Breaking Point (44 page)

Zach crossed the room, nudged the toe of his boot beneath Cárdenas’s chin, and forced the son of a bitch’s neck back, looking down into his eyes, M16 still in hand. When he spoke it was with years worth of disgust and loathing. “She was never yours. Like all women, she belongs to herself. You will
never
lay a hand on her. So shut the
fuck
up!”

There was genuine fear in Cárdenas’s eyes now.

Good.

Zach took a step back. “If you want to chat, why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Edward Wulfe. You met him at AMINTAC, and you’ve been doing business with him since at least 1993. So what is it? Drugs? Arms? Both?”

“Why don’t you ask me?”

Zach whirled, dropped to one knee, and fired, hitting another black-clad figure in the chest, but not before the men standing on either side of Wulfe fired at him. He felt a round strike his temple, and then . . .

The next thing he knew, he was tied sitting upright, duct taped to a chair from the kitchen table, the pain inside his skull so intense he could barely think.

“Can you hear me, McBride?” Wulfe stood before him, looking into his face, his own bland face devoid of expression. “That was a nonlethal round—a rubber bullet. It was necessary to neutralize you without killing you. I have a few questions.”

Still stunned, Zach fought to hold up his head. “Fuck. You.”

Nearby, Cárdenas struggled with his cuffs and shouted in Spanish. “José-Luis, you stupid bastard, get over here! Help me out of these.”

“Show some dignity, Arturo,” Wulfe said. “Help your uncle, Mr. Quintana.”

Zach’s stomach sank as Quintana crossed the floor, about to free the man he’d tried so long to capture.

Hunter, Rossiter, where the fuck are you?

But rather than cutting the plastic cuffs off Cárdenas’s wrists, Quintana racked the slide on a shiny, new Beretta. A gift from Wulfe?

“¡No! ¡No! Tu eres el hijo de mi hermana, mi propio sobrino! No se puede
—”
You are my sister’s son, my own nephew. You can’t—

Oh, but Quintana could. And he did.

The blast cut Cárdenas’s plea short, leaving him dead on the floor.

“Tear this place apart. Find the girl, and bring me all documents, files, hard drives, flash drives—anything that might compromise our operation.”

With that command, Wulfe’s men began to search the loft.

 

“
¡MADRE DE DIOS!
There she is!” Joaquin pointed to the small figure clinging to the rooftop below them. Wearing a short denim skirt and a tank top, she lay flat on the slick rooftop, hugging a rifle to her side, rain and hail pelting her, the wind whipping her wet hair and clothes. “The wind. It’s pushing her toward the edge!”

He raised his camera and started shooting.

“I see her.” Hunter looked out the copter window beside him, wearing full SWAT body armor, Rossiter and three handpicked SWAT officers beside him. “Hang on, Natalie. We’re almost there.”

Joaquin had heard the call go out over the newsroom police scanner—officer down, another caught in a firefight, civilian trapped on the roof of the Glass Tower, helicopter rescue needed—and had driven straight to the airport, hoping to get in on the action. He hadn’t known that Julian was the injured officer or that Natalie was the stranded civilian until he’d seen Hunter and Rossiter, their faces grim.

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 let 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.