Breaking Point Read Online Free PDF Page A

to a stop. Loud music. Men’s voices. A burst of automatic weapons fire.
    Oh, God.
    She drew deep breaths to steady herself, fear slick and cold in her belly.
    Little Miss Muffet, sat on a . . . sat on . . . on a tuffet,
    What the heck is a tuffet anyway?
    Car doors opened and closed, scattering her thoughts, the sound of boots in gravel all but drowned out by the thundering of her own pulse. She clutched the metal rod, held it fast, rolled onto her back, every muscle in her body tense.
    A key slipped into the lock.
    The trunk opened, bright sunlight hurting her eyes.
    She struck out blindly with the rod, kicking with both legs, her right foot connecting with something hard, hours of pent-up grief, fear, and fury rushing out of her in a long, strangled cry that sounded more animal than human.
    She found herself on her knees, the rod still in hand, her breath coming in pants. Four men watched her from a safe distance, astonishment on their faces, assault rifles hanging from their shoulders. Another—the one who’d killed Joaquin and Sr. Marquez—stood doubled over, groaning and cupping a bleeding nose, the sight giving her a momentary sense of satisfaction.
    Then the oldest one, a man with a thick mustache and a tattoo of a strange veiled skeleton on his left forearm, began to laugh. He said something in Spanish to the others, who also laughed—all except for the one still holding his bleeding nose.
    The older one motioned for her to get out of the trunk. “Come, señorita.”
    What else could she do? Slam the trunk shut and stay inside? Natalie climbed out, the rod in her right hand, ready to strike, a hot breeze catching her hair, the midday heat cool compared to the sweltering environment of the trunk. Her feet touched gravel, and she found herself standing on trembling legs in the center of an old, abandoned town. To her right stood what was left of a mission-style church, a satellite dish perched on its bell tower. To her left sat a small adobe brick shed with no windows. Rows of adobe brick houses fanned out around them, their walls crumbling into dust, unpaved roads reclaimed by scrub and cactus. Beyond was nothing but open desert.
    Her stomach fell, a chill sliding up her spine.
    There was no one here to help her, nowhere to run.
    She looked to the oldest man, the one with the tattoo, thinking he might be the leader of the bunch, only to find him raking her with his gaze. They were all staring at her now, their astonishment turned to something much darker. They spoke to one another, stared at her breasts, made little telltale thrusts with their pelvises, grinning and laughing.
    Natalie took an involuntary step backward, the car’s bumper stopping her short.
    They came closer, one of them reaching out to feel her hair.
    Don’t let them see how afraid you are, girl.
    She raised her chin a notch. “ M-me llamo Natalie Benoit. Soy periodista. Mi periódico Denver Independent le pagará— ”
    The blow took her by surprise, knocking her to the ground, the rod flying from her hand.
    “ ¡Puta estúpida! ” The one with the bloody nose glared down at her, then tossed his gun aside and reached down with bloodstained fingers to unzip his fly.
    The man with the skeleton tattoo shouted something at him, gave him a shove, and the two of them began to argue, their words coming too fast for Natalie to understand anything.
    Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat!
    The sudden burst of automatic gunfire made Natalie jump.
    From the direction of the old church came a man’s voice, shouting at the others. Looking startled and almost afraid, her captors quit arguing, and the one with the tattoo reached down and jerked Natalie to her feet.
    In the church doorway stood a man with an assault rifle perched on his bicep. Tall and rangy, he had a jagged scar that ran beneath his jawline on the right, as if someone had tried to slit his throat but had missed, the right side of his mouth drooping. He looked at her through cold, brown eyes, then tossed a