediately offered his
assistance to help insulate himself. He publicly donated $10 million to the federal
government’s campaign to rebuild the Presidential Palace. Best of all, Flores
earned some great news coverage after President Roberto Rivera refused to be
pictured with Flores. Rivera claimed to be too busy overseeing the defense of
the country and its war against the cartels, but several media outlets slapped
him on the wrists for not appearing with Flores. “What better way to help raise
funds than to appear with those who were donating so generously?” the papers
asked.

And
Flores’s assault against President Rivera and Juan Soto had done more than turn
public opinion against the Godesto. It had also inspired the straight-laced
billionaire Soto not to leave the country. Flores knew that President Rivera
could not survive without Soto’s support, and Flores had been so close to
driving Soto out of the country after he’d killed several of his employees and
nearly successfully kidnapped his daughter.

Flores
gulped down the final half of his drink and refilled his glass. He’d
conveniently brought the bottle from the cabinet to his desk.

What to
do with the Vigilantes... As he considered them, he remembered other times he
had been pushed to the breaking point. And with those thoughts, a smile crept
across his face. This wasn’t close to being his biggest challenge. He
remembered so many times he’d faced nearly insurmountable hurdles as he had
risen up from the ranks.

He’d
climbed to the top of the Godesto Cartel from the very bottom, beginning as a
mere foot soldier packing a pistol, rising to a corner captain, then a
neighborhood shot caller, and finally to the highest ranks, within the very
brain of the organization. And once he was within the ranks of the top twenty
leaders of the Godesto, all of whom were jockeying to lead, he’d ascended to
the head of it through betrayals, double-crosses, and anonymous tips to the
government.

That was
achievement enough. Becoming the head of the Godesto Cartel was a monumental
task, one aided by luck and intuition and guile.

And yet
that had proven a cakewalk compared to his next task: Becoming the most
powerful cartel leader in Mexico. By the time Flores had wrested control of the
Godesto Cartel from its former leader, who had fled Mexico when he learned of
Flores’s intentions to seize power from him, the cartel was holding itself
together by a thread -- partly due to the former leader’s weakness, and partly
due to Flores’s internal coup.

Regardless,
Flores fought internal and external pressures for months as he stabilized the
organization and convinced those both under and around him that he was not one
to be trifled with or underestimated. He had meted out retribution when he
could, and parlayed for peace with other cartels where he was outgunned.

And
slowly but surely, he strengthened the Godesto Cartel and plotted his future
moves. When Flores took over the Godesto, six major cartels existed. Twenty
years later, only three remained: the Godesto, the Red Sleeve Cartel, and a
newly formed upstart that at some point he would squash like a bug. The Godesto
had an alliance with the Red Sleeve Cartel, which was probably thirty percent
as powerful as the Godesto. And the upstart cartel was perhaps four percent as
powerful.

Flores
reached for more liquor, but stopped when he remembered he needed to stay
sober. The announcement of the creation of the Vigilantes pushed back the
timetable of Flores’s plans, but he had endured setbacks before. He’d destroy
them no differently than he’d destroyed his prior enemies.

He
reached for his phone and realized he’d totaled it in his earlier tirade.

“Maria,”
he yelled. “Call the TV stations. I’m holding a press conference in two hours.”

Chapter
16

“Nick,
you better get in here,” Dwayne Marcus said.

Nick
pushed into the command center, which he and Marcus had decided would be in the
room that housed the small study/library of the farmhouse.

“What is
it?” Nick asked.

“Hernan
Flores is about to hold a press conference,” Marcus said. “Isabella has been
scanning the news channels and came across it.”

“We got
anyone who can take a shot at him?” Nick asked. He knew they had two scout
teams of Spanish-speaking undercover agents from the squads of Shield,
Safeguard, and Shelter out tracking the man’s movements and learning his
patterns. The teams were already in Mexico City trying to stake out the number
one enemy of Mexico. They didn’t have sniper rifles with them, but they were
packing M4s in the trunks of their vehicles.

“Sir,”
said Isabella, “we can’t shoot him in front of twenty or thirty cameras and
untold millions of Mexicans watching live.”

“The hell
we can’t,” Nick countered. “You give me the shot and I’ll shoot through three
reporters to bore a hole through that bastard.”

“We’re
trying to win public opinion,” Isabella reminded him.

“No,
we’re only trying to win over public opinion so that we can take this bastard
down,” Nick said. “That’s part one of our directive: Take Flores down. And the
first chance we get to drop his ass, we drop him. That’s step one, then we go
after his cartel. Public opinion only matters in the short term, and since it’s
hot as hell down here, I’m all for getting him sooner rather than later.”

“Sir,”
Isabella said, beginning to question him, but Nick held up his hand to stop her
and pointed at the TV.

Hernan
Flores exited two doors from the entrance of the tower from which he worked. He
cautiously walked toward the cameras and looked up and down the road, as if he
were worried.

“He’s
putting on an act,” Isabella said. “I’ve watched hundreds of hours of footage
of him and he’s usually loud and pushy and cocky.”

“He’s
hamming it up for the cameras,” Nick said.

“As if he
doesn’t have about forty armed men in a cordon around the media,” Marcus added.

“I
thought he always wore
Hawaiian shirts
?”
Nick asked, looking toward Isabella. “He looks like a stuffed pig in that
suit.”

“He
normally does,” she said. “I don’t like this. He hates wearing suits. He
doesn’t even wear them to fundraising galas, and no one cares because he
donates so much that half of the galas are named in his honor.”

Flores
trudged up to a podium. Dozens of microphones and tape recorders were propped
or standing in front of him, and a hungry crowd of reporters with cameras and
notepads stood eagerly awaiting. Flores looked up and down the street again and
leaned toward the microphones.

Nick
tapped Isabella on the arm and said, “You translate what he says.”

She
nodded as Flores began to speak.

“I
appreciate you all coming out today, and I apologize for my men having to
search you a few minutes ago,” he said.

Flores
took a handkerchief out and wiped his brow, which has already begun to sweat.
The man was a fat piece of shit, Nick thought, and hardly looked like a
formidable adversary. And yet that’s what made him so dangerous. He was a
chameleon. He changed his colors to whatever was necessary. Businessman and
philanthropist by day, mobster and murderer by night.

“As you
might have heard,” Flores said to the cameras, “a group of law-breaking
citizens has come out and claimed they intend to hunt me down.”

Flores
paused and looked down. He swallowed, brushed his forehead again, and
continued. “I can’t tell you how distressing this is and we’re obviously taking
these threats very seriously, as you can see by the security around you. I have
made arrangements to fly my family out of the country and I’m trying to
determine if I can manage to leave the country myself.”

He looked
up and down the street -- like a scared alley cat, Nick thought, caught out in
the open on a bright summer day -- before continuing.

“As you
all know, I own dozens of legitimate businesses, contrary to what these
Vigilantes claim. And while I can afford to quit today, I cannot bring myself
to do that for the sake of the thousands of employees and families who depend
on those jobs. Not to mention the ongoing contributions those businesses
provide to several charities. I’d hate for it to come to this, but I must say
that if I can’t move freely or even stay in the country without fear of harm
coming to me or those I love, then that giving will have to decrease.”

Now
Flores leaned into the microphones and Nick detected the first hint of violence
that he’d seen yet. But it was subtle and probably most of the public would
miss it. Nick only caught it because he couldn’t understand the language and
focused completely on every gesture and action. Looking straight into the
cameras, Flores said, “I call on President Roberto Rivera to crack down on
these Vigilantes. And while I’ve been a big supporter of his -- including my recent
donation to rebuild the Presidential Palace after this horrific attack by
terrorists -- I sadly cannot continue to endorse a leader who so blatantly is
losing control of his country. I don’t want to endorse a government changeover
in the middle of his presidential term, but if he cannot bring these people to
justice and cannot stop the attacks on our brave government forces, then we
will have to consider whether a handover of power is not the right course of
action.”

“Wow,”
Isabella said in disbelief. “Did he just say he’s been a big supporter of
President Rivera?”

“Probably
most folks don’t know how much he funded and worked for Rivera’s opponent,”
Nick said. “All they see is this old, scared businessman. The man who reminds
them of their grandfather and who they’ve seen hundreds of times on TV during
various charity events. They see a businessman and philanthropist who’s
reasonable and fighting for them.”

“Nice bit
of reverse psychology that he’s using,” Marcus said.

“He’s a
pro,” Nick said. “That’s for sure.”

“It’s all
bullshit,” Isabella said. “He’s not sending his family out of the country. They
have a mountain enclave, and have complete control of the city he was raised
in. No way is he letting them leave the country where he can’t guarantee their
safety as well.”

Nick
didn’t respond. He needed some quiet to think over Flores’s power move. Without
a word, he turned and exited the room.

The
blowback from Hernan Flores’s performance in front of the country reached Nick
Woods two days later.

His CIA
contact rushed into the command post where Nick and Marcus hovered over a map.
He held a brick-sized phone that was apparently some kind of super-encrypted,
satellite phone, Nick had been told.

“It’s for
you, sir,” his contact said. “It’s headquarters, and I warn you they’re
pissed.”

Nick
noted that his contact had his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and looked
as flustered as an eight-year-old about to get a spanking.

“It’ll be
okay, Hoss,” Nick said. “I’ve dealt with headquarters before.”

The
contact handed Nick the phone and darted from the room, looking relieved.

Nick
looked over at Marcus, shook his head, and smiled.

“Kids,”
Nick said. Marcus laughed.

Nick
paused and made headquarters wait a full fifteen seconds. He lifted the heavy
phone, but Marcus raised his head to say something.

“I’m
going to walk the lines,” Marcus said, holding up his M4.

Nick
nodded and leaned into the phone.

“Nick,
here.”

“This is
Mr. Smith. You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing down there?”

Nick
smiled. Smith was the high-level CIA official who truly was in charge of Nick’s
operation. Or, so Smith thought. Of course the pencil-neck piece of shit didn’t
want anyone to know his name in case the whole mission went down in flames.

A real
courageous man.

Nick had
called him Mr. Smith once the man had said it was best if he didn’t share his
name with Nick. It wasn’t like the man would have told Nick his real name
anyway, so at least the name “Mr. Smith” was easy to remember.

“You know
exactly what we’re doing,” Nick said. “Your contact updates you at least twice
a day, of that I’m confident. He’s too scared not to.”

“President
Rivera’s popularity has dropped another ten points since Hernan Flores
responded to the Vigilante’s video. Do I need to remind you that he already has
a low approval rating and doesn’t have a lot of room to give?”

“Do I
need to remind you that you approved of our plan prior to our departure?” Nick
asked. “Best I remember, you thought us producing and releasing that video was
a great idea. A quote ‘way to win over the people,’ I believe was what you
said.”

“The plan
wasn’t to release the video and do nothing for the next couple of days while
Flores destroys the movement in the press before it really even begins.”

“I didn’t
realize we were doing nothing,” Nick said. “I bet that’s news to all the guys
patrolling the compound and spread all over Mexico City pulling surveillance in
this god-awful heat.”

“You need
to make something happen soon. I’ve got the Director on my ass and you-know-who
on his ass.”

Nick knew
he meant the President, but that wasn’t his problem. He wouldn’t risk a single
man rushing his plans.

“I said
before I accepted the post that I would work at my own pace. I’m not risking
any men because you or your boss can’t take an ass-chewing. Your job is to run
interference so that we can get the job done, so go run some interference. Make
up some kind of an excuse, whatever the hell you want.”

“Listen
here,” Smith said, but Nick didn’t hear another word. He hit the “end call”
button and tossed the phone into a chair. He’d heard enough from Headquarters
today.

Dwayne
Marcus moved about the farmhouse’s interior, his M4 cradled in his arms. He
peeked out windows and surveilled the lines from inside the home. Satisfied
with what he saw, he leaned his M4 against the wall near the door and confirmed
his .45 was concealed under his untucked shirt.

Nick had
set strict rules for the unit that no one was to be seen outside with a long
weapon of any kind during daylight hours. Though the farm was pretty remote and
the population surrounding it mostly sparse, nothing was supposed to be done
that could arouse suspicion from outsiders.

Not that long
weapons weren’t out at the positions, but they had been moved there during
night hours and were kept concealed under tarps and rifle cases.

Nick had
also mandated that only street clothes were to be worn outside while in the
compound to further hide the fact that this small farm had been transformed
into an outpost for a large group of armed men.

“I want
us to look like some regular ol’ field hands,” Nick had said. “Or maybe local
workers or something.”

Marcus
glanced down to confirm he was in blue jeans and T-shirt and stepped out of the
home. Marcus took his time and walked the perimeter in a nonchalant manner. He
certainly didn’t want to look military in his bearing, but at the same time he
couldn’t shake how happy he felt to be in an armed camp again in a foreign
country.

This was
what he was built for: leading men on dangerous missions. And as he talked with
the men in various hidden positions around the perimeter, he couldn’t shake how
fragile it all felt. How worried he was -- already -- that when this ended he’d
have to return to an administrative leadership position in the Marine Corps.
Or, even worse, have to leave the Corps and move on to some shitty civilian
job.

And
nothing scared Marcus more. He’d known nothing but guns and forced marches
since the day he dropped out of college and left his lucrative destiny with the
NFL for something grittier, scarier, and tougher. But just like the NFL, which
veteran football players knew stood for “Not For Long,” in the military -- even
in the blood and guts Marine Corps -- the opportunities to serve in harm’s way
were few and far between. Units rotated. Orders changed. You got promoted too
high to be on the front line.

And yet
Nick Woods had given him that opportunity again and there hadn’t been a moment
since that he wasn’t nearly euphoric.

Marcus
had seen serious military talent waste away under the weight of serving in a
safe location stateside, or under the burden of being forced into an
administrative leadership position like supply or logistics. But here he stood.
Hundreds of miles away from any kind of reinforcements. The Mexican Army and
Police had no idea where they were.

The men
of Shield, Safeguard, and Shelter were completely on their own. Just three
eight-man teams, plus eight more counting Nick and Marcus in the Primary Strike
Team. Thirty-two members in S3, plus the CIA contact and Mexican liaison.
Marcus supposed they could handle a weapon if all hell broke loose and the
entire unit was surrounded.