Breaking Point

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “He was also exemplary,” Max pointed out, “when he taught security teams how to guard shipments of heroin for Nang-Klao Chai.”

  “He didn’t give them any information that wasn’t readily available over the Internet,” Jules countered. “And most of his time with Chai was spent as a medic.” He could, no doubt, make a case for Satan. His fall from heaven was not his fault . . . “Remember, Chai got him out of prison. Do you know what kind of torture went on, daily, in that place?”

  “The kind that would twist a man, permanently?” Max answered, his voice tight.

  “Hey,” Jules said. “Sweetie, I know what you’re thinking, but come on. It’s unlikely this is some kind of revenge. And even if it is, it’s certainly not against you. You all but let the guy go.”

  Yes. Yes, Max had.

  He’d let.

  The fucker.

  Go.

  He’d had Morant in custody—and he’d let him go in a moment of softhearted insanity.

  Because the bastard had pulled a Han Solo, because he’d ended up sacrificing both himself and that suitcase of cash, and ultimately saved a crapload of lives—including that kidnapped VIP. Morant had been beaten to a pulp for his trouble, too, hovering in a haze of pain, ready to be shipped back to Chai for more torture, until a team of SEALs had gone in after him and pulled him out.

  So Max had made it easy for Morant to escape from the hospital.

  True, he didn’t make it too easy. The son of a bitch had had to walk out on a broken leg.

  But he’d walked. And he’d vanished.

  And now Gina was missing, and probably dead.

  Jules, perceptive little bastard, correctly read Max’s silence. He sighed. “You cannot blame yourself for this.”

  “Call Frisk,” Max ordered tightly. “See if any of his agents are near this hotel. They’re going to need to take a look at this room anyway—just have them bump it up in priority. Make sure they bring the equipment they’ll need to copy this voicemail. And call the American Embassy. Verify that Gina and Molly aren’t sitting in some safe room somewhere.”

  As he said the words, his gut twisted. Goddamn it, there was nothing he wouldn’t give for that to be so.

  But Jules dashed his hopes. “They’re not,” he said. “I’m sorry, sir, I already thought of that and—shit on a stick! We’re stopping. Aw, crap, it’s a total parking lot—someone’s actually getting out of their car up ahead. Sir, let me call the hotel. They must have a business center, or I don’t know, a laptop you can rent or borrow to download that photo.”

  Of course. Thank God one of them was thinking clearly. “I’ll call the front desk,” Max said. “Just . . . get here as soon as you can.”

  KENYA, AFRICA

  FEBRUARY 25, 2005

  FOUR MONTHS AGO

  Molly was ready to scream.

  According to the rules of AAI, they needed a flipping chaperone. In order to respect the various customs of the indigenous people, an unmarried man and woman could not go on a four-day journey to the north.

  Heck, they couldn’t take a ten-minute trip to the grocery store—were there a grocery store to go to.

  She and Jones, aka Leslie Pollard, needed a third person to go with them as they delivered little Lucy northward.

  But Gina had just spent the past half hour getting violently ill.

  “I’ll go with you anyway,” Gina said now. She was pale and shaking with the chills and sweats of a fever, but she dragged her mouth up into a smile. “I can go. I can do it. It was just something I ate. I feel much better now.”

  Her message lost some of its believability as she once again leaned over the side of her bed, grabbing for her bucket.

  And it was more than obvious that she hadn’t eaten something bad. She’d caught the same bug that the visiting priests had suffered from. They’d brought it with them, special delivery.

  Please God, Molly prayed as she used a wet cloth to wipe Gina’s face, don’t let me get this until Lucy is in Marsabit. “I think it’s safe to say that you’re not going anywhere,” she told her friend.

  “You could put me in the back of the truck,” Gina gasped.

  “What, tie you down, so you don’t bounce out when the road is rough? Gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

  “I’m serious.” Gina grabbed her hand. “Mol, any minute Lucy’s uncles are going to realize she’s gone, and they are going to do the math and come straight here.”

  Molly was well aware of that. They needed to leave the area.

  Now.

  Jones was ready to take Lucy and head north, on his own. But a Western male, traveling alone with an underage girl . . . They would be noticed. And stopped for questioning. Child trafficking was a problem here, as it was in most underdeveloped countries around the world. It was too dangerous an endeavor.

  And there were obvious reasons why Molly couldn’t go off with the girl on her own. One of them being that Jones would—what was that expression Gina used? Shit monkeys.

  Which was why she’d sent him out to fetch Sister Helen. Except, when he knocked on the door, he came back inside the tent with Sister Maria-Margarit, the dreaded Double-M.

  What was he thinking? Molly made giant “no” eyes at him.

  He shook his head. “We got a problem,” he said. “Everyone in camp’s got what Gina’s got. Sister Helen, Sister Grace . . . All down for the count. I give you the last nun standing.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Sister Double-M grimly asked.

  Oh, dear Lord, he’d told her . . . ? But Jones was shaking his head. “Hey, I didn’t say a word.”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” the nun chided. “I’m not stupid. I saw her arrive. And when we received the message from Mr. Jimmo’s wife, about his being in hospital, it included the curious line, ‘Thus, he cannot help the girl.’ ” She gazed at Molly. “I knew you’d be part of this. I just didn’t expect you to get Mr. Pollard involved. At least not quite so soon.”

  Molly had two choices. Tell the truth, or lie. “I’m taking the girl to safety.” She hated liars. “Mr. Pollard has agreed to come along. We were hoping Helen would come, too, as our third.”

  The nun was shaking her head. “She’s ill. And even if she weren’t, this is not what we do.”

  Molly’s heart sank. “You know that the AAI rule about chaperones is outdated—”

  “If you’re asking for permission to break it,” Double-M said sternly, “my answer is unequivocally no.”

  “We could put on rings,” Jones suggested. “Pretend we’re married.”

  “And if someone sees you along the way?” the sister asked. “Which they surely will.” She shook her head. “AAI’s rule was created to win and maintain the trust of all of the many cultures in this region—some deeply religious. Yes, you save one child by breaking this rule. But how many do we lose later? We’ve worked hard for acceptance, for a chance to suggest alternative, less harmful initiation ceremonies for these girls, for a chance to educate, to teach . . .”

  “Lucy will be our chaperone,” Molly said. “At least for the trip north. And we can hire someone in Marsabit to travel south with us.” This was the solution—it had to be.

  But Sister Double-M wasn’t impressed.

  “And when Lucy’s uncles and cousins arrive?” the nun asked. “Searching for her? Angry? Certain that we have spirited away the girl? What do I tell them when they ask where you have gone?”

  “To Paul Jimmo’s farm,” Molly said. “To help his family while he’s in the hospital. It won’t be a lie—we’ll stop there on our way north.”

  “And when they find out it wasn’t your final destination?” The sister shook her head. “They will see through your story. And AAI will be known not as the organization that helps and educates, but rather the organization that steals their girls.” She kept on shaking her head. “No. If you leave this camp tonight, I will not allow you to return.”

  Molly sat down on her bunk. It had been a gamble, going to the n
uns for help—and she’d lost.

  “Then I’ll pack my things,” she said quietly. The people here were her friends, her family, and leaving was going to break her heart, but a girl’s life was at stake. What, was she just supposed to stand by and let Lucy’s uncles take her home? Kicking and screaming—crying out for help?

  Molly reached under her bed for her backpack, swinging it up next to her, unzipping its many compartments. “Gina, will you box up whatever I can’t—”

  “What if you can tell them—Lucy’s uncles—that we’re on a legitimate trip?” Jones interrupted. “What if you tell them we’ve gone on our honeymoon?”

  What?

  “Molly and I,” he clarified.

  She wasn’t the only one staring at him, frozen.

  “It solves both problems, doesn’t it?” he said. “The chaperone thing as well as the other? We’ll borrow the camp truck and head out, on a camping trip—a chance to spend some time alone. God knows I’ve always dreamed of seeing Marsabit. And if we happen to pick up a hitchhiker on our way, well, that’s our business, and our business alone. It will have nothing to do with AAI.”

  “Is anyone going to believe you got married during an epidemic?” Gina spoke up.

  “White lie,” Jones said. “We left just before the fireworks started.” He directed his words to the nun. “You’d tell a white lie to save a girl, wouldn’t you?” He didn’t wait for her answer before turning to Molly. “Are you up for getting married?”

  He was actually serious. What about his fear that someone would notice—that if she suddenly started sharing a tent with him, a red flag would go up . . . ? Speaking of that, his accent was slipping. “Leslie,” she said, to remind him. “That’s crazy.”

  “Not if we do it to save Lucy,” he added, his accent back in place. “Yes, we hardly know each other, although I do like you. Very much. Yes, it’ll seem hasty to some, but to the people—your friends—who are familiar with your generosity . . . They’ll understand that it was to save Lucy.”

  And with that, Molly understood, too. Via the relief worker grapevine, word would get out that she’d married a near stranger—in order to save a girl’s life. The locals could and would believe that theirs was love at first sight—since it wasn’t the locals Jones was worried about.

  “Do you really think it would work?” she breathed.

  “Yes,” he whispered, his eyes never leaving hers. “I do.”

  Sister Double-M was trying her best to be a wet blanket. “A white lie is one thing. But marriage is a sacrament, not to be taken lightly—”

  “No one’s taking this lightly, sister.” Gina cut her off. She was sick as a dog, but she had something to say. “If you’re going to do this, Leslie, you need to get down on one knee, and do it right.”

  Jones was ignoring both of them. “Do you want to?” he asked Molly, his accent seriously slipping again. “I mean, really do this? Because we could get it annulled, later, if . . . you didn’t want to really be . . . you know, married. To me.”

  Molly stood there, looking into the eyes of this man that she loved with all her heart. The doubt she saw there was real. He actually thought . . .

  “Are you really asking me?” she said. “Because you haven’t asked the question that, if you were to actually ask, I’d definitely answer with . . . a yes.”

  He didn’t kiss her. Not with Attila the Nun watching. But Molly knew that he wanted to.

  Instead, he got down on one knee in front of her, glancing at Gina. “This right?”

  “Works for me,” Gina said.

  He took Molly’s hand, gazed up at her. “Marry me.”

  “That’s not a question, it’s an order,” Gina complained. “Try again.”

  Molly started to laugh—it was either that or cry.

  “Molly, will you marry me?”

  “Yes,” Molly told him, adding, “To save Lucy,” for Sister Double-M’s sake.

  The nun cleared her throat, and Molly turned toward her, prepared to do battle.

  But the old woman had tears in her eyes. “I’ll get Father Ben,” she said. “God certainly works to help his children in mysterious ways.”

  Five minutes later, as they took their vows right there in the tent, with Gina, still in bed, as their witness, they both added, “To save Lucy,” after saying “I do.”

  Although they both knew that it wasn’t true.

  Lucy, as it turned out, had saved them.

  MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

  JANUARY 28, 2004

  SEVENTEEN MONTHS AGO

  Gina couldn’t believe it. “You said no?”

  Jules glanced into the rearview mirror before signaling and moving into the passing lane. “It’s a big step.”

  “It’s just a date,” she told him from the passenger seat as he drove her out to Sheffield, to see Max. They’d just dropped her car at the shop—the electrical system was going haywire again. “And it’s only a little date. Meeting for drinks after work? It’s not even dinner.”

  Even though Jules was working from home today—a definite challenge since Gina had become the houseguest who wouldn’t leave—he was dressed in his FBI clothes. He’d taken off his suit jacket before getting into the car but he still looked amazing. With his white shirt, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, sunglasses on, perfect hair, perfect nose, perfect jawline, perfect cheekbones, and of course, that perfect, white-toothed killer smile, he was, quite possibly, the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life.

  It was odd that he didn’t get hit on by handsome strangers more often.

  Or maybe it wasn’t. Gina had had a roommate, freshman year of college, who, like Jules, was drop-dead gorgeous. She’d spent a lot of nights alone—guys were too scared to ask her out.

  “It’s not like you’re not attracted to Stephen,” Gina pointed out.

  Jules had started announcing twinkie sightings right from the moment the van pulled up and his newest neighbor began moving his furniture into the apartment down the street. Over the past few weeks, both he and Gina had spent an awful lot of time peering out the windows and giggling—or running out to get something they “forgot” in one of their cars—just to catch a glimpse of Mr. Wonderful.

  Tall, dark, and truly fabulous, Stephen-the-new-neighbor had the prettiest hazel eyes and longest eyelashes Gina had ever seen on a man. Besides Jules. The eyelashes, that is. Jules’s eyes were a rich, chocolate brown.

  “Yeah, well, attraction from afar is one thing.” Jules sighed. “It’s just . . . I know I’ll be disappointed. My fantasy Stephen is so much more . . . perfect than the real life version.”

  “But what if he’s not? What if the real guy is even better than your wildest imaginings?” Gina asked.

  Jules laughed his scorn. “I doubt that. Besides, he walks around like he’s got cruise control—his trolling is on autodrive.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Gina said. “But a guy who’s cruising, who only wants sex, doesn’t he tend to skip the invite for drinks?”

  “Well, yeah,” Jules admitted. “But . . . maybe he was thirsty.”

  “Maybe,” Gina countered, “you’re a coward.”

  Jules made an insulted sound. “I am not.”

  “Yeah, you are. And you never answered my question,” Gina pointed out. “What if you go have drinks and find out that Stephen is great?”

  Jules signaled for the exit that would take them to the rehab center. “I just . . . I don’t think I’m ready for this. Great or not . . .”

  And Gina understood. “You’re, like, a double coward, because you’re afraid this guy is going to be great. You’re afraid you’re going to get involved with him—at which point, you think Adam will dump Branford and finally come crawling back, and then what’ll you do?”

  Jules sighed. “Go ahead. I know you’re not done. You might as well finish.”

  “How long are you going to sit around, waiting for this . . . this . . .”

  “Total asshole?” Jules supplied.
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  “Right! To come back and tell you he made a mistake—again?” Gina asked. “And what kind of pretentious L.A. plastic name is Branford anyway? Yuck. Adam has no taste. Get over him, already. I’m serious. Stephen could be perfect—”

  “You know I love you,” he cut her off, “but as long as we’re flinging our weaknesses and failings about, I’d like to point out to you that I’m not the one who’s not in Kenya right now. ‘Hello, AAI?’ ” he did a mock imitation of Gina’s voice, higher-pitched and breathy, “ ‘I just want to let you know that I’m going to be putting my entire life on hold, indefinitely, for a man who can’t or won’t admit that he loves me, and who just compared our entire relationship, excuse me, friendship—we do the music-less mambo every chance we get but we’re really only friends. Anyway, he just compared our friendship to a high-school summer fling.’ ”

  Gina forced a laugh. “Wow, I really must’ve hit a nerve bringing up Adam,” she said, unable to keep her voice from shaking, “because that was really, really bitchy.”

  Jules sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said, and so obviously meant it, distress on his face.

  He reached for her hand, and she met him halfway, lacing their fingers together and giving him a squeeze. “It’s okay,” she said. “Because, you know, you’re right.”

  “And you’re right, too,” he told her. “Stephen scares me because, yes, I think he might be perfect. He’s so . . . nice—and smart and funny. It’s almost a joke. I didn’t tell you, but he was out walking his dog when I got home a few days ago, and we talked a little bit and . . . Merciful God. But you’re so right. I don’t want to have to admit to myself that I’m not over What’s-his-name. Because what kind of . . . of . . .”

  “Fool?” Gina suggested.

  “Yeah,” he said. “What kind of fool would still be jonsing for a crud like Adam—when Mr. Potentially Perfect is standing right in front of him?”

  Gina’s heart was breaking for him. “So okay,” she said. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re not ready to date.”

  “How about you, Kimosabe?” Jules asked, pulling into the rehab lot. He headed for a spot near the door. “You about ready to pack it in with Mr. Grumpy?”