Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter 9

Nick
Woods was sitting off to the side of a conference table crowded with men and
just a few women. He stood, knowing full well that he looked as out of place as
a janitor carrying a dripping mop through the final moments of a wedding
ceremony in a marvelously decorated sanctuary. These folks wore expensive suits
and ties. He wore jeans, work boots, and a Carhartt duck jacket.

He’d been
asked to remove his pistol from under the jacket, but there were some things
Nick didn’t believe in. Going for even one second without a piece of steel on
his side was one of them. Two nervous agents had acceded to his objections, but
only because someone in charge had walked up and cooled down the situation
after they asked him to take his gun (or guns, if they had searched him and
found his back-up pistol on his ankle).

Nick
didn’t know any of the names of the folks around the table, and he didn’t care
about them either. They probably didn’t give two shits about the country
bumpkin standing before them, whom they’d all flown down to hear. He was a tool
for them. A piece of meat that would solve a problem, or not. Probably barely
mattered to any of them, except to keep the heat from on high off their back.

Nick
looked at them and knew he’d never again make the mistake of thinking that
those above him gave two shits about whether he lived or died on some mission.
But the missions still needed to be done, and someone had to do them. Nick knew
where he stood, and he knew their attitudes wouldn’t change the fact that he
wanted to help solve this problem.

Three
days had passed since he’d been approached by the brave federal agent and he’d
fallen for the offer just as these assholes had probably expected.

Duty
truly was a bitch, and if you were born and raised in the South, you ingested
that shit morning, noon, and night. Nick had spent less than thirty minutes
making up his mind after he’d untied that agent.

Nick had
no Anne. He had no life. And he missed command. And truth be known, he knew
deep down that he was one of the best. One of the most battle-hardened veterans
that America had ever produced. If he said “no,” they’d send someone else. And
that someone else wouldn’t be as good, which could lead to more men dying than
necessary in yet another godforsaken land far from American shores.

Nick
Woods was a cinch for the mission, and he’d spent the next three days after the
CIA’s invitation either brainstorming in a hotel room or conducting research at
a library in nearby Columbia, South Carolina. He’d worked nearly around the clock,
limiting himself to three hours sleep per night and surviving on Mountain Dews,
Snickers bars, and pizza.  

Now he
felt weak from the marathon, around-the-clock effort, but he felt as alive and
content as he’d felt in years. Certainly since he’d been back at home with
Anne, working construction during the day and sharing dinner each night with
her. He’d been so into Anne -- despite their arguments over his paranoia --
that he’d literally had no other friends. A few acquaintances, but life for him
back then had been completely about Anne and his guns.

He tried
to clear his head of his last sight of Anne -- her body lying dead in the grass
-- as he realized some analyst had ended a long point and was introducing him.

“This
mission is critical,” the analyst continued, “but we’ve got to keep it off the
books. We think our best option is the plan Nick will present to you today. And
we think he’s the right man to lead this effort. He has shown himself to have
great gut instincts when he operated against the Spetsnaz in Afghanistan. He
nearly single-handedly took down Whitaker and his hunter-killer teams, which
had grown out of control in their off-the-books operation. And he’s a master at
killing those who need to be killed while avoiding the best-laid traps. With
that, let me introduce you to Nick Woods.”

Nick
nodded to the man who had introduced him. He stood, looking around the table at
the CIA bigwigs and analysts who had flown down and rented a conference room to
hear what he had to say. They ranged in age from mid-twenties to high sixties.
All looked soft and only one looked like he’d ever carried a weapon before.

“Let’s
get to it,” Nick said. “Hope you weren’t expecting some kind of PowerPoint
presentation. Didn’t make one of those.”

He
shrugged, then continued, “Now, you all described to me the problem of this man
named Hernan Flores and the Godesto Cartel, and I’ve spent the past few days
figuring on how we’re going to take him down. Out of curiosity, who here knows how
we took down the Colombian drug lord who used to be public enemy number one,
Mr. Pablo Escobar?”

After ten
seconds of silence, one of the men cleared his throat and said, “We used
triangulation of his phone and radio signals, which he didn’t realize we could
track. We used everything from fixed sites to a plane to make it happen, since
the area was mountainous or super urban and packed. Wasn’t easy, but that’s how
we finally got him. Triangulation, sir.”

A few of
the suits at the table smiled and nodded, impressed someone had remembered.

“Partly,
you’re right,” Nick said. “But if you remember correctly, it was hardly needed
after the Colombian people got sick of him. Do you remember the death squads
they created? A vigilante group known as Los Pepes, short for Los Perseguidos
por Pablo Escobar. For you non-Spanish speaking folks -- myself included --
that means,” Nick looked down at his notecards he’d brought with him and
continued, “the people persecuted by Pablo Escobar.”

A few
people laughed and Nick said, “Yeah, pretty simple name. But the point is the
same. This group went after him, his family, his associates, and they went all
out. They used propaganda, threats to his associates, and broke numerous laws.
Hell, they even used car bombs, just like terrorists, which also killed some
civilians. But they basically are the reason why Pablo Escobar had to flee and
go into hiding in shitty shanties and apartments, instead of his well-guarded
compounds. And once he was on the run, it was only a matter of time before he
ended up dead with a bunch of bullet holes in his body.”

Nick
flipped to his next notecard. “And it’s the plan of Los Pepes that I’d like to
see executed in Mexico.”

After
detailing the plan and answering some questions, Nick was given a cell phone
since he didn’t have one and was told they’d be in touch.

Chapter
10

Nick
Woods’s contact called two days later. It was the same poor bastard from the
gas station that Nick had promptly abducted and tied to a chair for some of the
scariest minutes of his life.

The agent
reported the mission as a go after Nick’s plan had been passed up the chain of
command. He also confirmed that Nick would head up the entire op.

“Then,
what’s next?” Nick asked from his hotel room. He wore PT shorts and was covered
in sweat from an intense hour of calisthenics and hand-to-hand -- the thought
of action had rebirthed his obsessive drive and determination.

“You pick
your team,” the agent said. “We assumed you’d never stand for us selecting your
players, so you get to pick your entire team from top to bottom. Someone will
knock on your door in a few minutes and they’ll have three boxes full of
candidates. We assumed you’d prefer paper copies to review in your room rather
than sitting in a cubicle and looking at a computer screen.”

“You know
me well,” Nick said.

“You have
no clue how well we know you,” the agent thought, but he kept it to himself to
avoid setting off the paranoid Marine. Instead, the agent said, “Don’t shoot
our man when he knocks on the door.”

The knock
came just seconds after Nick hung up. Nick grabbed his pistol and walked over to
the door, keeping his .45 down by his leg. A man in a suit, accompanied by two
other men in suits, stood in the hall. Nick could see through the peephole that
all three were carrying concealed weapons under their jackets, and the one in
the middle balanced an overloaded dolly stacked to the top with legal boxes
full of files.

Nick
opened the door and the middle man wheeled the files into the room and then
left with a nod. Nick noticed a look of respect from all three men and wondered
if they had been told of Nick’s new leadership position with the organization,
or if these men only knew of his reputation. Either way, it didn’t matter. He
bolted the door shut behind them and slid the chain in place.

With the
door secure, Nick placed his pistol on the bed and walked to the fridge. He
grabbed a can of Mountain Dew and popped it open. He swallowed some down and
unstacked the boxes off the dolly. He pulled the cover off a random one and
pulled out the first file he came to. He glanced inside it and noticed a photo
and probably twenty pages of information. He grabbed another one, and it was
the same, as were the next couple.

With
that, he grabbed his phone and called the agent back.

“Yes?”
the man said.

“Tell me
about these files,” Nick said.

“What
about them?”

“I need
to know how this will go down. I don’t want to spend hours picking a team and
end up with a dozen men who either aren’t interested or haven’t pulled any real
duty for years.”

“You’ll
be pleased to know,” the agent said, “that every man and woman in those files
has not only indicated a willingness to go on a top secret mission -- the
details of which were never shared with them -- but they also agreed to fly to
a training base and perform an assessment. And in the two days since we talked,
while we waited on folks up in headquarters to sign off on you leading this
mission, every person attached to a file in those boxes conducted a PT test and
re-qualified on the range, with both pistol and rifle. All fitness and weapons
scores listed in those files are from literally yesterday. The folks in those
files folders are the best men and women available.”

Nick
looked at the file boxes and imagined how much it must have cost to contact and
then fly that many people to a location to be tested. He guessed there must be
three hundred files in the boxes.

“That
must have cost a lot,” Nick said.

“The cost
matters little. We’re talking about an entire country in duress, and who knows
what kind of long-term effect it might create on our country if President Rivera
falls. Old fitness or shooting scores would have been worthless, either to you
or some other leader, had headquarters not signed off on you to lead this
mission. Regardless of who was picked to head this up, all active operatives
would have needed to be assembled and tested anyway. It doesn’t matter how good
you were a year ago. It’s all about what you can do now.”

Nick
considered what he’d just heard. It was still a little overwhelming. Being
picked as a mission commander. Seeing the three men at the door, who were
probably at this very moment helping guard him from some vehicle or corner
outside. And now deciding who would be a part of the team. It was a lot to take
in. And certainly too good to be true for an old warhorse who’d been bored out
of his mind a few days ago, just driving the country.

“I’ll
call you the moment I’ve finalized my selections,” Nick said. “Speaking of
which, can you get me some pizza and more Mountain Dew up in here? Looks like
I’m in for a long night.”

Nick
finalized his system for picking his team just minutes after cramming down the majority
of his new pizza, which was once again delivered by pistol-toting guys in
suits. Nick had gone over in his head a dozen times or more how he would want
this to go down if he earned the chance to lead the effort, but now that he had
it, he wanted to make sure.

It was
like running an op. You could never be too sure.

Nick
scrutinized his plan from every angle, looking for a weakness, and still fell
short of seeing any. So, with a full stomach and renewed confidence, along with
some country music playing in the background off a cheap, ten-dollar alarm
clock, Nick got down to work.

He sorted
the files into two different stacks. One stack was made up of possible
leadership material -- men who were older and had served at least ten years.
The other stack, which was a much larger pile and probably three-quarters of
the files, involved younger, less-experienced men.

Nick
ignored the big pile of straight shooters and focused on the leadership stack. He
read and reviewed the files for hours, breaking up the monotony with sets of
push-ups, sit-ups, and shooting drills. He narrowed the stack of sixty-seven
leadership files down to twenty, but no matter how many times he reviewed them,
he could screen them down no lower.

He could
find no weaknesses, no hints of buried problems, nothing wrong with these
individuals. These men appeared solid, but Nick needed to whittle them down to
just four men. He finally gave up. He rubbed his forehead, stacked the files,
and looked at the clock. It was 3:18 a.m., so Nick stood and decided to call it
a night.

He’d call
his contact in the morning and interview the twenty men by phone -- or
preferably in person if he could. He texted his contact asking if it was
possible to do so and was surprised to get an immediate answer. Maybe the guy
didn’t sleep. Or maybe they had a duty officer who monitored the phone. Either
way, Nick was told that he could interview the men, and that he was to be ready
to leave the hotel at seven.

Nick awoke
at six, swallowed down some, cold leftover pizza, and showered. He put on a
tight T-shirt, a clean pair of Wranglers, and his work boots. He followed that
by stuffing his trusty Kimber .45 into a holster, strapping his back-up
revolver on his ankle, and pulling a loose, button-up, long-sleeve shirt on to
cover the pistol tucked in his hip holster. By eight, he was packed up and
carrying his duffel bag out the door.

Two men
in suits were waiting in the hallway.

“We’ll
take that, sir,” one of them said, reaching for the duffel bag.

“The hell
you will,” Nick said, yanking it back.

“Sir?”
the man said.

“Don’t
‘sir’ me either,” Nick said. It was time to stop this “sir” bullshit, as he
should have earlier. “You ‘sir’ me again and I’ll knock your teeth down your
damn throat.”

Nick’s
contact came around the corner, hurrying toward them, suited up, as well. Nick
wondered if any of the men owned anything other than suits.

“Nick,”
his contact said, “please let the men carry your duffel bag. You have an image
to project. You’re a task force commander now, not just some knuckle-dragging
sergeant in the Corps.”

“If you
want a man who’s willing to let someone else carry his gear, you folks done
picked the wrong man. Now, which is it? You need to go back to the drawing
board and find you another man to lead these boys?”

Nick had
a stubborn, unmoving look on his face, and his contact relented and turned to
walk down the hall, motioning for Nick to join him.

Nick did,
easily catching up with his long stride. The two armed men flanked him. Nick
felt uncomfortable, like he was suddenly the President or something, but he
knew he’d adjust to it eventually.

“Where we
going?” Nick asked.

“They’re
going to drive you to the airport. We’re flying you to Camp Lejeune. It’s where
the entire group is assembled.”

“Good,
but no need to drive me. I can drive myself, just like I can carry my own
gear.”

“I’m
afraid it’s not an option,” the contact said. “Besides maintaining your image
as task force commander, you also will be getting a police escort to the
airport. I don’t expect your driver to drop below eighty or ninety on the whole
trip. And the plane is already warmed up and ready to go.”

“What’s
the rush?” Nick asked. “This sounds ominous.”

“It is,”
the contact said. “Your timetable has been moved up. Actually, make that moved
way
up.”

“What
gives?”

“President
Roberto Rivera is begging our Ambassador for support, and our intel says
billionaire and good guy Juan Soto will rest easier when the Americans begin
arriving. Even if it’s only in small numbers, it will help reassure them. Don’t
forget how much unrest continues down there after the attack on the
Presidential Palace. We’ve been dicking around up here for weeks while
promising Rivera all kinds of support. Needless to say, Rivera’s patience is
wearing thin and our words are starting to ring hollow.”

“He needs
to put his big-boy britches on,” Nick said.

“Too late
for that, and respectfully, if you had lost as many men as he had, you’d be shaken,
too. Remember, they went after him and his family while he was in his own
protected compound. Not to mention how many of his forces they killed, plus
wiping out that SEAL Team Platoon.”

“Go ahead
and get to whatever point you’re trying to make,” Nick said.

“The
point is that our government has assured him that our first elements will
arrive in three days. So again, the timetable has been pushed way up.”

Nick
stopped, realization dawning on him.

“Wait.
What the hell did you just say?” he asked.

“Our timetable
has been moved up. We need to get our advance element on the ground in three
days.”

“What
happened to me picking my men? What happened to the whole ‘this mission being a
national priority’ thing? You’re setting us up to fail before we even start.”

“You know
how the government works, Nick. And you’re good enough to make this happen. We
just need a few men to arrive in three days. They can just begin scoping things
out, and in doing so, they’ll get President Rivera and Juan Soto to calm down.”

“Unbelievable,”
Nick said.