Breaking point, p.1
Breaking Point, page 1
BREAKING POINT
A CORPS JUSTICE NOVEL
C. G. COOPER
CONTENTS
Dedications
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Epilogue
Also by C. G. Cooper
About the Author
“BREAKING POINT”
A Corps Justice Novel
By C. G. Cooper
Copyright © 2024 JBD Entertainment, LLC. All Rights Reserved. Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, locations, and events are all products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to actual events or real persons are completely coincidental.
This novel contains violence and profanity. Readers beware.
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DEDICATIONS
Thank you so much to all of my wonderful beta readers.
CHAPTER ONE
She clutched her hands together, trying to squeeze off the shivering. Her body ached, her eyes stung, and her feet were going numb from the position in which she sat. She was not claustrophobic by nature, but by circumstance. The dank room with the cold chill and the faint smell of the ocean was low-ceilinged, making standing impossible. Concrete all around her; no light, just the drip, drip of water she could not see.
"Hush," she told herself. Now was not the time to panic. She needed all her wits.
She barely remembered coming here. Bound and gagged for the journey, she'd expected torture. Maybe worse. She was a beautiful woman who knew the way men looked at her. The thought of her beauty nearly made her laugh now. Her torn skirt and filthy blouse wreaked of four days of sweat and fear.
Had it been four days, or had it been longer? She was doing her best to keep track of time but had no watch or phone to go by, only the light that spilled into her room each time the door opened and a paper plate of food was shoved forward on a tray.
At first, she’d refused the food, but at some point, hunger had replaced stubborn pride. She'd eaten that first meal tentatively. It had been a hot dog in a bun, no ketchup, no mustard. Freshly warmed, probably in boiling water, not grilled. And for some reason, she’d remembered going to a fair with her father during her childhood.
She’d worried that the hot dog was poisoned or rancid or full of sedatives. The accompanying drink, a bottle of Gatorade, had made her suspicious, too. Yet, to her surprise, both had been perfectly normal.
The meal had repeated itself each morning, noon, and night. I'll never want a hot dog again, she thought.
But the meals gave her energy. Energy to think. About what? Mostly the mistakes she'd made, like getting complacent. Her security team had warned her of the threats, the danger. She’d known the risk, and it hadn’t concerned her. She'd been imprisoned before. And life was what life was. You had to live.
She had been taken while perusing a high-end boutique in Monte Carlo. She’d just stepped into the changing room when three men in black masks had appeared, pressing something to her face. Hours later, she had woken up in the back of a cargo plane, the smell of grease and fuel filling the stale air.
Shackled to the fuselage, she'd called out. No one had come. Not until the plane had started descending. Then she’d screamed as one of the masked men had pressed another dose of chloroform to her face. The next time she had woken, she’d found herself here, in this quaint concrete home.
She rolled over and did ten push-ups. Her muscles strained and burned, so she added five more to the set to spite her weakness. Even though her captors hadn't beaten or starved her, her body was doing what it was supposed to do: protecting itself. Stripping away energy from her limbs, which she already felt going slack, and sending it inward to a place she couldn’t identify. Maybe her spirit, maybe her heart. Humans were resilient creatures.
She tried to do another set of push-ups but slumped to the ground. At least the exercise had warmed her. For a moment. The cold seeped back in, so she wrapped herself in a ball and lay trembling on the unforgiving floor.
The door opened, and light washed in. Squinting against the painful brightness, she expected the slide of a tray. Instead, a male voice said, "Smile for the camera."
There was a click, and she felt rather than saw the flash. She could only imagine what she looked like. Then the door closed, bathing her once again in darkness.
And Anna Varushkin wondered for the thousandth time why she was here.
CHAPTER TWO
DANIEL BRIGGS — LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
"Keep coming back; it works if you work it,” the group said in unison, pumping their hands up and down before releasing their neighbors’ grips.
Twenty-one attendees, including himself. He glanced at the corner, where his former sponsor, Sarge, used to sit in his wheelchair. Sarge was gone now, and Daniel felt very much alone.
"Hey, Daniel, you want me to help you with the coffee?" asked an older gentleman, who went by Minneapolis Mike.
"No, I've got it, but thanks." It was all Daniel could do to sound warm. He wondered if the ragged edge in his tone was noticeable to his peers. He tried to remain upbeat, to follow the motto Fake it till you make it, but he wasn’t sure the effort was paying off. He felt anything but optimistic.
It had been two months since Sarge's death and six weeks since his funeral. Hundreds had come out to say goodbye to the old man. They'd gone to a run-down diner afterward, taking over the place. Old friends had told stories. New friends had cried openly. Daniel had just sat in the corner and listened; no one had bothered him.
Since that day, he’d honored Sarge by resuming normal life. Getting back to routine. He went to meetings early, set up the chairs in a circle around the room, then made the coffee and picked up cigarette butts outside. When the meetings ended, he stayed to clean. It was best to please their church hosts.
An elderly woman named Beverly approached Daniel as he put away the coffee maker. He knew her story well. Once, she’d had thirty years of sobriety. Then she and her husband had moved to Scottsdale, Arizona, leaving their people behind. She hadn’t found any new meetings, only excuses for not looking harder.
Retirement in the desert had been bliss. Until one Saturday afternoon, at a picnic much like many others, when the hostess had served lemonade spiked with vodka—Beverly’s favorite old pal. She’d thought, Well, why not? What could one hurt?
That one vodka lemonade on Saturday had turned into two on Sunday. Three the day after. By the end of the week, she’d passed out in her bathroom, left arm cradling a mostly empty vodka bottle. That slide had lasted eighteen months, ending in divorce, estrangement from her children and grandchildren, and a month-to-month lease on a decrepit single-wide trailer.
Today, Beverly had almost five years of sobriety, and much like Daniel’s old sponsor, she was militant about maintaining it.
"You find a sponsor yet?" Beverly asked, her tone loving but tough.
"No, ma'am," he said.
"Don't give me that ‘ma'am’ crap. You’re a Marine.” She rolled her eyes. “What are you waiting for?"
"Haven't found the right one.”
"Right one? Just pick someone who's been through the steps. You know the drill."
Daniel shrugged, not wanting to argue. He avoided her gaze.
"Look at me, Daniel," she said softly.
He looked at her.
"We all miss him, you know? I understand what he meant to you. But you must understand t hat he died a happy man because he thought he'd helped you. Sarge’s time with you was the happiest of his life. Did you know that?"
He shook his head.
Beverly grabbed his forearm with her swollen, arthritic fingers. "Right before he died, when you left that last time, Sarge told me that if he were to croak right that second, he'd rest easy because he’d finally done something good in his life."
"But he helped a lot of people, not just me."
"Sure, sure. Sarge helped some people. He also royally screwed some people, too. That's what we do, remember? We're liars and cheats until we figure out that’s not what we want to be anymore. But you . . ." She surprised Daniel by poking him in the chest. "You gave his life meaning. Helping keep you sober kept him sober. Before you showed up, Sarge was one day away from picking up the bottle again."
"I don't believe you." Sarge had never said that. Daniel had to believe Sarge would've told him.
Beverly sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Of course he didn't tell you. Do you really think you were in any state to hear something like that? Listen, the day Sarge announced he was going to be your sponsor, there was a bottle of rotgut gin in that raggedy old backpack he always strapped on the back of his wheelchair."
Daniel frowned. He knew that backpack very well.
"There's a reason he didn't tell you, Daniel. Just like there's a reason I'm telling you now."
"What's the reason?" he asked, a little too sharp.
"Because if you're not careful, you're going to find yourself teetering over the edge again. That's the very last thing any of us want, so do us all a favor. Get a sponsor, go through the steps, and keep coming back." She winked as she delivered the last line. It was one of the program's favorite sayings.
"Thanks, Beverly. I'll think about it."
"Don't think, just do."
He smiled. "Hey, you know, you would've made a pretty good drill instructor."
"Goddamn right," Beverly said, thumping her chest with a fist. "Now come here and give me a hug."
Daniel wanted to feel something warm, something deep when she hugged him. He did not. Still, he returned the hug, promising her once again that he would find a sponsor. Hell, he even promised himself.
But by the time she'd left the church and he’d put the last chair back into place, he knew he had lied again.
The last thing Daniel Briggs wanted to do at that moment was get better.
CHAPTER THREE
DANIEL — LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Even though Daniel’s opponent thought he wasn't telegraphing his next kick, the former sniper knew what was coming. The sweeping leg meant to catch him in the side of the head moved painfully slow. A duck and a jab put the other man on his heels. A knee to the chest pinned him in place. And then the beast took over.
It began pounding, pummeling, wanting to tear the man limb from limb. Somehow, a small, fractured part of Daniel kept it from doing so.
When the referee pulled Daniel off, the man lying on the floor was bloody and barely conscious. Cheers sounded from the men and women in the audience. Someone threw a pair of panties at his bare feet. He ignored them and went to his corner, where he grabbed his towel and wiped off his face.
"Hey, good fight, kid," said the proprietor of the underground fight club. He handed over a short stack of bills. "But next time, maybe make it a little harder. You know what I mean?"
"You want me to fight?" Daniel asked. "Then don't tell me how to do it."
"Sure, sure, pal."
The next two opponents climbed into the ring as Daniel stepped out. The new guys were a mismatched pair. He could already see who the winner would be.
A couple of people came over and patted his sweaty back. He nodded and grunted his thanks, not really in the mood to talk to anyone. Maybe he should start wearing a shirt that said, Leave me alone. I'm fighting. How appropriate that would be. Even the beast growled in approval.
He fetched his backpack from underneath the judge's table, the only pseudo-safe place in the joint, then headed backstage, unwrapping his wrists and knuckles, replaying the fight in his head. He'd let it go two rounds. Most of the first, he'd danced backward, gauging his opponent, a fresh face who claimed he was from Topeka, though he sounded more like he was from Florida.
Daniel always squared off against the new guys. The promoter saved the main event, the last fight of the night, for fighters who were willing to put on a show. Daniel was all business in the ring—which, ironically, was not good business for the club. A quick fight didn't leave time for the betting pools to rise or the odds to turn.
Daniel didn't care. As long as he was assigned an opponent, he would show up.
Since Sarge’s death, these underground fights had become the only healthy outlet for Daniel to get rid of his urges. Better than prowling the streets at night, looking for trouble. At least this way, he provided some entertainment, burned a few calories, and pounded some skulls.
Entering the bathroom, he tossed the wraps in the trash, washed his hands, and looked at himself in the mirror. His long blond hair was unkempt, his beard shaggy. He avoided looking at his eyes. He didn't want to see what was in them.
A man wearing a sport coat walked in. "Hey, you Briggs?"
Daniel tensed. "What if I am?"
The guy reached into his sport coat, and Daniel prepared to pounce. But the man's hand emerged with an envelope, not a weapon. “Some guy just brought this by and paid me twenty bucks to give it to you.”
"Did he say who he was?" Daniel asked, relaxing. He took the envelope from the man. On the front, Daniel Briggs was written in elegant cursive.
“No. He left pretty quick. Hey, good fight, by the way. You going to be here tomorrow? If you are, I'll put a grand on you."
"I might," Daniel said absently, staring at the handwriting. He didn’t recognize it.
The man shrugged and left.
Pressing his fingers along the length of the envelope, Daniel determined there was something square inside, like a folded piece of paper. He tore open the seal and revealed a Polaroid picture. Written on the back of it was one word: Hi!
Slowly, carefully, he turned the Polaroid over, fully expecting something bad. Still, when he saw the shocked face of Anna Varushkin, he stumbled to the side, only stopping himself from falling by holding onto the edge of the sink.
Frozen in shock, he didn't hear the flush of a toilet or see the man coming out of a stall.
"Hey, dude, you okay?"
Daniel looked up, catching his reflection in his peripheral vision. He’d gone pale as a ghost.
The man grimaced. "You don't look so good. You should probably go see a doctor."
"What? Yeah." Daniel shoved the picture back in the envelope and rushed from the place. He couldn’t figure out where he should go or whom he should call. His thoughts were consumed by one question:
Anna, where are you?
CHAPTER FOUR
IDENTITY UNKNOWN — LOCATION UNKNOWN
He hadn’t spent much time at the beach. Leisure was a thing for retirees and kids on vacation. He was no retiree, never would be. And it had been a long time since the freedom of childhood.
"Would you like another beer, sir?" the waitress asked.
"No, I think I'll just take the check."
The waitress looked disappointed for a split second, then broke out in a smile. "You got it." A moment later, she was back, laying the check on the table. She tapped the wooden clipboard that held it and said, “Take your time."
But he saw her glance at the line snaking out the door.
It was a popular place. Since he'd arrived for his lunch, it had filled. He didn't mind crowds. He liked them, actually. They helped him disappear. Indeed, this tourist trap of a town was a place where he could settle, make another name for himself. Another new life. This time, something simple and quiet.
But that was a dream for a different man.
He paid with cash, including a hefty tip, and left the oceanfront restaurant, nodding to the hostess on his way to the front door, scooting past the horde of hungry people lingering outside.
It had been many years since he’d come to the States. Even more since he'd come to Florida. Had that stint in Tampa been the last time? He couldn’t remember. Obviously, it had been a forgettable experience, not worth a second thought. He’d taken too many jobs overseas to recall them all. Most in shitty countries where death was as ubiquitous as McDonald's locations in middle America.
