by Rachel Grant
If footage of yesterday’s sentencing had been aired in the US, her mother had to be out of her mind right now. Her mother had been through so much already, and the last year had been especially hard after a US attorney seeking to make a name for himself had filed charges against Uncle Andrew. Now her mother would lose her only child.
A thousand regrets hit her as she was guided down corridor after corridor. She’d allowed her work to consume her life. She had been too busy to visit her family on the mainland. Several times her uncle had flown out to JPAC deployments, just so he could see her. The last time she’d seen him, they’d been in Egypt, nearly a year and a half ago.
And she never should have agreed to the North Korean deployment, not with the trial drawing near. If she were a better niece, she’d have taken a leave of absence and gone to DC to stand by him.
Had her actions hurt the others as well? Were the members of her JPAC team also facing execution? She’d been alone when she was arrested, but the Korean People’s Army was just as likely to have arrested everyone at the site, holding her team accountable because she’d fled. Panic caused her steps to falter. A guard pressed her shoulder and barked at her in Korean. This is really happening.
She crossed a threshold, and for the first time in weeks felt the cold bite of outside air on her skin. Taking a deep breath, she caught the acrid scent of burning leaves, a smell she hadn’t experienced since childhood.
She realized fall had started while she was in captivity. Living in Hawaii, she often longed for seasons—yet another sacrifice she’d made for a job that meant everything to her. But the work she’d loved had gone to hell when she’d trusted the team linguist, Roddy Brogan, at a critical moment.
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.
* * *
For more information on Body of Evidence and my other books, please visit my website at www.Rachel-Grant.net.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Four-time Golden Heart® finalist Rachel Grant worked for over a decade as a professional archaeologist and mines her experiences for storylines and settings, which are as diverse as excavating a cemetery underneath an historic art museum in San Francisco, survey and excavation of many prehistoric Native American sites in the Pacific Northwest, researching an historic concrete house in Virginia, and mapping a seventeenth century Spanish and Dutch fort on the island of Sint Maarten in the Netherlands Antilles.
She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and children and can be found on the web at Rachel-Grant.net.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Body of Evidence
ONE
About the Author
