Breaking Point

by Pamela Clare

  But now, years later, it was clear that rape and murder were just part of the violent landscape, with drug cartels, sex slavers, human traffickers, gangs, and serial killers from both sides of the border preying on the young women who flocked to Juárez hoping for a job in one of the maquiladoras. During the seminar, they’d shown photos of some of the victims, stark images of young women lying naked and dead in ditches, in garbage bins, in the open desert.

  And suddenly Natalie found it hard to breathe again, her heart tripping hard and fast, her stomach threatening to revolt. But it wasn’t claustrophobia this time.

  It was straight-up terror.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the unbearable images from her mind, the distress and sorrow she’d felt at seeing what had happened to those women becoming fear for herself. Is that what these men planned to do to her?

  I don’t want to die like that. Not like that.

  She didn’t want to die at all.

  Maybe they would hold her for ransom. She was a U.S. citizen, after all, and they knew she was a journalist. Maybe they just wanted money. Oh, God, she hoped so.

  God, help me!

  It was so hot, so hot. Her entire body was sticky with perspiration, her mouth dry from thirst—or was that fear? Claustrophobia began to take hold again, the close air pressing in on her. She had to get out of here. They needed to open the trunk now.

  Except that . . .

  What would they do to her when they did?

  Abruptly, the car swerved, then accelerated. Men’s voices rose in shrill whoops and shouts, guns firing, the terrible sound making Natalie jump. Were they being pursued? Had someone come after them, hoping to free her? What if there was a firefight and someone accidentally fired into the trunk?

  She held her breath and listened, desperately hoping to hear sirens.

  More shouts. More gunshots. And now singing.

  But no sirens.

  And then it came to her.

  They weren’t being pursued. They were celebrating.

  All those murders, the grief they would cause, the fear they’d created on that street—they had committed a massacre, and they were reveling in its aftermath.

  What kind of men could enjoy killing like that?

  No, not men. They were monsters.

  And she was their prisoner.

  ZACH LAY ON his side, no longer able to give a damn about scorpions. His body shivered uncontrollably from shock. His skin burned, seeming to shrink around his bones, every nerve ending on fire. His throat was raw from yelling—or whatever you called it when you screamed from between clenched teeth. He’d been through surf torture in BUD/S. He’d been hungry, cold, hot, sleep deprived. He’d lain half-dead in the dirt for hours with a round lodged in his back. But he’d never ever been through anything that could touch this for sheer pain.

  What was it Jimmy used to say when they went into combat?

  Hoka hey! It is a good day to die.

  Today was a good day to die. Yesterday had been good, too. The day before would have been even better.

  Quit your whining, McBride. You’re pathetic! On your feet!

  “Hooya!” Zach answered aloud and raised his head before realizing that the voice he’d just heard had come from his own mind.

  He was losing it. He’d hit the wall—hard. Time to rest. He needed rest.

  He closed his blindfolded eyes and sank into oblivion.

  Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water

  Jack fell down and broke his crown

  And poor Jill got stuck carrying the water by herself.

  Natalie bit at the duct tape that bound her wrists, reciting nursery rhymes in her mind to keep her panic at bay. She spat out a little piece of tape and bit into it again, gratified when she realized she was down to the layer just above her skin. The tape was so strong and sticky that she’d had to nibble through it a layer at a time. Not that having the use of her hands would do her much good. There were more of them—and they had guns.

  Hey-diddle-diddle

  The cat and the fiddle

  The cow jumped over the moon

  The little dog laughed . . .

  And she couldn’t remember the rest.

  She spat out another piece of tape and another, then twisted her wrists, the tape pulling apart where she’d weakened it and at last giving way. Biting back an exultant laugh, she tore off the strips that stuck to her skin and threw them aside, her hands finally free.

  Then, careful not to bump anything or make a sound, she turned onto her side and brought her knees up toward her chest, reaching down to pull off the tape that bound her ankles. It was hard to maneuver, and it took more than a few tries before she was able to find the end, get a grip on it with her nails, and unbind her ankles.

  For a while, she lay there in the stifling dark, breathing hard.

  She was thirsty, so thirsty, the heat unbearable, the carpet itchy against her sweaty skin. She had no idea how many hours had gone by. Wherever they were taking her, it was far outside the city, far from any place where the police would think to look for her—if they were looking for her and not in cahoots with the men who’d kidnapped her.

  Jack be nimble

  Jack be quick

  Jack jump over the candlestick

  She reached out beside her, searching the darkness for something, anything she might be able to use as a weapon. A pair of boots. Bits of cord and what felt like burlap. A box of bullets. A roll of duct tape. Something cold and hard—a tire iron? No, it was too short to be a tire iron. Both ends had holes, as if it were meant to screw on to something. Was it a scope for a rifle or part of a gun barrel?

  She closed her hand around it, then froze as smooth asphalt gave way to the crunch of gravel. The car slowed, turned, and then rolled to a stop. Loud music. Men’s voices. A burst of automatic weapons fire.

  Oh, God.

  She drew deep breaths to steady herself, fear slick and cold in her belly.

  Little Miss Muffet, sat on a . . . sat on . . . on a tuffet,

  What the heck is a tuffet anyway?

  Car doors opened and closed, scattering her thoughts, the sound of boots in gravel all but drowned out by the thundering of her own pulse. She clutched the metal rod, held it fast, rolled onto her back, every muscle in her body tense.

  A key slipped into the lock.

  The trunk opened, bright sunlight hurting her eyes.

  She struck out blindly with the rod, kicking with both legs, her right foot connecting with something hard, hours of pent-up grief, fear, and fury rushing out of her in a long, strangled cry that sounded more animal than human.

  She found herself on her knees, the rod still in hand, her breath coming in pants. Four men watched her from a safe distance, astonishment on their faces, assault rifles hanging from their shoulders. Another—the one who’d killed Joaquin and Sr. Marquez—stood doubled over, groaning and cupping a bleeding nose, the sight giving her a momentary sense of satisfaction.

  Then the oldest one, a man with a thick mustache and a tattoo of a strange veiled skeleton on his left forearm, began to laugh. He said something in Spanish to the others, who also laughed—all except for the one still holding his bleeding nose.

  The older one motioned for her to get out of the trunk. “Come, señorita.”

  What else could she do? Slam the trunk shut and stay inside? Natalie climbed out, the rod in her right hand, ready to strike, a hot breeze catching her hair, the midday heat cool compared to the sweltering environment of the trunk. Her feet touched gravel, and she found herself standing on trembling legs in the center of an old, abandoned town. To her right stood what was left of a mission-style church, a satellite dish perched on its bell tower. To her left sat a small adobe brick shed with no windows. Rows of adobe brick houses fanned out around them, their walls crumbling into dust, unpaved roads reclaimed by scrub and cactus. Beyond was nothing but open desert.

  Her stomach fell, a chill sliding up her spine.


  There was no one here to help her, nowhere to run.

  She looked to the oldest man, the one with the tattoo, thinking he might be the leader of the bunch, only to find him raking her with his gaze. They were all staring at her now, their astonishment turned to something much darker. They spoke to one another, stared at her breasts, made little telltale thrusts with their pelvises, grinning and laughing.

  Natalie took an involuntary step backward, the car’s bumper stopping her short.

  They came closer, one of them reaching out to feel her hair.

  Don’t let them see how afraid you are, girl.

  She raised her chin a notch. “M-me llamo Natalie Benoit. Soy periodista. Mi periódico Denver Independent le pagará—”

  The blow took her by surprise, knocking her to the ground, the rod flying from her hand.

  “¡Puta estúpida!” The one with the bloody nose glared down at her, then tossed his gun aside and reached down with bloodstained fingers to unzip his fly.

  The man with the skeleton tattoo shouted something at him, gave him a shove, and the two of them began to argue, their words coming too fast for Natalie to understand anything.

  Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat!

  The sudden burst of automatic gunfire made Natalie jump.

  From the direction of the old church came a man’s voice, shouting at the others. Looking startled and almost afraid, her captors quit arguing, and the one with the tattoo reached down and jerked Natalie to her feet.

  In the church doorway stood a man with an assault rifle perched on his bicep. Tall and rangy, he had a jagged scar that ran beneath his jawline on the right, as if someone had tried to slit his throat but had missed, the right side of his mouth drooping. He looked at her through cold, brown eyes, then tossed a pair of handcuffs to the one with the tattoo, motioning with a jerk of his head toward the adobe shed.

  Words poured out of her. “Please let me go! I don’t know who you are or what you want, but my newspaper will pay ransom to get me back alive. Please call them! Mi periódico pagará dinero para mí—mucho dinero.”

  But no one was listening to her.

  In a heartbeat, her wrists were cuffed, and she was being shoved and dragged across the courtyard toward the shed. One of them opened the door, and the man with the skeleton tattoo shoved her inside.

  It was a jail—or they’d turned it into a jail. Three cells that might once have been horse stalls lined the back wall. The stone floor was covered with mouse droppings, spiders clinging to webs along the edges of the low ceiling. Then something ran across the floor in front of her.

  A scorpion.

  Her empty stomach lurched.

  One of the men opened the first cell—a dark, windowless space, no bigger than the walk-in closet in her bedroom at home and hemmed in along the front by thick iron bars.

  Hush now! Have a good death, a peaceful death.

  “Please don’t put me in there! Please don’t!” Her heart pounded, panic buzzing in her brain. And as they closed the door behind her and left her in the pitch-black, she heard herself scream. “No!”

  IT WAS THE sound of her first strangled scream that had woken him. It had been the feral scream of a woman trying to survive. Then a moment later she’d spoken, her voice soft, young, feminine, her accent unmistakably New Orleans.

  Natalie Benoit was her name, and she was what the Zetas hated most after honest cops and soldiers—a journalist.

  Zach had found himself sitting upright, straining to hear while Zetas whose voices he didn’t recognize—newcomers—joked about raping her, clearly enjoying the rush of having her at their mercy, their laughter colored by lust. Rather than crying or begging for her life, she’d tried to bargain her way out of the situation. Either she had a lot of guts, or she hadn’t understood a word they’d said. Given how poorly she spoke Spanish, he was willing to bet it was the latter.

  Then one of the bastards had struck her—hard from the sound of it—and two of the men had begun to argue.

  “¡La putita me rompió la nariz!” The little whore broke my nose!

  Zach had found that remarkable. Good for her.

  “¡Deja tu verga en los pantalones o te corto los cojones! El Jefe la quiere para si mismo—sin violación.” Leave your prick in your pants, or I’ll cut off your balls! The chief wants her for himself—untouched.

  The words had hit Zach square in the chest.

  If Cárdenas wanted her as his personal sex slave, she was as good as dead.

  A burst of AK fire had ended the fight.

  I don’t know who you are or what you want, but my newspaper will pay ransom to get me back alive. Please call them! Mi periódico pagará dinero para mí—mucho dinero.

  Her naiveté had been painful to hear. Clearly, it hadn’t yet dawned on her that life as she knew it was over. But the men had long since quit listening to her. Instead, they’d talked casually about what they hoped Cárdenas would do to her, bile rising into Zach’s throat at each graphic and brutal description.

  Cárdenas had a reputation for abusing women. Zach had heard that he sacrificed women to La Santa Muerte—that macabre cult saint of Narcotraficantes, Holy Death—as a way of giving thanks for his success in the cartel wars. To think that Zach had been this close to taking him, to ending his reign of terror . . .

  Gisella should be in that cell now, not Natalie, whoever she was.

  Please don’t put me in there! Please don’t!

  She’d become almost hysterical the moment they’d brought her in here, her scream when they’d closed the door and walked away laced with primal terror. And for good reason. This filthy, dark place was probably beyond her worst nightmares.

  Now she was in the cell next to his, separated from him by a wall of adobe brick. From the sound of it, she was about to hyperventilate, her breathing shallow and rapid, each exhale a whimper. He thought he could just make out the words of a prayer.

  Sorry, angel, God seems to have taken the week off.

  Then he realized she wasn’t praying. She was reciting a nursery rhyme.

  “To market, to market, to buy . . . to buy a fat pig.” Her voice was unsteady, and she was clearly having trouble remembering the words. “H-home again, home again . . . I want to go home again . . . jiggety-jig.”

  The sweetness of it hit Zach hard. He hung his head, the hopelessness of her situation tearing at him.

  She might not be here if you’d done your job.

  Men like him were supposed to stop bastards like Cárdenas and his Zetas from hurting people. But rather than putting Cárdenas away, Zach was going to have a front-row seat while Cárdenas raped and tortured this girl to death.

  Son of a bitch! Damn it!

  Zach didn’t realize he was trying to break free of the manacles again until his hands were wet, water from broken blisters mixing with sticky, warm blood.

  Who are you fooling, man? You can’t save her. You can’t even save yourself.

  No, he couldn’t. But he could reach out to her, let her know she wasn’t alone.

  He swallowed, then sucked in as deep a breath as he could, wincing at the pain in his ribs. “Natalie? Can you hear me? My name is . . . Zach.”

  CHAPTER 3

  FOR A MOMENT, Natalie thought she’d imagined the voice.

  Hold it together, girl. She sat on her heels and grasped the iron bars of the door for support, unable to stop her body from trembling, her gaze fixed on the floor, trying despite the darkness to spot any sign of eight-legged movement. Hold it together.

  Then she heard it again—a man’s voice, deep and rough, speaking to her out of the darkness. “Natalie? That is your name, isn’t it?”

  For a moment, she said nothing, astonished to realize she wasn’t alone in this terrible place. “Who . . . who are you?”

  “My name’s Zach. I’m your new neighbor. Sorry if I startled you.”

  “H-how do you know my name?”

  “I overheard you telling them.”

  For a sec
ond, she forgot about scorpions. “You’re American, too.”

  “Yeah. Born in Chicago. You’re from the South. New Orleans?”

  “Yes.” So maybe she did have an accent. “Where are we?”

  “I have no idea. I was unconscious when they brought me in.”

  Something moved near her right foot. She shrieked, stood, felt something crunch beneath her shoe. She kicked it aside, her skin crawling. “Wh-who are those awful men?”

  “They’re mercenaries for Los Zetas. They work for Arturo Cesár Cárdenas.”

  Natalie had never heard of them. “What would they want with me?”

  “Why don’t you tell me how you got here, and we’ll try to figure that out.”

  So Natalie told him about the SPJ convention and how armed men had stormed the tour bus in downtown Juárez, killing the Mexican journalists—and Joaquin.

  “He was a good friend, always watching out for the rest of us, especially the women. And he was the best photojournalist I’ve known. He kept shooting . . . While they were killing people, he kept shooting . . .” And for the first time since this whole nightmare began, Natalie found herself fighting tears, the all-too-familiar ache of grief in her chest. Why did the people she cared about always die? “I tried to stop them. I blocked the aisle. I told them he was American over and over again, but . . .”

  Oh, Joaquin!

  “I’m sorry, Natalie.” He sounded like he truly meant it. “You did more than most people would have. Give yourself credit for that much.”

  “That’s kind of you to say, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”

  “I know.”

  And for a time neither of them spoke.

  “So you were researching the cartels for an article and joined this tour?”