Body of Evidence (Evidence Series) (2 page)

Roddy had led her off the site and into the North Korean wilderness. Scared to death, she’d fled him, and because of that, she would die. But why had he done it, and what had happened to him?

Her boots met pavement with a soft thud. She knew she passed in front of a line of people. The firing squad. She heard their breathing and with eerie perception sensed soldiers aligned with the renowned North Korean military precision.

The wind carried a man’s voice. His tone held the feeling, the inflections of English, but she was unable to make out his words. Could it be the envoy? No. She couldn’t allow hope. The sounds were nothing but the feverish imaginings of a desperate mind.

Don’t think. Don’t hope. Just walk.

The guard jerked her to a halt. Hands on her shoulders positioned her. A cold brick wall pressed against her spine.

Don’t think. Just breathe.

This was it. The hands fell away, and footsteps retreated. Tears burned her eyes.

Don’t cry. Just breathe.

A shout echoed in the air. The clicks of rifles being raised met her ears. Her legs shook.

Breathe.

“Stop!” The distant voice rose over the sound of pounding, rapid footfalls. The accent was unmistakably American. “Tell them—you’ve been ordered to stop!”

More Korean shouts followed.

Her throat seized.

Voices exploded in Korean.

“Lower the guns, dammit!” The American now stood so close, she felt the vibration of his words as much as heard them. In a rush, she realized he must be standing between her and the firing squad, shielding her.

Another Korean shouted. A tap followed. Had the guns been lowered?

Her whole body shook as hands worked the blindfold knot behind her head. The cloth fell away, but she was afraid to open her eyes.

“Mara, it’s okay,” the American said, his voice gentle this time. “I’m taking you home.”

Slowly, afraid to believe his words, she opened her eyes. She squinted in the light until the man before her came into focus. The handsome face was vaguely familiar.

Seconds ticked by in silence as she searched her memory. Then recognition hit her.

Of all the people he could have asked for, the North Korean dictator had demanded Curt Dominick, the ambitious US attorney who was prosecuting her uncle.

Her knees gave out.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

C
URT
D
OMINICK LUNGED
and caught the woman. She’d crossed the courtyard with such dignity and grace, she’d reminded him of the goddess Athena, but holding her, he noted she hardly weighed a thing. She was really more pixie than Olympian.

Why did her size surprise him? Between the dossier he read on the flight, the intense media coverage since her arrest, and his own research into her family, he knew everything there was to know about Mara Garrett. He shouldn’t be thrown off by something as inconsequential as height, yet he was.

She was pale, with an understandably haunted look in her eyes, and she appeared to have lost weight in her two months of captivity. Her gaze locked with his, and he could see the fear she’d masked with sharp posture and firm footsteps, a display of inner strength he hadn’t expected her to possess.

She was a reporter’s wet dream: all-American girl, thirty years old, petite, blond hair, wide, luminous blue eyes, pert nose. Gorgeous even on her worst day—which this most certainly was. He couldn’t help but see her easy beauty even now, when she couldn’t muster the warm, dimpled smile featured in so many photographs. The fact that her work was physical, cerebral, and humanitarian had caught the media’s attention, but it was her family ties that ensured her face had graced the cover of every major magazine and newspaper in the US since her arrest.

Every inch of her life had been dissected by the media, and according to the US State Department, P’yŏngyang hadn’t appreciated their depiction in the drama—understandable, since it appeared the North Koreans were justified in arresting her—but that tidbit had been withheld from Mara Garrett’s adoring press.

As a result, P’yŏngyang was out for blood. American blood. And, as the niece of a former vice president—even a disgraced one—Mara Garrett had blood that ran red, white, and blue.

Once she was steady on her feet, he let her go and turned to his North Korean handler. His heart still hammered from the execution he’d almost been too late to prevent. He’d traveled seven thousand miles and had to run the last five hundred yards. The jolt he’d felt at seeing her before the firing squad couldn’t begin to compare to how she must have felt, but instead of comforting her, he had diplomatic duties to fulfill, playing nice with the same bastards who’d demanded his presence with an insanely short amount of time to fly from DC to P’yŏngyang. “I’ll sit for the photos with your leadership, but she will not be photographed.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught her rubbing her cheek against her shoulder and realized she was wiping away tears. He whirled to face her guard. “Handcuffs off. Now.” His words came out as a harsh bark. He wanted to throttle all of them for putting her through this torture.

Cuffs removed, she rubbed her wrists. “Thank you. For”—her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat—“for coming for me.”

He wiped away another tear with the pad of his thumb, and his heart began to slow. “North Korea in the fall?” He smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

He caught a glimpse of her dimple and felt a tug in his gut. Damn, he was as base as the tabloid-reading public, all because she was pretty. Irritated with himself, he turned to his escort. “Let’s get the photos over with.”

“Follow me,” the man said.

The firing-squad soldiers shouldered their weapons and marched in the opposite direction, while they were led into the ornate building. Inside, the woman was whisked away by another handler before Curt came face-to-face with the leader of North Korea. He sat for the photos with his face carefully blank. Like President Clinton, he tried to look like an empty suit.

Four long hours after landing in P’yŏngyang, he and Mara were reunited on the jet. He took a deep breath of relief and studied her across a small table in the main cabin. She appeared even smaller huddled under a plush blanket. She looked out the window; her whole body trembled as they raced down the runway.

The nose of the plane lifted. A second later, they were fully airborne. P’yŏngyang faded into the distance as they climbed to cruising altitude. Curt pulled out his cell phone and a minute later said, “Mr. President, we’re in the air.”

M
ARA COULDN’T STOP
trembling. She burrowed under the blanket and tucked it around her knees, but the quaking wouldn’t stop. She leaned her forehead against the window and forced herself to breathe slowly. Below, North Korea faded from view.

She took another deep breath and exhaled, fogging the glass and erasing the outside world. The knot of tension in her belly began to uncoil.

“Here, ginger ale should help.”

She turned to see the man who’d saved her life standing in the aisle, frowning at her and holding out a drink. With ice.

The clink of the ice against the glass conjured the memory of the lukewarm water her captors had provided with her daily serving of kimchi. She’d eaten while sitting on the cold hard floor of her tiny cell, surrounded by thick concrete walls that blocked all sound and light. She’d endured many things while imprisoned, and lukewarm water didn’t even rate a mention on the most detailed list of grievances, yet the sight of the clear cubes triggered a rush of emotions. Sadness, joy, guilt, and fear all tumbled over one another. Pathetic to face a firing squad only to be brought low by a handful of ice.

She rubbed her temples, trying to hide her struggle to stave off tears. She was lucky to be alive to have this nutty breaking point, and she had the man in front of her to thank for that.

The fact that he was the US attorney prosecuting her uncle only made his heroic actions more baffling. Marginally composed, she accepted the cold glass. “Thanks,” she said and downed the soda in one long drink. She set the empty glass on the table, revived by the sugary jolt, and then faced him. His hazel eyes studied her, causing her belly to flutter and cheeks to heat.

Her emotions were seriously whacked if Curt Dominick—of all people—caused a fluttery reaction. But he’d flown halfway around the world at a moment’s notice to save her. Didn’t that warrant a major change in her opinion of him?

She shook off her reaction. She could freak out about it later; right now she had questions that needed answers. “This plane is empty,” she said. “Where is everyone?”

“P’yŏngyang insisted I come alone. No envoy team. Just me and the pilots.”

The information surprised her, but he’d misunderstood. “No, I meant where is my JPAC team? Where is Jeannie Fuller? Where is Evan Beck? Where are the others?”

He startled. “You don’t know?”

She shook her head. “No one would tell me. And I had to be careful with what I said—I didn’t know if they were being tried as well. If they were, then my words could be used against them.” She paused and stared at the condensation gathering on the glass in front of her, seeing instead Roddy’s easy confidence as he drove her away from the safety of the site and straight to the Demilitarized Zone. “But I’m here, and they aren’t. Where are they?” She held her breath, grateful she’d finally know the truth. If her team was safe, then keeping her silence about what Roddy had done would be worth it.

“They arrived in the US two days after you were arrested.”

Her pent-up breath left in a rush. “
All
of them?”

“Yes.”

Including Roddy.
Don’t focus on that. Think about the team. Jeannie, her best friend and coworker, was safe. As were several men she’d worked with for years.

She turned again to her rescuer. His intent gaze met hers, those clear, hazel eyes probed, assessed. “The State Department needs to know what happened to you. You need to tell me everything.”

The State Department or Curt Dominick? The man was gunning for her uncle. She had to be careful with what she said, because Roddy was only a contractor to JPAC. His true employer was Raptor, the private security firm her uncle had taken a job with after his term as vice president ended.

The man before her had charged her uncle with using his influence as vice president to get the US government to award numerous contracts to Raptor, only to receive a payoff when he took a job with the mercenary organization a few months after leaving office.

Uncle Andrew had warned her that Curt Dominick would one day come calling and ask about the work Raptor did for JPAC, and the US attorney would twist her words if she wasn’t careful. But he had also said Curt Dominick had more ambition than human decency, yet the man had shielded her from the firing squad. That exceeded human decency and made him on the verge of godlike in her estimation.

Pressure built in her chest, and she rose from the plush seat. Curt didn’t budge from his position in the aisle, trapping her between the table and chair. “Excuse me,” she said.

He was tall, six feet at least, and intimidating with his probing gaze.

She squared her shoulders. “I need to walk. Even a plane aisle is better than my six-by-six cell.”

He stepped back and swept an arm out.

The jet smelled of forced air and wealth. The deluxe interior struck her as ridiculous after two months inside a dark, concrete box. The oil painting on the bulkhead appeared to be a signed original—and she was fairly certain she’d seen the artist’s work featured in a DC gallery a few years ago. “This isn’t a government jet,” she said.

“No. It was donated by a billionaire who was anxious to be associated with your rescue.”

She cringed. She was certain the media attention had made her efforts to convince the North Koreans she wasn’t important that much harder. They’d wanted no one less than the secretary of state or sitting vice president as envoy. She really shouldn’t have been shocked Curt Dominick had been chosen. After all, in a moment of desperation, she’d tossed out his name. It would forever be her dirty little secret that she’d chuckled at the idea of him being distracted from prosecuting her uncle.