Breaking Point (31 page)

She had to wade through a crowd of reporters in front of the paper, then entered the building to the sound of applause, coworkers she didn’t even know cheering as she made her way across the lobby to the elevator. Upstairs, the newsroom was filled with balloons and streamers, a bouquet of flowers at her desk along with dozens and dozens of cards mailed from all over the United States by people who’d heard of her kidnapping and had written to the paper, offering comfort, prayers, and even condolences, assuming that she was dead.

“We set them here because we told ourselves you would make it back to read them. And here you are.” Sophie gave her a big hug, tears in her eyes. “I can’t tell you how relieved we all were when Marc called and told me they’d found you.”

“Thank you all so much for your help—and for this.” She gestured toward the flowers.

Joaquin came up behind them. “I got something for you, Natalie. I drove all the way to Lakewood and back for these.”

Natalie turned and saw him holding a large paper bag that had several grease spots on it. She didn’t have to open the bag to know what it was. She recognized the mouthwatering scent. She’d been trying to find good beignets in Denver ever since she’d moved here. “Thank you, Joaquin. Where on God’s green earth did you find these?”

“Went online, found a little Cajun restaurant in Lakewood off Union.” He kissed her cheek. “I’m just so happy you’re home.”

“Beignets. That’s a kind of Cajun fry bread, right?” Kat’s smile let Natalie know she was joking. She knew what beignets were. “They smell wonderful.”

“Excellent.” Matt peered over the desk, a predatory look on his face. “I didn’t have time for breakfast.”

They sat together, enjoying the beignets with coffee, the conversation taking random turns. The Rockies’ latest victory over the Dodgers. The new appliances Sophie and Marc had bought for their new house. The upcoming Quinceañera of Joaquin’s oldest niece. The Denver metro area’s current heat wave.

“You think this is hot?” Natalie shook her head. “Try the Sonoran Desert.”

She found herself overcome by the strangeness of this ordinary moment—to be sitting here, drinking coffee and eating pastries with her friends when just a few days ago she’d thought she’d never see them again.

Then Holly came down the hallway wearing a fitted short suit—jacket, cream-colored silk top, shorts, strappy high heels, bright stripes of yellow eye shadow on her lids. She was the only woman Natalie knew who could pull off high-fashion clothes and makeup. Her flawless figure, striking face, and platinum blond hair helped, of course.

“You’re back!” She skipped over to Natalie and gave her a hug. “I read the interview this morning. All I can say is—God, that smells good!”

“Please, try one,” Natalie offered. “They’re beignets. We had these for breakfast every Sunday morning when I was a child.”

Holly backed away, warily eyeing the beignets. “I can’t. I can’t.”

“Oh, come on, Bradshaw.” Matt put one on a paper plate and held it out for her. “One beignet won’t make you fat.”

Holly hesitated for a moment, then took the plate, picked up the powdered sugar–coated pastry, took a tiny bite—and moaned.

Then everyone’s head came up, and Matt, who’d been half sitting on Natalie’s desk, got to his feet. Natalie turned to see Tom walking toward them.

“Welcome back, Benoit. Let’s bring the goodies to the conference room so we can get our meeting under way.”

 

ZACH SAT IN one of the back conference rooms watching CNN, having just finished another so-called debriefing. No matter what channel he watched, she was there. She looked amazing for someone who’d been in the middle of the desert only yesterday evening—pretty dress, cute pearl earrings, calm, composed features. But he could tell she’d been nervous when she’d given her statement this morning.

He was so caught up in her face that it took him a moment to realize she was talking directly to him at the end.

“Words will never fully express my gratitude for all you did to get me safely home. You are my hero.”

He was nobody’s fucking hero.

He changed channels. Fox. MSNBC. The local news. But there she was again, looking directly into the camera, those beautiful eyes of hers gazing into his.

“You are my hero.”

God, how he missed her. He’d had a nightmare about her last night—the same nightmare he’d had when they were at the hotel in Altar. He’d woken up covered in cold sweat. He’d started in on a bottle of whiskey, but then decided to go to the twenty-four-hour gym, where he’d worked out until his ribs ached and he’d been ready to puke.

Now, punchy on lack of sleep, he was back for a second day of answering questions, doing all he could to cooperate with the investigation. He wished he knew how it was progressing, but no one was telling him anything, not even Pearce.

“Zachariah?”

Fuck.

Zach recognized that voice. He switched off the television set, stood, and turned to face his old man. “What the hell do you want?”

It had been four years since he’d last seen his father face-to-face. But time had been good to the bastard. He stood there in a three-thousand-dollar suit, looking like an older and better dressed version of Zach, the resemblance undeniable. Though his hair was whiter than Zach remembered, the man looked strong and healthy as an ox.

He fidgeted with his tie. Was he nervous? That would be a first. “I heard what happened—how you were captured and almost killed, how you escaped and rescued that girl.”

“That
girl
rescued me. And how do you know anything about this? Some of that information is classified.”

His father gave him a wounded look. “You don’t think I have my sources after thirty years of working inside the Beltway? I’m the ranking member of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

As arrogant as ever.

“So you heard what happened, and you came by to tell me how glad you are I wasn’t killed. Is that it?”

“Partly. I also know you’re being investigated, that some of the people here think you might have stolen cocaine from one of the cartels and murdered an Interpol agent.”

Now it made sense.

“I can see why there are no reporters with you this time. Your son is in trouble. How embarrassing. And by the way, that really is classified.”

“You’re my son. My sources knew I’d want to hear about it.”

Zach crossed his arms over his chest. “I suppose you’re worried about how this might look in the media if word gets out that Senator Robert McBride’s son was exposed as a crook. Well, you can relax, because I’m clean.”

“That’s not it at all.” His father’s voice rose a notch, the old man’s temper kicking in. “I know you’re innocent. I came to see if I could help in any way, cut through some of the red tape, help make sure the process goes smoothly.”

And Zach felt his own temper rise. “You just don’t get it, do you? You really believe that your elected position gives you rights the rest of America just doesn’t have. Forget it. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. Justice will take its course. I trust the agency I work for to get to the truth.”

“I’ve never understood you. You don’t think that fathers out there everywhere do all they can to help their kids get ahead in this life? You think I’m the only one who tries to pave the road for my son?”

“You don’t just pave the road. You manipulate someone into moving it so that it comes to my front door. Being a U.S. senator’s son shouldn’t mean that I get to live by a special set of rules. You’re charged with making the laws. You need to respect them
more
than the average person, not less.”

They’d been arguing about this since 9/11, when Zach had walked into the living room to overhear his father tell his mother that their son would never have to serve in the military because he was a U.S. senator’s son. It had been the last straw after years of watching his father wade through one scandal after another. In disgust, Zach had joined the navy and applied for Officer Candidate School the next day.

His father shook his head. “You know, I thought maybe you’d matured enough—”

“Matured? Go to hell!”

“—so that we could have an honest conversation, maybe spend some time together. But you’re just as pigheaded and unreasonable as you’ve always been. You know, your mother understood—”

“Don’t you bring her into this!” Zach was in his father’s face now, blood pumping hot in his veins. “My mother was an idealist who believed in everything she thought you stood for. It literally
killed
her to watch you turn into a crook. All your sleazy mistresses. The money you blew on—”

The blow took Zach by surprise. He rubbed his jaw, looked his father in the eye. “You better get the hell out of here, old man. If I hit back, it’s going to hurt.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Zach. I don’t know what made me do that. I’ve missed you. I came here to make amends, to help—”

“I said get the hell out of here.
Now
.”

His father turned and, with an angry look over his shoulder, stomped off.

Jaw aching, Zach sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

 

THE MOMENT ARTURO heard the voice on the other end of the line, he broke into a sweat, beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead and upper lip.

“Are you watching the news?”

“
Sí.
Yes, I am. And I can explain—”

“Explanations are irrelevant. Besides, it’s obvious what happened. You wanted her for your perverted little rituals, so rather than instructing your men to put a bullet through her head on the bus, you had them take her captive. Isn’t that right?”

How dare this gringo speak of La Santa Muerte as if she were a perversion?

“
Sí.
I had them take her captive. I wanted to see the woman who was so dangerous that she frightened you.”

“That was a grave mistake. We asked you to do something for us, and you agreed to do it. Board the bus, and kill her, along with the Mexican journalists. It would look like just another act of cartel-related violence. No one would think twice about it.

“But now, somehow, she’s back in the United States, very much alive. That’s very disappointing, Arturo. Very disappointing.”

Arturo swallowed—hard. “I am sorry. She had help. A shipment of cocaine was stolen, and we caught the man who—”

“He didn’t steal the cocaine, you imbecile. The woman you cut up and tossed in the street stole it. Or hadn’t you figured that out yet?”

“She stole it?”

“Yes. Gisella Sanchez worked for Interpol. And that man you chained up wasn’t a drug pusher. He’s a deputy U.S. marshal and former Navy SEAL—a war hero no less. That pretty reporter you planned to rape—she turned out to be a lot tougher than she looked, too. She’s the one who broke them out. You probably assumed it was the man, didn’t you? That’s what you get for being a chauvinist bastard.”

Arturo heard all this, but only one part connected.

“U.S. marshal? SEAL? How do you know all of this?” His heart was beating so hard it hurt. Was he having a heart attack?

“That doesn’t matter. You fucked up, Arturo.”

“I can fix it. I will send my best man to Denver to—”

“No, Arturo, we don’t trust you. Your incompetence sickens us. So we’re going to take care of it ourselves. We wanted to have her eliminated down there to prevent any suspicion being cast our way. But since it’s known that your men took her and were tearing your country apart looking for her, people will assume that you had her killed.”

“If you think that is best.” Arturo didn’t tell him he’d put his own plans into motion the moment he’d seen that little
puta
’s face on television this morning.

“We do.” There was a pause. “For the sake of our long association, we’ll forgive—no, that’s not the word—
overlook
your failure this time. But we need you to do something for us.”

“What is that?”

“Spread word on the street that Los Zetas are crossing the border to finish the reporter.”

That made no sense. “If I do that, won’t the police put her under their protection, making it harder and riskier for you?”

“By the time the police mobilize, she’ll already be dead. Action has already been taken. The pieces are moving. Just get the word out. Do it tonight.”

Then the line went dead.

Arturo put the phone down and then, with shaking hands, he poured himself a shot.

Santa Muerte protect me!

 

“YOU’VE GOT IT, Syd.” Natalie hung up the phone, glad her article was done and in the hands of the managing editor.

She’d spent the day writing an eyewitness account of the attack on the bus, her kidnapping, captivity, and escape. It wasn’t something she’d wanted to do, but Tom had thought it would be good for readership. Rather than focusing on her own experience, she’d decided to use the article as a chance to pay tribute to the slain Mexican journalists, sharing what she remembered about each of them. Their home newspapers had generously donated head shots and other photographs, enabling her to put a face with each name. It had been especially painful to write about Sr. Marquez.

Marquez finished his prayers, then turned to me and apologized, as if he were to blame for the fact that he was about to be murdered. Then, he looked up into his killer’s face. In the next instant, it was over, and he was gone, a bullet hole in his forehead.

Then, referring to Zach only as Mr. Black—a joke for his benefit in case he read the article—she’d managed to report on her hours in the Zeta prison, as well as the escape, without giving away sensitive information. She’d felt close to him, as if she were connecting with him, writing words about a shared experience, words that he might see and even appreciate.

He probably won’t even read it, girl.

God, how she missed him! It put a constant ache in her chest, some part of her unable and unwilling to accept that she wouldn’t see him again. More than once she’d found herself wondering what would happen if it turned out she was pregnant. Would he change his mind and come back? Would he want to see the baby, be a part of its life?