Breaking Point

by Pamela Clare

  She wiped tears off her cheeks with her hands. “N-no. I just wanted to get away from the office for a while. I’ve never written about drug smuggling or cartels.”

  “Never?” He sounded surprised.

  “Never.” Something tickled her cheek. She gasped, brushed at it, her fingertips knocking what might have been a small spider off her face. She shrank against the bars, looking up to see what else might be about to drop down on her, but it was too dark.

  “How about any big drug busts? Cartels growing dope on national forest land in Colorado? Mexican politics? Anything related to Juárez or the state of Chihuahua?”

  “No. Not at all. I cover mostly local issues. Before I left, I started looking into the sheriff’s handling of some sexual assaults that happened at a local boarding school. I don’t imagine these Zetas care one whit about that.”

  “No, I don’t imagine they do.”

  “Maybe I just caught their attention by trying to stop them from killing Joaquin.”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Why are you here? Are you a journalist, too?”

  Silence filled the darkness.

  Then at last he answered. “The less you know about me, the better. Let’s just say I made a bad decision and leave it at that.”

  So he’d done something to cross the Zetas. That meant he was probably a criminal, maybe even involved in the drug trade. “That’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  “The Zetas have been . . . interrogating me for six days now. If they thought I’d spilled my guts to you, they’d start interrogating you, too, and believe me, that’s not something either of us wants to see happen.”

  And Natalie understood. They weren’t just asking Zach questions. They were torturing him. Then she noticed something she hadn’t before. The way he spoke his words slowly, the strain in his voice, its rough timbre—he was in pain. “You’re hurt.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry. I wish I could help—”

  “You can’t.” The tone of his voice was starkly final.

  Something brushed her arm, making her gasp and jump—and she realized it was a lock of her own hair. Good grief, Benoit! “You . . . You’ve been here for six days? I don’t know how you’ve been able to stand it.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like the accommodations.” He chuckled, then groaned, as if it hurt to laugh. “I know it’s not five-star, and room service leaves a lot to be desired, but what this place lacks in comfort it more than makes up for in scorpions.”

  Natalie didn’t find that funny. “I hate those things!”

  “Yeah, I figured. I can hear you gasping and jumping around over there. I’m guessing you’re afraid of the dark, too.”

  “No. I’m . . . I’m claustrophobic.”

  And then it dawned on her. She hadn’t had to fight off panic since she’d heard Zach’s voice.

  ZACH CONCENTRATED ON Natalie’s words as she told him what had happened to her to make her claustrophobic, the feminine sound of her voice calling him back from the brink, keeping him awake, helping him ignore his pain.

  “Then he turned and saw me standing there. He knew I’d seen him inject that poor old man. I tried to run, but he moved so fast. He put his hand over my mouth and dragged me down the back stairs to the morgue. I fought as hard as I could, but he was so much stronger. He forced me into a morgue locker. He said the same thing to me that I’d overheard him say to the old man—‘H-have a good death, a p-peaceful death.’ And then he . . . he shut the door.”

  Her words quavered slightly, telling him that she was trembling, proof of how hard it was for her to relive what had happened to her during Hurricane Katrina—and no wonder. “Morgue lockers are airtight, aren’t they?”

  “Y-yes. It was cold, so cold. I tried to push the door open . . . but they don’t open from the inside.”

  That made sense, as corpses rarely had a pressing reason to get out.

  “I beat on the door, but that only used up air faster. Most of the staff had been evacuated, so no one was on the other side to hear.” Her voice quavered again, something twisting in Zach’s chest at the sound. “I started to fall asleep. I knew I was suffocating. I blacked out. Then a doctor was standing over me, pumping air into my lungs. They’d brought down the body of one of his victims and ended up finding me.”

  And none too soon from the sound of it.

  “What happened to the intern?” It was bad enough that the bastard had decided to play God, murdering dying people, robbing them of their last days. But what he’d done to Natalie . . .

  Have a good death, a peaceful death.

  What kind of fucked up insanity was that? The son of a bitch was a sociopath, and Zach hoped someone had kicked his ass. And all at once it struck Zach as grotesquely unfair that Natalie had survived her ordeal during Katrina only to end up in the hands of the Zetas.

  God has a sick sense of humor, McBride. You know that.

  He sure as hell did.

  “When I was fully conscious again, I told them what had happened. They arrested him. I wrote about it for the paper and testified at his trial. The jury sentenced him to life without parole. But I’ve been claustrophobic ever since. I . . . I just can’t take feeling shut in.”

  Zach couldn’t blame her for that. As he knew only too well, some experiences marked a person for life. But that was then. This was now.

  “Listen to me, Natalie, and listen hard. Spiders won’t kill you. These scorpions won’t kill you—they’re not the deadly kind. The dark sure as hell won’t kill you, and no matter how it feels to you, this closed-in space won’t kill you, either. But those men out there—there’s not one of them who would think twice about taking your life.”

  For a moment she said nothing.

  “What are they going to do to you, Zach?”

  Wasn’t that obvious? “You’re talking to a dead man.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe, if you—”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Aren’t you . . . aren’t you afraid?”

  Hell, yeah, he was afraid—of breaking, of giving up intel that would get other people killed, of betraying his country, his fellow DUSMs, his mission. But he couldn’t tell her that. “I’m not afraid of dying.”

  “You’re braver than I am.” She paused. “Wh-what do you think they’ll do to me?”

  Ah, hell.

  How was he supposed to answer that question?

  “Are you sure you want to go there?”

  “I’m going to end up like the other girls who’ve gone missing from Juárez, aren’t I?” She spoke the words calmly, but he knew she was terrified. What woman wouldn’t be?

  He wished he could tell her that everything would be okay, but he couldn’t lie to her. “I don’t think these guys are going to touch you. I heard them say they’re saving you for their boss, for Cárdenas.”

  “B-but . . . why does he want me?”

  Zach wished he could answer that question. He’d studied Cárdenas for years, knew him better than any other U.S. operative, and he found it strange that the bastard would kidnap an American journalist unless he had a reason. Then again, when it came to women, Cárdenas was a predator. “I’ve heard he has a thing for young women. Is your photo online?”

  “Y-yes. It’s on the newspaper’s website and . . . and I think it’s on the networking page for the SPJ conference, too. Do you think that’s how he found out about me?”

  “It’s possible.” Cárdenas had probably looked through the networking site to see which Mexican journalists would be on that bus, had seen Natalie’s photograph, and had decided to take her. That meant Natalie had to be extremely attractive. Otherwise, Cárdenas wouldn’t have bothered.

  “What do you think Cárdenas will do with me?” She sounded so vulnerable.

  Zach found it hard to answer her, regret at what he had to tell her forming a knot in his chest. “I imagine he’ll . . . rape you repeatedly over a perio
d of days or maybe even weeks and then . . . sell you . . . or kill you.”

  That’s a hell of a thing to say to a woman, McBride.

  She took it better than he’d imagined she would.

  “Oh, God!” The words were whispered, a private expression of despair, not meant for him to hear. When she spoke again, her voice shook. “M-my mother always told me there’d come a day when I’d regret asking so many questions.”

  If she had fallen into hysterics, it might have been easier for him to bear because that’s what he’d expected. But her attempt at humor left him feeling outraged at Cárdenas, at the Zetas, and most of all at himself for being helpless to stop them.

  “Your mother must be very proud of you.”

  Not to mention worried out of her mind.

  “My m-mother . . .” Natalie’s voice broke. Tears at last. She’d held out a long time. “She and my father are . . . gone. They died with my fiancé in a car crash on the way to get me at the hospital.”

  It took a moment for Zach to realize what she was telling him. Her parents and her fiancé had been killed in a car accident on the way to the hospital to pick her up. On the same day she’d almost been murdered.

  Behind his blindfold, he squeezed his eyes shut, the bottom dropping out of his stomach, pity for her momentarily overpowering his own suffering. She’d lost everything—everything but her life—thanks to a goddamned psychopath and Hurricane Katrina. And she’d survived all of that only to end up here.

  “I’m so very sorry, Natalie.” He didn’t know what else to say.

  In the darkness, he could hear her crying. “It’s been a long time since I’ve talked about this with anyone.”

  “I’m glad you felt you could trust me.” He knew it had nothing to do with him personally. Ordeals like the one she’d been through today had a way of stripping a person down to their core. And knowing what he now knew, Natalie’s must be pure titanium.

  She would need every bit of that strength before this was over.

  Unable to do anything else to help her, Zach gave her the only advice he could. “I know it’s hard, but you need to stay focused on what’s happening now. Do whatever it takes to survive. Do you hear me, Natalie? Just survive.”

  NATALIE HUGGED HER arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees, trying to calm her empty, churning stomach and pull herself back together. She hadn’t meant to fall apart like that. She hadn’t meant to dump her private pain into a stranger’s lap. But being locked up like this had brought it all back for her, and it had come spilling out before she could contain herself, her grief as overpowering as it had been six years ago.

  Oh, Mama. Daddy. Beau.

  She wiped her tears away. Zach was right. She needed to focus on what was happening now, because her life depended on it.

  I imagine he’ll rape you repeatedly over a period of days or maybe even weeks and then sell you—or kill you.

  It seemed strange to her that just this morning she’d had little more on her mind than the heat and the day’s itinerary. Now that world had been taken away from her. Soon her body would be stolen, too—and then her life. Would anyone know for sure what had happened to her? Would they find her body in a ditch one day, naked and broken?

  Old Mother Hubbard

  Went to the cupboard

  To fetch the poor dog a bone

  Natalie’s stomach growled, the sound loud enough to make her wonder if Zach had heard it. “Do they ever feed us?”

  He didn’t answer at first, and she thought he must have fallen asleep. When at last he answered, he sounded weaker, his words slower, his voice more strained. “Not so much. Don’t . . . expect much to drink, either.”

  “Oh.” Another wave of despair rolled through her. She fought to subdue it.

  Zach wasn’t whining and complaining. Neither should she.

  “ZACH, WAKE UP! I think they’re coming!”

  Zach jerked awake.

  Men’s voices grew nearer.

  Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself upright, more aware of Natalie’s fear than his own discomfort or dread. He fought to catch his breath. “It’s okay . . . Cárdenas isn’t here yet. They’re . . . coming for me . . . not for you.”

  “It’s not okay! No matter what you’ve done to anger them, you don’t deserve to be tortured or chained up like this. You are in chains, aren’t you? I can hear them clinking when you move.”

  “I guess they figure . . . I’m more of a threat than you are.” And then it hit him. She probably thought he was some kind of criminal. Not surprising, given their situation and how little he’d told her.

  In that instant, the door was thrown wide, daylight spilling across his blindfold. Familiar voices joked in Spanish about Natalie.

  “She is pretty—and shy. Look. She doesn’t like it when I try to touch her.”

  Zach thought he heard Natalie gasp, her shoes scuffing on the floor as she backed away from the door to her cell.

  The men laughed.

  “I hope El Jefe shares her when he’s done with her. Oh, she makes me hard.”

  “Do you think El Jefe would mind if we fuck only her mouth?”

  Anger and disgust burned through Zach, reviving him, clearing his head. He spoke to them in their own language, hoping Natalie hadn’t understood what they’d said. “Cárdenas will feed your dicks to his dogs, you stupid chingaderos.”

  That got their attention.

  Zach heard a key slip into the lock of his cell door.

  “Eh, cuñado, are you ready to talk? Or do you want to die screaming?”

  He ignored the taunt. “You should feed her and give her clean water. Do you think your Jefe wants a weak, half-starved bag of bones? And if these scorpions sting her and make her sick—I wonder what El Jefe will do to you then.”

  The stench of alcohol and sour sweat assaulted Zach’s nostrils as someone leaned down and spoke directly into his face. “Shut your mouth before I cut out your tongue, you stinking son of a whore.”

  His manacles were unclipped from the chain, then he was hauled to his feet, one Zeta at each elbow. He stumbled blindly forward, wishing he had the strength to fight them. He’d tried on his first day here, but he hadn’t been able to get his cuffed hands in front of his body fast enough to pull his blindfold off so that he could see the men he was trying to fight. That’s when they’d kicked the shit out of him and broken his ribs.

  Now he barely had the strength to stand upright.

  “Zach!” Natalie’s voice came from his right. “Leave him alone!”

  He dug in his heels, fought to stand his ground for just another moment. “Listen to me, Natalie. Don’t let Cárdenas get inside your head. Nothing he can do to you can change who you are. Remember that!”

  Then he was shoved roughly forward, pain splitting his side, stealing his breath. Sunlight hit him full in the face, cool stone giving way to sharp, hot gravel beneath his bare feet. Every muscle in his body tensed.

  I am an American, fighting in the forces that guard my country . . .

  He started to recite the code of conduct, trying to prepare his mind for what was to come, but a different thought replaced it. It was nothing much—just a name—but it seemed to put steel back into his spine.

  Natalie.

  NATALIE BIT INTO the corn tortilla and chewed. It might as well have been sand. She swallowed, forcing it past the hard lump in her throat, eating only because she knew she must.

  Do whatever it takes to survive. Do you hear me, Natalie? Just survive.

  Overhead, vultures wheeled black against a blue sky, a hint of a breeze kicking up dust, the blazing disk of the sun moving toward a bank of clouds on the western horizon. The second worst day of her life was almost over, to be followed, she was sure, by an even worse day. Worse for her, but much worse for Zach.

  There’d been a Zeta with a big rifle standing in front of her cell door when they’d dragged him out, so she hadn’t been able to see his face. He’d been shirtless and baref
oot, and she’d seen enough to know that he was tall, his body lean and muscular like an athlete’s, his wrists in manacles behind his back, his hands covered with blood.

  Another agonized cry.

  She fought back tears.

  God in heaven, what were they doing to him? It sounded like they were killing him. She’d never heard cries like this before—more animal than human, a cross between a scream and a roar. No wonder his voice was so rough. His throat must be raw after six days of this.

  Six days.

  God, help him! Please help him! Make them stop!

  Her throat tight, she took another bite, chewed, then washed it down with the last of the cola, ignoring the Zeta with the skeleton tattoo, who stood within arm’s reach, guarding her while she ate, a look of mingled amusement and lust on his face. Even from here she could smell the alcohol on his breath—and the stench of his unwashed body.

  Not long after they’d come for Zach, a young Zeta had unlocked her cell door and led her out into the hot sunshine, where the one with the skeleton tattoo had been waiting with a plate of corn tortillas, an overripe banana, and a glass bottle of warm Coca-Cola. Then the younger one had disappeared inside the little prison with a broom, apparently sent to sweep it clean of scorpions and spiders. Why they’d suddenly decided to clean the hovel Natalie couldn’t say, but she no longer cared about the spiders or the scorpions.

  Another cry.

  Long and drawn out, it ended on a high, desperate pitch that made her chest ache.

  “Why are you doing this to him?” No answer. She tried again in Spanish. “¿Por qué le haces esto a él?”

  “Se robó nuestra cocaína.”

  Zach had stolen cocaine from the Zetas.

  Oh, my gentle Jesus! He called that a bad decision?

  Understatement of the century.

  Still, he didn’t deserve to be brutalized and chained like an animal. No one deserved to be treated like this.

  Another cry.

  The Zeta guarding her stepped closer. He reached out to caress her hair. She smacked his hand away.