by Rachel Grant
She smiled. “Liar.”
Hell. He had to add mind reader to her other attributes.
“For the record, you’re the one who stopped us from having sex.”
He grimaced. “I thought we were going to pretend that didn’t happen.”
“It would be easier if you didn’t look at me like I’m dinner.”
“I am not.” But of course, he was. She had utterly decimated his legendary control in—what, three, or was it only two?—days. He stood from the bed and pulled off the bedspread. It was cheap and scratchy and would probably melt in a warm dryer, but it was their only hope to get through this conversation in a timely manner so they could sleep for a few hours before hitting the road. He draped the blanket around her shoulders and gathered it in his fist at her throat. “Tomorrow we’re going to buy you a burka.”
Her eyes flashed with heat.
He retreated to the bed. “You were telling me about JPAC’s Research and Investigation Team—RIT, I believe you called them.”
She smiled. “You were listening.”
“My brain is capable of multitasking.”
“Magna cum laude at Harvard?”
“Summa. Now tell me about RIT.” He leaned against the headboard to watch her pace, the bouncing of her breasts now thankfully cloaked.
“I was curious about that particular North Korean plane wreck from the start, because of the accounts RIT gathered. Two fighter pilots witnessed the 1952 crash. Neither one knew what happened. It was a crisp, clear summer day. Not a cloud in the sky or an enemy for miles. No one fired on them from the ground, but all of a sudden, Captain Baldwin’s plane started to go down. They radioed him, but he didn’t respond. There was no distress call, nothing. He dropped at full speed, but in the last seconds appeared to slow, making the other pilots think he was fully conscious—at least at the end.”
“What do you think happened?”
“There are accounts of pilots deliberately crashing their planes. Not many, but it did happen. But Baldwin was highly respected, heavily decorated. He was one of the air force’s first Aces—the air force was new, having just branched off from the army in 1947.”
“An Ace doesn’t crash on purpose.”
“Never.”
“Was your job to find his remains or solve the mystery of his death?”
“Find his remains.”
“What happened that last morning in North Korea, after you found his remains?”
“I found Baldwin’s dog tag and some bones, and Jeannie started to remove them. I studied the lay of the land, and, figuring remains may have washed downslope, grabbed a rake and shovel and followed the drainage. A few scrapes later I found a section of fuselage. Inside, coated in dirt, I found two bombs. One fractured, one battered but intact.”
“How did you know it was a bomb?”
She shrugged. “I dig in combat plane wrecks. I’ve found bombs before.”
“But these were different.”
“Very. We train for unexploded ordnance at JPAC. I’ve seen pictures of prototype weapons—real and imagined—so if we come across something odd—be it American, Russian, Japanese, Korean, or whatever—we’ll recognize it. What I found reminded me of an E120 biological bomblet, but an earlier version. Cruder but definitely American.”
Curt sat up straight. “It was obviously a biological weapon?”
“No, but it was different. Really different. The usual protocols couldn’t apply, so when Evan ordered the site cleared, I was upset. We argued. He insisted on detonating it. I thought that was a terrible idea.”
“But as ordnance disposal expert, he got his way.” The wooden headboard squeaked as he shifted position. Just hearing her say Evan’s name made him itch to strangle the operative.
“Yes.”
“So why are you certain it was a smallpox bomb?”
Mara opened the concealing blanket and lifted the hem of her shirt, exposing her midriff. “Because, when I was in North Korea, I got sick.” For the first time, Curt noticed tiny pockmarks marring her otherwise perfect skin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EVAN MAINTAINED A constant speed, following the red pickup truck from a distance. He was hot on Jeannie’s trail and about to clean up the last loose end. She’d fled the base in her brother’s red pickup when the FBI came sniffing around. The greedy bitch didn’t even know her little brother was dead. Her frantic and repeated calls to her brother’s cell had all gone unanswered. You’d think she’d get the hint. With one hand Evan shut off the phone. The calls had become annoying.
He’d been locked onto Jeannie’s phone for the last hour, and he’d easily caught up with her as she circled the city, trying to get ahold of her brother.
It was a shame Mara and the US attorney had been so damn careful with his phone. They’d made things damn near impossible for Evan, forcing him to go after Jeannie instead of twiddling his thumbs on Oahu waiting for a lead.
Evan’s own phone rang, from the ringtone he knew it was his father—a call he couldn’t avoid. “I’m on it, Dad,” he said by way of greeting.
His father cursed loud and long. “Jesus. You had the chance to get the girl on the base. What the fuck happened?”
Evan wasn’t actually sure which girl his father meant, but it didn’t matter. He was right on both counts. “I’d have gone after the plane, but the colonel ordered the pilots to take off, and Mara and Dominick were whisked away before I could get a lock on them, so I’m after Jeannie.”
“Don’t fuck up, Evan. We’ve got maybe one more shot at this. As it is, the FBI is focusing on you, and you know Raptor can’t be implicated.”
“Dominick must have made the decision to drive. He’ll be late to the trial.”
“It would be better if he never makes it to the trial, but it’s vital Mara never gets there. Don’t screw up. Not again.”
“I’d like to remind you that Roddy is the one who screwed up in the first place.”
“He was under your command.”
And it was Evan’s fault Mara had escaped Roddy? Hell, if the linguist had just gotten Mara to the Joint Security Area as planned, they’d have had their international incident without Raptor looking guilty. Roddy’s claim he’d overheard threats to Mara’s safety would have been the perfect cover. And while it might have taken weeks to negotiate Roddy’s and Mara’s releases from the country, Raptor, Roddy, and even Mara would have come out of the ordeal squeaky clean.
JPAC would have been ejected as planned and Evan would have been able to smuggle out the bomb without the need to bribe Jeannie to keep quiet about Roddy leaving with Mara and returning alone. If all had gone as planned, there was a small—admittedly, very small—chance he could have won Mara back someday.
But Mara escaped, and Roddy panicked. He’d returned to the site instead of finding her in the woods. Against all odds, Mara had survived. Now she could point out every lie.
Roddy had tried to protect himself by mailing a bomb fragment to Mara’s address—his own residence inside the Oahu Raptor compound was decidedly out of the question—to use as leverage against his employers. Fortunately, Evan had found the souvenir when he’d caught up with Roddy at Mara’s.
Roddy’s fuckup had become Evan’s problem because he was the only logical scapegoat. His history with Mara gave him cause to stalk her for personal reasons. He’d bet the FBI was following that logic already, and his dear old dad would be the first to sell him out.
The truck signaled for the next exit. Was Jeannie stopping for gas? Turning back? It didn’t matter what her plan was. If she pulled off the road, it was time for him to make his move.
“Dad, I’ve got Jeannie in my sights. Give me ten minutes, then I’m on Mara and the US attorney. What do you know about where they are?”
“The car they’d been given was found at the airport. I’ve got a team interviewing shuttle, bus, and cab drivers now. One thing we know for certain, they didn’t fly out of Tucson.”
“Call me when yo
u locate them. I’ve got a loose end to tie up.” He tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and exited the interstate, an idea forming for how he could use Jeannie to track his ex-fiancée.
MARA COULDN’T HAVE said what Curt thought she’d said. He planted himself before her and ran a finger over the scars on her hip. “You had smallpox? But you’re fine.” Her evidence was a dozen fine pockmarks on her body.
“I was vaccinated. All military personnel deployed to Korea are vaccinated.” She twisted and showed him a flowerlike pockmark on her creamy shoulder. “So my case was mild, but I knew what it was.”
“But how? The bomb was intact.”
“One of them was. The other cracked apart when I uncovered it. We’d been warned smallpox can survive for years in an undisturbed environment. Those bombs were buried inside the fuselage of an F-86 Sabre and weren’t touched for six decades.”
“How did you explain your illness to your captors?”
“The spots were mostly under my clothes. Thanks to the vaccine, I didn’t develop a fever. I felt like crap, but that was all.” She wrapped the blanket tightly around herself and resumed pacing. “When I got sick, I was grateful I was in an isolated cell. I was very careful not to touch anyone or anything that might spread the virus.”
“What about meals? I’m guessing they didn’t let you wash your own dishes.”
“I was given weak, disposable chopsticks and my kimchi was always served in a disposable bowl—I assume because metal and ceramic could have been used as a weapon—so I didn’t have to worry some poor dishwasher would get sick. And never once in my months of captivity did they change my bedding, thank goodness.”
She paused in her pacing and met his gaze. “Aside from fearing I’d contaminate an unvaccinated population, I was also terrified I’d be executed on the spot if my illness were discovered. But my interrogators were very formal and didn’t touch or come close to me. They didn’t even question me every day. I knew I was in the clear once the pox scabs fell off—which happened quickly—again probably thanks to the vaccine.”
Jesus Christ. She’d been a prisoner in North Korea and had to hide smallpox from her captors? Curt was, quite simply, dumbfounded. And in awe.
“It all makes sense, Curt. The pilot didn’t have a mechanical failure. He knew what he carried on that plane. He was headed to P’yŏngyang and chose to crash the plane into a hillside rather than drop weaponized smallpox on a populated area. The average North Korean probably didn’t have access to the vaccine in 1952. So many would have died.” She stopped pacing and faced him. “He was a hero, in the truest sense of the word. He chose death to protect thousands of people he would never know.”
MARA ACHED WITH exhaustion and crawled into the bed while Curt turned off the light. He spoke softly in the darkened room. “Mara, tell me one thing. Even knowing all this, how can you still defend your uncle?”
She’d known this question was coming. “My uncle didn’t have anything to do with Roddy driving me away from the site or my contracting smallpox.”
“Don’t be naïve. It’s obvious what happened. Evan and Roddy were there to retrieve the bomb.”
She twisted to face him. “You think that’s what this is about? Why Evan might be hunting me?”
“You don’t?”
She flopped onto her back as a knot formed in her belly. “But they couldn’t smuggle a biological weapon out of North Korea. The protocols there were unreal. It’s impossible.” A thousand anxieties had plagued her detainment in North Korea, but this fear had never occurred to her. Hell, if she’d thought anyone could steal the smallpox bomb, she’d have demanded to talk to the president and secretary of state the moment they were out of North Korean airspace.
“That’s why they needed you. Your arrest caused an international incident and JPAC was ejected without following the normal protocols. How much do you want to bet that concealed within the remains returned to the US with the team was one smallpox bomb? A bomb that is now in the hands of Raptor. I’m willing to bet half a million dollars.”
“I didn’t receive a payoff.”
“But someone sure made it look like you did.”
“It doesn’t make sense. Maybe Evan and Roddy did steal the bomb, but they are just two people. They aren’t Raptor. Over the years I’ve worked with several Raptor operatives. I know them. I can’t think of a single reason they’d want a smallpox bomb.”
“They’re mercenaries. Everything they do is for money. Including trading arms with war criminals.” Curt’s voice held frustration mixed with exhaustion. “You must know my investigation into your uncle’s shady financial dealings led to a suspected arms deal.”
“I know you claim he sold arms to a warlord in Darfur. But that’s impossible.”
“He did it, Mara.”
“But you never found any proof.”
“No, because he destroyed it. I can’t get him for the arms deal, but I can nail him for destroying documents that had been subpoenaed.”
She turned away and fluffed her pillow. Was it naïve to still have faith in her uncle? She thought she’d left naïveté behind in North Korea.
Curt’s voice broke the tense silence. “Why didn’t you tell me about the bomb before?”
She settled her head onto the old, flat pillow, and stared at the ceiling. Mirrored, like any good hourly motel should be. It was too dark to see her unhappy reflection. All that was visible was the light from the alarm clock and the street lamp glow that bled around the curtains.
“As far as I knew, the bombs had been destroyed in place by Evan on a remote North Korean hillside. I didn’t know they were in play and was afraid you’d want to somehow use the information that I’d uncovered a biological weapon against Uncle Andrew—which you do—and there is no evidence he had anything to do with it. Furthermore, your investigation could expose the fact that the US really did test smallpox bombs on North Korea. Do you realize what the North Korean government would do with that information?”
“It wouldn’t be pretty.”
“Aside from heightened tensions, they’d order troops to comb the hillsides for more weapons. They’d desecrate every American crash site. Appalling enough they’ve got nukes, what if they ended up with smallpox as well?”
“Some believe they already have smallpox.”
She twisted to face him, barely making out his profile in the dark. “I planned to tell about the bomb. When I got to DC, I was going to tell the secretaries of Homeland Security and State.”
“It would have been nice if I’d been on your short list. It’s my job to prosecute high crimes, and I know how to keep secrets.” His words expressed hurt, while his arms enfolded her.
She pressed her nose against his chest and breathed deeply. “When we met, the one thing I knew about you is that you are prosecuting one of the people I trust most in the world.”
“Trust. Present tense.” His arms fell away.
She closed her eyes, missing his warmth. He’d made his terms clear. But she’d known her uncle a hell of a lot longer than Curt Dominick. “Yes.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FINGERS OF LIGHT reached around the edges of the blinds, letting Curt know dawn had arrived in Tucson.
Tucson. Day two of jury selection and he was in Tucson, quite literally in bed with the defendant’s niece. In sleep, her smooth skin and delicate features didn’t hold the weariness and anxiety he’d grown accustomed to seeing on her face. Her soft lips relaxed, and all he wanted to do was gather her against him and explore her mouth with his own.
Hell, he wanted to explore all of her with his mouth. He’d never felt such relentless desire. But then, in the past, when he developed emotions that bordered on uncontrollable, he’d moved on. Life was safer that way. He’d have done the same with Mara, except he was stuck with her.
He needed her to testify. She could show a pattern of corruption. He couldn’t forget that. And deep down he knew what happened on that North Korean hillside was connected
to Raptor, but there was no way to draw the line all the way to Stevens.
Yet.
Another man had died. Mara needed to tell an investigator what she knew about Jeannie and Eric Fuller without mentioning the smallpox bomb. The existence of weaponized smallpox was a top-secret security threat that could cause nationwide panic. For that reason, his suspicions could be divulged only to the head of Homeland Security, the State Department, or the Department of Justice. All three would be notified as soon as Curt could safely do so.
Raptor had strong ties to the military and fingers in the FBI. Aside from Palea and a handful of others, he didn’t know who he could trust. Curt wished he could call Bixby, the president’s chief of staff, but that number was one of many in his cell phone that had been compromised.
The bed creaked as he sat up to see the digital clock. Last night, he’d called the Arizona US attorney, a woman he knew only by reputation. She’d promised him a car and cash, to be delivered to the Denny’s restaurant down the street in an hour. If they hurried, they’d be able to have a decent breakfast before hitting the road.
After quick—and separate—showers for them both, they were seated in a back booth. The waitress had just delivered their food when a man approached their table. “I have your vehicle, Mr. Dominick,” he said, sotto voce.
Mara growled with the fierceness of a mama bear protecting her cub. “I’m starving, and this is the first meal since North Korea that wasn’t prepared in a microwave or takeout. I’m eating here.”
The young attorney had been in the process of offering Mara his hand, but as she was intent on maintaining a death grip on her overloaded plate, he shifted to Curt. “Assistant US Attorney Anthony Palazzolo.”
Curt shook his hand and slid over in the booth. “Have a seat.”
The man sat and eyed Mara nervously as she made quick work of an omelet and hash browns. “I have some questions for you, Ms. Garrett,” he said softly. “About your relationship with Eric Fuller.”
“Before we start, Mr. Palazzolo,” Curt said, “we need assurance that no one will know your office provided us with assistance. It’s imperative.”