Escape From Mexico: Jim Scott Books, #27

By Mike Jackson

Three characters introduced in Monster's Palace—Clyde Feegle, Josephine (Jo) Kelly, and Mitch Melosi—return in this book, Escape From Mexico, Jim Scot Books #27.  Clyde becomes a partner in Bob Becker and Bill Hedden's detective/protection agency.  He and Jo move into a new home, constructed for them on Bob's estate. 

The three partners get into a shootout with members of a drug cartel, intent on killing a St. Charles, Missouri judge.  The cartel then adds the three men to their hit list.  This—and the arrest of Mitch Melosi's sister, after she tries to enter Nogales, Mexico with a load of weapons in the trunk of her rental car—soon see Jim and Holly Scott lending a hand.  Some of Hector Garcia's men also enter the fray.

Also in this book we deal with the growing concern in law enforcement circles of the illegal use of drones that will only get worse in the years ahead…in this case involving Air Force One.

Mexico seems intent on arresting U.S. citizens who obviously are not actually trying to import weapons into their country, and running them through their laughable justice system.  This story touches on that situation, and also on Mexico's inability to stem the flow of drugs into the U.S., by taking down the large drug cartels in their midst.  Let us hope our next President has the backbone to deal with this situation. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Jackson
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215807835

Mike Jackson

After serving in the Navy, Mike Jackson went into construction for a couple of years, then into banking for a few more. His next endeavor was in sales, where he spent most of the remainder of his life…until he started writing. On finding out that the most enjoyable thing of his life was writing, he's kept at it for several years and is still plodding along. Mike is married with two adult children and two grandkids. Mike and his wife have one dog at the present time, but he is a pip…and runs the house.

Book preview

Escape From Mexico

A Novel By

Mike Jackson

1.

As Clyde Feegle tamped down the fill-dirt in the trench he had been working on, a black car pulled onto the long drive to the front of the home on the property.  The car was expected, so Clyde relaxed, exhaled, and wiped sweat from his brow.  But as the car neared the end of the drive, Clyde saw a motorcycle whip onto the drive and head down it.  Clyde instantly saw the weapon in the right hand of the man on the motorcycle.  He quickly drew the gun from the shoulder holster he was wearing on his naked upper torso.  When the car stopped, and the occupants started to get out, Clyde yelled, Get the judge inside, even as the man on the motorcycle raised his weapon to fire at Clyde.

Having seen Clyde draw his gun, the motorcyclist first fired at him—even though his target was St. Charles, Missouri County Judge Wendell Suermann.  He knew he had to take out the immediate threat to himself, before going after the judge.

As he drew his gun, Clyde took two steps toward a large tree a few feet away from him.  The first two shots fired by the biker hit the tree, but the third clipped Clyde’s side.  The gunman never got to fire a fourth shot.  Clyde fired once, hitting him in the side of his head. 

He died almost instantly and slumped to one side, causing the motorcycle’s front wheel to twist.  The dead man flew through the air, while the motorcycle slid to a stop, only feet from Clyde’s location.

One of Clyde’s partners, Bill Hedden, had also been filling in a trench.  So, he too had nothing on above the waist...including his shoulder holster and the gun, which he had placed on his shirt, several feet away from where the two men had been working.  On Clyde’s alert, he lunged over to retrieve his own weapon.

By the time Bill had his gun in hand, the motorcyclist was dead, but another problem was headed down the drive, in the form of a car with four more would-be assassins.  The man sitting behind the driver, had his window down, and a gun pointed in the general direction of Clyde.  He never got off a shot, because Clyde sent him on the way to hell, as he had the motorcyclist.  Clyde’s next shot went through the still-closed window next to the driver.  That shot was also true and deadly.

The driver slumped in the front seat, and his foot eased off the accelerator.  His slumping to one side did much the same as the motorcyclist’s similar slump had done.  It caused the steering wheel to jerk to one side, but even before the car could turn, it ran over the motorcycle.  With the front wheels in skewed alignment, the car flipped up and over, to land on its top.

It skidded forward, to clip the nearest end of the rock-fronted home.  There it came to a rest, with wheels still spinning.

With blood dripping from his wound, Clyde raced to the car.  The other man in the rear of the car had not been wearing a seatbelt, so had been flung around.  However, he was still able to point his gun out the opening...where the shattered window had been.  As he tried to line up a shot, Clyde killed him.

The man in the front, next to the driver, had been wearing his seatbelt, but was suspended upside down.  His door had sprung partially open, and his gun had fallen from his hand.  He looked at it, then at Clyde, and pleaded, I surrender.  Get me down.

Clyde jerked the door all the way open with a mighty tug, and growled, Right after you tell me who is behind this.

I can’t do that—he’ll kill me.

"What in the hell do you think I’m about to do, if you don’t talk, idiot?"

The man, quite uncomfortable, decided a later death beat an immediate one—especially since the man responsible, had told the judge in court he would get him if it was the last thing he ever did.  He answered Clyde, Francisco Huerta.  But, you’ll never get him—he’s on his way to Mexico.  Now, please get me down.

Clyde glanced at Bill, standing nearby, and shrugged.  Before helping the man get down, he thought of their other partner, Bob Becker.  So using the communication set all three men were wearing, he urged, Hey, Bob—in case you aren’t aware—we just had an attempt on the judge out here.  It might just be a diversion, so be on the lookout for anyone trying to come in the back way.

I’m aware.  The judge’s security detail told me, and I’ve been listening to you.  I also heard the gunshots on the comm set.  You’re probably right, because we have three dirt bikes coming across the rear of the property as we speak.

You want help?

No, thank you, Clyde.  If I do need any, I’ve got the two County Mounties here to lend a hand.

The two County Sheriff’s Department Detectives looked at each other.  One shrugged, the other rolled his eyes.

The rear of the home, of estate quality, had a rather expansive rock rear patio.  Bob walked out onto it, and waited for the three headed his way. 

Meanwhile, Clyde looked at Bill.  How about checking to make sure all these guys are dead, partner?

Bill grunted, but started checking pulses. 

While Bill did that, Clyde took out his very sharp pocket knife, opened it, and cut through the strap crossing the chest of the upside-down man, then he cut the other strap.  The man fell to the top of the car awkwardly.  When he hit, his neck snapped.  Clyde heard the snap, bent down to check for a pulse, and muttered, I’ll be damned—he’s dead.  Broke his neck when he hit.

Bill shrugged, as he moved to the next body to check. 

Knowing Bill had already checked for a pulse on the other man on his side of the car, Clyde turned to check on the motorcyclist.  When he turned, he spotted a flash from the tree line on the knoll.  Bill—quick, get behind the pick-up!  Somebody’s up in those trees near the road.

While Bill hurried to their truck, Clyde raced to their other car.  He reached in, popped the trunk, and got out his sniper rifle case.  Then he went to a spot to put the car between him, and where he’d seen the flash.  When he had the rifle assembled, he said to Bill on their comm set, Okay, when I start shooting to pin him down, get in the truck and high-tail it up there.  Be careful.  You spot him and he looks dangerous, let me know, and I’ll get serious with my shooting.

Bill was not convinced he really wanted to drive the truck up the driveway—in case it was Huerta—but he did as told.  Clyde started shooting into the trees, above where he had seen the mirror-like flashing.  After he fired several shots, Bill told him to stop.  I see him, Clyde.  Hold fire.  It’s just some guy with a camera...I’m driving straight at him.  He’s all hunkered down—waving at me.

Well, crap—goferit.

Bill stopped about ten feet from the man, and got out of his pick-up.  Come here, stupid...before you get shot.

Hell, no—somebody’s shootin’ at me.

I just told him to stop.  Besides, he wasn’t shooting at you.  If he was, you’d be dead.  He was just trying to pin you down, until I could get here to see who you were.  Which leads to my question...who in the hell are you, and what are you doing here with that camera?  You trying to document the killing of the judge for Huerta?

No, no, no!  I’m just trying to get a good story, and pictures to go with it.  I heard Francisco Huerta escaped, and know he promised to kill the judge.  So I snuck in here to take pictures of what might happen.

You mean you were just gonna sit here, watch a judge get blasted, and do nothing but take pictures of it?  What kind of a lunatic are you?  Never mind—don’t bother answering.  How’d you get here?

The man pointed to some thick brush.  My bike.

Give me your camera, and then go get it.  Any funny business and I’ll plug you.

As the man went for his bike, Clyde, listening on his comm set, laughed.  ‘I’ll plug you’ he says.  Nice, Bill

***

By then Bob had taken care of the three who came his way.  Having reached the patio, he stood with his gun at the ready, waiting for the three to get within easy firing range.  One of the County Sheriff’s Department Detectives went out with him, but knelt down behind one of several two-foot high columns on the edge of the patio, with a wood railing running through them.

He glanced at Bob calmly standing there, and shook his head.  When the three motorcycles were a little less than a hundred-fifty feet away, they began firing pistols.  Bob returned the fire directed at him by the three.  He fired three times.  By the time he fired his third shot, the last of the men was roughly a hundred feet from him. 

The County Sheriff’s Department detective was about to start shooting, when the last of the three fell dead off his motorcycle.  He looked at Bob.  Nice shooting.  You only fired three times, I could count, and hit all three of ‘em.

Bob, a retired Marine Master Sergeant and Navy SEAL, glanced at the man.  I’m a SEAL.  They teach us to hit what we shoot at.  You feel like going out there, to make sure they’re all dead?

Sure—the least I can do.

While he started walking off, the judge and the other County detective walked up near Bob.  The detective muttered, You’re not the only one who can shoot straight.  Your pal out front—the big one—fired three times I saw, and hit the guy on the bike, and two in the car.  Then I heard more shots that sounded like a rifle.  Did he capture the last guy?

Yeah, for a while.  By the way, he’s a SEAL, too.  The other shots were evidently to pin down some moron with a camera.

The judge asked, What do you mean ‘for a while’?

From what I heard on my comm set, the captive evidently broke his neck when Clyde cut him loose.  Is that right, Clyde?  What was the deal there?

The car was upside down.  I cut him free from his seatbelt and he broke his neck when he fell.  Think my story is gonna be he struggled a bit, and tried to lunge for his gun while falling, which was at arm’s length...or some such crap.  Anyhow, it’s not far from the truth.  I think he was making a try for it.

Gotcha—sounds like a good story to me.

After the detective had verified all three men attacking the rear of the home were dead—and on hearing Bill had captured the photographer—Bob picked up a remote unit programmed to relay any activity on the sensors at the rear of the property.  Then he, the judge, and two detectives headed to the front of Judge Suermann’s home.

After the capture, Bill had the photographer put his bike in the rear of his truck, and had him get in, too.  Then he drove down to where Clyde waited, arriving at the same time as those from inside the home.

Bob saw Clyde bleeding, and headed for his car to get a first-aid kit.  Clyde waved him off as he headed toward the photographer, who Bill had helped—rather roughly—out of the rear of the pickup. 

Clyde looked hard at the man and asked, What in the hell do you think you were doing?

I don’t have to answer any of your questions.  I was just takin’ pictures.

Clyde turned to the judge.  Is your property clearly marked against trespassers?

As a matter of fact it is.  Had an incident a few years back, before my wife died, where a hunter shot at and missed a deer.  The bullet came through my front window, and shattered a lamp.  Nearly scared my poor wife to death.  After that I made sure the property is well marked with no trespassing signs—front, back, and both ends.

Clyde took a deep breath, blew it out, then asked, Would you mind going back inside, sir—just in case there are any more of these wanna-be assassins around?

The judge, knowing Clyde had in mind to question the man without him and his two-man protection team around, nodded, looked at his two bodyguards, and grumbled, Come on, fellas—Mr. Feegle is correct.  No sense standing around out here like a big dummy waiting to get shot.  Also, I guess I best call for a Medical Examiner, and someone to get this place cleaned up.

As those three headed back inside, Clyde turned back to the photographer.  Okay, fool, you’ve got about three seconds to tell me why you were here...besides the obvious.  Seems to me you’re in line for a nice accessory to murder charge, if you were in any way involved in this mess—like being forewarned it was going to go down.

No—no way.  I never talked to any of them.  But I heard Francisco Huerta had escaped, and remembered he threatened the judge, so I’ve been camped out up where I was when you started shooting at me.  My idea was to get some good photos of...

Of a judge getting killed?  Bet you figured you’d make a mint for pictures of such an event.  Do you have any idea how bad I want to flatten your face right now?  Bill, you got the camera?

Yeah, Clyde.

You know how to denude it?

Yeah, Clyde.

Please do so.  Now, Bob, if you’d like to patch me up, I’d appreciate it.

Bob chuckled, and started a fast repair job on Clyde’s side.  By the time he finished, Bill reported that the camera was now void of any pictures that had been taken.  He was then dispatched to get the judge brought to near his front door.

Bob grabbed their prisoner by the elbow, and led him to the doorway.  He shrugged as he looked at the judge.  What do you want to do with this lamebrain?

The judge muttered, To arrest him would just clog up the court system with another silly case.  Turn him loose—after he promises to stay off my property.

Bob turned to the man.  You heard the judge.  Do you promise to stay off his property?

Yeah, sure.

The judge, not having seen into the rear of the pickup truck, asked, How did you get here?

On my bike.

The judge shook his head.  What is it with motorcycles around here?

Bill spoke up, Your honor, not a motorcycle—but a regular bike...a bicycle.  I’d bet he has a car somewhere around here.

The man nodded.  I do—about two miles back up the road out there.  Pretty well hidden, if you ask me.

Clyde, who had done a half-hearted job of washing the blood off his pants and one shoe, walked up.  You mean like you were so well hidden up the hill?

No, better...I hope.  Can I have my camera back?

Bob started to answer, but the judge cut him off, No.  You can drop by my chambers tomorrow morning, after nine, to pick it up.  Now I suggest you get on your bike, and ride off my land.

The man swallowed, but didn’t have to be told twice.  He all but ran to the pickup to get his bike.  As he sped off, one of the Sheriff’s detectives asked, Your honor, you aren’t planning on holding court tomorrow, are you?

I most assuredly am.  No two-bit drug pusher, and murderer, is going to keep me from my duties as a judge, thank you very much.

That matter solved as far as he was concerned, the judge offered, It may be a bit early, but I could stand a drink.  Anyone want to join me?

The two detectives declined, but the three partners accepted the offer.  While pouring what each man wanted, the judge asked one of the detectives to go the end of his drive, to ward off any media types who might show up...at least until the first County patrol car came to take over the task.

While the four men drinking sipped their drinks, Bob explained how the system he and his partners had installed worked.

When the various functionaries arrived to start the process of removing bodies and vehicles, the four men continued their conversation, while the remaining detective went outside to assist those arriving to determine which vehicles needed to be removed, and where the three motorcycles and three bodies at the rear of the home were located.  After the first patrol car arrived, the other detective gave him a hand.  Neither man was worried about the safety of the judge, both admitting to themselves the judge was at least as safe—and perhaps more so with two SEALs inside with him, as if they themselves had been inside.

2.

Inside, the judge mentioned, Well, at last once everything is removed outside, I should be able to kick back, and take it easy until morning.

How wrong he was.  The first phone call he received was from the Governor of Missouri.  The Governor informed him the matter of the attempt on his life was already nationwide news, and two Highway Patrol officers were on the way to protect him.  When the judge let the Governor know it wasn’t really necessary, because he already had protection, the Governor replied, Nobody is going to kill any judge in this state, if I can help it.  We’ll work out logistics in the next day or two.  For now, please put them up in your home, Judge Suermann.

The judge thanked the Governor, then looked at Bob.  Well, the cat is already out of the bag.  We’re on national news.  I guess someone leaked it, after my calls to get some assistance out here.  Wonderful—we’ll have every news hound in the state outside before we finish our drinks.

Bob looked at Bill, glanced at Clyde, and muttered, Excuse me for a few minutes, your honor.

Bill and Clyde also excused themselves, with all three partners heading in different directions, away from the judge.  All three quickly made phone calls.  Clyde called his live-in lover, Josephine (Jo) Kelly.  She was an art dealer with shop in the City of St. Charles—even though she lived with Clyde on Bob’s estate in Wentzville, Missouri. 

Jo answered, Are you alright?

You’ve heard, I take it?

Yes...it’s all over the news.  I repeat—are you alright?

Sorta.  Got a little ding on my side, but no problem.  Bob patched me up.

While they were talking, Bob called his wife, Michelle, an attorney with offices in Wentzville and St. Charles, to fill her in.  Bill called his wife, Amanda, who ran the office for the detective/protection agency for the three partners.  She, too, was briefed.

Clyde was the first to return to the judge.  Clyde, a retired Navy Senior Chief Petty Officer and SEAL, looked at the judge, and shrugged.  "Called my girlfriend, to let her know what happened.  I’m not afraid of much, but am afraid of her."

The judge dryly replied, I bet.

As Clyde opened his mouth to reply, the judge’s phone rang again.  He muttered an oath and answered, Hello, Judge Wendell Suermann at your service—unless you’re a media type.

The President of the United States chuckled before he introduced himself, then he added, I often feel the same about the press, Judge Suermann.  The purpose of my call is to ask if you would be interested in being the next U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of Missouri?

The judge—normally never caught flat-footed—took a few seconds before he answered, Are you serious?  Sorry...of course you are, or you wouldn’t have asked.  May I ask why me?

Right after you tell me if you want the job.

Yes, sir.  It would be an honor.

Very well, to answer your question—you have been recommended to the Attorney General and me by several sources, not the least of whom are your Governor and both Senators from Missouri.  Since you have agreed, I will submit your name for confirmation immediately, and request an expedited vote, due to the current situation.  By that I mean, the attempt on your life.  I will immediately send a U.S. Marshal Service detachment to protect you.

The judge—long known for his sense of humor, under even the most trying of circumstances—replied, Fine...but have them bring tents to sleep in.

Come again?

"My home has four bedrooms.  Presently I have two St. Charles County Sheriff’s detectives protecting me, with two State Troopers on the way to help out.  So, as it now stands, I have—or will have—four people, fighting over three beds."

I would think the marshal service can handle the task, so when they arrive, you can thank the present protection detail, and send them back to handle other matters.  I’m sure they will understand.

Perhaps.  At any rate, thank you for the honor—and for your concern about my safety.

The President was shaking his head, but smiling, as he ended the call.  The judge was grinning, and told those with him about the conversation.  When he finished, they all congratulated him on being chosen to be a U.S. Attorney. 

In less than an hour, a four-person (three males, one female, one a Marshal, and the other three deputies) U. S. Marshal Service protection detail had arrived, and after checking in with their respective bosses, the two detectives and two State Troopers had left.  Also by then, all the bodies and vehicles belonging to the deceased had been removed from the judge’s property.  One County patrol car, with two officers, stayed behind, to make sure none of the gathered media types tried to enter the estate grounds.

While waiting for the marshals to arrive, Bob, Bill, and Clyde checked out the front portion of their security apparatus, to make sure it was working.  Then, after the marshals did arrive, they carefully went over the system, and Bob explained that the sensors at the rear of the property had already proven to be effective.

After being thanked by the judge for their efforts—and most of the new security detail complimented them on the wonderful system—the three partners left, too.  Bill drove the pickup truck back to their home base, a property owned by Bob, with homes for all three on the grounds.

Bob drove Clyde to a hospital, to have his repair job checked.

Alone with the four-member security team, the judge decided a statement to the media was necessary, and had one of the team go to the end of the drive, to bring one newspaper reporter and one TV reporter and cameraman down to the judge’s home.  He ignored the grumbling of the others gathered, as those three were led down the drive. 

Before the camera started running, the judge laid out the ground rules for the brief interview.  I will make a statement, but will answer no questions.  I expect you to share the information with the others prowling around up the hill.

Not too happy, the two reporters agreed.  The statement was rather short, and to the point.  Francisco Huerta attempted to make good his threat to have me killed.  Eight of his drug gang members made the attempt.  They are all dead.  My security detail managed to kill seven outright, while the last of the eight caused his own death...after he confessed to being sent out here by Huerta.  At the time he confessed, he was trapped in a car carrying four of the would-be killers.  In the shootout, their car flipped upside down, with him suspended by his seatbelt.  After making his statement, he requested to be cut free from the seatbelt.  When the belt was cut, rather than brace himself, he lunged for his weapon.  The odd angle he caused by that effort, resulted in him landing in such a manner as to break his neck, killing him instantly.

When he finished, the judge looked at the cameraman and, while smiling, gave the ‘cut’ sign, to cease taping.  The two reporters surely wanted to ask questions, but were quickly herded out of the home, and escorted back to the road above the judge’s property.

***

At the hospital, the E.R. doctor attending to Clyde declared a job well done by Bob, and those two left for home.  When they arrived, all three women in their lives were waiting for them.  Actually, Amanda had already been home when Bill called, and Michelle was in her Wentzville office, a short drive home. 

Jo, on the other hand, had left her art store in the care of her part-time assistant (Karen Nevers) before heading home, also.  They all met at Bob’s home.  After