Breaking Point

by Pamela Clare

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, thank God!”

  Zach didn’t share her sense of relief. The Zetas were headed straight for the junction at Janos, where Mexico 10 intersected with the Carret and connected Janos to Juárez. Anyone headed west from Juárez would have to pass that intersection, as would any driver heading north on Mexico 10. It was the perfect place to screen traffic leaving the state of Chihuahua for Sonora.

  That’s where Zach was taking Natalie, and now the Zetas would reach the intersection before they did.

  ZACH GLANCED OVER at his sleeping passenger, feeling a tug in his chest. Her long hair spilled over her cheek, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and even. The bruise on her cheek was the only indication of the hell she’d been through these past couple of days—well, that and the Glock resting in her lap.

  What was it about her that got to him? Sure, she was pretty. Okay, she was beautiful. But he’d met lots of beautiful women, and none of them had gotten inside him like Natalie had. Maybe it was the combination of grit and vulnerability that was so much a part of her. Or maybe it was just their situation. Hell, he didn’t know.

  And now isn’t the time to try to figure it out.

  Besides, it didn’t matter. His job was to get her home safely. Then she would go back to her life, and he would get on with his mission. They wouldn’t see each other again.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, then over at Natalie again.

  It would be better for both of them if she stayed awake. If another jeep full of Zetas were to come up behind them now, he’d lose precious seconds waking her and waiting for her to get her bearings before she’d be of any use to him. And for a moment, he considered rousing her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The peaceful expression on her face told him she’d found forgetfulness in sleep, and the last damned thing he wanted to do was to rob her of that, not when ugly reality lay just up the highway.

  Let her sleep, McBride.

  He took one hand off the wheel, opened the plastic bottle of ibuprofen he’d left on the dash, and popped a couple of pills, then washed them down with bottled water. Then he put his gaze back where it should be—on the road.

  IT WAS ALMOST midnight by the time they reached Altar. The streets were still busy, but, apart from a couple of street vendors, most of the stores were closed, making it impossible to buy everything they’d need for their journey. They had no choice but to stay the night.

  Zach had been forced to leave the highway to avoid roadblocks the Zetas had set up outside Janos, Agua Prieta, and Nogales. But he hadn’t seen a single Z on a license plate since they’d passed the outskirts of Nogales. Oh, the Zetas were here, all right. All the cartels had a presence in Altar, which served as a starting point for many of the trafficking routes into the U.S. But Altar was in the grasp of the Sinaloa Cartel.

  The Zetas were lying low.

  Beside him, Natalie stared out the window in apparent fascination at a vendor who was doing a brisk business in bottled water, canned food, and sunhats with American flags on them. “Is there a drought coming on? Look at how many gallons of water that man in the cowboy hat just bought.”

  “Keep your head down, Natalie. Someone might recognize you.”

  She did as he asked, her dark hair falling down like a curtain, concealing her face. “Sorry. I’m just curious by nature, I guess.”

  Really? I hadn’t noticed.

  “He’s selling water to people who are going to start out for the border tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It gets up to a hundred and fifteen degrees out there in the desert. Traveling by day puts a person at greater risk not only of being seen by traffickers, but also dying of heatstroke or dehydration. If you’ve got the cash to pay a good coyote who knows the way, you can travel when it’s cool, and then rest during the heat of the day.”

  She nodded thoughtfully as if thinking this through, then slowly turned to look up at him, wariness on her face. “Is that what we’re going to do—walk across the desert at night?”

  So she didn’t like the idea. He couldn’t say he blamed her.

  “That’s the plan.” He drew up to a stop sign, then made a left. “Oh, don’t worry. We aren’t leaving tonight. I need to buy supplies. Our objective now is to lie low—get a room in a safe hotel, buy supplies tomorrow, and then get out of town.”

  “I suppose you’ll be shopping around for a ‘coyote,’ too.” She spoke the word with distinct—and understandable—contempt.

  “No need, angel.” He glanced over at her and smiled.

  “You’ve already got a guide.”

  He tilted his head back and let loose his best coyote howl. Chuckling, he glanced down again, his laughter ending abruptly when he saw the expression on her face.

  Clearly, she was not amused.

  CHAPTER 11

  NATALIE COULDN’T BELIEVE she was doing this, her heart already pounding. She squirmed and tried to make herself smaller, her body bent in a fetal position and crammed into the military duffel bag that had held their guns. Then her hair caught on the zipper. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry.” Zach’s fingers freed the strands, then tugged the corner of the bag up over her right shoulder, encasing all but her face in thick canvas.

  “You promised. Just a few minutes.”

  “I’ll get you out of here as fast as I can.” Zach reached down, cupped her cheek, his features invisible, his head a shadow against the darkness. “I’m sorry, Natalie, but it’s the only way. Are you ready?”

  She wanted to shout at him to get her out, but then how would he sneak her into the hotel room? The Zetas were searching for American couples. If anyone saw her, if anyone recognized her . . .

  She drew a deep breath, steeled herself. You can do this. “Yes.”

  Then he closed the trunk.

  Darkness. Heat. The duffel bag tighter than a coffin.

  Her pulse picked up, panic closing in.

  Snap out of it! Two days ago, you spent hours in a trunk in the hands of killers. You’re safer in here than out there.

  She heard the driver’s door shut, heard the engine start, and drew a steadying breath. It was only a few blocks from the edge of town, where Zach had pulled off the road, to the hotel. He would drive to the front entrance, where everyone could see that he was alone. He would go in, pay in cash, speaking only Spanish, then drive the car around to the door of their room—and sneak her inside.

  No one would know that she was there. If the Zetas showed up looking for an American man and woman, the front desk would tell them there weren’t any.

  She closed her eyes, kept her breathing slow and steady as the car slowed and came to a stop at the traffic light.

  Only two blocks to go.

  The seconds dragged by, the heat inside the duffel bag sweltering, her body cramped, her skin slick with sweat.

  The car began to move again, then slowed and turned left.

  One block.

  The darkness seeped in on her, so slowly that at first she didn’t realize it.

  Have a nice death, a peaceful death.

  She swallowed, her mouth dry, those hated words running unwelcome through her mind. She tried to force them aside, unwilling to be held hostage by the horror of that day.

  The car rolled to a stop.

  Above the rush of her own pulse, she heard the door open. She would be alone now while Zach went inside and got a room.

  You can do this. You can do this.

  After a brief eternity, the driver’s side door opened again, and the engine started. Moments later, she felt the car slow, turn, and roll to a stop.

  Not long now. Not long.

  The door opened and closed, and then . . .

  Nothing.

  What was he doing? Where had he gone? Had something happened?

  She strained to listen but could hear nothing. The seconds became minutes which seemed to stretch into hours, until the only sound Natalie could hear was the hammering of he
r own heart.

  Something’s wrong. Something’s gone wrong.

  Her breath came in shallow pants, adrenaline making her heart beat harder.

  What if something had happened to him? No one would know where she was. She would be stuck here, just like she’d been stuck in that morgue cooler.

  Oh, where is he?

  She should be home by now, not trying to sneak into her own country across the desert, where hundreds of people died every year. Why had she gone along with this? Why had she let herself be locked in this trunk by a man who wouldn’t tell her his last name, who insisted he wasn’t a criminal but knew smuggling routes well enough to guide her through them? Who else knew smuggling routes besides drug smugglers, men who bought, sold and stole drugs and carried guns and traded guns for cars and killed people without blinking?

  She choked back a sob.

  Jack Sprat could eat no fat.

  Footsteps. A key in the lock. Cool night air spilling in around her.

  ZACH KNEW SHE was in trouble the moment he opened the trunk. She was hyperventilating, her eyes wide. He bent down, as if searching for something in the trunk, aware that they were surrounded by windows, alleys, streets where anyone would be lurking, watching. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s almost over. Stay quiet. Stay still. I have to zip it.”

  He pushed the zipper up carefully over her panicked face, then lifted the duffel bag with her inside it and slung it over his left shoulder like a sack of potatoes, her weight causing a tug of pain in his ribs. Trying to act casual, he walked with long but unhurried strides toward the unlocked door of their room. He opened the door, walked inside, and locked it behind him, then hurried to lower his trembling human baggage gently to the bed, where it wriggled and whimpered.

  He reached for the zipper, tugged. “Sorry that took so long. There were cops on the street out front. I wanted to make sure the place was safe before I—”

  Natalie’s pale face emerged from the duffel bag. “Get me out!”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do. Hold still for just—”

  But she didn’t hold still. She wiggled and twisted, shrugging her shoulders out of the bag, then flipping onto her hands and knees and crawling the rest of the way out, as Zach pulled the bag from beneath her with a few strong tugs. She turned and sat on the bed facing him, out of breath and shaking, her eyes wild, her skirt pushed up around her hips, her hair a dark, tangled mane. There were beads of sweat on her forehead and an angry red scratch on her left arm, probably from the zipper.

  He sat beside her, drew her into his arms. “Easy, Natalie. Shhh. It’s over.”

  For a moment she let him hold her, her body trembling. Then her spine went stiff, and she drew away from him, sliding off the bed and smoothing her skirt into place. “No. No, it’s not over. It won’t be over till I’m home.”

  Well, she was right about that.

  But why did he get the feeling he’d done something wrong? “I wouldn’t have left you in there so long, but with three cop cars parked on the street, I had to make certain the place was clear before I brought you in.”

  Her gaze bored through him as if she hadn’t heard a word he’d said, one hand absentmindedly rubbing the scratch on her arm. “If you’re not a drug thief or trafficker, how do you know the smuggling routes well enough to travel through the desert without a guide?”

  So, it had come back to that, had it? Why couldn’t she just trust him?

  Would you trust you, McBride?

  Hell, no.

  “We’ll talk in a minute.” He turned and walked toward the door. “Stay out of sight, and stay quiet. I need to get the rest of our shit out of the car.”

  He waited until she’d backed into the bathroom, then grabbed the empty duffel bag and walked out to the vehicle. Scanning the scene for any sign that he was under surveillance, he opened the trunk and quickly loaded the firearms and ammo into the bag. Then he grabbed the rest of their stuff and carried it with the weapons into their room, locking the door behind him.

  What in the hell was he going to tell her this time—that he’d earned the rank of Eagle Scout by helping little old ladies cross the desert?

  Damn it!

  She reappeared at the bathroom door. “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “I said we’ll talk.” He tucked a Glock into the back of his jeans, then searched one of the bags for the first-aid kit. “But first we’re going to take care of that scratch. I don’t want it getting infected while we’re out in the desert.”

  “PLAY THAT BACK and amplify the background. Listen.”

  Joaquin watched as Julian and Marc used fancy police equipment to dissect the recording of Natalie’s phone call, picking up a man’s voice in the background. Julian scrolled back through the digital version of the recording, then hit play again.

  “Before you go, there’s someone who wants to say hello.” That was Tom.

  A slight hesitation from Natalie. Joaquin wouldn’t have noticed it if Julian and Marc hadn’t pointed it out.

  That’s why they’re the cops, and you’re the photographer, amigo.

  And then a man’s voice whispering. “Only if it’s really quick.”

  “Is that really you, chula?” Joaquin heard the emotion in his own voice, the rush of relief he’d felt at the sound of her voice so overwhelming he’d found it almost impossible to speak.

  Then Natalie’s voice, her surprise and relief every bit as strong as his. “I thought . . . I thought you were dead!”

  “Thanks to you, I’m still here.”

  And then a faint whisper. “Time to go.”

  “Good-bye! I—”

  Then the line went dead.

  Twice Julian replayed it, adjusting the computer, making the whispered words even clearer. “The accent’s American. My guess is he’s standing right beside her.”

  Marc nodded. “Whoever he is, he’s calling the shots. That’s for damned sure.”

  Joaquin didn’t like it. “Is she his prisoner?”

  Julian leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, a frown on his face. “Anything is possible, but unless that secret message turns out to be some kind of ransom demand, I don’t think so. She called him ‘another tourist’ and said they were traveling together, which could be their way of telling us they’re on the same side. And he’s not threatening her. He lets the call go to speaker phone, and when Tom tries to bring you into the call, this guy’s response is ‘Only if it’s really quick.’ Seems to me he’s being understanding, trying to accommodate her.”

  “That’s my take on it, too.” Marc took a slug of coffee.

  “Somehow this guy helped her escape—how we don’t know—and now they’re on the run. Do you think he’s an operative?”

  “No idea. The key is in that message.” Julian sat upright, pushed a few buttons on the computer, and popped out a CD. “She called so we’d know she was alive. He let her call so she could deliver that message.”

  Joaquin didn’t understand. “Why would they call us? If she escaped, why not call the U.S. consulate or the State Department or the police? Why is she hanging out with this loser?”

  Marc met his gaze. “This loser may have saved her life.”

  “There are lots of reasons they might be lying low rather than contacting the authorities.” Julian powered down the computer. “The cartels have infiltrated law enforcement and government at all levels in Mexico, and it’s hard to trust—”

  The door opened, and Kat appeared, her long dark hair tied in a knot on the back of her head, a look of excitement on her face, a notebook and pen in her hand. “It’s Navajo code talk.”

  “Have you deciphered it?” Marc pulled out a chair for her.

  Kat shut the door behind her, shaking her head. “Only partly. It’s more complicated than that. I used a code-talker dictionary, but it still makes no sense.”

  Julian cleared a space on the table. “Show us what you’ve got.”

  She sat
and looked at her notes. “Here’s the first part: ‘Escape from ant leg tooth apple ram.’ ”

  Joaquin shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Well, ‘escape from’ is clear enough, but the rest of it . . .” Julian shrugged. “Do the words have any significance in code talk beyond their literal meaning?”

  “Yes, but that didn’t make any sense either.” There was an apologetic tone in Kat’s voice, as if she felt she’d failed them, her pretty face lined with stress and fatigue.

  It was almost one in the morning, and she had a baby at home.

  Joaquin reached out, gave her hand a squeeze. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  For a moment no one spoke.

  Then Julian grabbed a notebook and a pen. “Give us everything you’ve got. Let’s go over every word, look at every possible meaning.”

  An hour later, they’d made no progress, the message just as incomprehensible as it had been when Kat first read out the strange list of words.

  “Maybe we should call it a night.” Julian leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but my mind’s not getting any sharper.”

  “I hear that,” Marc muttered. Then he frowned. “What if these aren’t just words. What if they’re a mix of words and words that stand for letters that spell other words?”

  Kat looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, ‘Escape from’ makes sense. Then it turns into gibberish. What if the other words spell words?”

  “But how do we know which letters to use?”

  Marc turned to a new sheet of paper. “They wanted us to be able to figure this out, so let’s make it simple and use the first letter of each word to start with.”

  “So that’s ‘Escape from a-l-t-a-r.’ ” Kat frowned. “Are they in a church?”

  And then Joaquin knew.

  He looked up, met Julian’s gaze. “No, not an altar like inside a church. Altar.”

  He saw understanding dawn in Julian’s eyes. “That’s it.”

  Marc shook his head. “All-tar? What’s ‘all-tar’?”