Breaking Point

  They all stared at her.

  “We can’t take credit for this. How much do you think they’re paying cops these days, anyway?” Marc sat and stretched out his long legs. “McBride set it up.”

  Gabe sat across from her. “He wants to keep the fact that you’re back a secret until you’re farther away from the border.”

  “Oh.” She remembered him saying something about a media blackout when the Shadow Wolves found them. But a chartered jet? A helicopter ride?

  “Got enough leg room there, Rossiter?” Marc asked.

  “You bet. If not, I’ll just make use of the overhead bin.”

  Kat shook her head, sharing a glance with Natalie, Alissa asleep in her lap.

  But Natalie barely noticed the good-natured male ribbing, her gaze traveling over the luxurious cabin.

  Then the flight attendant, a young woman about Natalie’s age, came to offer them drinks. “We heard there was a special request for southern sweet tea. We’ve brewed some up just for this flight. Who asked for that?”

  Stunned, Natalie could only stare. Then she swallowed the lump in her throat. “I . . . I did. Thank you very much.”

  The flight attendant took everyone’s order, then returned with a cart of drinks including a big glass brimming with iced tea just the way Natalie’s mother had made it—black pekoe with real sugar, not a lemon in sight.

  Natalie sipped and savored, her eyes pricking with tears.

  Thank you, Zach. Thank you so much. For everything.

  She looked up to find her friends watching her. She tried to explain. “When we were in the desert, I got sick of that lemon electrolyte stuff and told him how much I wished I could have a big glass of real southern sweet tea.”

  Kat gave her a reassuring smile, and Natalie could see she understood.

  “Yeah, I got sick of that lemon stuff, too.” Marc made a sour face. “We drank that in Afghanistan and Iraq. Saves lives, but it tastes like shit.”

  Gabe made a “blech” sound. “That lemon stuff is obnoxious.”

  Marc looked over at him. “What do you know about the lemon stuff? You weren’t in desert combat. You were a park ranger. I’m not dissing that. It’s an important job. Someone has to keep the chipmunks in line. I’ve watched Chip and Dale. I know how sneaky those little bastards can be.”

  Gabe glared at Marc. “For your information, Hunter, I’ve climbed in the desert, done some mountain biking and canyoneering, and we drink the lemon shit.”

  Kat met Natalie’s gaze again. “How long is this flight?”

  Natalie savored her tea and tried to be cheerful. Everyone else was in high spirits because they were bringing her home again. And God only knew she was happy and grateful beyond words to be alive and on her way home. She had so much for which to be thankful.

  But saying good-bye to Zach was one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. It wasn’t hard in a “beat the Zeta on the skull” sort of way or a “trek across the desert” kind of way. It had been hard on the most fragile part of her—her heart.

  It had taken more strength that she’d realized she had not to cry when he’d walked away. He’d brought her back to life, showed her what it was to feel again. It hadn’t seemed possible that he would leave her. She’d known that if she opened her mouth, something desperate and completely undignified would come out. So she’d stood there in silence and watched him go, her heart breaking—not just for herself, but also for the man who’d come home from one war only to find himself trapped in another, much more personal battle.

  I’m supposed to be one of the strong ones, not a guy who falls the fuck apart.

  Whatever had happened in the war had scarred him deeply. She’d seen herself how terrible his nightmares could be. He was trying so hard to be strong that he didn’t even believe he deserved help. But did he really think that chasing men like Cárdenas could keep his demons from catching up with him?

  At least this way, I do the world some good.

  Oh, Zach!

  They arrived in Denver shortly after noon. With no need to go through baggage claim, they went straight to ground transportation. Natalie didn’t have her keys—God only knew where her purse had ended up—so she had to leave her car at the airport, riding with Kat and Gabe because her things were in Kat’s suitcase.

  They drove her home first. She retrieved the extra house key she kept hidden under a flowerpot and waited with Kat in the car while Gabe went inside to check her house.

  She found everything just as she’d left it. The plants on the windowsill. The coffee mug she’d put in the sink the morning of her departure. That day’s copy of the paper with a typo circled in red. There was no sign that the life of the person who lived here had just been turned upside down.

  She carried Kat’s suitcase up to her room, took her things out, and was about to come back downstairs when her gaze fell on the framed photo of Beau she kept on her nightstand. It was the last picture she’d taken of him, though of course she hadn’t known that at the time. He was sitting on the beach at Waveland in Mississippi, hair wet, sand on his skin, a big smile on his face. She reached for the photo, studied it, then held it against her chest.

  “He was good to me, Beau. He saved my life. You would like him.”

  She missed Zach so much already.

  She set the photo down, ran her finger over Beau’s image, then walked down the stairs, Kat’s suitcase in hand. She found Gabe outside facing down two men on her walkway, one of whom carried her purse and luggage.

  Gabe blocked their path. “You’re not taking another step until I know who you are and what you want.”

  The men stopped, and one pulled out a badge. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Larry Garrett and this is Frank Dearborn from the U.S. State Department. We’re here to speak with Ms. Benoit and to return her belongings.”

  ZACH GOT ANOTHER cup of godawful coffee from the vending machine, this day stretching on forever. He’d gotten to D.C. around noon, and it had been a fun ride ever since. He’d been questioned twice. He’d been examined by a doctor, who’d treated his wrists, drawn blood, and X-rayed his ribs. And he was about meet with Pearce.

  Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t what they were doing so much as how they were doing it. Questioning him was just standard operating procedure, but they were treating him as if they believed he was crooked. He could see it in their eyes, feel it in the way they spoke to him. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why.

  The door to Pearce’s office opened, and two suits from the State Department stepped out, their gazes cold as they walked past Zach.

  “McBride.” Pearce stuck his head out of his office and motioned Zach inside.

  In his midfifties, John Pearce had the look of a man who spent too much time behind a desk—gray hair, paunchy, ruddy complexion. Like everyone else in the political cesspool of Washington, D.C., he wore a suit and tie and enjoyed playing the game. But he’d always backed Zach up in the past, and he’d been a damned good marshal in his day.

  “I’ve read the reports and depositions. I’ve listened to the audio. I’ve read the doctor’s file. Sorry to hear about the broken ribs and the wrists.” Pearce looked at him through pale blue eyes that gave away nothing. “You’re damned lucky to be alive.”

  Zach couldn’t argue with that.

  “Here’s the situation from our point of view.” Pearce leaned back in his chair. “Gisella calls in to say you disappeared with cocaine you stole from the Zetas and tells us she’s afraid for her life. Ten days later you reappear—with a high-profile kidnapping victim in tow—and claim that Gisella stole the coke and betrayed you to the Zetas. That’s quite a story.”

  “Yes, sir, it is. It’s also the truth.”

  “Here’s the kicker. Two days ago, Interpol lost contact with Gisella. Yesterday, the federales found her body—or some identifiable pieces of it—in the middle of the street in downtown Juárez.”

  That explained the looks he’d been getting all day. G
isella had tried to cover for herself by implicating him—and now she was dead. Which only made him look worse.

  “Cárdenas must have realized she’d deceived him and gone after her.”

  “You had no idea she was dead?” Pearce leveled his gaze at Zach.

  “No. Of course, I didn’t. At the time I was in the middle of the desert.”

  “It’s damned lucky for you that you’ve got an alibi—and a very credible witness.” Pearce frowned. “About this Benoit woman—do you think she’ll be a problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We sent the Denver guys in today to clarify for her and her editor what they may and may not print regarding you and her rescue. I’m wondering if she’ll cooperate.”

  “She won’t do anything that would endanger me or other DUSMs. I feel certain of that. She’s not a headline chasing sort of reporter. You just need to explain it to her—and be ready to answer a lot of questions.”

  Pearce nodded. “I have to say this whole thing is likely to turn into an international shit storm. The Mexican government is already accusing us of ignoring their national sovereignty by deploying a black ops team within their borders to rescue Benoit without their permission, so the State Department’s panties are in a twist.”

  Zach laughed. Black ops team? “That ‘black ops team’ was one half-dead DUSM and a young female reporter with a strong will to survive.”

  “Interpol thinks you stole the cocaine, arranged to have Gisella killed after she found out, and then got snagged by the Zetas.”

  Zach felt his temper spike. “And what do you think?”

  “I believe you, of course, but we want the matter investigated thoroughly before you head back out on assignment again.”

  That had Zach on his feet. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Sit down, McBride. It’s not all that bad. I’m sure it will be sorted out in the end. But in the meantime, you’re being placed on paid administrative leave. You’re not to leave D.C. until the investigation is concluded.”

  Great. “And how long will that take?”

  Pearce shrugged. “A couple of weeks. A month.”

  A month was a long time to be doing nothing. Too long.

  “It will give you time to recuperate from those broken ribs and rest up a bit.”

  Zach took a breath, trying to keep his temper in check. “Yeah. And in the meantime, Cárdenas—”

  “Is not your problem. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll pick up where we left off.”

  And Zach realized he’d been dismissed. He stood, walked toward the door.

  “McBride, remember what my mother always said.”

  Zach looked back. “And what was that?”

  “No good deed goes unpunished.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THE NEXT MORNING, Natalie awoke to find a throng of reporters camped in front of her house and on her lawn, her driveway blocked by a Fox News van. The package of articles that Tom and Sophie had put together about her kidnapping and rescue had gone up on the Internet last night and was the focus of today’s front page.

  But Natalie had given all the interviews she was going to give. Tom and Sophie had interviewed her for most of yesterday afternoon, respecting the boundaries she’d put in place on the advice of Officer Garrett, to protect Zach. She didn’t want anything she said to get him or any other DUSM hurt or killed.

  Reliving the story, recounting the slaughter on the bus and the horror of being held captive by the Zetas, had left her shaken, making it hard to sleep last night. There was no chance she was going to open herself to that again. Besides, the focus ought to be on the journalists who’d been murdered, not the one who got away.

  Ignoring the knocks on her door, she got dressed for work—a shirtdress of ruffled navy blue silk, pearl earrings, and navy pumps, then walked outside onto her front porch, where she read a statement, thanking people for their concern and prayers, expressing her gratitude to the U.S. and Mexican governments for their efforts to find her and ending with a special thank-you to the man who risked his life to save hers.

  “Words will never fully express my gratitude for all you did to get me safely home,” she said, trying to stop the shaking of her voice. Then she looked straight into the CNN camera, hoping Zach would see it. “You are my hero.”

  Being on the other end of the microphone was more intimidating than she’d imagined, flashes like strobe lights, microphones and digital recorders mere inches from her face, the press of so many people on her property unnerving.

  In the end, she called Kat who called Tessa who called Julian, who came to get her in an unmarked police car, clearing her driveway with flashing lights and a few blasts from his siren and pulling into her empty garage.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked when she climbed into the car, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Okay, I think.”

  He reached over, put a hand on her arm. “I read the articles, heard what Hunter and Rossiter had to say, and I’m blown away by what you did—Natalie the Ninja. And this McBride, too. The man knows his shit. I wasn’t able to come to Arizona, but I’ve got your back here. If you need anything, you call me.”

  She gave him a smile. “Thanks, Julian. That’s very kind of you.”

  He backed out of the driveway, tinted windows giving her some privacy as reporters moved in with cameras. Then he drove her to the airport, staying nearby while she picked up her car, then followed her back into the city, flashing his lights in farewell.

  She had to wade through a crowd of reporters in front of the paper, then entered the building to the sound of applause, coworkers she didn’t even know cheering as she made her way across the lobby to the elevator. Upstairs, the newsroom was filled with balloons and streamers, a bouquet of flowers at her desk along with dozens and dozens of cards mailed from all over the United States by people who’d heard of her kidnapping and had written to the paper, offering comfort, prayers, and even condolences, assuming that she was dead.

  “We set them here because we told ourselves you would make it back to read them. And here you are.” Sophie gave her a big hug, tears in her eyes. “I can’t tell you how relieved we all were when Marc called and told me they’d found you.”

  “Thank you all so much for your help—and for this.” She gestured toward the flowers.

  Joaquin came up behind them. “I got something for you, Natalie. I drove all the way to Lakewood and back for these.”

  Natalie turned and saw him holding a large paper bag that had several grease spots on it. She didn’t have to open the bag to know what it was. She recognized the mouthwatering scent. She’d been trying to find good beignets in Denver ever since she’d moved here. “Thank you, Joaquin. Where on God’s green earth did you find these?”

  “Went online, found a little Cajun restaurant in Lakewood off Union.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m just so happy you’re home.”

  “Beignets. That’s a kind of Cajun fry bread, right?” Kat’s smile let Natalie know she was joking. She knew what beignets were. “They smell wonderful.”

  “Excellent.” Matt peered over the desk, a predatory look on his face. “I didn’t have time for breakfast.”

  They sat together, enjoying the beignets with coffee, the conversation taking random turns. The Rockies’ latest victory over the Dodgers. The new appliances Sophie and Marc had bought for their new house. The upcoming Quinceañera of Joaquin’s oldest niece. The Denver metro area’s current heat wave.

  “You think this is hot?” Natalie shook her head. “Try the Sonoran Desert.”

  She found herself overcome by the strangeness of this ordinary moment—to be sitting here, drinking coffee and eating pastries with her friends when just a few days ago she’d thought she’d never see them again.

  Then Holly came down the hallway wearing a fitted short suit—jacket, cream-colored silk top, shorts, strappy high heels, bright stripes of yellow eye shadow on
her lids. She was the only woman Natalie knew who could pull off high-fashion clothes and makeup. Her flawless figure, striking face, and platinum blond hair helped, of course.

  “You’re back!” She skipped over to Natalie and gave her a hug. “I read the interview this morning. All I can say is—God, that smells good!”

  “Please, try one,” Natalie offered. “They’re beignets. We had these for breakfast every Sunday morning when I was a child.”

  Holly backed away, warily eyeing the beignets. “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Oh, come on, Bradshaw.” Matt put one on a paper plate and held it out for her. “One beignet won’t make you fat.”

  Holly hesitated for a moment, then took the plate, picked up the powdered sugar–coated pastry, took a tiny bite—and moaned.

  Then everyone’s head came up, and Matt, who’d been half sitting on Natalie’s desk, got to his feet. Natalie turned to see Tom walking toward them.

  “Welcome back, Benoit. Let’s bring the goodies to the conference room so we can get our meeting under way.”

  ZACH SAT IN one of the back conference rooms watching CNN, having just finished another so-called debriefing. No matter what channel he watched, she was there. She looked amazing for someone who’d been in the middle of the desert only yesterday evening—pretty dress, cute pearl earrings, calm, composed features. But he could tell she’d been nervous when she’d given her statement this morning.

  He was so caught up in her face that it took him a moment to realize she was talking directly to him at the end.

  “Words will never fully express my gratitude for all you did to get me safely home. You are my hero.”

  He was nobody’s fucking hero.

  He changed channels. Fox. MSNBC. The local news. But there she was again, looking directly into the camera, those beautiful eyes of hers gazing into his.

  “You are my hero.”