Breaking Point

  He still couldn’t fucking believe these bastards had cut off Darcangelo’s thumb. He hoped McBride killed every last one of them.

  “If we can get this bird to hover above her, I’ll rappel and send her up,” Rossiter called up to the pilot. He was already roped in, harness around his waist, a pack of paramedic supplies on his back.

  “Are you kidding? I’m catching gusts of sixty knots.” The pilot worked the cyclic, sweat on his face. Joaquin focused on his worried facial expression, adjusted for glare from the window and clicked. “See that obstacle indicator rod with the red flashing light on the roof? The wind is whipping it all over the goddamned place. If I get too close, it will hit the helo or the propeller, and it will be lights out for all of us.”

  “You know what they say,” Marc said to the SWAT guys behind him. “Planes want to fly. Helos want to crash.”

  The man laughed, but Joaquin didn’t like the sound of that.

  The camera came down.

  He looked out the window at the rod and at Natalie, who now looked over her shoulder up at them, her soaked hair plastered to her face. “You can’t just leave her there. Rope me in. I’ll go down if no one else—”

  Hunter grabbed his shirt, drew his face close. “We’re not going to leave her there. We just have to find a way to get to her that won’t get us all killed.”

  And Joaquin realized Hunter was as upset as he was at the idea that they might not be able to reach her.

  “Have you got a thing for her, Ramirez?” Rossiter organized the rope between his legs and crossed the small, cramped space to stand near the door, checking his harness and straps. “Hate to break it to you, but she is crazy in love with McBride.”

  Joaquin glared at him. He would never in a million years admit to anyone that he’d signed on to the Mexico trip hoping the time away would start something between him and Natalie. “I just think she’s been through enough, you know?”

  Rossiter nodded. “That is a true fact.”

  The nose of the chopper dipped to give the pilot a better view, Natalie below them and to their left. She tried to get up on her hands and knees, then got caught in a gust. The wind pushed her several inches. She flattened herself out again, her fingers splayed wide, seeking friction on the slick surface.

  “Shit!” Hunter paled. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t do that again.”

  The pilot looked down at her. “I’ll try to hold it here. Be quick.”

  Rossiter checked his straps again, then picked up a coil of rope and draped it over one shoulder. “Just lower me down. I’ll stay with her and listen in on my earpiece. When you move in, I’ll be in position to enter through one of the upstairs windows or perhaps the patio.”

  Hunter raised an eyebrow. “You’ll be a team of one.”

  “I can handle that.”

  Hunter gave him a slap on the shoulder. “Okay, rock jock, we’ll do it your way. Just keep her safe. She’s your number one priority.”

  “Got it.”

  Then Hunter and Rossiter frowned, sharing an ominous glance, both pressing a finger to their earpieces.

  Hunter explained. “SWAT reached the vehicle with the flat tire. They opened the trunk and found lots of blood, but they haven’t found Darcangelo. They say it looks like he pushed the backseats down and climbed out on his own.”

  Then the pilot called back to them. “It’s now or never.”

  Hunter helped Rossiter open the door, wind and rain spilling in.

  Having almost forgotten that he was supposed to be taking photos, Joaquin shifted position, adjusted his settings, and started clicking off shots, as the winch slowly lowered Rossiter through the air toward Natalie. But Rossiter had gone only about a dozen feet when the helo lurched, making the rope swing like a pendulum, out over the street, then back over the roof.

  The pilot struggled to regain control, holding the cyclic in a death grip, his knuckles white. “I can’t hold this. I’ve got to get us out of here!”

  Hunter spoke into his mouthpiece. “Rossiter, the pilot says we have to go. We’re winching you up. We’ll have to try another—”

  “What the fuck is he doing?” one of the other SWAT guys asked.

  Joaquin lowered the camera, missing the shot of the century as Rossiter unbuckled his harness and let himself fall, backpack and all, to the roof. He landed more or less on his feet, then pitched forward onto his abdomen and started crawling toward Natalie, rope still over his shoulder, the heavy, rubberized soles of his SWAT boots apparently offering enough traction to keep him from slipping.

  “Son of a bitch!” Hunter stared. “I fucking hate it when he does shit like that. That man has a supernatural relationship with gravity.”

  “Yeah.” That was all Joaquin could manage, his mouth dry, his stomach somewhere down on the street below.

  “That fucker’s crazy!” The pilot’s face was white as a sheet.

  “It’s the bionic leg,” Hunter muttered. “Just stabilize this bird and help me find a way to get us onto that rooftop patio.”

  “You’re crazy, too,” the pilot mumbled.

  Then the chopper moved forward, gaining altitude and speed, heading into the wind, leaving Rossiter and Natalie behind.

  HEART STILL POUNDING, Natalie watched over her shoulder, barely able to breathe as Gabe moved toward her, slowed down by the periodic gust. It probably took him less than a minute to reach her, but it felt like an eternity. “Y-you’re n-nuts!”

  “You’re welcome.” He grinned, covering her body with his, his weight pinning her to the rooftop, offering some warmth and stopping the backward slide she’d been fighting for what felt like hours now. Then he drew off his pack and pulled out what looked like a climbing harness. “Now, listen up. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “WHAT WAS THAT?”

  Through a haze of pain, Zach listened to the muted thrum of the helo’s rotors as it disappeared in the distance, hoping to God that Natalie was safely aboard that bird.

  Every man in the room looked up.

  “They’re on the roof.” Wulfe motioned to two of his men. “Get rid of them.”

  Two men ran out onto the patio, squinting against the rain, heads craning to get a good look at the roof, assault rifles in hand.

  Zach’s pulse spiked. If she was still up there . . .

  God, let her be gone!

  Zach fought to keep his fear off his face. “You’re out of time, Wulfe. You’ve lost. Your only hope is to get the hell out of here while you can. Hey, maybe Quintana will let you stay on his couch. You should ask him.”

  Wulfe looked down at Zach, his calm façade impenetrable. “Oh, don’t worry. My men will take out the officers on the roof. The streets of Lower Downtown are flooded, cars stalled everywhere, so it’s going to take the rest of SWAT a while to get here. Then they’ll want to evacuate the building, study the problem, come up with a plan. Do you know what SWAT stands for? Stand, Wait, And Talk. We have some time.”

  Flooded streets?

  So that’s what was keeping Hunter and Rossiter.

  “My lucky day.”

  Wulfe smiled. “I don’t want to kill you, McBride. Of course, I must, but I regret that. You’re a true hero. Ah, yes, I see it surprises you that I value such qualities. But I do. You’re a former SEAL, a Medal of Honor recipient. Men with your strength, skill, and dedication are rare. You’re worth a hundred of my men.”

  Zach gave a snort. “Forgive me if I don’t see that as a compliment.”

  Wulfe’s smile grew thin. “If Arturo hadn’t been so inept, you’d still be out there, doing your job. But he allowed himself to be manipulated by the Interpol operative into believing you’d stolen cocaine. Then he had his men kidnap Ms. Benoit rather than simply terminating her on that bus, as I’d ordered him to do. Naturally, you felt obliged to help her, led by your cock, no doubt. And here we are.”

  So Wulfe had ordered Cárdenas to kill Natalie. Cárdenas must have seen her photo online and le
t his lust for her get the better of him. He’d had his men kidnap Natalie, planning to carry out Wulfe’s orders—but only after he’d used her in his sick way.

  “So Los Zetas usually do what you tell them to do?”

  Wulfe’s chin went up. “I am Los Zetas. I made them powerful, wealthy. Cárdenas was one of a handful of men who’ve run the organization for me.”

  That was an interesting bit of information.

  Zach hoped he lived to share it. He stalled for time. “What made you sell out, Ed? Do you mind if I call you Ed? Was it money? Power? Did someone at the Pentagon sleep with your wife?”

  But Wulfe ignored the taunts. “Make things easier for yourself. I have no desire to see you suffer, so spare yourself unnecessary pain and answer the questions.”

  Zach laughed. “Maybe that rubber bullet scrambled my brains, but I don’t see how answering questions that betray my mission so that I can be killed sooner and die with a guilty conscience makes anything easier for me.”

  Wulfe leaned in. “Where did you send Ms. Benoit?”

  “Disneyland.”

  “Who knows about my connection to the Zetas?”

  “The U.S. Marshal Service, SWAT, my dentist, Oprah—”

  “How did you know we were coming? Clearly, someone tipped you off.”

  “That guy.” Zach pointed with a jerk of his head toward one of Wulfe’s minions. The man looked uncertainly at Wulfe, taking a step backward. “He texted me just before you stepped into the elevator.”

  Without a word, Wulfe stepped aside for Quintana, who moved in, holding the severed cord from an electrical lamp in his hand. Cut from the lamp’s base, it was still plugged into the wall, the bare wires capable of delivering raw current that was far more powerful than the truck battery and excruciatingly painful.

  Zach met Quintana’s gaze. “Don’t you ever get bored with this?”

  Electricity poured through him like liquid agony, setting every nerve on fire. His body arched, his muscles going into spasms, a cry tearing itself from between his clenched teeth.

  Then Quintana stepped back, leaving Zach shaking, breathless, wanting to puke. Strangely he found the pain easier to bear now than he had two weeks ago. Perhaps it was just that he’d been through this before. Or perhaps it was the fact that his pain was buying time for the woman he loved.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t he told Natalie he loved her when he’d had the chance? It would’ve taken only a few seconds. What the hell had he been afraid of?

  And all at once it hit him—regret as deep and wide as the ocean.

  Natalie.

  If he died today, she would never know what she meant to him. If he died, he would never even get a shot at building a life with her, of knowing what it was like to come home every night and find someone waiting for him. Hell, he wouldn’t even know whether he’d gotten her pregnant.

  Then don’t die, McBride.

  Right.

  He raised his head and looked into Wulfe’s eyes, ready to answer at least one question. “Do you really think you can kill us all? SWAT knows. Denver PD knows. The newspaper knows. The Marshal Service and FBI know. All of my documents and hers have been uploaded to encrypted accounts. If you kill us, someone else will follow. It’s over, Wulfe. Turn yourself in, and I’ll argue for leniency.”

  Wulfe’s nostrils flared—an adrenaline response. He stepped aside and motioned Quintana forward again.

  Zach gave a weak laugh. “What did I do? I answered your question, offered to help you out, and you fry me for that? You know what, Ed? You suck.”

  Just then the two men who’d run onto the patio returned. “There’s no one on the roof, but SWAT is down in the street. They’ve set up a staging area around the block and have all the entry points to the building covered.”

  No one on the roof.

  Thank God!

  Relief washed through Zach, a balm for the lingering pain, both physical and emotional. He might not live through this day, but Natalie was safe.

  Quintana moved in on him.

  WET AND CHILLED to the bone, Natalie slipped through the bathroom window, having had more than her fill of heights. She reached for the floor with her bare feet while Gabe slowly lowered her down, then she stood there shivering. He followed her, his feet landing silently on the marble floor.

  The room had been torn apart, the shower curtain slashed, the shelves emptied, skin cream, shampoo, and conditioner dumped on the floor. Beyond the door, bodies lay in the hallway, blood on the walls and floor. Was it Zach’s blood?

  Her stomach churned.

  From the living room, she could hear men’s voices. She strained to listen and thought she heard Zach.

  Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

  Was he hurt? Was he even still alive? And what about Julian?

  “They’ve already searched here, so I think you’ll be safe. Get into the bathtub. The steel will halt most stray rounds.” Gabe unfastened her harness and pressed a pistol into her hands. “Use this for self-defense only. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe. Not a sound!”

  Natalie nodded and did as he asked, her limbs stiff from the cold. She’d gained a new respect for Gabe today. Realizing that Wulfe and his men had probably heard him hit the roof, he’d quickly put her in a harness, roped her in, then fixed the rope around the base of the lighted metal pole that warned airplanes away and dangled her—yes, dangled her—off the edge, more than two hundred feet of air beneath her.

  Then, while she hung there, dizzy, her heart in her throat, he’d crept along a narrow steel ledge with no protection, to keep an eye on the patio, waiting for Wulfe’s men, who had, indeed, come out to check, to go back inside. When they’d gone, he’d made his way back to her, then used the rope to rappel to the bathroom window.

  A man’s agonized cry silenced her thoughts.

  Zach!

  She squeezed her eyes shut, a sick feeling swelling inside her at the sound of his suffering. It had been hard enough to hear when they’d been in Mexico and she’d barely known him. But she loved him now. To know they were hurting him . . .

  From beside the tub, she heard Gabe speak quietly into his mouthpiece. “They’re going to kill him! Let me help him!”

  Zach’s cry fell into silence.

  A man’s raised voice: “For the last time, McBride—where is she?”

  This was followed by a moment of silence—and then another agonized cry.

  They were torturing him over her.

  She opened her eyes, looked up at Gabe. “I have to do something!”

  “If you care about Zach, then stay here and stay alive!”

  “I can’t stand to hear him suffer! You don’t know what you’re asking of me!”

  Gabe leaned in until his face was inches from hers, his gaze hard. “Yes, I do.”

  And Natalie remembered that he’d been forced to listen, drugged and bounded, while a murdering sociopath had brutalized Kat. Now she understood just how terrible that had been for him. She might have said something had he not turned away from her, whispering fiercely into his microphone, his fingertips against his earpiece.

  “I’m giving you two minutes, then I move whether you’re here or not. Fuck you, Hunter! You’re not my boss. He is, and they’re fucking killing him! Stand by? Christ! Hurry the fuck up!”

  From downstairs came another rending cry.

  “I’VE GOT TWO officers up there who are injured, maybe even dead, and I’ve got another officer and an innocent woman who are in danger of becoming dead, and you refuse to fly? What the hell kind of pilot did DPD stick us with?”

  “One who seriously needs to grow a pair,” Joaquin muttered under his breath, unable to hide his contempt. He shot a few frames as Marc moved in on the chopper pilot, towering over him with his six-foot-plus frame, the helicopter sitting idle in the sodden park grass behind them.

  “I’m just the traffic guy. I help bust speeders on the open highway. With all the skyscrapers, those buildin
gs all so close together, the wind.” The pilot backed up, crossed his arms over his chest, and tucked his hands into his armpits. “It’s not safe to fly.”

  “I’m a helicopter pilot.” A SWAT officer who’d been standing nearby held out his hand. “Clifton from Boulder County SWAT. I can get us up there.”

  Marc shook the man’s hand. “What kind of experience do you have?”

  “I did six years with Army Airborne flying missions in Afghan—”

  “Good.” Marc slapped him on the shoulder. “I want four volunteers ready to fly in two minutes. Let’s do some combat-style snipe-and-rappel with this bird.”

  “You can’t take my chopper!” The pilot stood glaring, redfaced, at Marc. “I’m responsible for this machine.”

  “Not any longer.” Marc pulled out his badge case, showed the ID, then flipped to the shiny star. “Special Deputy U.S. Marshal Marc Hunter. I’m commandeering the use of your helo.”

  The pilot’s face grew even redder, then he turned and stomped away.

  Joaquin met Marc’s gaze. “I think you enjoyed that.”

  “You’re damned right I did.” Marc grinned.

  But his smile couldn’t mask the worry in his eyes.

  COLD SWEAT SPILLING down his temples, Zach fought to catch his breath, his heart beating erratically, flailing in his chest. Another blast like that and he was a goner.

  Quintana shook his head as if his heart were no longer in his work. He turned to Wulfe, speaking in a heavy Spanish accent. “He’s not going to break. I’ve been through this with him. Kill him now and go—or bring him with us and let me find his weakness.”

  “She is his weakness, and she isn’t here. I’m betting he put her on the roof, and that chopper we heard was SWAT retrieving her.” Wulfe drew a deep breath. “You’re right. There’s no further point in this. Finish him.”