Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (28 page)

Men bled
from cuts and wounds caused by the impact from weapons and helmets colliding
into exposed faces and hands. The vehicle had fully stopped, bouncing up and
down from the severity of the brake pressure applied. The men had just begun to
untangle themselves, when the unthinkable happened.

An
open-bed Toyota truck tore out of an alley two blocks back. The truck had lain
hidden, waiting for the explosion.

And as
the SWAT members tried to regain their feet and deploy on the street, the truck
sprinted forward the two blocks, hitting fifty mph before slamming its brakes
and stopping thirty yards behind the armored vehicle.

Three men
popped up from the back of the truck and hoisted RPG’s on their shoulders. They
had a non-moving, defenseless target sitting in front of them and the SWAT
members hadn’t even opened their armored doors yet.

The first
RPG ripped through the back of the SWAT truck, hitting right in the seam
created by the two heavy doors. Two more RPG warheads followed, exploding among
the mass of men.

After the
blasts and explosions from the first three rounds, the three men in the pickup
reloaded for a second volley. They fired again into the smoking, ripped-apart
piece of metal that had moments before been a fully-functioning, armored SWAT
truck. The screaming tangle of men, who were lucky enough to survive the first
strikes, had begged for their lives through the smoke and fire. But they were
all silenced by the second volley of three RPGs.

Back in
Juan Soto’s building, the Butcher snapped his web gear on and adjusted the
straps so that they fit snugly. He had thrown off the SWAT gear, tossing the
helmet and assault vest against the wall. Now, he wore his familiar web
harness, his Uzi cross-slung across his chest, where it fell as always to the
outside of his right leg. His Japanese katana was sheathed on his left side,
handle facing forward, comforting with its weight.

The
Butcher gripped its handle and slid it out a few inches, making sure it wasn’t
hung up or stuck. He really hoped he’d get to use it. Against Soto himself.

The
Butcher picked up his duffel bag, which was full of more goodies, with his left
hand and grabbed the pistol grip of his Uzi with his right.

“Let’s do
this,” he said to his men.

The men
moved to the stairwell at the far end of the building and entered it
cautiously. They didn’t expect anyone to be waiting for them, but better safe
than sorry. Seeing no one, they covered the open space above with their weapons
and began their climb up the eight flights of stairs.

The men
carried AKs, shotguns, and submachine guns; an assortment that varied based on
each man’s preference. The Butcher didn’t care what they opted for. They had
all killed and each of the weapons had advantages and disadvantages. The
variety would probably prove an asset in the close-in fighting to come,
depending on what they faced up top.

None of
Juan Soto’s men waited for them at the top of the stairwell, and they reached
the target floor without any problems. They paused to catch their breath and
prepared themselves for the action that was about to commence.

They
believed the top door would be locked. It was, after all, purely a fire escape
for exit during emergencies from above. But they had brought explosives to deal
with it, so the Butcher had no concern when he tested the door by slighting
pushing on it. He was surprised to see it wasn’t locked. That struck him as
odd.

“Careful,”
he whispered, and then started pushing the door open.

He
figured going first was a good way to take a bunch of bullets in the chest, but
he didn’t have a lot to live for, and he cared more about his reputation than
his life on most days. Besides, his desire to kill these guards so that he
could get to Juan Soto burned hotter than his sense of survival. If it
happened, then so be it.

He placed
his duffel bag by the wall and took a two-hand hold on the Uzi, leaning low
over it. With that, he nudged the door open and edged around it, leading with
his short weapon, which had been mostly designed for close-in work like this.

An empty
hallway was all that awaited him.

He could
see a couple of waist-high plants and a lush carpet that probably cost twenty
thousand dollars, but no bodyguards. His men rushed into the hallway behind
him, weapons rattling as slings jingled and gear clinked.

Two
elevators and at least one other fire exit could be seen, but otherwise the
hallway was empty. The Butcher reached behind him and picked up his duffel bag.

The
Godesto assault group pushed down the hall cautiously, taking stock of their
final obstacle. It was two doors, but to call them doors was almost a misnomer.
They were massive, twelve-foot tall slabs that looked about six inches thick.
Heavy, ornate wood, meant to be both spectacular and secure.

The
Butcher noticed two small, black domes on both sides of the door. Cameras.
Probably high definition and maneuverable, given that a billionaire had
installed them. He cursed, stepped back, and blasted both of them. So much for
surprising the five guards inside.

The men
covered the doors with their weapons and the Butcher yanked his long Uzi mag
out, threw it into his bag, and pulled out another. He replaced it and looked
back at the man in the rear of their group. He was a fat man carrying a huge
pack and a shotgun. He was also the only man wearing a mask to conceal his
face.

And for
good reason. He was an active-duty army demolition specialist, a sergeant with
more than twelve years of service. It wouldn’t do for him to lose the lifetime
pension he had nearly earned.

Though
considering what he was earning today, the pension wouldn’t be necessary if he
got many more assignments from the Butcher and the Godesto Cartel. But the
Butcher wanted the man’s identity protected as badly as the sergeant did. If
the man was recognized and arrested, it wasn’t the imprisonment of the NCO that
would bother the Butcher. It would be the loss of access to unlimited amounts
of explosives.

This man
had the rank to fudge paperwork and exaggerate the volume used in training
exercises. The sergeant squeezed through the group of men and went to work. He
pulled out a prepared explosive charge that was about twenty feet long and
about two inches wide. The man had prepared the charge prior to their arrival
at Juan Soto’s building, and as he attached it around the doorframe, the
Butcher suddenly remembered that the sergeant had literally been trained by
American Special Forces.

Oh, if
only Congress and the American people knew about this, the Butcher thought. He
laughed at the idea. Well, their dollars
were
still going toward the war
on drugs. Just being used by both sides. And with that he actually laughed
loudly. A couple of his men looked warily at him, but feeling he was half-mad
already, they quickly looked away without a word.

The
sergeant positioned the explosives in about ten seconds -- slow by Navy SEAL
standards, and they had been the unit that trained him -- but he wasn’t a Navy
SEAL. Just an overweight Mexican sergeant who had the kind of motivation you
might find in a regular infantry unit in the U.S. Army.

“We need
to move back,” the sergeant said.

No one
needed any additional encouragement. They all moved down the hall and back into
the far stairwell, as the sergeant unreeled a length of det cord behind him. He
fed the line under the fire escape door, and they closed it.

“Hold
your ears,” the fat man said to the group hunkered down in the stairwell.

He
squeezed the clacker four times and a blast rocked the hallway, along with a
heavy thud. The cartel members rushed the hallway, running through a cloud of
dust and smoke.

One door
had fallen and the other hung twisted and leaning, only one top hinge holding
it up. The doorframe had been nearly ripped from the wall, just as the
demolition specialist had hoped.

Juan Soto’s
guards inside the room hadn’t known to expect the blast since their cameras had
been shot out, and a couple of them crawled away from the doors, their heads
rattled and their ears bleeding. The Butcher’s men, who had raced in front of
their leader, tore the two shook-up men apart in a deluge of barely accurate
automatic fire. Flesh blasted apart. Blood painted furniture. Hardwood floors
disintegrated.

There was
a momentary feeling of victory among the cartel members, and then a snap
sounded and a Godesto man’s heads exploded. Another man crumpled and then a
third screamed and jumped.

“Get
back, you idiots,” the Butcher said. “They’ve got silenced weapons.”

They
scrambled back, but another man screamed in pain and fell before they could
retreat behind the cover of the wall.

At least
one of Soto’s guards had smoked them in a calm and efficient manner with his
silenced weapon. Now, four of their brethren lay in front of the missing door.
Two were motionless, already dead. One lay on the ground whimpering and
clutching his wounds. And one held his neck, bleeding profusely.

Apparently
whoever was left alive inside was fully coherent, despite the blast. They
clearly had complete control of their senses, including their hearing. The
Butcher knew Soto’s men would be some of the best that money could buy, and
they might even have submachine guns or assault rifles. Not just pistols. But,
he had planned for this.

His men,
bloodthirsty by nature and angry at the loss of their friends, didn’t need to
be told what to do. They were already reaching into pouches and pockets and
pulling pins.

Grenade
after grenade was thrown, rolled, and bounced into the room. Explosion after
explosion roared and new screams joined the sounds of the Godesto wounded. None
of the Butcher’s men wanted to take any chances, so more grenades were tossed
and hurled deep into the room.

After
those explosions ceased, they rushed the room like a bunch of wild animals.
They assaulted the room in typical cartel style. No fire control. No clearing of
corners. No communicating.

In fact,
it was the precise opposite of the organized, synchronized movement of elite
forces that resulted from hundreds of hours of practice and rehearsal. Instead,
the Godesto charged in and shot up couches, counters, and furniture sets --
anywhere anyone could be hiding. Their rounds tore through shaken and wounded
men. Survivors were gleefully executed. The Butcher stood among his men, the
smell of cordite, C4 explosive, and blood filling the air.

“How many
are there?” he asked, too loud. “We need a body count.”

He shook
his head to clear all the cobwebs in it -- damn, he hated how explosions shook
you up, even when you were prepared for them -- and he hoped his ears would
stop ringing soon.

“We count
five, sir,” one of his senior men said.

“Good,”
the Butcher said. They wouldn’t need to go searching through the building
looking for any more of Juan Soto’s men. And if his ambush team had
successfully dealt with the responding SWAT team, then they should be in good
shape, timewise.

“Get the
demo man up,” the Butcher said, nodding toward the final, imposing obstacle.
“We need to finish this.”

Again the
fat sergeant pushed forward from behind the men, though in this case, he hadn’t
even entered the room yet. Well, the Butcher thought with a smirk, if all army
soldiers were brave, then the cartels would probably be out of business.

He let
his Uzi hang and yanked his katana out, slapping the man on the ass with it as
he waddled by.

“Hurry
up, butterball,” he said.

Several
of the man laughed and cursed the masked man. Sweat poured down the back of his
thick neck, and the underarms of his shirt were dark with perspiration.

With the
way his men stood, their weapons sitting on their hips and cockiness
practically oozing from them, the Butcher figured the man worried he would be
killed once he finished. But that wasn’t the case. The Butcher needed him too
badly, but he didn’t mind the intimidation. It helped keep men like the
sergeant compliant, an important requirement given that the man already had a
problem with loyalty. Better to be feared than liked. 

The man
dug in his pack and removed several shaped charges. He stacked them on the
floor and then began studying the vault-like door, estimating its weight and
strength from up close. The man squinted and seemed to grow worried.

Before he
could say anything, one of the most menacing, muscle-bound cartel members
walked up, groped his ass, and said, “Don’t mess this up, amigo. You mess this
up and the Butcher said I can take you home with me. Do you have any idea how
much I love a fat man?”

The
cartel member reached around, grabbed the man, and kissed him on his sweaty
neck. Even the Butcher grimaced.

“That’s
enough, Rocko,” the Butcher said.

The
tank-top wearing beast stepped away from the man and winked at a friend, who
snickered.

The
demolitions man fumbled with the roll of electrical tape and dropped it. The
cartel members laughed, and the man wiped his forehead, trying to concentrate
again. He got back to studying the door and began affixing charges all along
the edges, as well as the hinges and the locking mechanisms. It looked to the
Butcher like the man was using an excessive amount, probably hoping to
overwhelm it with haphazardly placed charges.