Shattered glass. Screams. Staccato bursts of gunfire.
“¡Madre de Dios!”
“What the hell?”
“Natalie! Natalie, get down!”
Joaquin’s shout of warning pierced Natalie’s shock and disbelief. She ducked into the small space between her seat and the seat back in front of her, crouching against the floor, shards of glass falling around her like rain. Pulse pounding in her ears, she looked across the aisle, her gaze locking with Joaquin’s as he reached out and closed his hand over hers.
IT WAS PAIN and thirst that woke him.
For a moment Zach McBride thought he was back in Afghanistan, lying on the rim of that canyon in the Hindu Kush mountains, an AK-47 round in his back. He opened his eyes to see pitch-black and then remembered. He wasn’t in Afghanistan. He was in Mexico. And he was a captive—blindfolded and chained to a brick wall.
He raised his head and realized he was lying shirtless on his right side, his hands shackled behind his back, his bare skin resting against the filthy stone floor. His mouth was dry as sand. His wrists were blistered and bloody where the manacles had rubbed them raw. His cracked ribs cut into his left side like a blade.
He tried to sit, but couldn’t.
Damn!
He was weaker than he’d realized.
Then something hard and multi-legged brushed his chest as it skittered by, bringing him upright on a punch of adrenaline. Pain slashed through his side, breath hissing between his clenched teeth as he bit back a groan. He wasn’t afraid of the mice or the spiders, but they weren’t the only creatures in here with him. The one time the Zetas had removed his blindfold, he’d seen scorpions. And the last damned thing he needed was a scorpion sting.
Dizzy from hunger, his heart pounding from sleep deprivation and dehydration, he leaned his right shoulder against the brick wall and tried to catch his breath, the chain that held him lying cold and heavy along his spine.
How long had he been here? Five days? No, six.
And where exactly washere?
Somewhere between Juárez and hell.
They were giving him only enough food and water to keep him alive, his hunger and thirst incessant, mingling with pain, making it hard to sleep. Only once in his life had he been this physically helpless. Only then it had been even worse.
If he survived, if he made it out of here alive, he would track down Gisella and kill her—or at least hand her over to D.C. The little bitch of a Mexican Interpol agent had set him up, betrayed him to the Zetas. She’d known what would happen to him—the Zetas were infamous for their brutality—and still she’d handed him over to them with a smile on her lying lips.
At least you didn’t sleep with her, buddy.
Yeah, well, at least he could feel good about that. It would suck right now to have her taste in his mouth or her scent on his skin, knowing that she’d put him through this. Long ago he’d made it a rule never to get involved with women while on assignment, and despite Gisella’s persistent attempts to get him to break that rule, he’d kept his dick in his pants.
Hell, they should carve that on your headstone, McBride.
If he got a headstone.
Would they put up a grave marker for him if they didn’t have a body to bury? Barring one hell of a miracle, he’d soon be scattered across the desert in small pieces. A year or two from now, someone would spot a bit of bleached bone in the sand and wonder what it was. No one would ever know for sure what had happened to him.
Besides, who was there to buy a grave plot or erect a headstone? His fellow DUSMs? Uncle Sam? His closest friends were dead. His mother was gone, too. He hadn’t spoken to his father since his mother’s funeral four years ago. And there was no one else in his life—no girlfriend, no wife, no kids.
You’re a popular guy.
He’d always thought he’d get married one day and do the family thing. He’d imagined a pretty wife, a couple of kids, a house near the ocean. But life hadn’t turned out that way.
He’d met lots of girls in college, but none who’d held his interest. Then a confrontation with his father had sent him into the navy. He’d tackled Officer Candidate School and then two years of SEAL training. The only women who’d been available during his short periods of leave were either professionals or women who were so desperate to marry a Navy SEAL that they spread their legs for every frogman they met. Call him strange, but he’d never found the idea of paying for sex or being used appealing. He’d wanted a woman who loved him for himself and not his SEAL trident. But war had interfered, and he’d never found her.
Something tightened in his chest, a wave of regret passing through him.
Feeling sorry for yourself?
No. He’d made his choices. He’d done what he thought was right. And although his life hadn’t turned out the way he might once have hoped, it was better this way. He’d seen firsthand what happened to women and children when the men they loved and depended on were killed in action. At least he wouldn’t be leaving a grieving wife and children behind.