Beyond the Breaking Point (Six Points Security Book 5) Read online

  BEYOND THE BREAKING POINT

  A Six Points Security Novel

  Lori Sjoberg

  Four years ago, Special Agent Wade Flint nearly died at the hands of a vicious drug lord. Now he’s finally uncovered where the scumbag is hiding in the jungles of Central America, and it’s time for a little payback. They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but Wade plans to deliver it piping hot and ram it down the bastard’s throat.

  He didn’t expect to rescue a beautiful American doctor along the way.

  He didn’t want to feel the sizzle of attraction.

  And he sure as hell didn’t expect her to awaken things inside him that he long considered dead.

  His thirst for vengeance may have kept him alive, but only love can give him something worth living for...

  Beyond the Breaking Point

  Copyright © 2020 Lori Sjoberg

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author. Fonts used with permission from Microsoft.

  Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book. This purchase allows you one legal copy for your own personal reading enjoyment on your personal computer or device. You do not have the right to resell, distribute, print, or transfer this book, in whole or in part, to anyone, in any format, via methods either currently known or yet to be invented, or upload this book to a file sharing program. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  BN ID: 2940163178674

  Amazon ASIN: B0858R72GG

  Apple ID: 1472009529

  Kobo ISBN: 1230003318447

  Lori Sjoberg (2020-06-26). Beyond the Breaking Point: A Six Points Security Novel

  Also By Lori Sjoberg

  Southern Alphas

  Driven

  Fractured

  Devoted

  Denied

  Six Points Security

  Trouble in a Tight Dress

  Danger in a Dive Bar

  Indecent Obsession

  Can’t Hold Back

  Beyond the Breaking Point

  The Grave Series

  Grave Intentions

  Grave Destinations

  Grave Vengeance

  Grave Attraction

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The Aranza Cartel was one of the largest drug trafficking organizations in Mexico, involved in the smuggling and distribution of Asian heroin, Columbian cocaine, and Mexican marijuana into the United States. For some reason, they chose not to traffic methamphetamine, leaving that particular drug to a neighboring cartel.

  Their network was vast, employing planes, cargo ships, tractor trailers, buses, automobiles, speedboats, fishing vessels, railroad cars, and God only knew what else to transport their illicit product. Anybody who got in their way was bribed, threatened, or killed in some sort of grotesque manner meant to serve as a warning to others.

  Wade Flint should know. He’d dedicated half a decade trying to eradicate the cartel, and had barely survived their attempt to turn him into one of those grotesque warnings.

  His partner hadn’t been so fortunate.

  It took some effort to mask his impatience as he propped one heavily muscled arm on the scarred wooden countertop and surveyed his surroundings. It was a run-down bar in a run-down town, one of hundreds dotting the region. Neon beer company signs adorned the brightly colored walls. A stuffed macaw sat on a perch near the entrance. On the plus side, the place was relatively clean, though the overhead fans did little to compensate for the lack of air conditioning.

  Once upon a time, it had been common for tourists—Americans in particular—to frequent the nearby national park. But drug violence had triggered a rash of bad press and international travel advisories. As a result, the eco-tourism industry had dried up, leaving the area in economic ruin.

  Wade retrieved his phone from the pocket of his pale-blue button-down shirt, checked the time, and frowned. All his life, he’d never been much for waiting, not even when he’d worked as an agent for the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. His career had ended almost four years ago, but his hunger for justice remained, which was the only reason he’d returned to this godforsaken cesspool.

  Hector Bosquez, his friend and former mentor at the DEA, should have been here by now. He’d left two hours ago to meet with a guy who knew a guy who supposedly had information regarding the whereabouts of Roberto Aranza. Rumor had it the drug lord was holed up in a compound in the mountains. But considering this stretch of the Sierra Madre extended for nearly a thousand kilometers, they needed something more specific before they set off after the asshole.

  Wade rubbed one hand along the side of his face, the thick black stubble scratchy against his palm. The front door creaked open, and his gaze instinctively flicked up to the mirror behind the bar. But instead of his friend, a woman stepped inside, alone, which struck him as strange. With the high crime rate in the area, it was rare for women to travel unescorted.

  Straightening in his seat, he sipped his beer and gave the woman a casual once-over. She was everything he never wanted in a woman: tall, slender, small-breasted, and blonde. Early to mid-thirties, if he had to guess. The manner in which she carried herself led him to believe she was American. Her brown pants and green blouse were streaked with dirt, her shoulder-length hair a tousled mess. The strap of a bulky black bag cut across her chest, accentuating her lack of cleavage. But her hazel eyes glinted with intelligence, and it made him wonder how a woman like her ended up in a place like this.

  Not that it was any of his business. He was here for one reason only. And as soon as he killed Roberto Aranza, he was heading back to the States. Of course, that was if he survived. Considering his track record, the odds were fifty-fifty at best.

  The blonde stood in the entryway, her face tight with determination as she looked about the room. Then she squared her shoulders, strode to the bar, and sat on the stool next to his.

  Ignoring her, Wade kept one hand on his drink and shifted his focus to one of the televisions mounted on the wall. A soccer match was on—Mexico versus Uruguay, if he wasn’t mistaken—and when the team in green scored a goal, the cluster of men seated at a nearby table cheered.

  Even now, he felt the weight of the woman’s stare but refused to acknowledge it. He hated it when people stared at him. It made him feel like a freak. Though, in all fairness, that was exactly what he was. He just didn’t appreciate
the reminders.

  “Excuse me, are you American?” The question came in softly spoken Spanish. Her voice carried a slight Southern accent. North Carolina, or maybe Virginia.

  Fuck, she wanted to talk. To him. In a way, he supposed it made sense. He may be a freak, but he was the only gringo in the bar. Hell, the only gringo in town. It was the only possible explanation for why she’d chosen him, of all people. Usually, his size served as a deterrent, and if that didn’t work, the scars on his face did the trick.

  Unfortunately, they hadn’t worked today.

  Then again, the blonde was seated to his right. Perhaps she simply hadn’t seen them. He twisted his head toward her, making sure the entire left side of his face was in full view when he answered her question with a simple, “Yes.”

  Her shoulders slumped on an audible exhale, her expression giving no indication that she’d noticed the cross-shaped scar that went from one side of his cheek to the other and from just below his eye to the edge of his beard. “Oh, thank God. Listen, my name is—”

  “No,” he said with a subtle shake of his head. “This isn’t the kind of place where real names are used.”

  Her pale eyebrows drew together. “Then what am I supposed to call you?”

  He drained the last of his beer and set the empty glass on the bar. “I don’t give a shit. Use whatever floats your boat.”

  “Okay, Tiny.”

  He pegged her with his best hard look, and she didn’t so much as flinch. Feisty little thing, wasn’t she? Any other time, he might have found it amusing. But right now it just annoyed him.

  Clearly, she wasn’t going anywhere until she said whatever was on her mind. Wade held two fingers up to the bartender, and the dark-skinned man in tan pants and red checkered shirt poured two shots of tequila. Wade slid one toward the woman.

  She shook her head. “I don’t drink tequila.”

  “You do now.” He tipped his head toward the shot glass. “People in bars who don’t drink attract attention. Is that what you want?”

  Not waiting for a response, Wade downed his shot, and the burn of cheap tequila scorched a trail down his esophagus. Then he gave the woman an expectant look, and she stared down at the glass as though it contained strychnine.

  With obvious dread, she picked up the glass, her nails short and ragged. After a brief hesitation, she tipped back the shot, her throat muscles moving as she swallowed the alcohol.

  Eyes watering, she sputtered. “Oh, that’s disgusting.”

  Yeah, it was an acquired taste, like raw oysters, black licorice, and conversations with total strangers. “It gets easier with repetition.”

  She pushed the glass away. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  The front door creaked open again, and this time two police officers stepped into the bar. One was thin, the other stocky. Both appeared to be in their early twenties, which wasn’t surprising considering the short shelf life of cops in this part of the country. They wore midnight-blue uniforms, with old school Berettas and collapsible batons tucked in their weapons belts.

  At the sight of them, all conversation stopped; the only sound in the room came from the television. Neither officer spoke; they just looked around as though searching for someone in particular. The thin one looked to the bar, pointed at the blonde, and said, “Señora.”

  The woman tried to act casual as she turned her head away from the policemen, but the pounding pulse at the base of her throat told a totally different story.

  Wade stared at her for a second or two, annoyed with himself for not being able to read her better. He used to be pretty good at that shit, but the skill had dulled from disuse. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I’m not—I mean—” She blew out a breath. “It’s complicated.”

  Wasn’t it always? “Did you kill anybody?”

  “What? No.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Señora.” It was the policeman again, a little louder and more insistent this time. When she didn’t answer, the pair started toward the bar.

  Panic widened her eyes as the color drained from her face. He’d seen that look a thousand times before, mostly from people he was about to arrest. The classic cornered animal.

  It wasn’t his business.

  She wasn’t his problem.

  Not to mention, getting involved could raise his profile and potentially fuck up his op. And yet…he couldn’t stand idly by and watch her get detained by the police. In this part of the country, nearly every level of law enforcement had been corrupted by organized crime. Bribes were common, and justice only came to those who could afford it. More likely than not, whoever had sicced the cops on her had deep pockets and a sinister motive.

  It was times like these when Wade really hated being saddled with a conscience.

  On a muttered curse, he drew a key from his pocket, set it on the bar, and slid it toward the blonde. In a lowered voice, he said, “On the count of three, hit me as hard as you can and haul ass for the rear exit. Once you’re out, hang a right. Fourth door down is mine. Lock yourself in and stay away from the window. If I’m not there in five, my partner will be back soon. Tell him I said starburst. One…”

  “Wait, what’s your—”

  “Two…”

  Her lips flattened as she placed a hand over the key. Her fingers curled, and when she drew her hand back, the key was no longer on the bar.

  He was taking a chance, a mighty big one. For all he knew, those cops weren’t dirty, and she’d just slaughtered a church full of nuns. It was a leap of faith, a rarity for him, but his gut demanded he take it.

  “Three” had barely pushed past his lips when she clocked him square on the jaw.

  Wade hadn’t expected a woman her size to pack that much of a punch. Sick as it sounded, he was impressed. His head snapped back, and for an instant stars filled his vision. He staggered backward, pretended to trip over something on the floor, and then slightly altered his trajectory to ensure he plowed right into the cops.

  It took some doing, but he managed to drag both men down and land right on top of them.

  “Aw, shit. Lo siento, man,” he slurred, but made no move to get up. Picking a fight with the police would buy him a night or two in jail. Probably get his ass beat too. But playing the role of dumb, drunk, but otherwise harmless American would earn him some scorn from the cops, maybe get him roughed up, but not much else. He shifted to the left, pinning them down with his bulk as he watched the woman scurry out the back.

  The policemen cursed him in Spanish as they struggled to get out from under him, but two hundred thirty pounds of solid dead weight was a bitch and a half to move.

  Satisfied she had enough of a head start, he rolled off the cops and onto the tile floor, his right hand landing in a puddle of something sticky.

  “Fuck, where did she go?” Wade wiped his hand against his faded black jeans.

  “Do you know that woman?” one of the policemen demanded in Spanish.

  “Huh? No.” Wade switched into the country’s native language but continued to slur his words. “I was trying to get to know her, if you know what I mean, but she wasn’t being cooperative.” He rubbed his jaw. Christ, it still hurt.

  The stocky officer cuffed the side of Wade’s head while muttering a few creative Spanish insults. Then the pair took off, rounding the bar and disappearing through the rear exit.

  Wade waited until the police were long gone before he pushed up to his feet. A few men at the nearby table were gawking, but then Wade shot them a glare, and they shifted their attention back to the game on television.

  Rubbing his jaw, he returned to the bar and ordered a beer. While he waited, questions swirled in his mind. Who was the woman? How did she end up here? And, most important, why were the police after her?

  He paid the bartender and sipped his beer, but the crisp taste of the lager barely registered on his taste buds. He’d give Hector until he finished the drink.
If he hadn’t shown up by then, Wade was going back to his room, and if the woman was there, he wanted answers.

  Chapter 2

  HOPE CHANDLER LOCKED the door behind her, her heart pounding like a drum, the beat thundering in her ears.

  Safe, at least for now. Though the fact the police were searching for her didn’t bode well. It was her understanding that Beto had the local police in his pocket. If the cops took her into custody, they’d probably bring her straight back to his compound in the mountains. A shudder went through her at the thought of what fate awaited her there.

  She flipped a switch on the wall by the door, and a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling filled the room with light. The place was cramped and smelled faintly of mold, barely big enough to fit two cots, a folding metal chair, and a small card table with an old television—complete with bent rabbit ears—on top of it. Whether the television actually worked was anybody’s guess. She wasn’t in the mood to find out.

  Two backpacks, one olive green and the other black, sat on the floor between the cots. A door to the left led to a tiny bathroom of questionable cleanliness. No curtains hung over the single barred window, just a tattered roll-down plastic shade that might have been white at some point.

  Part of her couldn’t help but wonder what Tiny would want in return for his help. She had no money, nothing of value to trade aside from her medical bag, which she simply refused to part with. And she had no intention of bartering her body for favors.

  In a nutshell, she was screwed, and not in a good way.

  Perhaps he was just a nice guy who wouldn’t expect any kind of payment, though she doubted that was the case. In her experience, everybody wanted something; the trick was figuring out what it was and whether the cost was worth it.

  Her heart leaped into her throat at the sound of voices outside. Two men, and they sounded an awful lot like the cops from the bar. Spanish wasn’t her strongest language, and she struggled to keep up with how quickly they spoke, but when she heard “la güera,” she knew they were talking about her.