Alana Terry - Out of North Korea: A Gripping Novel About an American Held Captive in a North Korean Prison Camp

Chung-Cha belongs to Christ, Father declared. Even if you destroy me, God will still watch over my daughter.

The agent chuckled.

And what if I destroy her?

Grace Awards, First Place

IndieFab Finalist, Religious Fiction

Women of Faith Writing Contest, Second Place

Book Club Network Book of the Month, First Place

Readers Favorite Gold Medal, Christian Fiction

...an engaging plot that reads like a story out of today's headlines... ~ Women of Faith Writing Contest

In this meticulously researched novel, Terry gives readers everything a good novel should have a gripping story, an uplifting theme, encouragement in their own faith, and exquisite writing. ~ Grace Awards Judges Panel

The Beloved Daughter is a beautifully written story. ~ Sarah Palmer, Liberty in North Korea

Note: The views of the characters in this novel do not necessarily reflect the views of the author, nor is their behavior necessarily condoned.

The characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form (electronic, audio, print, film, etc.) without the authors written consent.

Out of North Korea

Copyright 2018 Alana Terry

ISBN 978-1-941735-71-8

June, 2018

Cover design by Kristin Designs

Scriptures quoted from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION, NIV Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

www.alanaterry.com

Im an American, and Im in trouble.

Big trouble.

Im not talking about the kind of trouble you get in when your computer crashes the night before your dissertation is due. Or the trouble you get into with the relatives when you forget to call your granny on what has got to be her 115th birthday.

Thats not the kind of trouble Im in right now. I wish it were. Even from where I sit on the atheist/agnostic spectrum, I dont think its too strong for me to say I wish to God it were that easy.

In fact, I could even go so far as to say I wish I were back in that Chinese jail.

Yeah. Thats how serious this is.

Im an American. Im fixating on the words like some meditative mantra at an enlightenment class, but as my interrogator stares me down while I sit here in my boxers and my not-so-stylish pair of handcuffs, I dont think he cares all that much about whats written on my passport.

Nor does he care that the lies and the crimes Ive been accused of may very well cost me my life.

All he cares about is one thing. Breaking me down until I confess to whatever it is they think Ive done. Unfortunately, after my last experience in North Korea, I have a pretty solid idea about what that means.

Im shivering in my boxers. This little hotel room/office/holding cell/whatever the heck this place is cant be a degree over fifty, and I havent seen my clothes since last night.

Do you know where you are, American? my interrogator asks. Hes got this sneer on his face thats so quintessentially villainous he could be accused of overacting if anyone ever got this on film. Except Im not in a movie. No Navy SEAL team or debonair James Bond type is going to break in here and rush to my rescue.

In Hollywood, the Americans always make it out alive. In this case, I think my chances are about as good as the guy who played Jar Jar Binks winning an Oscar for his performance in Star Wars.

In other words, Im doomed. The biggest question isnt whether or not Im going to die. Its how much this man and all the others like him are going to torture me before someone finally pulls the plug. Or the trigger.

Or whatever it is theyre going to do to me.

Now maybe you understand why Id rather still be a prisoner in China.

The man leans down and thrusts a pen and paper onto the desk where Ive been chained. Start writing, he barks.

Im about to tell him that penmanship while handcuffed isnt a skill most citizens practice in America regardless of how they might do it in North Korea, but with his scowling face and my sitting here shivering in my boxers, Im not sure how well the delivery would pull off. So instead, like a good little schoolboy, I ask, What do you want me to write about? And all the while Im thinking about if Id rather be rescued by James Bond, Navy SEALs, or one of those femme fatale spy characters like Angelina Jolie in Salt.

Heck, I would even take the Avengers or Peter Parker in his Spidey suit if I thought itd increase my chances of surviving.

My overacting villain trope continues to grimace. I get the feeling that he imagines himself quite the intimidating specimen. Adding to the melodrama, he refuses to clear his throat but growls out in a raspy voice, Start off by telling us who you are and why you snuck into North Korea to spy on our great nation.

About fifteen minutes later, my personal North Korean interrogator Happy Face storms back in. You have your confession ready?

My wrists are so chafed I could probably write an entire five-point essay in blood more easily than this.

Going a little slowly, I grumble.

What? What did you call me?

My new best friend apparently is afflicted with a scorching case of Little Man Syndrome. Lucky me.

I said I need more time to work on it. I over-enunciate every word, wondering if Korean culture has perfected the subtle art of sarcasm the way we have in the grand old US of A.

He snatches the paper from me. What is this? He squints at my scribbles.

Its my confession. Admittedly, my handwritings illegible even when Im not handcuffed to my desk. If you just let me have my smart phone, I could dictate my confession ...

What does this say, American? He shoves the paper into my face.

Do you need me to read it to you?

He pauses, as if considering. That answers my question about sarcasm. He lets out a scoff of sorts, which I can only take to mean that hes taking me up on my offer.

I glance up. You really want me to read this? Out loud? I cant remember the last time Ive had to stand up and read an essay Ive written. Okay, so technically I cant stand up right at the moment, but it feels just as awkward. You know that dream about showing up to school in nothing but your underwear? Im basically living it out right now.

Officer Good-Cheer scowls at me in dead earnestness. Seeing as how I have very little left to lose, I read or attempt to read the start of my confession.

You asked me to explain how I ended up in your sacred little kingdom called North Korea. Let me tell you. There I was in China, on a visa with the full permission of both the Chinese government and the US Embassy, when all of a sudden, some thugs came up from behind and grabbed me and my friend.

Thugs?

I blink at him. Yeah. Thugs. You know, Godfather, Gangs of New York. Thugs.

He blinks again.

I let out my breath. Bad guys, I finally translate for him, and he grunts something which I take to mean he wants me to continue.

After about three nights in the Chinese jail, I read, and after being repeatedly denied the opportunity to speak to anyone from the US Embassy I steal a peek at him to make sure hes following my big words I was given a pill, which I was told was headache medicine. I woke up here this morning with no clothes on except my boxers, and some thug here I admit to some slight on-the-fly rewording demanding to know what Im doing in North Korea.