Breaking Point

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I don’t know,” Gina said. “I just . . .” She shook her head as he parked the car. “I promised I’d stay as long as he needs me. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I can’t shake this feeling that he does. Need me.”

  “Oh, sweetie . . .” Jules hugged her. “I’m sorry I was so mean.”

  Interesting that he didn’t say whether or not he thought that Max truly did need her. Gina changed the subject, too. “So what’s this important thing Max has been working on?”

  The past couple days, he’d been glued to his phone. Yesterday, she hadn’t seen him at all.

  She was supposed to meet him for dinner, but traffic was terrible, it was raining like crazy, the car’s airbag light was on, and she’d had bad cramps. When she’d called to say she was going to be late and he was barely monosyllabic, she’d cancelled instead.

  Hoping he’d be disappointed.

  He hadn’t said a thing. Except, “I’ve got to take this call . . .”

  “You know I can’t tell you anything,” Jules said now as he got out of the car.

  “It’s got something to do with that assassination attempt in Afghan-istan,” Gina said, climbing out, too. “Doesn’t it? There’s some terrorist who’s—”

  “There’s always some terrorist, somewhere,” Jules said. “Gina, you know that’s what we do. Do yourself a favor, and don’t ask Max about it.”

  He put his jacket on, and his overcoat, too. It was chilly out today.

  “Great,” Gina grumbled as she wrapped her scarf around her neck. “More topics to avoid.” She gathered up the latest armload of comic books she’d gotten for Ajay. And Max. She suspected he liked reading them, too. She juggled them with the flowers she’d brought for elderly Mrs. Klinger. “Grab that, will you?”

  Jules lifted the guitar case out of the back seat by its handle. “You’re really going to just . . . give this to Max?”

  Gina knew Max would never buy one for himself. “He’s always wanted a guitar,” she said.

  “Max?” Jules looked skeptical.

  “I thought I could give him a lesson or two.”

  “You play?”

  “A little,” she said. “You know, enough to fake my way through a few choruses of ‘All Shook Up.’ ”

  “Can I watch him learn to play that?” Jules said. “Pretty please? Max playing an Elvis song.” He laughed. “Then again, I may never recover from the sight.”

  “Max is an Elvis fan,” Gina told him as she led the way across the parking lot.

  “No. Way.”

  “He is.”

  “He told you that?” Jules didn’t believe her.

  “Yeah,” Gina said. “You know, he does talk to me occasionally. With complete sentences and everything.”

  “He said those words,” Jules said. “He said, ‘I, Max Bhagat, am an Elvis fan.’ ”

  “Please don’t even think about teasing him,” Gina said. “I swear, this assassination thing that I’m not supposed to know anything about is making him really grim. Extra grim. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him smile.”

  “Max smiles?” Jules said, incredulity in his voice. “He’s an Elvis fan, and you’ve actually seen him smile . . . ?”

  “Stop,” Gina said, laughing. “Or I’m going to invite Stephen-the-new-neighbor over for dinner. With my brother Victor. ‘Dude, no, no, dude—three words. Sarah Michelle Gellar. Tell me to my face, right to my face, dude, that you wouldn’t do it with Sarah Michelle Gellar.’ ”

  “All right, all right,” Jules said, as he opened the door for her. “You win.”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  HOTEL ELBE HOF, HAMBURG, GERMANY

  JUNE 21, 2005

  PRESENT DAY

  As Max downloaded the photos from Gina’s camera onto the computer he’d appropriated from the hotel’s business center, he cursed himself for the fortieth time in the past half hour for not bringing along his own familiar laptop.

  The knock at the door came just at the perfect moment—right before he popped a vein, ground his teeth into shards, and flung the fucking hard drive through the window.

  “You made good time,” he told Jules curtly as he opened the door and—

  “Hey, Max.”

  The world went into super-slow-mo.

  For about half a lifetime, Max stood stone still and stared into the eyes of Grady Morant, aka Dave Jones, aka the motherfucker who, along with Max, was responsible for Gina’s disappearance.

  The part of him that had been an FBI agent for two decades went into autopilot, rapidly taking note of important information.

  Hands—up and empty, intentionally placed where Max could see them.

  Bulge, under jacket’s left arm—possible large wallet, probable side-arm.

  “Hey, Max”—Morant expected him to open this door, knew he’d be here.

  Taller, bigger—he had at least twenty-five pounds on Max.

  Special Forces—he’d been trained in some serious hand-to-hand.

  Back in 1990-something. Lotta years since Morant had been in the Army. Lotta years to lose his edge, get out of shape, go soft.

  Motherfucker didn’t look soft.

  His doctor’s gentle voice—“Looking good, Max. Collarbone’s healed nicely. Just . . . try to take it easy for awhile.”

  The part of Max that was a fucking madman lunatic didn’t wait to sort through the rapid-fire information and come to the conclusion that reaching beneath his own jacket to pull out his weapon and usher Morant into the hotel room at gunpoint to question him on Gina’s whereabouts was the smart move.

  The part of him that was a fucking madman lunatic was swallowed up by the chaos, by the fury and the fear and the bitter frustration.

  That heartstopping memory of Gina’s name—in harsh black and white on an official list of the dead.

  That body, beneath a shroud—with a face that wasn’t hers.

  A freefall of shock, as rage and grief still swirled and danced, parrying now with hope, the tiniest speck of which had already begun to unravel him.

  Max must’ve grabbed Morant and pulled him into the room. The door must’ve swung shut behind them, but Max didn’t hear it close.

  He just knew that Morant crashed over the chair and smashed into the wall next to the window.

  Max was right behind him, a pistol in his hand—an unfamiliar Astra that he must’ve somehow taken from Morant. He threw it across the room, then heaved the chair out of the way.

  Morant pushed himself to his feet, saying something that Max couldn’t hear over the thunderous storm inside his head.

  “Where’s Gina?” Max roared over it. “You fucking better tell me where Gina is or I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll rip you to pieces, right fucking now, you son of a bitch!”

  Morant tried to escape around the breakfast table, but Max grabbed him, tripped him, and together they went down, taking out a lamp that broke with a crash.

  His head hit the frame of the bed, hard, but the dancing lights that temporarily blinded him didn’t even start to slow him down. He was going for Morant’s throat whether he could see it or not, grabbing handfuls of his belt, his shirt, his hair.

  “I said, I don’t know where she—Ow, Jesus!”

  A fist to Max’s face didn’t do the fucker a bit of good—no velocity. But then he tasted blood. Maybe he’d just gone past pain as Morant again tried to scramble free.

  An elbow caught Max in the side, taking his air with a sharp stab, but he still didn’t back off.

  Morant thought he’d bought himself a second or two of time—his mistake. He moved onto his hands and knees to get away and put himself right where Max wanted him—into a chokehold, Max’s arm around his throat, his knee pressing into his back, grinding into his spine.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Morant spat out before Max tightened his grip, keeping him from getting the air he needed to speak.

  The air he needed to breathe.

  Morant, of course, was too well traine
d to just lie there and die. He rolled, onto his back, onto Max, trying to break the smaller man’s grip. He shoved himself, hard, against the wall, repeatedly trying to crush Max with his body weight, trying at least to loosen his death grip.

  And it was a death grip.

  Max wanted to kill Morant.

  Max was killing Morant.

  The man clawed at Max’s arm, trying desperately to reach Max’s face, his eyes, all to no avail. He struggled then, squirming like a beached fish—until Max realized he was reaching into his pocket, reaching for something.

  Not a knife, not a gun—a pen. Cheap plastic, with a point that clicked out.

  A well-trained man could kill with a pen—or at least wound, and Max tucked his face into Morant’s broad back and braced himself for another attack.

  Max Bhagat had clearly snapped. Jones had seen it before—in training for Special Forces as well as in Chai’s employ—with men who’d been pushed too hard, too far.

  He’d even experienced it himself, in prison.

  Torture—a tongue-loosening tactic that was apparently now in Ameri-ca’s arsenal—could do that to a man.

  Sanity vanished and instinct ruled. Decisions were made, choices taken that had little to do with personal beliefs, with long-held perceptions of right or wrong.

  It was pretty damn obvious that Max either was unable to listen or had retreated to some dark place where he couldn’t hear Jones’s gasped explanations: “I don’t know where Gina is, but I know she’s with Molly, and they’re both still alive.”

  Or “Hey, shit-for-brains! We’re on the same side!”

  And then, as Max’s grip tightened on his throat, Jones could no longer speak. He could no longer breathe.

  What the fuck . . . ?

  The possibility that he was going to die in the very near future was highly likely.

  It just seemed unbelievable that it would happen right here. Right now.

  Like this.

  He wasn’t ready.

  He thought of Molly, and he fought harder, but light sparked and black patches popped, messing up his vision, and he knew he was going down.

  Without telling Max what he needed to know.

  Goddamn it. He dug for the pen he was carrying in his pants, cursing himself for taking care to follow the rules—to never write anything down. Never leave a paper trail. When Max went through his pockets, he’d find nothing.

  He clicked the pen—his husband pen—thanking God that he had it with him. He’d started carrying it to keep from having to run back to their tent or the hospital office whenever Molly turned to him and asked, “Do you have a pen?”

  Jesus—the wall was too far away to write on.

  His hand spasmed and he dropped it. Groped for it, got it.

  And then he pushed back his sleeve and he wrote, for the last few seconds of his life, directly on his other arm, right until the world faded for the very last time, and went permanently black.

  SHEFFIELD PHYSICAL REHAB CENTER, MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

  JANUARY 28, 2004

  SEVENTEEN MONTHS AGO

  Jules followed Gina into the building, carrying Max’s guitar.

  Well, okay. It wasn’t Max’s yet, but Jules liked calling it that. It was just so totally un-Max-ish. Kind of similar to the outlandishly out-of-character plaid PJ pants and Snoopy T-shirt Jules had seen his boss wearing late one night, some months ago.

  Gina had been involved in that surprise-fest, too.

  Today, Nurse Horrible was over at the reception desk, and Saint Gina greeted her cheerfully despite their ongoing feud, waving those comic books she’d brought. “Hi, Debra. Where’s Ajay hiding? I found the latest X-Men.”

  Jules didn’t hear Deb’s reply as he held the door for a pair of what had to be professional hockey players, visiting their recuperating teammate.

  And, whoa, the cute blond one actually held Jules’s gaze as he thanked him. Wasn’t that interesting. Of course, the boy was barely twenty, so maybe he was just some naÏve Canadian and . . . Nope. Jules got a bonafide over-the-shoulder second glance and a pretty obvious once-over from the sports twinkie—with more eye contact that ended in an actual wink.

  So okay. Wow. He was going to have to start watching hockey.

  The sound of breaking glass made Jules turn away from the scenery in the parking lot. Oops. Gina had dropped the flowers she’d brought for old Mrs. Klinger. The mayonnaise jar she was using to transport them had shattered on the tile floor.

  The comic books had gone flying, too, and at first Jules thought she’d dropped to her knees to pick them up, but as he hurried toward her, Debra came out from behind the counter and . . .

  The two women clung to each other . . . ?

  Oh, dear Jesus . . . Jules broke into a run as he saw that Gina was in tears, and he heard her ask, “Does Max know?”

  Which was good, because it meant that it wasn’t Max who had dropped dead. Instead, it was someone else, only now Deb was crying, too, and with heartsickening certainty, Jules knew that could mean only one thing. These two women who so totally disliked each other had something in common . . .

  “Max found him,” Deb told Gina.

  “Oh, God, no,” Gina wept.

  “Found who?” Jules asked, crouching down next to them, even though he already knew.

  Ajay. They’d both adored Ajay.

  “But he was doing so well,” Gina said, as if a good, solid argument as to why he shouldn’t have died could bring the boy back to life.

  “Was it kidney failure?” Jules asked.

  Deb shook her head as she wiped her eyes. “Infection. It ripped through his immune system. He complained of a sore throat at dinner, so I took his temperature. It wasn’t more than a little bit higher than normal. None of us thought . . . But by the time Max found him, just a few hours later, he was burning up. We rushed him to the hospital, where he died in the ER around midnight. His poor little heart just gave up the fight.”

  Now they were all crying.

  “Poor Max,” Gina said. “He must be devastated.” She began pushing herself up. “I better find him. I can’t believe he didn’t call me.”

  Jules could believe it. Max may have been devastated, but he’d never let anyone know. Not even Gina. Maybe especially not Gina. He helped Deb to her feet, too.

  “This must’ve happened right after I called last night,” Gina realized.

  “No, no, hon,” Debra said. “This wasn’t last night. It was the night before.”

  Oh, crap.

  Gina didn’t believe it at first. Jules could see her struggling to make sense of this information. “Are you sure? I spoke to Max yesterday and . . .”

  Jules knew what she was thinking: And he hadn’t said a word about it.

  Ajay had died and Max hadn’t even bothered to tell her.

  Gina abruptly turned and headed toward Max’s room.

  “Oh, dear.” Deb gestured toward the broken glass on the floor. “I’ll take care of this mess,” she told Jules. “You go try to handle that one.”

  Good verb choice—try. Jules grabbed Max’s guitar and ran after Gina. “Sweetie, maybe you should slow down, count to ten—”

  “Why? So I don’t say something I’m going to regret? Don’t worry, I’ve got it down to three perfect, regret-proof words: Go fuck yourself. Maybe I’ll add a fourth: Max.”

  “Gina—”

  “I actually thought he needed me,” she said. “Wow, did I ever get that wrong!”

  Max’s door was closed, but Gina just went on in without even knocking.

  He was on the phone, standing and looking out of the window, but he turned. Maybe it was the fire shooting out of Gina’s ears, but he knew that telling her to hold on a sec wasn’t going to cut it. “I’m going to have to call you back,” he said into his phone and snapped it shut.

  Max was a master negotiator, but it was going to take a miracle to talk his way out of this one.

  Jules stood in the hall. He knew he should turn around,
walk away, but he couldn’t. It was like watching a train wreck happening in slow motion.

  “Didn’t you think,” Gina said, “that Ajay’s dying just might be something that I’d want to know?”

  Max got very still. “I thought . . .” He shook his head. “You weren’t feeling well,” he said.

  “I wasn’t feeling well at 5:25 P.M.,” she lit into him. “A solid, what, sixteen hours after Ajay died?” She started to cry. “Jesus, Max! You couldn’t pick up the phone before that?”

  He didn’t say anything. What could he say?

  “What, were you too busy?” she asked him. “Like, oh, well. Shit happens. Little boys die every day, what’s the big deal about one more?”

  It was so obvious to Jules that Max felt awful. That he was devastated. That he hadn’t known how to tell her, that he didn’t know what to say right now, that he was unable to find any words at all to express his pain.

  Or maybe that was just what Jules wanted to see. Instead of this silent, expressionless, emotional void of a man.

  “What is wrong with you?” Gina whispered.

  Her words seemed to hang, like the dust in the sunlight streaming in through the window, as they all stood in silence.

  Until Max’s phone started ringing.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice tight. “I told you often enough—I can’t give you what you want.”

  “I guess not,” Gina said. “But thanks so much for trying—oh. Wait. You didn’t try.” She turned to Jules, still standing there like an idiot in the hall. “I’m going to get a cab back to your place.”

  “Jules can drive you,” Max said, as his phone just kept ringing and ringing.

  “I know you have business to discuss,” Gina said stiffly.

  “It can wait,” Max said.

  “Whatever,” Gina said, and left the room.

  Jules was holding that guitar. “You want me to—”

  “Leave it,” she said as she walked away.

  Jules went into the room as his boss answered the phone.

  “Bhagat,” Max said. “Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

  He had to know that Gina wasn’t coming back.

  Didn’t he care that she hadn’t even bothered to say good-bye?