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surged forward, barreling down the narrow highway and disappearing from view.
    He pulled out his cell to call the police. To Mara, he said, “I got the license plate.”
    “You don’t need it. I know that truck—but I can guarantee the owner wasn’t driving.”
    Startled, he turned to her. “How do you know?”
    Her face had lost all trace of color. “His brains are splattered all over my kitchen.”

C HAPTER E IGHT

    “ Y OU’RE CERTAIN?” Curt asked.
    Mara nodded, unable to speak as the enormity of what had just happened sank in. One moment they were driving and bickering, and the next, Roddy’s beast of a truck tried to take them out in a head-on collision.
    Curt turned her Honda around and took a right onto a neighborhood side street, where he parked and made a phone call. “Palea, the link we needed to connect the jet explosion to Roddy’s murder just happened, which means you can get your ass over to the Marine Corps Base and take over the investigation.” He quickly explained the accident and the fact that Roddy Brogan owned the truck. “Call the Honolulu special agent in charge and have her call the secretary of defense. I’ll call the attorney general and secretary of state. I want you in charge of the investigation on the base within the hour.” He glanced at Mara. “We’ve got to get out of here. It’s clear she’s the target. She was supposed to be on the jet, and whoever is after her recognized her car.”
    Curt’s words to the FBI agent penetrated the haze that had clouded Mara’s mind.
    I know the driver of the truck.
    The driver of the truck just tried to kill us.
    And he probably killed Roddy.
    Curt continued making calls while the meaning sank in. Even though Roddy had died in her house, she hadn’t wanted to believe she knew his killer. It was impossible. She didn’t know killers. Soldiers, yes. Cold-blooded murderers? No.
    She was still reeling when Curt nudged her, offering his cell phone. Startled, she met his gaze. “It’s the secretary of state. He wants to talk to you.”
    She’d met the secretary of state a few times when he served in the senate with her uncle. He’d always been nice but stiff—the consummate statesman. He’d probably worked hard to secure her return. She took the phone. “Mr. Secretary, thank you for everything you’ve done for me. And please, let the president know how grateful I am.”
    “I will, Mara. And you’re welcome, but it looks like you aren’t out of trouble yet.”
    “Yeah, the stop on Oahu isn’t going well.”
    “Mara, is there any chance what’s happening could be related to North Korea? The president and I need to know if we could have a problem with a madman with nukes.”
    She glanced at Curt. She wanted to tell the secretary everything. But she couldn’t—not in front of Curt, and certainly not on a cell phone. Besides, she’d made sure the North Korean government didn’t know a thing—so she wasn’t lying. “You’ll be happy to know this appears to be personal.”
    The man breathed heavily into the phone. “I’m sorry for your sake, but admittedly relieved. Be careful, Mara. And if you think of anything, call me. Dominick has my private number.”
    “Yes, sir,” she said and ended the conversation.
    “What’s the fastest route to Hickam Air Force Base?” Curt asked.
    “Get on H-3. Why?”
    “We’re going to catch a flight from there.”
    “You arranged a flight?” Wow—she’d spaced out for a bit but didn’t realize she’d been that checked out.
    “Not yet. But with the Kaneohe runway gone, Hickam is our best bet to get off the island quickly.”
    “We’re just going to show up and demand a plane?”
    “Yes.”
    “The military doesn’t work that way. Hell, arranging for transportation for JPAC—and we work on Joint Base Pearl Harbor–Hickam—is a frigging nightmare.”
    He flashed a cocky grin. “Sweetheart, you’ve never traveled with me before.”

    T HEY WERE GOING to Hickam. Evan Beck