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

“About
time,” Nick said when the agent came to.

While the
man had been knocked out, Nick had made preparations for an assault, though he
didn’t anticipate one. No police or government personnel had followed him or
tried to stop him once he hurried out of the gas station, so it looked like the
agent was telling the truth.

Nick had
already learned the hard way a couple years ago that when the government really
wants you, there’s not a hell of a lot you can do. In that instance, they had
brought out the drones, teams of special operators in Blackhawks, and who knew
what else.

Still,
serious preparation had saved Nick’s neck on more than one occasion, so he had
placed a C-shaped Claymore mine four feet from the door, dragging a dresser
behind it to help protect him from the backblast in such an enclosed space. The
wire from the Claymore ran back to a bedpost, which he’d knotted it around so
no one would trip on it and knock the Claymore down. Or worse, twist it around
so that it aimed away from the door and toward Nick and the agent.

The
clacker for the Claymore lay on the bed, along with Nick’s M14, shotgun, and
pack. The pack itself was crammed with magazines, shotgun shells, and other
necessary gear.

Nick sat
on the bed next to the gear, sipping on a Mountain Dew he’d bought at a vending
machine from the hotel, near where they kept the ice. Besides getting the Dew,
he’d also taken his much-needed piss that he’d missed out on at the gas
station, which was the number one reason he’d stopped there in the first place.
He still didn’t have his Snickers bar yet, but he always kept stowed away in
his pack a good dozen or so packs of peanut-butter-and-cheese crackers. He was
nearly finished scarfing down a pack of them when the agent awoke.

The man
had a hell of a wound on his head, and blood had coagulated in his hair and run
down and ruined his suit. But that was the least of the agent’s problems, Nick
hoped the man knew.

“You
wanted to talk, let’s talk,” Nick said. He downed the final cracker and then
hoisted the M14 and aimed it toward the agent.

The man
shook his head in a feeble attempt to fully wake up, and he pulled his arms
against the ropes with a strain. Nick knew his arms had to hurt like hell. Nick
had tied them behind the agent so tight that he’d need to loosen them in ten
minutes or so to get the circulation flowing.

Right
now, the ropes were almost as tight as a tourniquet.

The man
swallowed hard and gave up on straining against the ropes. He seemed too
shocked to say anything and Nick wondered if he honestly thought this meeting
was supposed to have gone down across a table at a Waffle House. Maybe share
some coffee and buttered toast and just be the best of friends.

Fat
chance.

Nick rose
from the bed, spun the weapon, and butt-stroked the man in the head. About
half-power. He wanted to get his attention, not fracture any facial bones.

“Listen
up, hoss. This isn’t a fucking game. I’m going to ask you some questions and
you’re going to answer them. If you delay answering them, or if I sense you’re
lying, you’re not going to like it. How’d you know my name?”

The man,
a baby-faced guy who looked fit and squared away in his suit, said, “I’ve read
and memorized your file. I was the only one who would volunteer to approach
you.”

“Why were
the others afraid?”

The man
looked incredulous. He looked as if he was trying to find a way to soften his
answer. Nick didn’t want softened answers.

“Just say
it,” Nick said.

“Everyone
thinks you’re crazy.”

“And you
don’t?”

“No. I
think you’ve reacted exactly as I would have, given everything you’ve been
through.”

“And you
still believe that?”

The man
-- two nasty wounds to his head, an M14 aimed at him, and his arms probably
numb and tingling -- clearly had some doubts now. He looked off and swallowed.

“I may
have been wrong,” he gulped. He looked and sounded scared shitless.

Nick knew
the feeling. He’d felt it the first time he and his spotter had crossed over
into Afghanistan from Pakistan. The Soviets had thousands of troops there and
neither Nick nor his spotter could speak the language. They only marginally
trusted the mujahideen they were to link up with.

Nick
stood and walked to the windows. He pulled a curtain back and scanned the
parking lot. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. He slid it closed and sighed.
Wow. What a mess he had on his hands. The loneliness of Montana didn’t seem so
bad now compared to this.

Nick
returned to the bed and sat back down.

“Earlier,
you said ‘approach’ me,” Nick continued. “Let’s get to the bottom line so I can
decide what to do with you. Why were you to approach me?”

“We need
your help.”

“Who’s
we?”

“The CIA,
of course.”

“Spit it
out. I’m tired of asking questions,” Nick said angrily. “Why do you need my
help? Want to send me overseas? Get me to do some dirty work? Then sell my ass
out again?”

“No, sir.
We need your skill set in Mexico.”

Chapter 1

Present
Day Mexico

A two-ton
iron gate swung open from the presidential compound and an armada of vehicles
roared out into the early morning dawn. Six armored Humvees -- the first three
bearing 7.62 mm machine guns followed by three more hauling massive .50 caliber
heavy machine guns -- led a convoy that included an additional twelve more SUVs
crammed with Mexican troops in full battle gear. Behind all this firepower came
the Mexican President’s armored limo, and then an additional twelve more SUVs
packed full of troops.

At the
rear of the convoy, a tail element of six additional Humvees -- again three
with medium machine guns and three with heavy machine guns -- protected the
line of vehicles. Besides the twelve armored Humvees, twenty-four SUVs, and a
hundred-plus hand-picked soldiers, six helicopters bearing snipers zoomed
around the convoy, buzzing in toward threats and flying forward to confirm the
route lay clear.

In
addition to these precautions, more than two hundred police officers were
blocking off roads and screeching around Mexico City in front of the convoy
with sirens ablaze, looking for the smallest hint of trouble.

This was
the state of affairs in Mexico these days. A country and government so
threatened by a single drug cartel that moving the President around looked more
like an act of war than a simple escort.

But while
the convoy may have looked the same today as it did any other day, this was no
normal day in Mexico.

President
Roberto Rivera rode in the single limo, heading to a meeting that towered above
being the most important event of his political career. After consulting with
his advisers and several economists this morning, he knew the meeting could be
the most important of Mexico’s history.

President
Rivera had unfortunately confirmed through several sources that his friend and
strongest supporter had finally had enough. Juan Soto, despite being Mexico’s
richest businessman, had decided that he could no longer live or operate his
businesses within the confines of the war-ravaged country.

Though
Juan Soto loved his battered and wrecked homeland of Mexico, he apparently felt
he could no longer risk everything by staying. That the country was lost and on
the verge of complete anarchy.

President
Rivera rubbed his temples and shuddered at the thought that the billionaire
might leave the country. Soto’s exit would mean he would sell off his numerous
companies, and Rivera knew who the buyer would be. Hernan Flores, a fellow
billionaire. But Flores and Soto were two completely different people.

Juan Soto
was a businessman: honest, ethical, and legit.

Hernan
Flores was a cartel leader: dishonest, evil, and dirty.

Yet,
President Roberto Rivera, even though he knew these things about Hernan Flores,
could not say them. People who spoke the truth about Flores always ended up
dead. And, there just wasn’t enough evidence to support the whispers amongst
the people -- that Flores was dirty and working to topple the government and
Rivera along with it.

Not that
Flores would want to be President. No, he would most likely install one of his
cronies. Someone to overlook all the activities and allow Flores to sleep
easier at night.

Rivera’s
resolve still reeled from the news. He couldn’t shake the growing anxiety that
if Soto left the country, both he and his already shaking administration would
be left standing completely alone. And would soon either topple or be pushed
from power by the rampant intimidation and relentless pressure from Hernan
Flores’s drug ring, the Godesto Cartel.

Thirty
minutes after departing the Presidential Palace, President Roberto Rivera’s
convoy arrived at the headquarters of Juan Soto, an eight-story building in the
heart of the city. The presidential convoy stopped at the front of the building
and dozens of armed men leapt from the numerous vehicles and secured the area.
A phalanx of hyper-alert men circled around the limo and when one finally
opened the limo door, Rivera exited and moved quickly toward the front doors,
thankful for the ring of submachine gun-toting men clustered tightly around him.
Rumors of another serious assassination attempt had been growing, and Rivera
didn’t want to relive another near miss.

Juan Soto
met President Rivera at the front doors, and the two said little as they walked
to the elevators and ascended to the top floor. Rivera shook some hands and
nodded to some employees and senior executives as they worked their way to
Soto’s inner sanctum. Once there, Rivera excused his closest security personnel
and finally entered a conference room. It was just him and Soto now.

With the
door closed, blinds shut, and total privacy finally ensured, the two men smiled
-- this time deeply -- and hugged. Rivera thought that Juan Soto looked as thin
and sharp as ever. The man took discipline and ambition to levels that even
Rivera could not reach.

“My good
friend,” Juan said. “Why did you not call? I would have gladly come to you to
prevent you having to be out in the city any more than necessary.”

“I wanted
to honor and respect you by coming to your office,” President Rivera said
sincerely.

“We only
received word ten minutes ago. Otherwise, we would have prepared a better
welcome.”

“We’ve
increased my security measures with the latest threats of assassination,”
Rivera said. “Even our top police did not know my destination.”

“But how
did you know I’d be here?”

Rivera
smiled. “I believe you had a hastily scheduled meeting with our finance
minister in twenty minutes?”

Juan Soto
grinned as he realized his old friend had shown his sense of cunning once again
-- something Juan had been following since the man began his political career.

“Your
conference room has been updated,” Rivera said, looking around at the modern
interior.

“Twice,
maybe three times since you were here.”

Rivera
looked down. He
had
been too busy and away too long.

“I
haven’t been here since I was governor,” he said, with real regret in his
voice. “But, we must skip the small talk, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, of
course. And I think I know why you’re here.”

“Then, is
it true? You’re leaving?”

Juan Soto
looked away. He could not stand to disappoint his friend.

“It is,
isn’t it?” Rivera asked.

“Yes, my
friend. I’m very sorry, but I decided yesterday and my staff and I are planning
the steps involved.”

Rivera
grabbed Juan’s forearm.

“You
can’t, Juan. I need you! Your country needs you.”

Juan
yanked his arm away. “My country has failed me,” he said, angrier than he
meant.

Rivera
looked away. Said nothing. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a glass
of brandy. He savored the taste, felt the warmth, and, taking a deep breath,
turned back to Juan.

“Juan, I
am so sorry about what happened to Gabriella,” Rivera said, referring to a
recent kidnapping attempt of Juan’s daughter that killed three of her
bodyguards.

“It’s not
just about Gabby,” Soto said. “Did you hear about my shift supervisor
yesterday? Or my chief financial officer a month ago? Or any of the other
twenty-plus employees who have been killed in the past two months?”

Rivera
looked down at his brandy. “I did not, my friend. I am truly sorry.”

Juan
walked to a seat at the head of the conference table and sat. Heavily. He no
longer looked angry, but Rivera saw that the normally energetic and unstoppable
entrepreneur now looked tired. And defeated.

Rivera
walked toward him and sat in a chair next to him. He swiveled his drink in his
hand as he thought of honest friends he knew who had gambled their lives by
joining his government and trying to take back their country from the cartels.
And now with the looming threat of the ruthless Godesto Cartel, Rivera thought
of all the newly appointed police captains across cities and towns far and wide
who would certainly be hunted down or executed if he failed.

He looked
up at Juan, who sat looking at him.

“Juan,
could you give me six months? Just six months to fix it?”

“I’m
sorry, Roberto, but not even you, with all your energy and intellect could fix
the country in six months. You haven’t been able to in
five
years. What makes you think you can in six months?”

“We’ve
done much in those five years,” Rivera said. “Made important police
appointments and purged many dirty officials. And.” Rivera paused, and
swallowed. “I’ll finally get help from the Americans. I’ll tell them we’re in
desperate need.” Rivera was talking fast now. “We’ll get special troops down
here and we’ll go after that bastard Hernan Flores. I know he’s behind it all.”

Juan Soto
smiled.

“Now,
Roberto,” he said, “are you forgetting that even your appointed Attorney
General admitted in a news conference that there is no real evidence against
Flores?”

“Then
we’ll make some!” Rivera blurted out. “That bastard keeps killing and silencing
people, so to hell with the law. If you’re on the verge of leaving, then we’ll
have to fight fire with fire. This is for Mexico’s own sake.”

Juan reached
across the table and laid his hand on the top of Rivera’s forearm. “My friend.
Do not soil your soul. It is your integrity that sets you apart. It is your
integrity and faith that inspires millions of Mexicans. Do not become like
Flores.”

Rivera
realized the horror of what he’d considered and sat there ashamed at what he
had spoken.

“You are
right, Juan. Forget I said that,” Rivera said, now looking him in the eyes.

“We all
have our moments of weakness, my friend, but you have your strength and you
still believe. I, however, no longer do.”

Rivera
grabbed Juan’s hand and enclosed it in both of his. “Please don’t say that,
Juan. Please, give me just six months. I beg of you. If not for your country,
for me. And for my family. You know we will not survive without your support.”

Juan
looked at Rivera and felt the man’s desperate grip. He knew he could say “no”
to him in the darkness of night and with a greater distance between them, but
he simply could not abandon the man when he had to look him in the eyes. Not
without giving him one more chance. He stood and pulled Rivera to him.

“I’ll
give you six months, my friend, though I must tell you that I doubt you will be
successful. Privately, I will continue planning my departure and liquidation of
my assets. However, I will appear optimistic in all public appearances to my
employees and friends, and I say in all honesty that
if
it can be done,
it is you who will achieve it.”

Rivera
let go of Juan’s hand and grabbed him in a hard hug.

“Thank
you, my dear friend. Thank you. I will not let you down.”

Juan held
Rivera a moment and then stepped back. He straightened Rivera’s jacket and
said, “Now compose yourself, my friend. Our country is depending on your
strength and nerve.”

Rivera
stood straighter and pulled his jacket down.

“Don’t go
looking at properties elsewhere,” Rivera said. “It will be a waste of time and
energy.”

“Now
that’s the President I’m used to seeing,” Juan Soto said. “Call me if I can be
of assistance.”