Breaking Point

  And how many of your SEAL teammates did you try to kiss?

  Ignoring that stupid question, he stood back, his gaze moving over the embankment, searching for any sign he might have missed—a shoe print, an overturned rock, obvious swish marks. Satisfied, he walked backward under the bridge, rubbing out his footprints as he went and assuring himself that he’d done just as thorough a job of rubbing out any inappropriate impulses he might have had toward Natalie.

  When he reached the car, she was sound asleep, her lashes dark on her cheeks, her lips relaxed, an empty water bottle perched in her slender fingers. A sensation of warmth spread inside his chest.

  Oh, McBride, you are in such deep shit.

  He slid quietly into the driver’s seat, felt her forehead and was relieved to find it cooler. Then he settled his rifle at his side, took the empty bottle from her, and, helpless to stop himself, watched her sleep.

  HELL, YEAH, HE’LL come after us with a helo.

  His men are hunting us. They’ll come after us in a helo.

  Hell, yeah, he’ll come after us.

  In a helicopter.

  A helicopter.

  Natalie jerked awake on a jolt of adrenaline, only to find that she hadn’t been dreaming. From somewhere overhead came the deep whir of chopper. And it was getting nearer.

  “Easy, Natalie.” Zach sat beside her in the driver’s seat.

  “They don’t know we’re here. They’re just coming in for a closer look.”

  Heart thudding, she sat upright. “How do you know it’s the Zetas?”

  “They passed over once already at a higher altitude. I can’t imagine anyone else wanting to circle back to get a closer look at this bridge. Time to move. Come on.”

  Her mind fogged by sleep, Natalie had no idea what he meant. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re getting out of the car and into position just in case they land.” AK-47 in hand, he climbed out, then retrieved a bag of gear from the backseat.

  She followed him, scrambling up the embankment to where it met the underside of the bridge, crouching down beside him and watching as he opened the duffel bag and drew out weapons one at a time. He checked each one as he went, talking quickly, his hoarse voice taking on an almost businesslike tone.

  “If they land, we’ll have no choice but to engage them. I’ll be at that side of the bridge, trying to take them out as they disembark.” He pointed to his right. “Your job is to stay here and keep an eye on the other side in case someone escapes my fire and tries to circle around that way. The objective is simple—shoot to kill. There could be as many as seven of them, so we’re outnumbered. But we have the tactical advantage.”

  There wasn’t time to ask what he meant by that.

  He handed her an AK-47 and a pistol. “The AK is on full auto. Just hold down the trigger and spray back and forth. And you remember how to use the pistol?”

  Natalie stared down at the heavy weapons in her hands, a sense of unreality coming over her. Was this ever going to end? “Yes, but I . . .”

  The helicopter seemed to beat down on them now.

  Zach tucked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his. “You didn’t bring this on yourself, Natalie, but you’re in it now. You’re going to have to stand strong if you want to get home again. Understand?”

  There was no reproach in his eyes, only concern, his dark eyebrows knit together in a frown, his voice as reassuring as it had been when she’d been locked in that cell.

  She drew a deep breath, tried to force her fear aside. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  But he didn’t go. Instead, he lowered his head—and kissed her.

  It was barely a brushing of lips, and it lasted for only a second. But for that brief second the world disappeared. There was no helicopter. There were no Zetas. There was only Zach and the shock of his lips against hers. And then it was over. Astonished, Natalie stared after him as he hurried away, his head bent low, duffel bag in hand.

  He kissed you, girl.

  So she hadn’t imagined it earlier. When he’d been helping her to cool off, she’d opened her eyes to find him leaning over her, his lips so close to hers and . . .

  But now the helicopter was on top of them, and there was time to think of nothing else. To her right, Zach got into position, lying on his belly, his head toward the top of the embankment, his legs spread wide, toes dug into the dirt. He adjusted something on his AK-47, another rifle at his side, spare magazines tucked in the back of his jeans.

  The seconds crept by.

  The metallic whirring of the chopper’s propeller.

  The thrumming of her own heartbeat.

  The cold weight of a gun in her hand.

  Then the helicopter lifted into the sky, the deep pulse of its rotors disappearing into the distance.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE SUN WAS setting by the time Carlos finally arrived, the western horizon turning a pale shade of yellow. The pavement radiated heat from a day of relentless sun. In the distance, a pack of coyotes yipped and howled.

  Zach had managed to make it through the past few hours without doing anything dangerously stupid—like kissing Natalie again. Not that it had been easy. He could still feel her on his lips, the raw current that had arced between them unlike anything he’d felt before. His body seemed to think that the only cure for this problem was another kiss, but he knew better. He should never have touched her in the first place.

  It’s sexual attraction, McBride.

  And it had him by the balls.

  He cleared his mind, focused on the present, watching as Carlos climbed out of a white VW Jetta Europa and walked toward him.

  “Do you trust him?” The tone of Natalie’s voice told Zach she didn’t.

  Smart woman.

  “Carlos knows better than to double-cross me.” The two pistols Zach had tucked in the back of his jeans were his insurance in case Carlos had forgotten that fact.

  Zach had saved the kid’s life a few years back when Carlos had gotten himself in over his head with a couple of drug smugglers. Since then, Carlos had given up the narco trade and now ran a couple of chop shops. At times, he also served as Zach’s eyes and ears on the streets, a fact that was known only to Zach.

  Wearing a few more gold chains around his neck than the last time Zach had seen him in person, Carlos stopped a good six feet away, his gaze shifting from Zach to Natalie. “¿Quién es la mamacita? ¿Está a la venta, también?” Who’s the babe? Is she for sale, too?

  It was a joke, but it wasn’t a funny one.

  Clearly having understood, Natalie moved sideways to stand behind Zach, her anxious reaction at being discussed like merchandise sparking an almost violent protective response inside Zach. His voice took on a warning tone. “Cuidado, Carlos. Ella está conmigo.” Watch yourself, Carlos. She’s with me.

  Carlos stood up straighter, his gaze snapping back to Zach again, a hint of fear in his eyes. He’d fucked up, and he knew it. “Es exactamente lo que pidió. Las placas son legales. El tanque de gasolina está lleno. Déjeme ver las armas.” It’s exactly what you asked for. The plates are legal. The gas tank is full. Show me the guns.

  Carlos held up the car keys like bait, his gaze drifting to Natalie again.

  Zach dropped the duffel bag of firearms at Carlos’s feet, knowing that if anything could take the bastard’s eyes off her it would be weapons. “Hay seis pistolas y cuatro cuernos de chivo, además de amuniciones.” There are six pistols and four goat horns, plus ammunition.

  Carlos knelt down, opened the bag, then drew out an AK, admiring it and smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, a gold tooth catching what was left of the light. “Me encantan estos pequeños cuernos de chivo.” I just love these little goat horns.

  “Goat horn” was a strange thing to call an assault rifle, but given the curved shape of the magazine, Zach could understand it. Mexican slang was nothing if not colorful.

  “¿Quieres decirme qué está pasando?” Want to tell me what?
??s going on?

  “No.” Zach glanced at the black Chevy Silverado that idled in the distance, waiting to drive Carlos back to town. “Es tu hermano?” Is that your brother?

  “Sí.” Carlos nodded, catching the strap of the duffel bag with his shoulder and starting to rise. “Puedes confiar en él.” You can trust him.

  “No lo hago.” I don’t. Zach put his foot down on the duffel bag, holding it to the ground, almost pulling Carlos off balance in the process. “Las llaves. The keys. Give them to her. Natalie, take the keys, and start the engine.”

  Natalie stepped out from behind him, took the keys from Carlos, whose gaze followed her as she ran to the car.

  Zach lowered his voice and switched back to Spanish. “Get your eyes off her if you want to keep them, amigo.”

  The car’s engine started with a roar.

  Zach lifted his foot off the bag. “Muchísimas gracias.”

  Carlos stood, a grin on his face. “Te debo una.” I owe you big-time.

  Zach knew that the moment he and Natalie were gone, Carlos and his brother would take the Tsuru apart, salvaging everything they could and selling it at a handy profit. If the Zetas came back tomorrow, all they would find was an empty, unrecognizable shell.

  “Gracias.” Zach shouldered the other duffel bag. “Hay te wacho.” See you later.

  Carlos hoisted the bag of arms, turned, and hurried toward his brother’s truck, calling farewell over his shoulder. “Sale y vale.”

  Zach opened the passenger side door, shoved his gear into the back, and climbed into the car. “Turn the car around and head into town.”

  She did as he asked, Carlos and his brother craning to get a look at her as she drove past. “That was illegal. You gave guns to a man who is almost certainly a criminal. How do you know he won’t use them against—”

  Zach didn’t have the energy for this. “I traded weapons for this car because driving around in that one would’ve eventually gotten us both killed. Do you know why the Zetas are called Zetas?”

  “No.”

  “The license plates on all their vehicles start with the letter Z.” He gave that a moment to sink in. “Yes, we could have ditched the plates, but driving around with stolen plates or no plates at all will get you pulled over in Mexico just like it will in the U.S. You might not like my methods, but now we can drive on the highway without getting shot. Any more questions?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Drive.”

  “WHEN WE GET to the junction of 45 and Carretera Federal 10, take the exit and turn west—that’s left.”

  “But that will take us away from Juárez.”

  “We’re not going to Juárez. We’re going to Nuevos Casas Grandes.”

  “Why aren’t we going to Juárez?”

  “Do you ever stop with the questions? We’re not going there because your photograph will have been all over the news. Because the Zetas control much of the city. And because Cárdenas expects us to go there. Anything else you’d like to ask?”

  “Can we stop at the next Pemex? I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!”

  ZACH DROPPED THE duffel bag, unlocked the door to their hotel suite, and drew out a handgun, motioning for Natalie to stay put. He’d said the Zetas wouldn’t look for them in an upscale place like this, but clearly he wasn’t taking any chances. He disappeared inside, and she caught a glimpse of him moving quickly through the rooms, gun ready. After a minute or two, he called to her. “It’s okay.”

  She shut the door behind her, locked it, then slipped the door guard into place. Then she walked a few steps to an armchair and sank into it, too tired even to think.

  Zach tucked the gun into his jeans and walked over to her. “Hey, there’s a shower in the next room with your name on it—hot water, soap, towels.”

  A shower.

  Hadn’t she been longing for a shower all day?

  Natalie willed herself to stand, the appeal of being clean barely enough to break through the exhaustion and numbness that had taken hold of her. For the past twelve hours all she’d done was run. Now she could barely move.

  She walked into the bathroom, flicked on the light, then locked the door behind her and began to undress, letting her filthy clothes fall to the tile floor. She never wanted to wear them again; though, of course, she had no choice. Then she turned toward the shower, stopping short when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

  She barely recognized herself. Her hair was a tangled mess, her face smudged with dirt. A tender goose egg stood out on her scalp where she’d been struck by the butt of the gun. A big, dark bruise marred her left cheek, and there were fainter bruises on her breasts, an unwelcome reminder of Sr. Scar Face’s rough hands. But her eyes were what she noticed most—they were a stranger’s eyes. Shadowed by dark circles, they stared back at her, haunted by her own panic and the dying screams of others.

  Feeling like she was made of wood, she turned away from her reflection and turned on the shower, then stepped beneath the spray, letting it carry away two days’ worth of sweat, dirt, and fear. She shampooed her hair three times, massaged in conditioner, then scrubbed her body with a soapy washcloth till her skin glowed pink. She wanted to be clean again, needed to feel clean again. Then she rinsed her hair and her body, watching the bubbles swirl down the drain.

  It’s over. I’m alive. I’m going home.

  The thought hit her, putting a lump in her throat—but close on its heels came another. So many people weren’t going home.

  Joaquin.

  Tears spilled down her face. How many had died on that bus? A dozen? Fifteen? All of them journalists, all of them there because they wanted to make the world a better place. Killed without mercy. Shot down.

  Screams. Flying glass. Blood.

  I am sorry, Miss Benoit.

  The bathroom seemed to dissolve, and she was on the bus again. She didn’t hear Zach’s knock at the door, didn’t hear him call her name, didn’t know he was there until he turned off the water, wrapped a towel around her, and lifted her into his arms.

  IGNORING HIS OWN exhaustion and the sharp pain in his ribs, Zach carried Natalie toward the bed, her body shaking, her heart beating so hard he could feel it against his chest. He sat, held her, stroking her wet hair, wishing to God he knew how to help her. He couldn’t tell her everything was okay, because it wasn’t. Her friend was dead, along with so many others. She was still in danger—and she had enough bad memories to feed a lifetime of nightmares.

  “I’m sorry, Natalie.”

  He’d seen that haunted look in her eyes all evening, and he’d known she would break sooner or later. It was the same haunted look he’d sometimes seen in the eyes of young SEALs back from their first taste of real combat.

  He knew how to help his fellow seamen. He’d slap them on the back and tell them what a great job they’d done, welcoming them into the brotherhood of men who understood what it meant to fight and kill. Most snapped out of it quickly. But they had chosen that lifestyle. For whatever reason—patriotism, a thirst for adventure, family tradition—they had chosen to face the ugliness of war.

  Natalie hadn’t chosen any of this.

  Goddamn you, Cárdenas!

  Her naked body covered only by the bath towel, she was huddled against him, her fists clenched around his filthy ganja T-shirt, her face buried against his chest, her body wracked with sobs. The soft scents of shampoo and clean female skin filled his head, both arousing and comforting, reminding him of a part of life he’d nearly forgotten. And as he held her, helpless to do anything for her, he realized that he hadn’t been this intimate with a woman in years.

  Slowly, her tears subsided, and she seemed to realize where she was. She scooted off his lap onto the bed, drawing the towel tight around her. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  He handed her a tissue. “You have no reason to apologize.”

  She sniffed, dabbed her eyes. “It was wrong of me to fall apart lik
e that.”

  “No.” He brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek. “It wasn’t. There aren’t many women who could’ve done what you did today, Natalie. For a sweet little magnolia from Louisiana, you’re pretty damned tough.”

  She met his gaze, a look of doubt in her eyes. “You don’t mean that. I—”

  “Yeah, I do.” He did.

  She took his hand. “Thank you for getting me away from that place.”

  “You played a pretty big role in that yourself.” He closed his fingers around hers, her hand so small compared to his, her skin soft.

  Careful, McBride. You’re treading on thin ice here.

  Oh, was he ever.

  Then her lips curved in a shaky smile, dimples appearing in her cheeks, her vulnerability making something twist deep inside his chest. “I guess it was lucky for me that I ended up locked in a cell next to you.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “That was lucky for both of us.”

  And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

  She broke eye contact first, withdrawing her hand and hugging her arms around herself as if she suddenly felt exposed. “I . . . I suppose I should get dressed and call someone—the consulate, SPJ, the paper. They’ll want to know I’m safe.”

  “No. Not yet. I don’t think what happened to you was random, and until we know for certain why Cárdenas wanted you, we need to lie low.”

  She looked confused. “Why—”

  Feeling suddenly exhausted, he cut her off, not willing to waste time answering more damned questions. “You want to get home safely? Do what I tell you to do. You have no idea what you’re dealing with here.”

  She balked as if he’d yelled at her.

  He stood, needing air. “We can talk about it in the morning. I’m going down to the shops in the lobby to buy some clothes and personal supplies. What size do you wear?”

  “Six.” She stood, a wary expression on her face. “You won’t leave me here.”

  She phrased it as a statement, but he knew it was a question.