Free Breaking Point by Pamela Clare Page A

response he wanted, so he barely registered the surprise on her face at this abrupt change in his manner. “Good. Let’s get out of here.”
    But that was easier said than done.
    Pressing his left hand against the wall to brace himself, he rose unsteadily to his feet, his heart pounding at the effort, his head spinning, legs shaky. He thought for a moment he was going to fall on his face, then he felt her duck under his left arm, her slender arm encircling his waist, the feel of her solid beside him. “Damn.”
    Man up, McBride. Or maybe you’re hoping she’ll carry you back to Juárez.
    “You can still aim the gun, right?”
    Did he look that weak? “Of course I can aim the damned gun!”
    They walked together toward the shaft of daylight that spilled through the door, Zach glancing over at the Zeta lying still on the floor in front of Natalie’s cell.
    Her gaze followed his. “I . . . I’ve never killed anyone before.”
    As if there were any doubt on that score, angel.
    Trying not to look too much like his knees were giving out, which they more or less were, Zach sank down beside the unconscious man, felt for a pulse, and found one. “I hate to break it to you, but you still haven’t killed anyone.”
    “He’s . . . he’s alive?”
    “Not for long.” Unwilling to risk the noise of gunfire, Zach tucked the gun into his pants, caught the Zeta’s head between his left hand and right forearm, and gave it a quick twist, breaking the man’s neck with an audible crack . He searched the body, finding a fistful of bills in one pocket and a sweet Ka-Bar rig on the man’s ankle. He transferred the knife to his own ankle, stuffed the dinero into his pocket, then picked the scattered grapes up off the floor and, ignoring the dirt, tossed them into his mouth.
    Electrolytes. Calories.
    He was in dire need of both.
    He rose unsteadily to his feet again, only to find Natalie watching him, a look of shock on her pretty face. Still chewing, he explained. “I didn’t want him sneaking up behind us or warning the others, and we’re going to need the money.”
    But she said nothing, still staring.
    “Is this about the grapes? I should have saved some for you. Sorry.”
    She pressed a hand against her stomach as if she thought she might be sick, then shook her head. “N-no, that’s fine.”
    “Stay behind me, and don’t make a sound. Is that clear?”
    “Yes.”
    Still shaken by what she’d just witnessed, Natalie followed Zach, her view blocked by his broad shoulders as he slowly nudged the door to their little prison wider and scanned the courtyard, pistol gripped in both hands. She half expected him to collapse, but somehow he stayed upright. Walking on bare feet, he crouched down, motioning for her to do the same. She followed him into the shadow of the car she’d arrived in, then behind the vehicle to the side of the old church, men’s voices audible from inside. He drew her behind him, pressed himself up against the wall—then waited.
    Standing so close to him, Natalie was struck by how tall and strong he truly was. Even weak and unsteady on his feet, he seemed dangerous. A few inches over six feet, he was muscular without being bulky, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, slabs of lean muscle bisected by the groove of his spine. And she knew all that muscle wasn’t just for show.
    There was a scar that could only have been made by a bullet on his lower back, not far from his spine, proving that violence was nothing new in his life. And the way the pistol seemed to belong in his grasp, the way he moved, the way he’d broken that Zeta’s neck without blinking—he’d obviously been trained to fight. He had even admitted to killing.
    If she’d been sitting in a nightclub in Denver, he probably would have scared the hell out of her. But stranded in the Mexican desert with men who intended to hand her over to be raped and murdered, he was the closest thing she had to the cavalry. Maybe he was some