Breaking Point (8 page)

He was supposed to protect the innocent, not the other way around.

He pushed the thought from his mind. “It’s going to be tougher than you think. You have to inflict as much pain and do as much damage as you can as fast as you can. Go for their eyes, their balls. If you hesitate, if you don’t put all your strength into it . . .”

Yet how much strength could a woman like Natalie bring to bear against men as ruthless as the Zetas? Zach had met women in the military who could kick ass, women who were ripped, women who were trained in martial arts and marksmanship. But even they didn’t have the strength necessary to serve in Special Forces. Natalie had none of their training. She was soft, curvy, feminine—not the kind of woman who beat up paramilitary goons. When it came to fighting, her only assets were her intelligence and her courage.

That’s why Zach had been trying all night to prepare her mind, channeling more than a decade of combat and law enforcement experience into a few stolen hours.

Would it be enough? It had to be.

“If you’re trying to talk me out of this, it won’t work. If I don’t do
something
, we both die.” There was determination in her voice, but also fear.

Fear was good. In the right amount, it could strengthen a person’s resolve, sharpen his senses. But too much fear could paralyze.

“I
know
you can do it, Natalie.” He wanted to build her up, not psych her out. “The way you tried to protect your friend Joaquin, the way you broke that Zeta’s nose—that took guts. I’m just trying to prepare you for what you’re about to face.”

“I take it you’ve killed men before?” There was an edge to her voice.

Clearly, she didn’t trust him. He couldn’t blame her, not after last night.

He searched for an answer that would relieve her suspicion. He didn’t want her thinking he was some kind of sociopath. “Yes, I’ve killed, but only when I had no choice. It’s never easy taking another person’s life, but sometimes it’s necessary.”

“Oh.”

And for a time, neither of them spoke.

It was she who broke the silence. “You still haven’t given me your word yet.”

It took him a moment to figure out what she meant, his brain fogged by hunger, exhaustion, pain. “If you get me out of these chains, I promise I will do everything I can to get you home safely.”

“Good, because I really don’t want to leave you here.”

He sure as hell didn’t want to be left behind. But he knew what this was really about. If she wouldn’t bring it up, he would. “What happened last night—how much of it did you understand?”

For a moment, she didn’t answer. “Enough. You asked for an hour . . . with me in exchange for the location of the coke you stole.”

Terrific. She thinks you’re some kind of rapist and drug dealer, McBride.

If it hadn’t been so serious, it might have been funny. He thought for a moment about setting her straight, but that would just make her ask more questions—questions he couldn’t answer. So he kept his explanation simple.

“They used you to try to get to me. I was just playing along, hoping they would unchain me. I would never have gone through with it.” When she didn’t respond, he said the words he knew he needed to say. “I’m sorry, Natalie. You have no reason to be afraid of me. I would never hurt any woman like that. You haven’t exactly caught me at my best.”

That’s one hell of an understatement.

He wanted to tell her the truth, but he’d be putting everything he’d worked for, everything he’d suffered for, at risk if he did.

“Apology accepted. But the next time you pull something like that, find a way to warn me first. I don’t like being gawked at like I’m a
thing
.”

Her scolding tone of voice, so out of place in this situation, made him grin. But he knew when he was being given a direct order. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, then. Now, can you please run through the plan one more time?”

“ONE PAIR OF boots. Do you hear that? Just one. You can do this, Natalie.” Zach’s voice reached out to her through the darkness, his confidence keeping her panic at bay.

Standing in the back corner of their little prison, diagonally across from her cell, Natalie fought to slow her breathing, her heart hammering against her breastbone, all but drowning out the approaching crunch of boots on gravel.

You can do this. You have to do this. If you don’t . . .

Her right hand tightened around the chain of her handcuffs, her left hand clutching a brick, her palms sweating.

As they’d planned, Zach began to moan, his voice meant to cover any noise Natalie might make. A key slipped into the lock on the door—and a shaft of daylight spilled inside, followed by the dark shape of a man. His eyes weren’t adjusted for the darkness, and she knew he couldn’t see her. But she could see him.

It was the Zeta who’d killed Joaquin.

He was carrying something—a plate of food for her. He moved toward her cell, yelled at Zach. “
¡Cállate, cabrón!
”
Shut up, asshole!

Moving as quickly and quietly as she could, she came up behind him, raised her broken left handcuff as if it were a mace and brought it crashing down on his head.

“
¡Ay!
” The plate clattered to the floor as he grabbed his skull.

“Again, Natalie! Hit him hard and fast!”

But Natalie didn’t need Zach’s encouragement. She swung the cuffs again and again, striking the Zeta’s head and neck, beating him down, driving him to his knees.

He reached for her, but primed on adrenaline, she jumped backward, then swung again, leaving him on all fours.

She wasn’t even afraid now, her actions fueled by pent-up rage. She thought of Joaquin and poor Sr. Marquez—and kicked the man who’d killed them in the stomach as hard as she could once, twice, three times, until he lay on the floor holding his middle. Then she brought the brick she’d held in her left hand down on the back of his skull.

The Zeta lay still, his body lying halfway in her cell, the door swinging open.

Had she killed him?

She stepped hesitantly forward, afraid he was just pretending.

“Make sure he’s finished, Natalie, or all of this will have been for nothing!”

The Zeta groaned, raised an arm sluggishly to his head.

It’s not easy to kill a man.

Now she knew what Zach meant.

From inside the church came the sound of men’s voices.

“Oh, God!” She raised the brick and struck the semiconscious Zeta again with every ounce of her strength, pain shooting up her arm to her shoulder.

“If he’s down, search him for weapons and keys.” Zach sounded so calm, as if he were taking her through how to change a flat tire.

Natalie dropped the brick, knelt down beside the dead Zeta, and began to search his body with trembling hands. Touching the corpse of a man she’d just killed was beyond revolting. “There’s a gun in his pocket . . . and a knife . . . but I can’t find the keys!”

“Breathe, Natalie.” Zach’s voice wrapped around her again, shielding her from her own fear. “Forget what just happened. Forget those men’s voices out there. Just breathe.”

Natalie closed her eyes, drew a steadying breath. And when she opened her eyes, she saw the keys lying on the floor among scattered grapes. “I found them!”

“Hot damn! You did it, Natalie! Now, get me out of here!”

She tucked the gun in the back of her pants, grabbed the knife and the keys, and with trembling fingers searched for the one that unlocked the door to Zach’s cell. Three keys were bigger than the rest and looked like they might fit the shape of the keyhole.

She hurried to his cell door and tried the first. It slid into the keyhole but didn’t turn. “Oh, come on!”

Men’s voices made her look over her shoulder.

“They’re still inside.” Zach’s voice soothed her, only now she could see him—a dark silhouette hunched against the wall. “Don’t think about them. Work the lock.”

Heart thrumming, she tried the second key. It slid easily into the keyhole, and . . .

Click.

She opened the cell door, cringing as it squeaked on its hinges, then hurried inside and knelt down in front of Zach, looking at the smaller keys on the keychain. “One of these should open your cuffs . . .”

She lifted her gaze to look at him—and felt a hard lump in her throat.

Battered and bruised, he sat with his arms behind his back, his manacles locked to a thick chain that was bolted to the wall, his skin smudged with dirt and covered with burn marks. Had he sat like this all night? She couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable he was, how much he had suffered.

“The key for the manacles will be small and very simple.”

But Natalie wasn’t looking at the keys. She was looking at his face with its thick growth of stubble, bruises, and streaks of dirt, pain, and exhaustion etched on every feature. Acting on instinct, she reached behind his head, untied the humiliating blindfold and let it fall.

Gray eyes stared intently into hers, and she forgot to breathe.

 

ZACH’S GAZE FIXED on Natalie’s—and his mind went blank just as it had the first time he saw her. Her face only inches from his, she was even more beautiful than he remembered, her dark lashes long and thick, her pupils dilated by the darkness and adrenaline, the bruises on her face making her seem fragile. And out of nowhere, he felt an insane urge to kiss her.

Are you losing your fucking mind, McBride?

“Which . . . which key?” She looked down at the keys in her palm.

“The little one in the center.”

He turned to give her access to his wrists, felt the key click, the bite of steel falling away, his wrists finally free. He tried to move his arms, only to be blindsided by pain.

Unable to stop himself, he let out a groan and slumped forward, his arms hanging, lifeless and aching, from shoulders that screamed.

She caught his weight, his head falling onto her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. What they did to you—it’s terrible.”

“Yeah. It sucked.” He croaked out the words, fighting the pain, willing himself to sit upright. Then he slowly rolled his shoulders and flexed his elbows to work the stiffness out of his joints and muscles. “Now it’s payback time.”

Big talk for a guy who can’t get off his ass, McBride.

From across the courtyard came the sound of two Zetas arguing.

“How many men did you see last night?”

“Six, I think.” She looked toward the half-open door. “They’re coming.”

“Not yet. They’re arguing over who should drive the hookers back to town.” He took the keys and unlocked the cuff that still held her right wrist, dropping both cuffs and keys to the floor. “Give me the pistol. Keep the knife, and don’t hesitate to use it.”

“Okay.” She pressed cold steel into his right palm.

A Norinco M-77B—a Chinese military pistol. How it had ended up in Juárez, he could only guess. He turned the weapon over, testing its weight in his hand. Then he checked the magazine and found it fully loaded—nine 9mm rounds. “Listen to me, Natalie. From here on out, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it. Is that understood?”

She nodded.

It was the response he wanted, so he barely registered the surprise on her face at this abrupt change in his manner. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”

But that was easier said than done.

Pressing his left hand against the wall to brace himself, he rose unsteadily to his feet, his heart pounding at the effort, his head spinning, legs shaky. He thought for a moment he was going to fall on his face, then he felt her duck under his left arm, her slender arm encircling his waist, the feel of her solid beside him. “Damn.”

Man up, McBride. Or maybe you’re hoping she’ll carry you back to Juárez.

“You can still aim the gun, right?”

Did he look that weak? “Of course I can aim the damned gun!”

They walked together toward the shaft of daylight that spilled through the door, Zach glancing over at the Zeta lying still on the floor in front of Natalie’s cell.

Her gaze followed his. “I . . . I’ve never killed anyone before.”

As if there were any doubt on that score, angel.

Trying not to look too much like his knees were giving out, which they more or less were, Zach sank down beside the unconscious man, felt for a pulse, and found one. “I hate to break it to you, but you still haven’t killed anyone.”

“He’s . . . he’s alive?”

“Not for long.” Unwilling to risk the noise of gunfire, Zach tucked the gun into his pants, caught the Zeta’s head between his left hand and right forearm, and gave it a quick twist, breaking the man’s neck with an audible
crack
. He searched the body, finding a fistful of bills in one pocket and a sweet Ka-Bar rig on the man’s ankle. He transferred the knife to his own ankle, stuffed the dinero into his pocket, then picked the scattered grapes up off the floor and, ignoring the dirt, tossed them into his mouth.