He laughed. “Nice. Le vas a gustar al Jefe.” The boss will like you.
Natalie ignored him.
Apparently thinking she hadn’t understood him, he translated his words into English, this time thrusting with his pelvis to show exactly what he meant. “He will like you very much. And then . . . Él te sacrificará a Santa Muerte.”
The words were close enough to English that Natalie understood.
He will sacrifice you to La Santa Muerte.
Saint Death?
Chills skittered down Natalie’s spine. Was that his way of saying that this Cárdenas was going to kill her? She looked up to see the guard pointing to the strange skeleton tattooed onto his forearm. Then he drew his finger across his throat in a gesture that needed no explanation.
He smiled, exposing missing teeth. “La Santa Muerte.”
And Natalie understood. The image on his arm wasn’t just a tattoo. It was an icon of sorts, like a dark saint, a saint of death. And he believed Cárdenas meant to sacrifice her to it.
Another long, strangled cry.
The last bit of tortilla that Natalie still held in her hand fell onto her plate.
Kidnapping. Torture. Human sacrifice to skeleton saints.
It might have been a hundred degrees in the shade, but Natalie felt ice-cold.
She hugged her arms around herself, shivering, her gazed locked on the macabre tattoo with its grinning skull. Then the door to the church burst open, and the Zeta whose nose she’d broken hurried over to them, shouting something in urgent tones to the one guarding her, both of his eyes blackened, his nose swollen.
Natalie was jerked to her feet, her plate and the empty Coke bottle falling to the ground. The one with the broken nose raised a hand, and she thought he was going to strike her again. Instead, his fingers dug into her arms and dragged her toward the church.
CHAPTER 4
ZACH HUNG LIMPLY from the manacles, unable even to hold up his head. His shoulders ached from supporting his deadweight, manacles biting into his bloody wrists. But none of that could compare to the residual pain of that last electroshock. His muscles seized in sharp spasms, his heart slamming erratically in his chest, his body shaking, his mouth filled with the coppery taste of his own blood.
Don’t give in to the pain. Adjust for it.
He willed himself to relax, slowed his breathing.
Cold water splashed over his chest, making him jerk. It wasn’t to revive him, he knew, but to make his skin more conductive to electricity. He waited for the next blast of agony, but instead felt a glass bottle against his lips. A hand fisted in his hair, tilting his head back, and he swallowed, warm cola sliding down his raw, parched throat.
Electrolytes. Caffeine. Calories.
All would help him stay alive.
Then his tormenter spoke to him, as always in Spanish. “You are dying, cuñado. And for what? You are alone now, forgotten, left without even a dog to bark at you. Tell us who has the cocaine and where we can find them. Then your torment will end. There will be no more pain, only sleep.”
Zach fought off a wave of despair. “¡Vete a la verga!” Fuck off!
The bastard chuckled, but Zach knew he wasn’t really amused. They’d tried to break him and had failed. There’d be a price to pay when Cárdenas got the news.
Creaking hinges. Footsteps.
And Zach knew she was there. He could feel her presence, hear her rapid breathing. Hell, he could even smell her, something sweet in a world of filth.
Natalie.
“Tráela aquí.” Bring her over here.
What the hell?
Zach’s head came up. Somehow, he drew himself to his feet, his hands clenched around the chains for support, his heart thudding hard in his chest. Why had they brought her in here? Were they going to torture her to get to him?
Over my dead body.
“Zach?” There was fear in her voice, but also sympathy, concern.
He shook his head, his sign to her to keep quiet, hoping she’d remembered what he’d told her earlier. If they thought he cared what happened to her, if they thought he’d told her anything . . .
An arm went around his shoulder. “You are a brave man. No one has ever lasted so long against my little stinger, so I’ll offer you a better way out. Tell us where the coke is, and you can have the girl. We’ll take off these chains, give you some food and a little coke to make you strong, sí? Then you can fuck her till your prick gives out. And when you’re done, you get one bullet to the head. Fast, painless—and you die happy. If you do not, your suffering will be such that those who find what is left of your body will lie awake at night weeping for you.”
Zach might have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so serious. Having failed to break him with pain, they were now trying to bribe him with rape. They were only bluffing, of course. They had no intention of giving him their Jefe’s prize. But if he played along with them, if he could persuade them to unchain him . . .
He pretended to consider the offer. “¿Es bonita?” Is she pretty?
Rough hands tore off his blindfold.
“!Mira sus tetas!” Just look at her tits!
Unaccustomed to light he blinked, squinted—and quickly assessed the situation. He was in a small room with a halfdozen armed Zetas. There were two small windows and only one door. Wooden chairs sat around an old table littered with dirty dishes and half-empty bottles of tequila. A couple of AKs leaned up against the wall to his right.
You’d give your left nut for one of those, wouldn’t you, man?
He sure as hell would.
In front of him, a truck battery sat on a rolling cart, two electrical cables dropped on the floor near his feet. The sight made him shudder, dread mixing with rage in his gut.
Little stinger?
Beside the cart, two Zetas held a struggling young woman between them, while a third unbuttoned her blouse, laughing to himself. Bastards. Knowing he couldn’t risk showing emotion, he met Natalie’s gaze.
His heart seemed to stop. His mind went blank. And he stared.
She looked pleadingly up at him through the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen, their irises an unusual shade of aqua blue. Her features were delicate, her otherwise flawless skin marred by dark bruises and smudges of dirt. Her dark brown hair—why had he imagined her as a blonde?—hung in thick tangles past her shoulders. She couldn’t have been more than five-foot-four or an ounce over one-twenty.
The protective urge that welled up inside him took him by surprise, and he actually took a step toward her, until chains and pain reminded him where he was—and in what condition. Then her blouse fell to the floor, followed by a lacy, white bra, revealing two beautiful, natural breasts.
A low whistle. A groan.
“¡Oye, mamacita, que buena estás!” Oh, baby, you are fine!
The testosterone level in the room surged, and for a moment Zach was afraid the Zetas’ lust for Natalie would overcome their fear of Cárdenas.
The one with a long scar—the electrical specialist who’d turned Zach’s life into a living hell—walked over to stand behind Natalie, then reached around, drew her back against him, and grabbed her breasts, hands that enjoyed cruelty manhandling sensitive flesh.
“¡Chécalo, güey—las chichis perfectas¡” Check it out, dude—perfect boobs.
Zach felt his teeth grind, seeing only the emotion on Natalie’s face—fear, revulsion, pain. Her gaze locked with his as if eye contact were the one thing keeping her shattered world together. She probably didn’t understand what was happening or why they were doing this to her. He wished he could reassure her.
Instead, he was about to make it all much worse.
Stay strong, angel.
TRYING TO BLOCK out what was being done to her, Natalie clung to the encouragement in Zach’s eyes. He had gray eyes, deeply set beneath dark brows and fringed with long lashes. Hollows in his cheeks accented high cheekbones, his square jaw and strong chin covered with a week’s growth of da
rk stubble. His mouth was broad, his lips unusually full. They curved into a slight smile she knew was meant to bolster her.
But behind the smile, she could see he was suffering.
By far the tallest and most physically powerful man in the room, he stood with his arms chained to the ceiling, his wrists bleeding and raw from the manacles. His bare skin was wet, red blotches on his chest and abdomen where they’d shocked him. There was a dark bruise on his left side and dark circles beneath his eyes, his face bruised and lined with pain and exhaustion, his short, dark hair tousled. His bare feet were set wide apart for balance, water in a puddle beneath him, electrical cables dangerously near.
The Zeta who was groping her said something, his hands rough as he squeezed her, kneaded her, pinched her nipples.
Then Zach replied. “No hay trato. Quítame las cadenas, y dame una hora para chingarla. Luego te diré dónde encontrar la cocaína.”
Natalie understood only part of what he said, but it was enough to send blood rushing to her head.
Give me an hour to fuck her . . . I’ll tell you where to find the cocaine.
He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it.
Stunned, she stared into his eyes, looking for some sign that he was pretending, but seeing only lust.
He broke eye contact, licked his lips, his gaze raking over her, coming to rest on her breasts, his mouth twisting in a crude grin. “Me gustaría jugar con esas.”
He was talking about her breasts.
Her heart gave a hard knock. “Wh-what are you saying?”
But Zach ignored her. He was arguing with Sr. Scar Face, who quit groping her—thank God!—and began shouting in rapid Spanish. Zach answered calmly, giving a little tug on his chains and motioning toward Natalie with a jerk of his head. And although Natalie couldn’t understand more than a phrase or two, she knew their disagreement revolved around whether Zach would give up the location of the stolen cocaine before or after they unchained him and let him have her.
Then Sr. Scar Face reached up and grabbed Zach by the throat, his voice going cold and deadly quiet, each word enunciated clearly. “¿Dónde está la cocaína?” Where is the cocaine?
The room fell silent.
Zach laughed, winced as if laughing hurt, then answered in Spanish.
Sr. Scar Face glowered at him and shouted something to the other Zetas. As abruptly as her blouse and bra had been removed, they were shoved into her hands. She turned her back on the men to dress, her fingers fumbling as she tried to fasten her bra clasp and buttons, angry shouts filling the little room.
When she turned around again, Zach was blindfolded once more. Confused, afraid, she wanted answers. “Zach, what—”
He turned his face toward her, a black bandana tied tightly over his eyes. “Go, Natalie! Go, and don’t ask questions!”
The Zeta with the skeleton tattoo grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door, but not before she saw Sr. Scar Face pick up the electric cables and move in on Zach.
She heard her own voice shout in protest. “Stop it! Please don’t—”
Then a hand closed roughly over her mouth, and she was dragged out the door, Zach’s agonized cry following her back to her cell.
NATALIE PRESSED THE joint of her left handcuff against the mortar and scraped as hard as she could. It was so dark she couldn’t see, but she knew she was making progress, mortar crumbling like sand and falling over her fingers to the floor. If she could scrape away the mortar and remove the bricks around the metal plate that held the latch, she might be able to open her cell door and escape. At the very least, she had to try.
If she didn’t find a way out of here, she would have to endure a lot worse than just a man’s filthy, repulsive hands on her breasts.
She scraped back and forth until her arms ached and she was out of breath, then rested for a few minutes and started again, oblivious to anything that crept or crawled in the darkness, a part of her listening for Zach’s quiet moans—proof that he was still alive. They’d brought him back about twenty minutes ago, two Zetas dragging his unconscious body between them, and although she’d called his name, he hadn’t responded.
What if he doesn’t wake up?
He would wake up. He had to wake up.
She would never forget the sight of him, blindfolded and chained from the ceiling, his body twisting in agony as electricity shot through him. She couldn’t fathom how he had endured that for a single hour, let alone six days.
All for some stupid cocaine.
His suffering dwarfed her own. Even so, she’d never felt more violated in her life, the sickening sensation of that man’s hands cupping and squeezing her breasts leaving her nauseated. Even worse had been the expressions on the men’s faces—even Zach’s. They’d made her feel dirty, degraded, less than human, like a sexual toy to be played with and eventually broken. Oh, how she wanted a bath!
At least they didn’t torture you, too.
That’s what she’d thought they planned to do when they’d brought her into the church. She would probably never know exactly what had happened in that room—why they’d brought her in, why they’d stripped off her blouse and bra, why Sr. Scar Face had groped her, displaying her to Zach like a piece of meat, why Zach had looked at her the way he had or said the things he’d said. They’d been trying to make a deal—information about the cocaine Zach had stolen in return for sex with her. Although part of her wanted to believe that Zach had been pretending, that he’d been playing along in hopes of escaping, she’d realized she knew nothing about him besides the fact that he’d stolen cocaine. And as she’d sat in the dark, unable to keep herself from hearing his cries, the stark reality of her situation had become clear.
If she wanted to live, she had to find a way to escape.
She certainly had nothing to lose by trying. The worst the Zetas could do was kill her, but Cárdenas was going to do that anyway. She might as well fight them with everything she had. At least then she’d have a chance.
That’s when it had dawned on her that their little prison was made of the same crumbling adobe bricks as the houses. She’d tested it, scraping it with the edge of her handcuffs, her heart soaring when the mortar turned easily to dust. Then she’d looked around for the quickest and surest way out and had gone to work.
Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner?
Though she was making progress, it was slow going. If they came for Zach again, if they caught her, if Cárdenas came for her before she was finished . . .
Don’t go there, girl. Worrying won’t help.
Her mind kept drifted back to Zach—and what it would mean for both of them if she left him behind.
You can’t take him with you. You might not have time to break him out, too.
She might not. But to leave him here to suffer and die?
You don’t know him. You can’t trust him. He’s a criminal.
Yes, he was. But could she turn her back on him? She knew from the way he’d tried to comfort her that there was kindness in him. Besides, no man deserved to suffer as he had.
He told you to do whatever you had to do to survive. He would understand.
He might understand, but would she be able to live with herself? Or would she hear those terrible cries for the rest of her life?
You could escape and tell the authorities about him. They could come and rescue him.
Yes, if he wasn’t already dead by then.
Don’t worry about it now. You have to get out of your cell first.
If she got through this, she was going to live her life to the fullest. She was going to go dancing and date and spend more time with her I-Team friends. She was going to take art classes and learn how to ski. She was going to learn to make beignets just like her Tante Evangeline had made them.
If she got through this.
She paused again to rest, her shoulders and neck aching, a thin layer of dust coating her skin, her teeth, her throat. “Zach? Can you hear me?”
Silence.
She went back to scraping.
NATALIE LOST ALL sense of time after that, though it seemed to her it must be after midnight. Loud music drifted across the courtyard together with the sound of men’s and women’s laughter. The Zetas had gone to town for some prostitutes—those poor women!—and were having a party.
She had managed to remove one small brick so far and was close to removing another, when the steel of her cuffs hit something hard. At first she thought it was the iron of the latch. Her pulse picking up, she ran her fingers over it, only to realize it had a different texture than the adobe—and was much harder.
Concrete.
Her stomach fell, and she sagged against the wall, fighting back a cry.
No! Please no!
As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew it was true. When they’d installed the doors, they’d reinforced the wall with concrete because the original mortar was so weak. The latch, the hinges—they were probably all reinforced with concrete.
It’s okay, girl. It’s okay. It just means you have to take out more bricks.
She would have to remove all the bricks around the concrete, too. Which meant it would take much longer—perhaps longer than she had.
Fighting hopelessness and panic, she scraped furiously. Then she felt something catch, and her left elbow flew back, hitting the wall behind her. It wasn’t until she reached over with her right hand to rub her funny bone that she realized her left wrist was free.
ZACH LAY WITH his face in the dirt, thirsty and weak from blood loss, the pain in his back excruciating, the sat phone broken. But that didn’t matter. He’d completed the call. Support was on its way—probably a chopper full of pissed-off SEALs and Army Night Stalkers.
The guys would be okay. He might not get out alive, but his element would.
From down in the valley came the sound of three M4s and one HK MP5 firing.
Give ’em hell, boys.
Blood loss making him desperately thirsty, Zach raised his head, prayed to God his pack was within reach—and then he saw. His body went cold.