Breaking Point

by Suzanne Brockmann

  As he got bumped to Yashi’s voice mail, his phone beeped. He had an incoming call—from Peggy Ryan. Terrific. He was going to have to talk directly to the Wicked Witch of the West.

  He anticipated the subtext of her message: “Good, you go to Indonesia and be gay there, thousands of miles away from me and the important press conferences I’m going to be holding.”

  He could even imagine her barely concealed amused condescension that he was finally a team leader—without a real team.

  “Hey, Peg,” Jules said as he answered his phone, as he watched Jones wind up the laptop’s power cord and hand it to Max, who was securing the computer in its carrying case.

  Who said he didn’t have a real team to lead? And this wasn’t just a real team—it was a dream team.

  Except wait—that was the hotel’s computer. Max realized it at the same moment that Jules did. Only Jones seemed to want to take it anyway, as backup.

  And then, whoops, as he watched, Max grabbed Jones by the shirt and shoved him up against the wall.

  “Hold please,” Jules said over Peggy’s terse list of orders. He muted his phone. “Back off,” he told Max.

  Max didn’t move. “This son of a bitch sent his wife and Gina to pick up a new passport from—”

  “I did not,” Jones said hotly. “She wasn’t supposed to go there.”

  “Oh, so she and Gina just flew to Hamburg to, what? Shop?” Max said.

  Jules’s entire team was on the verge of tripping over that dang lamp cord again.

  “Back,” he ordered through gritted teeth, “Off. Let me talk to Peggy, and then we’ll sort this out.” Max still didn’t move. “That was not a request. Max.”

  Wonder of wonders, the man actually obeyed. He released Jones with only a minimum of alpha-male jostling.

  The two of them stood there then, eyeing each other with obvious distaste.

  Jules unmuted his phone. “Sorry, Peg. Go ahead.”

  It was possible that calling them a “dream team” was a teensy exaggera-tion.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  PULAU MEDA, INDONESIA

  EXACT DATE: UNKNOWN

  PRESENT DAY

  Molly squinted at the sudden bright light as the container she and Gina had traveled in for the past fifteen hours was finally opened.

  The fresh air was a godsend, and both women gulped it in.

  Their captor made an apologetic face as he held his handkerchief to his nose. “The Depends didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.”

  “No,” Gina told him, “they didn’t.” Particularly not when she’d gotten seasick on the last leg of their journey.

  “Ah, well, it was worth a try.”

  Trim and elegant, with gray at his temples, the Italian man who’d ordered them at gunpoint into this container spoke perfect English, with only the faintest trace of an accent. He was still as apologetically polite as he’d been back in Hamburg.

  “My friend is ill, too,” Gina said. “She needs ginger ale or cola—something to settle her stomach.”

  Molly was beyond queasy, and so hungry she was lightheaded. It wasn’t a good combination. It was a miracle that she hadn’t thrown up as well.

  Of course, she still might.

  “By all means,” the man said. “We’ll just dial up room service.”

  She was so fuzzy-headed, she couldn’t tell if he was mocking Gina or if he meant what he’d said. Of course, it was hard to completely trust a man who’d pack two grown women in a container and ship them . . .

  Molly didn’t know where they’d been shipped, only that it was much warmer here than it had been in Germany. And it was sunnier, too, although the light that had made her squint came from a bare bulb hanging down from the ceiling.

  As another man—younger, darker, shorter, but wider—peered in at them, still brandishing the crowbar he’d used to pry the container open, Molly helped Gina to her feet. Or maybe Gina helped Molly. It was difficult to tell which of them was steadier on her feet.

  The older man spoke sharply to the younger one in what sounded like Italian—no doubt a warning to be careful of the car that was parked beside them. A navy blue Impala, it dated back to the days when bigger was better. It was in very good shape for its age—similar to its owner.

  “We’ll need a shower and a change of clothes,” Molly told him with as much dignity as she could muster, considering the circumstances.

  They were in a garage with shuttered windows and a concrete floor. Concrete with bits of shells mixed in—similar to the way they made it back on Parwati Island.

  “Are you all right?” Gina whispered to Molly.

  “I’ll live.” Besides her churning stomach, Molly’s heels were bruised from their attempts to get attention by kicking the metal sides of their prison. She was hoarse, too, from screaming for help.

  No one had heard them. No one, at least, who had cared.

  The older man led them into the house, down a hallway, into a room that was nicely furnished. A king-sized bed. A sofa with bamboo legs and sides. A TV even, though what were the odds that it worked?

  An open doorway revealed an attached modern bathroom—all gleaming white tile and chrome fixtures.

  It was air conditioned and cool, thank you, Lord Jesus. It was nicer than many of the hotel rooms she’d ever stayed in—except for the decided lack of view.

  Due to the fact that there were no windows whatsoever.

  “If you put your clothes outside the door,” their captor said, “my daughter-in-law will wash them for you.”

  With a stately bow, he closed the door behind him.

  Was he just leaving it unlocked?

  Gina was thinking the same thing, and went over to it. Opened it.

  The younger man they’d seen in the garage was standing guard out in the hall. He still held the crowbar.

  Gina closed the door, fast. “Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She moved away from the door, lowered her voice. She was clearly feeling better.

  Molly wished she could say the same.

  “There are three of them,” Gina continued. “We’ve only seen two, but he mentioned a third—his daughter-in-law. So far I’ve only seen one gun, and I haven’t seen it lately. What we need to do is be ready for them to come back in here. Maybe we can ask Crowbar for help, like the toilet won’t flush, and when he comes in, we’ll hit him over the head.” She crossed toward the bed, pulling up the cover to look at the metal frame. “We need to make a run for it. Now—before any reinforcements arrive.”

  Gina’s voice was getting more and more faint, as if she were talking from a great distance, instead of just a few feet away. That couldn’t be good.

  “Help me with this, will you?” Gina said, trying to move the mattress.

  Molly tried to go toward her, and ended up sitting right on the bed. Her legs weren’t working right.

  “Oh, that’s really helping.” Gina’s voice was sharp, until she looked up. “Molly? Are you okay?”

  Molly’s cheek was against the crispness of the sheets. How’d she get there?

  “Just gotta . . . close my eyes,” she said. “Just for a sec . . . Can we . . . make a run for it . . . a little later?”

  RAMSTEIN AIR BASE, GERMANY

  JUNE 22, 2005

  PRESENT DAY

  Jules Cassidy had called a time-out as they drove to Ramstein Air Base.

  It was not unlike the time-outs Max’s father had called during long family road trips.

  Max had sat in the backseat of the car, in between his sister and brother, not just because he was the youngest, but because he usually got along with them both.

  When they’d started to fight, they’d had to fight over him.

  Although there had been quite a few frustrating times when they joined forces and ganged up on him.

  At which point, his father usually called for total silence.

  Just like Jules had as they’d left the hotel.

  They’d stopped only twice on their
way to the airbase—to pick up a rental car to make the journey, and then at a shopping mall.

  A good leader, Jules had made sure his team was properly—and literally—outfitted. He grabbed a pair of jeans from the shelf, without even asking Max’s size. Apparently, he already knew what Max wore, down to the style and brand.

  A pair of sneakers—again he knew which rack to approach—and a lightweight jacket later, they were back in the car and on their way.

  It wasn’t until after midnight, when they hit the airbase, that Jules let Max and Morant speak to each other, let alone get into it.

  But first he checked in to make sure they still had an hour to kill before boarding the transport heading for Indonesia. He also led them to a patch of tarmac from which they would not be overheard.

  “Who goes first?” Jules asked, light on the balls of his feet, like a boxing referee.

  Grady Morant, aka Leslie Pollard, aka Dave Jones, raised his hand, but then didn’t speak right away. He scanned the area, taking in the activity on the airfield. He did it automatically, out of habit.

  Same way Max did. He knew if they went inside the terminal, they’d both head directly for the same seat. Back against the wall, easier to see anyone coming or going.

  He and Morant were a lot alike.

  Except Max hadn’t turned to a life of crime.

  Morant finally cleared his throat, then got the party started with a totally unexpected acceptance of blame.

  “Look, I know it’s on me—completely—that Molly and Gina were grabbed.” He took a deep breath. “But—”

  Okay, here it came. The part where it really wasn’t his fault.

  “I swear,” he continued, “I didn’t send them to Kraus’s workshop. I didn’t even tell Molly where it was. I have no idea how she found the place, and . . . As for why they went there, the only reason I can come up with is that Molly realized she was being followed. Maybe she wanted to try to warn me.” He shook his head, misery on his face. “Goddamn it. I should have known not to trust Kraus.”

  It was pretty obvious that was how the kidnapper had found him, found Molly and Gina, too. They’d all watched it play out on the DVD. Molly and Gina had walked in, Mr. Kraus made that phone call, and five minutes later, the man who’d ID’d himself as E. showed up.

  Coincidence? Not likely.

  Morant wasn’t done. “I just . . . I had to risk it. There were reasons for haste.”

  Reasons. For. Haste. Max resisted the urge to rip out the bastard’s throat. Reasons like a chance to make a million dollars in some business deal that was mostly legal—oh, except for the parts that were felonies? Or maybe Morant was going to try to tug on their heartstrings with reasons that were sentimental. His dear old mother was ill, for example. Or his cousin needed a kidney transplant.

  Max couldn’t wait to hear this.

  But Jules stepped in and took the discussion in a different direction. “If you weren’t intending to send Molly to Kraus’s workshop, how exactly were you going to get that passport?”

  “The plan was to meet in a bar,” Morant explained. “In Hamburg. Me,” he added. “For me to meet one of Kraus’s sons. And pay for it, in cash. Believe me, I had no intention of Molly getting anywhere near any of that.”

  “Gina was a different story, though, right?” Max asked, his anger making little lights flash at the edges of his peripheral vision. “You didn’t give a damn about her, so using her credit card for the down payment was a no brainer.”

  That was surely what that ten-thousand-dollar cash advance in Nairobi had been about.

  “Or maybe you stole her card,” Max added, “Without her even knowing.”

  Morant looked like he was seconds from swinging at Max. “Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you!” Max just hoped he’d try it.

  Jules stepped between them. “This is not useful.”

  “I didn’t steal Gina’s credit card,” Morant said heatedly. “She knew what I was doing—she insisted. And we didn’t use her card. She got the cash from one bank, I took it to another and wired it to Kraus.”

  “Were both banks in Nairobi?”

  “No,” Morant said. “We flew to Paris—of course they were both in Nairobi. Look, I know you’re angry . . .”

  Max was beyond angry. Anyone with a little computer hacking know-how could have traced that money back to Gina’s credit card. It was just one of the many, many ways E-the-kidnapper could have used Morant’s business transaction with Kraus to locate him. “How many banks are there in Nairobi, Morant?”

  “Shit, I don’t know,” Morant said. “Yes, I trusted Kraus and . . . It was obviously a mistake. I gambled, all right? I didn’t know what else to do. I had to get Molly back to Iowa, and she wouldn’t go without me!”

  “You took the photo for your new passport with Gina’s camera, right?” Max asked him. “Sent it electronically to Kraus? A copy was still in there, saved in a file.”

  “If you know that,” Morant’s defiance was edged with despair, “why ask? Yes. I mean, what? Are you hoping I’m going to lie about it—”

  “It would have taken my team approximately ten minutes to identify you as Grady Morant from that photo,” Max raised his voice and spoke over him. “The same photo you sent to Kraus. It probably took her a little bit longer—maybe an hour—to figure out who the hell she was doing business with—” he was full-out shouting now “—and that her new customer still had a price on his goddamn head. So much for honor among thieves, huh, Grady?”

  “I said it’s my fault,” Morant shouted back. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault! What more do you want me to say? You know, Gina wanted to help. She asked if she could help—”

  “And you goddamn didn’t keep her safe,” Max snarled at him. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking, fuck,” Morant roared, “if I don’t do something, my wife is going to die of fucking cancer!”

  It was then, shaking with anger, that Grady Morant nearly started to cry. “You stupid self-absorbed asshole,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “you may have been willing just to throw Gina away, but I have no intention of losing Molly without a fight!”

  NAIROBI, KENYA

  JUNE 8, 2005

  THIRTEEN DAYS AGO

  “They want me to go to Hamburg for a biopsy,” Molly said, as she came out into the doctor’s waiting room, her face pale.

  “What?” Jones stood up.

  “They want me to go to Hamburg,” she said again. “In Germany.”

  “I know where Hamburg is,” he said. Jesus, this couldn’t be happening.

  This was supposed to be a minibreak—Molly was reading about one of her other favorite Joneses again. They were supposed to drive into Nairobi, visit a doctor who’d actually gotten a medical degree, find out that the lump she’d discovered was either normal or imaginary, have dinner, spend the night in a fancy hotel screaming lustily the entire time, and then drive back to camp in the morning.

  He hadn’t planned at all for “They want me to go to Hamburg.”

  Yes, she was almost exactly the same age as her mother had been, when her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Yes, the lump she’d found was similar to her mother’s in size and consistency. It was even in the same breast.

  “What do they think it is?” he asked, even though he knew. Biopsy. They didn’t do biopsies for swollen glands or viruses.

  Molly slipped her arms around his waist, holding him tight. “It’s proba-bly nothing.”

  “Mol, it’s not probably nothing if they fucking want you to go to Germany.” She winced, and he turned to the people—mostly women—who were filling most of those waiting room seats. “Excuse me. This doctor thinks my wife, whom I love more than life, has breast cancer, so I’m going to say fuck probably about ten more times. Is that okay with all of you?”

  She took his hand, pulling him toward the door. “Let’s take a walk.”

  “I don’t think you should go to Hamburg,” Jones said
, as she led him into the stairwell and down toward the street level. “I think you should go home. To Iowa. I think you should see your mother’s oncologist. Because your mother’s fine, right? It’s been, like, twenty years and she’s fine.”

  The lobby was mostly empty, and much cooler than the sun-drenched street. There was a bench, off to the side, beneath a brightly colored wall mural.

  “Let’s sit down,” Molly said.

  She tried to tug him down with her, but he resisted.

  If he was scared before, he was now petrified.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said. “Let’s sit. Molly, whatever you have to tell me, just please tell me.”

  “I sort of don’t know how to.” She had tears in her eyes.

  So Jones sat beside her. He laced his fingers with hers. “You know I love you, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I don’t love you for your breasts,” he told her. “If one—or both of them’s got to go, then they’ve got to go. It’s not going to change the way I feel about you. It’s not going to change anything.”

  Molly started to cry.

  “Hey,” he said, “that was supposed to make you, well, not exactly happy, but at least—”

  She kissed him. Happier.

  She pulled back to look at him. “I love you, too,” she said, and somehow that unleashed a new flood of tears.

  “Molly, you’re really scaring me,” Jones said. “Did the doctor give you a death sentence or something?”

  “It’s just . . .” She shook her head, looking down at their hands, clasped together. She exhaled before she spoke. “Remember the night that you came into the mess tent, and I realized it was you and I dropped my tray?”

  It was Jones’s turn to nod. He had no idea where she was going with this.

  “And then, later, I came to your tent, and we kind of had . . . half-assed sex?”

  He nodded again. Half-assed sex . . . He looked at her, realization dawning. Was she saying . . . ? They’d had half-assed sex without a condom. “But I didn’t come. I mean, I remember that part really well.”

  “Apparently,” she said, “you didn’t have to.”

  Jones sat in silence for several long moments before he found the air to ask, “Are you serious? You’re . . .”