by Rachel Grant
“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.
But never, not once, had it occurred to her the man would actually be selected. He wasn’t a cabinet member or a heavily tattooed and pierced former basketball player, so what did he have to offer? She could only assume the fact that he was prosecuting her uncle had been a delicious irony to the dictator.
“Start talking, Mara. We need to know what happened the day you were arrested.”
She needed a minute. She didn’t want to think about that day, let alone talk about it. But the State Department did need answers.
She turned to face him, then wished she hadn’t. His closed expression was an unwelcome change from the man who’d removed her blindfold in the courtyard. Her guard went up, and she looked away before answering. “On the last morning, I found unexploded ordnance not far from the remains of the pilot of an F-86 Sabre.”
“A bomb. Is that unusual?”
She shrugged, aiming for nonchalant. “We dig in combat-plane wrecks. It happens.” Anxious and wondering how much she should reveal, she turned and strode down the aisle to the galley, where she opened cabinets, making a show of looking for something to eat, even though nausea threatened with every bump of the aircraft. “Our ordnance-disposal expert—Evan Beck—ordered the site cleared so he could defuse it.” She raised her voice to be heard over the omnipresent whine of the aircraft. “We argued, because his plan wasn’t standard protocol.”
She stretched on tiptoes and reached for a box of crackers she didn’t want. Without warning, his hand appeared next to hers and snatched the box from the high shelf. She leaned into the sharp edge of the counter to widen the distance between them.
“What is standard protocol?” His voice was low, harmonic with the hum of the jet but audible because he stood uncomfortably close.
“In North Korea? The team stuck together. Always.”
“That had to be awkward after you and Evan broke up.”
She stiffened, rattled that he knew about her relationship with Evan. Yet she shouldn’t be surprised. “We broke up almost a year ago. When it ended, we remained friends.” Not really, but that was no one’s business but her own. She faced him and crossed her arms over her chest. “We worked together in remote places. We had to get along.”
“I’m not interested in either the start or end of your relationship, or your justification for or against said relationship. I merely wish to establish that you and Mr. Beck were not mere coworkers. Your interactions were clouded by emotion.”
She plucked the box from his hand and tore off the lid. “Thanks—for the crackers and the douse of cold water. Nice to know where I stand.”
“You are standing inside a private jet loaned to the US government for your extraction from North Korea. I have spent eighteen of the last twenty-two h
ours on this jet during a week in which I do not have an hour—let alone twenty-two—to spare, so I could save you from a situation I have every reason to believe you caused. That is where you stand.”
She narrowed her gaze. “If you ever decide to run for public office, don’t give interviews. Your appeal drops every time you open your mouth.”
He laughed. “Thanks for the tip.”
She crossed the aisle and set the box on the table, glad he couldn’t see her answering smile.
“You argued with Beck,” he prompted.
Her smile faded. “As forensic archaeologist, I was in charge of the excavation.” She’d worked so damn hard for that title. Her job had given her purpose when circumstances conspired to make her nothing more than a trophy. Not many people knew she was former Vice President Andrew Stevens’s niece, but after learning of her connection to power—and later her connection to infamy—they usually wanted to exploit it. JPAC wasn’t just a job, it was her calling, but odds were she’d never work for them again. “But when it comes to bombs uncovered during excavation, the ordnance disposal technician has final say, so we had to evacuate.”
Turbulence bounced the jet, pitching her toward Curt. He grabbed her shoulders and steadied her. He was a brick wall and just as warm. It was a sad testament to her mental state that she didn’t care. He’d saved her life, and hero was now stamped on his forehead in indelible ink.
“We should sit down and buckle up. Turbulence can be rough.”
She glanced at the seat, aware his hands remained on her shoulders. “I’ve been trapped for so long—”
He released her, but his touch lingered on her cold skin. “You said the site was evacuated.”
“Yes. I was angry and hiked up the dirt track to the vehicles first. Roddy Brogan, our team linguist, was right behind me. He took the driver’s seat and started the engine.”
“You’re saying Roddy Brogan drove?”
“Yes. I was surprised too. We never drove ourselves anywhere.” She paused and bit her lip. “North Korea is…different. In other countries, our military escort surrounds us with guns either down or facing out—protecting us. In North Korea, the guns were trained on us. We weren’t treated like guests invited by the government in a show of goodwill; we were treated like the enemy. Our KPA—Korean People’s Army—escort didn’t trust us. We followed protocol at all times, because failure to do so could mean getting shot.” She glanced down at her boots. “Or arrested. So when Roddy took the driver’s seat and said he’d been instructed to drive the third Nissan because the regular driver had to stay behind to guard Evan, it was not standard protocol.”
“But you believed him.”
“He speaks Korean. I don’t. And he was in the driver’s seat, and we were headed for the barracks, so I didn’t have much choice. I thought we were fine, until Roddy passed the turn to the barracks.” The moment returned with full clarity. The jolt of fear. The immediate instinct to leap from the fast-moving vehicle, quashed by the knowledge she wouldn’t survive a tumble down the steep, rocky hillside.
“That’s when Roddy told me he was taking me to the border—to the Joint Security Area within the Demilitarized Zone. He said”—she stopped and caught her breath—“he said he’d overheard our KPA escort talking. They knew I was a former US vice president’s niece. He said they knew Uncle Andrew had been indicted on corruption charges, and the North Korean government wanted to use me in some sort of power play. Roddy said he’d decided to make a run for the Joint Security Area and hoped they’d let us cross.” She shook her head. “He claimed he was trying to protect me. But he was crazy. The KPA would never let us cross the Demilitarized Zone. I begged him to take me back to the site.”
“You didn’t believe his story?”
“No. The KPA knew who I was before I even entered the country. JPAC didn’t try to hide it. So Roddy’s claims made no sense. And even if he was telling the truth, I knew I was in more danger because we’d left the site without an escort.” She paused. “It was the scariest moment of my life—topped only by everything that happened after.”
“What happened next?”
She frowned. “I was arrested, tried, and convicted of spying, and sentenced to death by firing squad.”
“No. I meant what happened in the Nissan with Roddy.”
She shook her head. Silly of her to have expected a bit of compassion. “We saw a vehicle coming our way. Roddy took a narrow offshoot into the woods to hide. He shut off the engine and told me to be quiet. I begged him to go back, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“What did you do?”
“I rammed the side of my hand into his Adam’s apple and bolted.”
Curt scanned her from head to toe. “You overpowered a Raptor operative who was a former Army Ranger.”
Either he was impressed, or he didn’t believe her. “I had surprise on my side. I could demonstrate if you want.”
He smiled slightly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“I had a good head start—and I’m a runner—so I managed to lose him in the woods. After about ten minutes, I stopped to get my bearings. My safest course was to return to the site. If I could get back to the site, then we—my team—could deal with Roddy. Everything would have been fine. I had to guess which direction and how far we’d come. The trees were so tall, it was dark and I couldn’t navigate by the sun. My backpack—with my compass—was in the Nissan.”
“Why did you flee Roddy? Wasn’t it more dangerous to take off alone?”
“I had a moment to react. I knew the rules, and Roddy forced me to break them, so I fled the person who was endangering me the most. I was petrified. Of Roddy, of being found by a KPA soldier before I could get back to the site. An American alone in North Korea just doesn’t happen. And with this”—she grabbed a handful of blond hair—“it’s hard for me to go unnoticed in Asian countries.” She took a deep breath. “I was stunned when I came out of the woods and found myself on the edge of the DMZ.”
The horror of that moment was still with her. She’d relived it a thousand times in her cell. She relived it now. She’d screwed up in the biggest way. What if Roddy had been telling the truth? What if he could have gotten her over the border? Her eyes filled with tears.
Curt’s voice remained emotionless. “Then you were arrested?”
She nodded, unwilling to describe what followed. He didn’t need the details.
“Prior to that day, was Roddy someone you trusted?”
The truth had a bitter taste, but she knew the State Department would ask her the same questions. This was only the beginning. “I trusted him because of JPAC, but sometimes the fact that he was a subcontractor employed by Raptor and not JPAC led to friction. They aren’t there to provide security. They work with us in the field as medics, or linguists like Roddy, or ordnance disposal technicians like Evan. But sometimes they think they should be in charge. When you spend months at a time with someone in foreign countries, tension can really build, and most of the time Roddy was like an annoying little brother.”
That same annoying little brother had returned to the US with the rest of the team. How had he managed it? And given what she’d found in North Korea, she couldn’t help but wonder what awaited her at home.
CHAPTER THREE
MARA PACED THE aisle, reminding Curt of a caged tiger—or in her case, kitten—all sleek movement and feral energy. “You aren’t what I expected,” he said.
She paused and frowned. “And you aren’t who I expected.”
“No doubt you counted on someone higher up, but for some reason, North Korea demanded me.” He’d wanted to blame her for this ill-timed mission of mercy, but according to the State Department, he’d come to the North Korean leadership’s attention thanks to the TIME article. If there was anyone to blame, it was the editor-in-chief.
She shook her head. “No. I wanted someone lower, much lower.”
He grinned. “You got a lawyer as your envoy. Some would say you can’t go m
uch lower than that.”
Her smile was faint. “You aren’t just any lawyer; you’re the overzealous US attorney who is trying to destroy my family.”
“It’s your uncle who did the damage. I’m just the one who refuses to let him get away with it. For the record, I warned the secretary of state I didn’t think you’d be happy to see me and weren’t likely to tell me a damn thing. But he insisted I question you anyway.”
“You were wrong. When my blindfold came off and I saw your face I was…beyond happy to see you. You saved my life. I’m grateful.”
During his early days as a prosecutor, he’d been given the nickname The Shark, and it had stuck. Much as he hated the name, sometimes he wished he really were as ruthless as it implied. A true shark would be unaffected by those vulnerable blue eyes. Nor would a shark be so gut-wrenchingly moved by how bravely she’d faced the firing squad.
He needed to keep her family ties front and center in his mind. He dropped onto the couch, thinking she might respond better if he didn’t tower over her. “Tell me about Raptor.”
Her mouth tightened. “My uncle says you’re obsessed with his work for Raptor—which is nuts. He took the job as Raptor’s chief of operations after his term as vice president was over. How could his work for Raptor have anything to do with your trumped-up charge of taking bribes while he was vice president?”
“A grand jury indicted him on the influence-peddling charge.”
“Don’t make it sound like you had no part in it. You convinced them. You took a wonderful, noble man and destroyed his reputation to make your own.”
Her words were laughable. There was nothing noble about former Vice President Andrew Stevens, not by a long shot. “I convinced the grand jury with solid evidence. And if your uncle were as smart as he’s reputed to be, he’d have turned state’s evidence on Raptor’s CEO instead of taking the fall himself.”
“Has the CEO been indicted?”
“I don’t have the evidence to indict Robert Beck as a co-conspirator.”
“Why do lawyers say ‘co-conspirator’ when ‘conspirator’ means the same thing?”