Breaking Point Read Online Free PDF Page B

from him by a wall of adobe brick. From the sound of it, she was about to hyperventilate, her breathing shallow and rapid, each exhale a whimper. He thought he could just make out the words of a prayer.
    Sorry, angel, God seems to have taken the week off.
    Then he realized she wasn’t praying. She was reciting a nursery rhyme.
    “To market, to market, to buy . . . to buy a fat pig.” Her voice was unsteady, and she was clearly having trouble remembering the words. “H-home again, home again . . . I want to go home again . . . jiggety-jig.”
    The sweetness of it hit Zach hard. He hung his head, the hopelessness of her situation tearing at him.
    She might not be here if you’d done your job.
    Men like him were supposed to stop bastards like Cárdenas and his Zetas from hurting people. But rather than putting Cárdenas away, Zach was going to have a front-row seat while Cárdenas raped and tortured this girl to death.
    Son of a bitch! Damn it!
    Zach didn’t realize he was trying to break free of the manacles again until his hands were wet, water from broken blisters mixing with sticky, warm blood.
    Who are you fooling, man? You can’t save her. You can’t even save yourself.
    No, he couldn’t. But he could reach out to her, let her know she wasn’t alone.
    He swallowed, then sucked in as deep a breath as he could, wincing at the pain in his ribs. “Natalie? Can you hear me? My name is . . . Zach.”

CHAPTER 3
    FOR A MOMENT, Natalie thought she’d imagined the voice.
    Hold it together, girl . She sat on her heels and grasped the iron bars of the door for support, unable to stop her body from trembling, her gaze fixed on the floor, trying despite the darkness to spot any sign of eight-legged movement. Hold it together.
    Then she heard it again—a man’s voice, deep and rough, speaking to her out of the darkness. “Natalie? That is your name, isn’t it?”
    For a moment, she said nothing, astonished to realize she wasn’t alone in this terrible place. “Who . . . who are you?”
    “My name’s Zach. I’m your new neighbor. Sorry if I startled you.”
    “H-how do you know my name?”
    “I overheard you telling them.”
    For a second, she forgot about scorpions. “You’re American, too.”
    “Yeah. Born in Chicago. You’re from the South. New Orleans?”
    “Yes.” So maybe she did have an accent. “Where are we?”
    “I have no idea. I was unconscious when they brought me in.”
    Something moved near her right foot. She shrieked, stood, felt something crunch beneath her shoe. She kicked it aside, her skin crawling. “Wh-who are those awful men?”
    “They’re mercenaries for Los Zetas. They work for Arturo Cesár Cárdenas.”
    Natalie had never heard of them. “What would they want with me?”
    “Why don’t you tell me how you got here, and we’ll try to figure that out.”
    So Natalie told him about the SPJ convention and how armed men had stormed the tour bus in downtown Juárez, killing the Mexican journalists—and Joaquin.
    “He was a good friend, always watching out for the rest of us, especially the women. And he was the best photojournalist I’ve known. He kept shooting . . . While they were killing people, he kept shooting . . .” And for the first time since this whole nightmare began, Natalie found herself fighting tears, the all-too-familiar ache of grief in her chest. Why did the people she cared about always die? “I tried to stop them. I blocked the aisle. I told them he was American over and over again, but . . .”
    Oh, Joaquin!
    “I’m sorry, Natalie.” He sounded like he truly meant it. “You did more than most people would have. Give yourself credit for that much.”
    “That’s kind of you to say, but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone.”
    “I know.”
    And for a time neither of them spoke.
    “So you were researching the cartels for an article and joined this tour?”
    She wiped tears off her cheeks with her hands. “N-no. I just wanted to get away