Okay, so no headstone.
Mike, Chris, Brian, and Jimmy were in Arlington resting beneath slabs of white marble, but for Zach it would be saguaro and open sky. That was okay. He liked the desert. And even if he didn’t, it wouldn’t make one damned bit of difference once he was dead.
Which will be soon if you can’t find a way out of this.
Not that he was afraid to die. He’d expected his job would catch up with him one day. In fact, some part of him had been counting on it.
But not yet. And not like this.
He’d been about to wrap up the biggest covert operation of his career when Gisella called him and asked him to meet her at a nightclub in downtown Juárez, claiming to have intel vital for catching Arturo César Cárdenas, the head of Los Zetas, who was wanted in the United States for the murder of Americans on U.S. soil. So Zach had grabbed his gun and fake ID—he never carried revealing documentation when he was working a black bag job like this—and headed straight to the club, where he’d found Gisella, dressed to kill, sitting at the bar. She’d bought him a Coke, walked with him to a table near the rear exit, and started telling him something about a shipment of stolen coke. And then . . .
And then—nothing.
The drink had been drugged. When Zach had awoken, he’d found himself here, stripped of his gun and wallet and surrounded by pissed off Zetas demanding to know whom he worked for and where he’d hidden the cocaine. As for the questions, Zach couldn’t answer the first because it would imperil the operation, putting the lives of others at risk. And he couldn’t answer the second because he hadn’t stolen any coke and had no idea where it was. But his refusal to talk had only angered the Zetas more.
So they’d brought in a specialist—a man who knew how to inflict pain while keeping his victims alive. Electric shock was his area of expertise. He’d gone to work on Zach two days ago, and so far the two of them were at an impasse. He’d been able to make Zach pass out. He’d made him bite his own tongue trying not to scream. He’d made him want to cry like a baby. But he hadn’t made him talk.
Zach had the navy and SERE training to thank for that—Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. Designed to help SEALs survive behind enemy lines, his training had been a godsend, helping him through hour after excruciating hour. Even though he was no longer in the military, he’d instinctively fallen back on that training, silently reciting bits and pieces of the military code of conduct, using it to stay strong.
I am an American, fighting in the forces that guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense . . . I will never surrender of my own free will . . . If I am captured, I will resist by all means available . . . I will evade answering further questions to the utmost of my ability . . . I will make every effort to escape . . .
As weak as he was, he knew he didn’t stand a chance of escaping. And that meant there was only one thing left for him to do—keep his mind together long enough for his body to give out, long enough for him to die as he ought to have done six years ago.
Killed in the line of duty.
It had a nice ring to it.
Strange to think there’d been a time when he’d thought of taking the coward’s way out. He’d come home from the war and tried to return to civilian life. But then the nightmares had started. The doctors had said it was PTSD, but they didn’t have any answers for him that didn’t come in a pill. The navy had pinned a medal on his chest and called him a hero. But there was nothing heroic about him. He’d come back from Afghanistan, and his men had not.
Finally, it had overwhelmed him, and he’d spent a long couple of months drinking and contemplating eating his own gun. But he hadn’t been able to do it. How would he have been able to face Mike, Chris, Brian, and Jimmy if he’d committed suicide?
At least now when he met them, he wouldn’t have to feel ashamed.
Raucous laughter drifted into his cell from across the courtyard, voices drawing nearer, boots crunching on gravel.
Zach stiffened, dread uncoiling in his stomach, rising into his throat.
They were coming for him again.
Jesus!
He drew as deep a breath as his broken ribs would allow, swallowing his panic with what was left of his spit.
I am an American, fighting in the forces that guard my country and our way of life. I am prepared to give my life in their defense. I will never surrender of my own free will.
“PADRE NUESTRO QUE estás en los cielos, santificado sea tu Nombre.”
Holding fast to Joaquin’s hand, Natalie looked to her right, where Sr. Marquez crouched against the sliver-strewn floor, eyes closed, a rosary in his trembling hands, his whispered prayers barely audible over the pounding of her heart. She didn’t understand everything he was saying, and it had been years since she’d been to Mass, but she recognized the cadence of the prayer, her mind latching on to the English words, speaking them along with him in her mind.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.
The door of the bus exploded inward in a spray of glass.
Too afraid even to scream, Natalie watched as three armed men in dark green military fatigues stomped up the stairs, pistols in hand, automatic weapons slung on straps over their shoulders. One stopped long enough to point a pistol at the bus driver, whose pleading cries were cut short with apopthat splattered blood across the windshield.
Screams. Black boots. Anotherpop.
Sr. Marquez prayed faster, his voice shaking. “Danos hoy el pan de este día y perdona nuestras deudas como nosotros perdonamos nuestros duedores.”