Mexican Heat (Nick Woods Book 2)

Mexican Heat

(Nick Woods, No. 2)

By Stan
R. Mitchell

This book
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is
entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Copyright
© 2014

Third
Edition

Edited by
A.S. and Emily Akin

Cover by
Danah Mitchell

All
rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions
thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For
information, see website below.

Learn
more about Stan R. Mitchell and his
other works at
http://stanrmitchell.com.

Foreword

To Danah,
my perfect wife. Thanks for believing in me.

To James
and Sheila Michel. Two wonderful friends who helped me through one of the
darkest periods of my life.

And to
Capt. Eaton, United States Marine Corps, and Sgt. Major Hill, United States
Marine Corps; two men who epitomized leadership and strength, and who made an
unforgettable impression on me.

Prologue

Nick
Woods pulled off the interstate tired, uncomfortable, and hungry.

He stopped
at a large gas station that sat just off the exit. He was making good time,
working his way through the backwoods of South Carolina, but he was due a stop.

Nick
needed gas, he needed to piss, and he needed a Mountain Dew and a Snickers.

He parked
his ’97 Jeep Grand Cherokee by a pump and closed the door gently. The SUV had
nearly 200,000 miles on the odometer, but it still ran well and he treated it
like a queen. Frequent maintenance and plenty of love had kept it in top shape,
just like the old Colt 1911 .45 automatic pistol stashed under his seat.

The Colt
.45 had been hidden in a cave and carried under some tough conditions when a
lot of bad men were hunting him just a few years earlier. It had killed many of
those men (and one woman, though she was armed just like the men). Following
such excellent and trusty service, Nick had decided to keep it for sentimental
value.

But
unlike the old 1911 under the seat, the newer pistol on his hip, a Kimber 1911
.45, carried no sentimental value. It was kept for use. Instant use.

The
Kimber was also customized and upgraded in almost every way: green Tritium
3-dot night sight, adjusted trigger pull, and higher quality springs to reduce
recoil. Of course, like any good gunman, Nick had loaded a round in the chamber
prior to loading the seven-round mag into the pistol, so he toted eight rounds
of .45 caliber ammo instead of seven.

Under his
blue jean jacket, he also had two more magazines of seven rounds for the gun.
Twenty-two rounds total, plus an emergency .38 pistol strapped to the inside of
his left ankle, and a one-hand opening knife clipped to the right pocket of his
jeans.

Nick had
been accused of being paranoid, and he knew it to be true. It was also true
that he had needed every weapon on him -- and more -- several times, so he
didn’t mind being labeled paranoid. He understood that to mean “prepared.”

Nick
stood by the door of his red Grand Cherokee, pausing a moment before walking
away. The vehicle provided cover and held a number of better weapons than what
he could carry with him concealed. Like his M14. And his 12 gauge pump loaded
with double-ought buck. And of course his trusty, scoped M40 bolt gun in
.308/7.62.

Besides
the weapons, the Jeep was his best chance of getting away if things suddenly got
hairy. And Nick never walked away from escape possibilities lightly. He
shuddered at the memory of hundreds of Soviet troops hunting him in the
mountains of Afghanistan a decade earlier.

Nick
shook his head to erase the terrifying thoughts, and, breathing deeply, set to
burying the pains of so many old war wounds. He looked about and refocused on
the present. He scanned the gas pumps nearest him, looking quickly in a 360
around him as unobtrusively as possible. He gave the thick woods opposite the
gas station a once over and finally took a long look at the customers in the
gas station.

Some of
them waited in line. Others picked junk food off the aisles. No one looked
frightened or frozen in fear, as if a hold-up was underway. So far, so good.

Taking
another deep breath, Nick adjusted the Kimber .45 on his hip and walked toward
the door. He dreaded the people he’d have to interact with, having spent the
better part of two years in solitude up in the mountains of Montana.

There, he
had expected the government to double-cross him again. The deal they made was
very similar to one they made many years ago, and that one certainly didn’t end
up sticking. Nick Woods had been sold out -- twice, actually -- and he fully
expected the government to come after him in Montana.

But a
damn strange thing happened: they never came. He’d been prepared, waiting for
them with an almost eager, expectant intensity, but the dawns and dusks passed
with him hidden behind his guns, no one in sight.

He’d
grown tired of waiting and realized he probably needed to be around people
again. He was mentally losing it, becoming crazier and lonelier by the day, and
thus a big reason for this cross-country trip was to tear down his paranoia and
get him comfortable being around people again.

Anne
would be proud, Nick thought, to see him making such progress.

I’m
trying, baby. I’m trying.

He smiled
at her memory and wished she hadn’t been taken so soon. Or, “shot in self-defense”
if you wanted to believe the bullshit police report from the FBI.

He didn’t
believe it, and in the end what the report said didn’t really matter: Nick had
gunned down the pencil pusher who’d killed her that night. 

Nick
pushed this bloodshed -- that brutal, ugly rifle shot against the FBI agent --
from his mind, just as he’d pushed the screams from Afghanistan out of his mind
moments earlier.

As Nick
headed toward the double doors of the gas station, motion brought him fully to
the present. A gray, unmarked police cruiser pulled into the gas station, slow
and unthreatening. But Nick still paused, unsure. And suddenly he was aware
that he had stopped mid-stride and stood transfixed on the cruiser.

The
driver seemed to be watching him from behind the tinted window. Nick stood
frozen, watching the car. Unmoving. He looked guilty as hell, and he knew it.

No
question, he
was
guilty as hell. He had no concealed carry permit and he
had two loaded weapons on him, not to mention the locked and loaded long guns
in the Jeep. And once they found his rucksack with the thousands of rounds, the
grenades, and the Claymore mines -- all stuff he’d bought off a man he strongly
suspected typically armed drug cartels and militias in the Midwest -- he’d be
completely toast.

Not that
they’d ever get him in cuffs. Nope. No siree.

Nick
considered drawing and rushing forward and blowing the man’s head off as he
watched the officer through the tinted driver side window. Nick couldn’t let
him get on his radio, so if the man made one move toward the radio in the
console, Nick would have to act. He was only twelve feet away and Nick couldn’t
let him call in the cavalry.

But then
the man did the damndest thing. He eased the car into a parking space and
motioned Nick over. It was the damndest thing ever, and Nick kept his eye on
the man with his peripheral vision and scanned the woods beyond the cruiser.

He saw
nothing out there, and though the hair on his neck hadn’t stood up, Nick wasn’t
the type to take chances. He yanked the pistol from his hip so fast that it was
a blur. A motion practiced so many thousand times that it would take a
slow-motion video to pinpoint each individual movement.

But now
the man’s head was centered in Nick’s sights and a woman was screaming. Folks
scurried and hid and frantically dialed cell phones. Nick saw this movement
around him, but kept his focus on the man in the cruiser. He could feel all the
eyes on him and his mind raced, wondering how fast the 911 calls happening all
around him would get the local boys on the scene.

He’d want
his M14 and pack before they arrived, and he’d take his chances in the woods. Otherwise,
they’d just pit-maneuver him on the interstate with their powerful pursuit
cars.

As Nick
considered his moves, he noticed the man was saying something behind the tinted
window. He strained to hear and picked up the man saying his name.

“Nick
Woods, it’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

Nick
leaned forward a bit and saw fear and pleading in the guy’s face, and he heard
the words again, clearer this time, “Nick Woods, it’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t
shoot. Please don’t shoot.”

Nick
advanced toward the car -- fast and agile for a man who looked too country to
be a runner. But a runner Nick was. And he was damn near a ninja, as well. A
martial arts addict, he could jump and roll and strike and kick with the best
of them.

And now
he stood at the window, his pistol six inches from the glass and the man’s
head. The man looked beyond frantic now.

“Don’t
shoot,” he screamed. “Don’t shoot. I need to talk to you. Just talk.”

Nick
grabbed the door handle with his left hand while keeping the pistol in the
man’s face. He ripped the door open, moving his pistol out of its arc, before
stepping in closer and placing the pistol against the man’s forehead hard
enough to drive him on his back. Nick was now leaning in the car, the pistol
pressed with all his might against the man’s cranium.

“Motherfucker,
you squirm one inch and I’ll blow a hole out the back of your head. Now, you
have ten seconds before I drag you from this car and throw your ass in my Jeep.
What do you want? Why were you looking at me? How did you know my name?”

“Nick,”
the man said, struggling against the console in his back and the pistol being
pressed hard into bone. “I’ve just come to talk with you.”

“Talk,”
Nick said, not letting up.

“My name
doesn’t matter, but I volunteered to make contact with you. Nick, we need your
help.”

“Last
time you all needed my help, you sold me and my partner out five hundred miles
inside Afghanistan. Forgive me if I’m a little hesitant to sign up again.”

“That was
a rogue operation run by a dishonorable man. You have to trust us on that.”

“I’ll
decide who I trust,” Nick said, remembering the shredded body of his spotter.
And then flashing to the sight of his wife lying dead in the grass, her white gown
ruined by blood and mud.

“Nick,
let me up and I’ll call the police off before they get here. Whether you accept
our offer or not, you don’t need to be on the run again. You don’t need any
more dead cops to your name.”

Nick
considered the idea, and realized he either needed to blow the man’s brains out
or take him hostage. Either way, the clock was ticking, and the cops were
certainly racing on their way to the gas station.

“Get up
and don’t try anything stupid,” Nick said, grabbing the man by his throat and
jerking him up. They exited the police cruiser awkwardly, both men aware of the
loaded gun and the danger each posed to the other.

They
stood now -- the man with his hands up; Nick with his pistol covering him.

“Everyone,
calm down,” the man said, looking toward those around him. “This is simply a
training exercise. An anti-terrorism drill. There is no need to panic. My
friend here is playing the part of a quote terrorist.”

He looked
back at Nick and said, “Let me get my phone out of my jacket pocket and I’ll
get the cops called off.”

“Do it
slowly,” Nick growled.

The man,
who wore a black suit and looked about thirty, reached inside the jacket and
slowly pulled out a cell phone. He dialed three numbers, which Nick assumed was
911.

“Yes,
ma’am. I am a member of Federal Task Force Apache. Code Number 894673-736492.”

He
paused, then said, “Yes, ma’am. Please call Gen. Compton to confirm, and then
please call off the responding units before we have any blue-on-blue
accidents.”

The
suited man closed his phone, pointed to his inside coat pocket, and said, “May
I?”

Nick, .45
pointed at his center mass, said, “Slowly. Damn slowly.”

The man
replaced the phone and said, “If you’ll let me lock the car, we’ll take a ride
in your Jeep and talk.”

“Car
doesn’t need to be locked. It’s a police cruiser. Nobody’s going to touch it.”

Nick
waved the pistol toward his Jeep.

“Let’s
go, hoss. And you better pray I don’t decide to shoot you between here and
there.”

They
walked to Nick’s Jeep Grand Cherokee and the man opened the passenger door,
slowly climbing in and sitting down. Nick followed and stayed behind him, about
four feet away. Just enough distance to make sure the man didn’t get cute and
try something stupid.

“You got
any weapons on you?” Nick asked.

“Hell, no,”
the guy said. “We were afraid that would set you off.”

Nick
could tell he was telling the truth.

“Any
cuffs?” Nick asked once he was seated and buckled in.

“I’m not
a cop. I work for the government.”

Nick
never hesitated, expecting that very answer. With no
give away
, Nick swung the pistol and cracked the man in the head
with its barrel. The strike knocked him out, his head falling forward and body
slumping. The seat belt kept him in place, mostly, and Nick pushed his right
arm in and closed the door.

Nick
holstered his pistol and smiled to those watching, none of whom were sure
whether this was a prank, the real thing, or just a realistic training
exercise.

Nick
smiled. “Nothing to see folks. He’s just a good actor and playing along. I love
these rubber guns, they look so real. Y’all have a good day.”

By the
time the agent woke up, Nick had driven a short distance to the next
decent-sized town, rented a room at a rundown hotel, and carried the agent
inside, binding his arms and legs to a chair.