Breaking Point

  “And what’s that?”

  “We’re going to head northwest to a little town called Altar. We’re going to buy supplies there, and then we’re going to sneak across the border on foot. By the time Cárdenas has any clue what has happened, you’ll already be back in Denver.”

  ARTURO KNELT IN his private chapel, blood rushing to his head at the news. “What do you mean they got away?”

  His sister’s youngest son knelt in the aisle, gaze focused on the chapel’s marble floor, his arm bandaged where a bullet had struck it. “Forgive me, Jefe, but we did all you asked and more, and we cannot find them. They have vanished like two wisps of smoke.”

  Hands clasped piously, Arturo bent his head as if in prayer, not wanting José-Luis to see his fear. Arturo César Cárdenas feared nothing. It was he who made others fear. Those who served him well, he rewarded. Those who failed him, those who betrayed him, he killed, their blood, their pain, their lives an offering to the one saint who ruled over all—La Huesuda, the Bony Lady, his grandmother had called her. He called her Santa Muerte.

  Holy Death.

  He raised his head, looked at the carved image of her that sat upon the altar, the candle he’d lit flickering at her feet. He’d had her carved from ivory and crowned with gold, her white hood and robes made of cloth taken from a priest’s robes. In one skeletal hand, she held a carved human skull, in the other a scythe used for harvesting human lives. And she was his protector.

  She would protect him now.

  His heartbeat slowed, fear cooling to anger. “Two people kill five of my men, escape in one of our cars, shoot you, my own nephew—and you cannot find them? I think you must not be trying. He is nothing but a thief and a liar, and she is just a woman, just another whore.”

  An image of Natalie Benoit came into his mind. Young. Beautiful. Her strange blue eyes full of life. He’d been looking forward to having her for weeks. He enjoyed nothing more than dominating a woman until she broke, until her own suffering no longer mattered to her if it meant she could please him. Some of his women had walked willingly into the hands of Death for his sake. Others had fought him until the moment their souls had left their bodies, the fear on their young faces transforming to peace with their last breath. At that moment, they were more beautiful to him than they’d ever been.

  Natalie Benoit would have made the perfect sacrifice. But now this chingadero who’d stolen his shipment of cocaine had also stolen her. And his men had failed to bring them back.

  He crossed himself, wanting to set a good example for José-Luis, ugly scarred bastard that his nephew was. Then slowly he rose to his feet. “This man who stole the shipment—the man you could not break. He has taken the girl for himself. He probably has her in a hotel somewhere and is even at this moment fucking what is mine. Get our police officers into the hotels with her photograph. Check every hotel in every town in the state of Chihuahua if you must, but find them. Then bring them to me.”

  “Sí, Jefe.” José-Luis started to rise.

  Arturo caught him by his injured arm and squeezed, ignoring his nephew’s gasp of pain. “You have lost me a sacrifice. I swear on La Santa Muerte that if you do not find her, you will pay in blood. ¿Comprende?”

  “Sí! Sí, Jefe.”

  CHAPTER 10

  NATALIE THOUGHT ABOUT the kiss while she took another shower and shaved her legs. She thought about it while she slathered lotion on her skin. She thought about it while she blew her hair dry. She was still thinking about it as she started to dress.

  The teasing brush of his lips over hers. The possessive way he’d clenched his fist in her hair. The steel-hard feel of his body against hers.

  It had been so long since she’d felt the rush of desire that she’d almost forgotten what it was like—the racing pulse, the flutter in the belly, the urgent need to touch and be touched. In those few seconds, she’d felt more alive than she had since . . .

  Since before Beau died.

  Guilt, thick and greasy, spread through the pit of her stomach, leaving her cold. What was she thinking? Had she just compared Zach to Beau?

  No, of course she hadn’t. There was no comparison. Zach was a stranger, a man she’d known for little more than forty-eight hours, a man who didn’t even trust her enough to tell her his last name.

  Beau was the man she’d loved. He’d been her first date, her first real kiss, her first and only lover. He’d meant so much to her that she’d happily agreed to marry him and had worn his engagement ring proudly on her finger. She’d spent almost five years with him, never imagining that their life together would end so soon. How could she compare the way he’d made her feel to one silly kiss from a man she barely knew?

  Except that the kiss hadn’t been silly. It had been passionate and hot and . . . real. Not just a memory. It had stirred something to life within her, making her blood run again, penetrating the numbness inside her. It had made her feel.

  And for those few seconds, she’d been herself again.

  A woman could get addicted to that.

  What was she thinking? Was she actually hoping Zach would kiss her again?

  She was out of sorts. That’s all. She’d just survived a horrible ordeal and was confusing the gratitude she owed Zach with desire. The fact that he was as handsome as sin wasn’t helping. But she wasn’t really interested in him, no matter how good-looking or courageous he was. How could she be when she still loved Beau?

  Beau has been dead for six years, girl. Isn’t six years long enough?

  Refusing to acknowledge the question or the direction of her own thoughts, she tugged on her panties, drew her tank top over her head, and stepped into the skirt, tucking the tank top into its elastic waistband. Then, too furious with herself to look at her own reflection, she opened the bathroom door.

  She found Zach sitting on the edge of the bed cleaning one of the AK-47s, watching a television newscast. At least he was wearing a shirt now.

  “Check this out.” He gave a jerk of his head toward the TV, his hands busy.

  On the screen a pretty young woman spoke in rapid Spanish that was hard for Natalie to understand. But running across the bottom were English subtitles, white letters spelling out news that made her stomach knot.

  Two American couples were attacked in their hotel rooms in Cd. Juárez last night with eyewitnesses blaming members of Los Zetas cartel.

  “ARE YOU SURE you understand?”

  Natalie nodded. “Yes.”

  Zach sat and leveled his gaze at her, a warning look in his eyes. “No slipups.”

  She pushed the button for speaker phone so that he could hear the conversation, then dialed the direct line for her editor’s desk, feeling both excited and nervous. Zach had grilled her about her coworkers and her boss, asking questions about each and every one of them. When he’d heard that Kat was Navajo, he’d seemed especially interested in her. He’d written out a script for Natalie, warning her that he would end the call if she deviated from it. Then he’d made her wait until they were packed and ready to go, so that the moment she hung up, they could leave the hotel.

  Now it was finally time.

  The phone rang once, twice, three times.

  “Tom Trent.”

  Natalie’s throat grew tight at the sound of Tom’s grouchy voice, and she had to swallow before she could speak. “Hi, Tom. It’s me. Please don’t say my name.”

  There was a pause and some noise in the background. “I’m listening.”

  She knew he was doing more than listening. He was recording the call, too, as they all did when an important call came in. “Nothing I say, not even the fact that I called, can go in the paper or online.”

  “Understood. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to put you on speaker phone.”

  Natalie looked over to Zach, who nodded. “That’s fine. Go ahead.”

  From the background came gasps, and Natalie knew Tom had quickly summoned the rest of the I-Team into his office. They were all there, standing around hi
s desk—everyone except Joaquin. And again her throat grew tight.

  She looked down at her notes, fought to keep from tearing up. “This vacation got off to a bad start. I met some people I didn’t like. Then things turned around. I met another tourist, and we’re traveling together. We’re trying to avoid crowds because we don’t want to be bothered.”

  “Can we call someone? Can we help in any way?”

  A part of her wanted to cry, “Yes!” and beg Tom to call the State Department, the White House, the CIA, and the Marines. But Zach was sitting right next to the phone. Though she still wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t stolen that cocaine, he had proved that he was willing to risk his life to protect her. Besides, it was obvious that he knew Mexico much better than she did. Given the situation, she had little choice but to trust him.

  “No, thanks.” It hurt to say those words.

  “What’s next on your itinerary?” Tom was playing along.

  “We’re not sure.” She only hoped what she had to say next would make sense to someone, because it made no sense to her. “I have a message for Kat.”

  “She’s here. Go ahead.”

  Natalie began to read from the notes Zach had written, careful to annunciate each nonsense syllable. “A-zeh-ha-geyah. Bi-tsan-dehn. Wol-la-chee. Ah-jad. A-woh. Be-la-sana. Dah-nes-tsa.”

  She went on, hoping Kat understood what she was saying, because she certainly didn’t. The words must be Navajo—why else would Zach want the message to go to Kat? But when Natalie had asked Zach where he’d learned to speak Navajo, he told her that he didn’t speak Navajo at all.

  She finished reciting the message, then waited, wondering how Kat would respond. But there was only silence. “Should I say that again?”

  “No,” Tom answered. “I think we got it.”

  Zach motioned for her to end the call.

  But she didn’t want to hang up. Hearing Tom’s voice, knowing her friends were there—it felt like a lifeline. A link to home.

  Then Tom spoke. “Before you go, there’s someone who wants to say hello.”

  Natalie looked over to Zach, who frowned, tapping the face of his new watch and whispering, “Only if it’s really quick.”

  “Is that really you, chula?”

  Joaquin!

  Blood rushed from Natalie’s head, the room seeming to spin. She found herself on her knees. But how? “I thought . . . I thought you were dead!”

  Zach stood, shaking his head.

  Joaquin’s voice came through strong. “Thanks to you, I’m still here.”

  Zach whispered in her ear, “Time to go.”

  “Good-bye! I miss you all so—”

  But Zach had already hung up the phone.

  “ARE YOU GOING to explain all that gibberish you had me say over the phone? Obviously it was a code of some kind.”

  “Navajo code talk.” Zach left the city’s midday traffic behind and merged onto Carretera Federal 10 northbound, glad to be safely away from the hotel. “Some buddies and I memorized it, used to send messages to each other.”

  He and his teammates had studied a code-talker dictionary, memorizing it during their early days as SEALs, figuring that it might come in handy behind enemy lines. Mostly, they’d just used it to irritate other SEALs and play pranks on people.

  “Do you think Kat will be able to figure it out?”

  “If she does, she’ll know exactly where we’re going. If not, I’ll still get you home.” But this time Zach had a few questions of his own. “So . . . ‘chula,’ huh? Sounds to me like Joaquin thinks the two of you are more than just friends.”

  Maybe Natalie felt the same way. The look on her face when she’d heard Joaquin’s voice had been one of overwhelming relief and happiness.

  Are you jealous, McBride?

  No, of course he wasn’t jealous. Why should he care if Natalie and this photographer had a thing for each other? Good for them.

  Natalie shook her head. “That’s just Joaquin. He calls all the women in the newsroom ‘chula.’ He says it means ‘pretty woman.’ ”

  And some part of Zach felt relieved. “It’s the Mexican Spanish equivalent of calling a woman ‘baby,’ as in, ‘Hey, baby.’ But if you’re okay with that . . .”

  “I’m not going to file a sexual harassment lawsuit or burn my bra over it.”

  At the word “bra,” Zach’s gaze jerked reflexively to the amazing sight of her braless breasts. He dragged it back to the highway.

  Jesus, McBride! You should’ve beat one out in the shower.

  He hadn’t been this horny since he’d first arrived at college and found himself surrounded by equally horny eighteen-year-old women.

  It’s your own fault, you big idiot. You light a match, you get burned. If only you’d kept your mouth to yourself . . .

  Yeah, but he hadn’t, had he?

  She’d been asking him very personal questions, pretending that it was only journalistic curiosity driving her, when he knew damned good and well that she was every bit as attracted to him as he was to her.

  So you had to go and prove that, didn’t you? Now what?

  Now he needed to keep his mind on the job and his hands—and lips—off the woman. Her life depended on his keeping a cool head. Besides, she was more than a little vulnerable. Whatever attraction she felt toward him was surely colored by the fact that he was in the act of saving her life—and that she was alone and entirely dependent on him. He’d be lower than a snake’s ass if he took advantage of that.

  He glanced over to find her smiling, the AK looking out of place on her lap.

  “I’m just so glad he’s alive.” Her smile slowly faded. “I thought for sure they’d shot him, but I guess they killed someone else. It feels wrong to be happy about that.”

  “The world is a crazy place, Natalie.” He reached over, took her hand, and gave it a squeeze. “Sometimes you have to take happiness where you find it. Your friend is alive, in part because of what you did to save him, and that’s a good thing.”

  She looked up at him through big beautiful eyes, her slender fingers lacing through his. “Thanks for understanding.”

  And for a while they drove in silence.

  “Those couples who were attacked in their hotel rooms—the Zetas were looking for the two of us, weren’t they?”

  “Yeah.”

  The cops had called the incidents “robberies,” but Zach knew better.

  “Was anyone hurt?” There was a hint of worry in her voice, as if she’d been wondering about this for the past couple of hours but had been afraid to ask.

  “They roughed them up a bit but didn’t kill anyone.” He didn’t tell her that one of the women had been raped. She’d probably take the weight of that on her own slender shoulders.

  Why are you shielding her from the truth all of sudden, McBride?

  He started to make up some excuse in his mind about not wanting to deal with her when she got emotional, but then gave up. Truth was, he didn’t want to burden her with information that she didn’t need. She’d been traumatized enough already.

  “Oh, thank goodness for that! I hate to think of anyone suffering because the Zetas mistook them for us.” She seemed to relax.

  “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” The question must have come out of some other guy’s mouth, because Zach hadn’t planned on asking her anything about her love life.

  Her voice took on a tone of artificial calm. “What makes you so sure I don’t have a boyfriend?”

  “You’ve never mentioned him.” It seemed logical to Zach.

  “Given your situation, if there were some special man in your life, you probably would have tried to call him rather than your boss at the newspaper.”

  “You know why.” She looked at her hands. “I lost my fiancé and—”

  “That was six years ago, Natalie. Six years.”

  What a loss it would be for the male race if she spent her life pining away for a corpse. Then again, he had no idea what it was like to lose a lo
ver. He’d never been in love—not seriously anyway.

  “I guess I haven’t met the right man.” Then she turned the question around, her face a carefully composed mask. “Why is there no one in your life?”

  This was an easy question to answer. “As you’ve seen, my life isn’t exactly the sort of existence a man shares with a woman.”

  “Maybe you should do something about that—like quit being a crook.”

  He chuckled, but his reply died before it reached his tongue.

  When he looked in the rearview mirror again, a military jeep bristling with assault rifles passed a slower-moving pickup and swerved into their lane, gaining ground fast.

  The first letter on its license plate was a big, black Z.

  Adrenaline punched through him. “Get down!”

  Natalie turned to look over her shoulder. “Wha—”

  “I said get down, damn it!” Zach forced her head down, hoping the men behind them hadn’t seen that there was a woman in the vehicle. He drew the AK onto his lap, working the bolt with one hand. “There’s a jeep full of Zetas on our tail.”

  Steady, McBride. Don’t rabbit. Just because they’re behind you doesn’t mean they know they’re behind you.

  He glanced down at the speedometer to make certain he wasn’t speeding, then did his best to drive casually, the jeep now right on their tail. “Reach for the Glock. It’s on the floor near your feet. Hold on to it. If they start shooting—”

  With a roar of its engine, the jeep swerved to the left, passing them in a plume of exhaust and heading up the highway.

  Zach let out a long, slow breath, adrenaline subsiding. “You can sit up now.”

  Slowly, Natalie sat upright, peering over the dashboard with wide eyes, Glock in her hand. “They’re gone?”