by DiAnn Mills
“You and Vince get over there and find out what you can. At this point, it looks like Shepherd and Young are involved. Don’t lose track of her until we see where she fits. That’s your job.”
CHAPTER 2
1:00 P.M. MONDAY
“Taryn Young.”
A man’s voice, but not Shep’s.
“Miss Young, can you hear me?”
She ignored him. Special moments from her wedding poured into her mind like the bubbling champagne from the previous night—a quiet ceremony in a secluded park with only a chorus of chirping insects, an exquisite dinner at Tony’s, a tender, romantic night at the St. Regis. She couldn’t remember what she ate or the decor of the hotel, only the joy of being with Shep and knowing they’d share the rest of their lives together. Was it just last night they’d claimed the right of husband and wife and basked in the sweet essence of love?
Shep spoke to her in muted tones as though she were in a tunnel. That didn’t make sense. He lay right beside her. She’d fallen asleep in his embrace. She attempted to touch him, but her arm wouldn’t move.
More memories surfaced. Rising before dawn and fighting sleep. Shep serving her coffee in bed. An early morning limo ride to the airport. Checking in their luggage. The line through security. The explosion that shook the airport . . . the screams . . . the blood. And something crashing down on her. Taryn struggled to call out to Shep. He must have escaped injury. Maybe he couldn’t find her buried in the debris. She strained to hear his soothing voice.
Her eyes fluttered, and through a fog she swept aside a confusing world to focus on a man’s face.
“Good, you’re awake.” Piercing ice-blue eyes bored into hers, as cold as his tone.
“Where am I?”
“Houston Northwest Medical Center. You were injured in the airport bombing. One of the first responders pulled you from the wreckage.”
She’d need to find out a name and thank him. “How long have I been here?”
“Over two and a half hours. It’s one in the afternoon, and you were brought in after ten this morning.”
“Where is my husband?”
“That’s what we’d like to know.”
She didn’t like his attitude. “I heard him talking to me.” She tried to raise her head, but pain rippled across the back of her skull, forcing her onto the pillow. A steady beep-beep confirmed that machines monitored her vitals. An IV ushered fluids into her body. She touched her head and felt a bandage. Possibly stitches. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths to manage the hammering in her head. “He has to be here in the hospital. I heard his voice—”
“What did he say?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
“I need to give her something for the pain,” a woman said.
Taryn turned to a woman in a white uniform, a nurse. “Please. Can you tell my husband I’d like to see him?”
“Your husband hasn’t been located. I’m so sorry. Perhaps he’ll be here soon.” Her gentle tone might have otherwise comforted Taryn if not for her need to see Shep.
“You’re wrong.” She clenched her fists, fighting the confusion. “He’s here. I know it.”
“You’re confused with all you’ve been through,” the nurse said. “Try to stay calm. I have something to alleviate your discomfort.”
“Please, don’t placate me.”
“Miss Young, you need to rest.” The nurse took out a syringe and reached for the IV tube. “I’m going to put the pain medication into your IV and—”
“Don’t give her anything.” The man’s voice rose. “This concerns national security.”
Taryn focused on the man’s cold, hard eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry about what’s happened to you.” A flicker of compassion swept across his face, then disappeared. “But we have questions.”
A second man stood on the opposite side of the bed—thinning gray hair. Both men wore business attire. “You two don’t look like doctors.” She blinked and recalled the mention of national security.
The younger man flipped out a badge. “FBI. We’re investigating the bombing at IAH this morning. I’m Special Agent Grayson Hall, and this is Special Agent Vince Bradshaw.”
They must be questioning everyone who was injured. She remembered the dead woman on the floor of the restroom. What happened to the mother with her little girls? “How many were killed?”
“Over thirty dead.”
She couldn’t fathom how she’d survived. “Wounded?”
“At least that many. Terminal E has been severely damaged.”
She moistened her lips, sensing an unbelievable horror numbing her head but not her heart. “I don’t know anything. I was in the restroom during the explosion. That’s all I remember.”
“What about Francis Shepherd?”
“My husband. I told you he’s here somewhere.” She tried to raise her head again, but the nurse pressed her shoulders against the pillow.
“Easy, miss.” Agent Bradshaw’s voice reminded her of her dad’s. “We understand the trauma you’ve been through. But we need answers.”
The older man seemed more considerate.
“I have orders to administer the medication now,” the nurse said. “Do I need to page the doctor?”
“She can have it in a moment.” Agent Hall’s chilling gaze rested on her. “We have security footage showing the man you know as Francis Shepherd leaving the airport five minutes before the explosion. He left in a limo.”
Taryn’s heart pumped faster. “You have the wrong man. He was waiting for me. We were leaving for our honeymoon.”
Agent Hall pulled up a photo on his BlackBerry. “Is this Francis Shepherd?”
Taryn studied it. The man looked like Shep, but his face was turned from the camera. The man in the photograph wore the same light-green shirt, jeans, and a cap. But she was well aware of what Photoshop could accomplish. “This might show his image, but you have the wrong man.”
“I would be skeptical of this too,” Agent Hall said. “But can you tell us where he is?”
Intense pain coupled with the agent’s implication warranted tears. But she’d not give in. “He’s got to be here in the hospital, and I’m sure he’ll explain your concerns when we see him. He’s probably getting coffee.”
Agent Hall placed his phone in his jacket pocket. “Francis Shepherd doesn’t exist, and he’s a person of interest in today’s bombing. We’ve informed the media of this status.”
Panic clawed into Taryn’s rationale. She fought a response that wouldn’t solve anything. “What do you mean he doesn’t exist?”
“The name is an alias.”
She blinked. “What a ridiculous accusation. I know the man I married.”
“Do you?”
“Are you saying my husband is a suspect?”
“We are. Since you were traveling with him, you’re also a person of interest. We’ve swabbed your hands for signs of bomb residue.”
“You what?” What kind of nightmare had she wakened to?
He repeated his statement. “We found no evidence, but your association with Francis Shepherd certainly raises questions.”
“I think you drank your lunch.” Anger shot adrenaline through her body. Taryn turned to the nurse. “Please call security. I want these men removed from my room. They’re impostors.”
2:10 P.M. MONDAY
Grayson stood outside Taryn Young’s room waiting for a call from the SSA while Vince went to the cafeteria for coffee. The airport had been cleared of a secondary bomb threat. But IAH was one of United’s largest hubs, and it would take months to rebuild the terminal. The bomb had consisted of agricultural fertilizer and diesel fuel, likely triggered by a cell phone. Easy-to-obtain components and able to do heavy damage. The driver had parked the van on level 3, abandoned the vehicle, careful to avoid security cameras, and disappeared.
Houston FBI had issued a press release stating they were assisting HPD in the in
vestigation. The top priority was recovering the victims. The situation remained fluid, and motivation for the blast hadn’t been determined. Phone numbers gave the public an opportunity to check on loved ones and supply any information or visual images that would assist in the investigation. The FBI needed all details, no matter how small.
Random, useless reports flowed in on their BlackBerries. Grayson needed facts verified by other agents. Sirens screamed. People rushed by, some crying and some shouting for answers, while medical personnel labored over the injured. Meanwhile Young slept, although she’d requested pain medication that wouldn’t knock her out. The woman had continued to insist she and her husband were innocent of any crimes. However, when the hospital paged Francis Shepherd and he didn’t respond, she had difficulty maintaining her composure.
“Perhaps he’s one of the dead.” Her voice had quivered. “He’d never have left me stranded. Have you checked all the hospitals?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are they still recovering those buried in rubble?”
“They are.”
Young was either an expert liar, or she’d been duped. The concussion could affect her memory but not her body language, unless she’d been trained to mask her emotions. He and Vince would confiscate her personal belongings, then question her further when she wakened.
“Hate to admit it, but I think she’s telling the truth.” Grayson moved into the room and studied the sleeping woman’s face, noting her flawless skin beneath the bruises and auburn hair. Her head injury had required stitches, and the doctor had diagnosed a concussion and prescribed overnight observation.
“Young knew exactly what she was doing. Swallowing her story could taint your excellent reputation.”
“She doesn’t strike me as a suicide bomber.” Grayson filtered through the facts. “Why would a man marry under a fictitious name, unless he had something to hide?”
“Like another wife? Or he’s part of a conspiracy?” Vince stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “Why would he abandon her at the airport? I think she was in on it and took her chances by heading into the restroom.”
“Risky. Men, women, and children died in those restrooms.”
“You’re letting a pretty face and green eyes cloud your judgment. Look at the FIG’s report. Her IQ is higher than yours and mine combined.”
Grayson eyed his partner. Sometimes Vince’s so-called experience left a bad taste in his mouth. “Hear me out. If they were part of the bombing, she got double-crossed. If he worked alone with the bombers, the marriage was part of their plan as a cover-up.”
“Watch and see how Young fits into this.”
Grayson regretted her incommunicable state. The nurse said she’d sleep at least an hour, which meant losing precious time before they could pose more questions. He checked his watch. He’d give her fifteen more minutes, then wake her up. Everyone in the country wanted answers to this tragedy, and now.
“I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have,” Vince sneered. “I see things you don’t.”
Vince had also gotten lazy and assumed information before investigating it. “Having Shepherd’s identity would go a long way in figuring this out. If he’s innocent, then he should respond to the media’s report and contact us.” Grayson walked to the window, where afternoon sunshine streamed through the room. “I want to know why he left the airport. The death toll is rising, and our strongest lead is asleep.” Frustration rolled over him that an incoherent software developer quite possibly held the only viable link to solving today’s bombing. “At least we know what she was working on at Gated Labs.”
“It feeds into my theory. She played a lead in designing advanced software for liquid natural gas storage at those new coastline export terminals. And the bomb’s signature indicates Middle Eastern terrorism. They’d like nothing better than to take out that aspect of our economy.”
Grayson agreed that Vince’s statement seemed to fit. With the US launching a new LNG export business at the end of the week, the Middle East’s share in oil and gas would be threatened. Even Russia, the largest exporter, was being investigated by other agents. However, Russia had just signed an agreement with the US to improve trade relations, and their involvement seemed unlikely.
“Initial findings of Young’s professional background haven’t connected her to this morning’s tragedy. Think about this. Congress met in closed-door sessions before granting the license that gave Gated Labs exclusive permission to develop software that regulates pressure and temperatures of LNG and provides process protection,” he said.
“That’s a mouthful. Not sure I understand it.”
Grayson nodded. “I’m in the dark about all this too, but I intend to unravel it. Anyway, Gated Labs’s solution was to add a specialized firewall mechanism to prevent unauthorized access to the process control systems. Taryn Young was thoroughly vetted. When the proceedings were completed, Congress specifically requested she lead the project.”
“They trusted her, even if we have our doubts.” Vince lifted a brow. “The intelligent agents question her integrity.”
Grayson ignored his last comment. “In the wrong hands, use of the software could cost lives and certainly billions of dollars for us and our allies. All it would take is a keystroke to raise the temps and cause a tremendous explosion.” He paused to think through the implications. “But what’s the connection, if any, to what happened today?” Grayson craved more information. “If this has anything to do with the software, why didn’t he steal a copy instead of blowing up a chunk of the terminal? Kill her on their honeymoon?”
“Money. Always money.” Vince snorted the words.
“We clearly don’t have the whole picture.” Grayson acknowledged the nurse who entered the room. “Do you have Ms. Young’s cell phone? It’s not in her purse.”
The nurse started. “I used it when she was brought in—an iPhone in a red jeweled case. Since she wears a wedding ring, I called those on her favorites list to find her husband. Then I put it back in the zippered compartment.”
“Were you successful in contacting anyone?”
“No. The name of Shep in her favorites simply rang. A number was listed as Mom and another as Claire, and I left voice mails on both.” She searched through Young’s purse and nightstand. “I don’t understand why it’s not here.”
“Did anyone else have access to her belongings?”
“Just me.” She lifted her chin.
Grayson pulled a pad and pencil from his jacket and noted the information. “We need to see all the hospital security footage since Ms. Young was brought in.”
CHAPTER 3
2:27 P.M. MONDAY
Taryn climbed through her sleep stupor. She kept her head still and her eyes closed, trying to minimize the pain. Had it been just this morning when she’d greeted the predawn as Mrs. Francis Shepherd? She shoved aside the hammering in her head to think. Asking for more pain meds would prolong her inability to piece together every moment. If the FBI agents were legit, and if Shep wasn’t sitting beside her bed, then she had the enormous task of proving herself and her husband innocent of the airport bombing. The mere thought of his involvement was unthinkable.
Or maybe she was afraid that if Shep didn’t occupy a chair beside her bed, he could be seriously wounded . . . or dead. The tragedy at IAH seemed unreal. She’d survived, probably because she’d been in the restroom. How bizarre that a second cup of coffee had saved her life. What about the others? The women and children who’d been in line? Was Shep buried in the debris and unable to defend himself against the FBI’s accusations?
Oh, to return to those early hours when she lay cradled in his arms. The low hum of the air conditioner, the scent of the deep-red roses, and his warm caresses had set the stage for the rest of their married life. She would’ve sensed betrayal. Felt it in his embrace.
Moistening her lips, she braved forward. “Shep.”
When no one responded, she forced her eyes open. Alone. S
he chewed on a fingernail, a habit Shep detested. How she longed to see him, hear him soothe away all the uncertainties stalking her since the FBI had invaded her life. Being with him was like living between the lines of poetry—beauty beyond definition.
Francis Shepherd was not a conspirator involved in a plot to blow up the airport.
The FBI agents could be reporters. False credentials could have gained them entrance into her room. Fighting the pain, she reached for the nightstand drawer. At least she wasn’t cuffed to the bed. She cringed and located her purse, noting that her arm must be bruised. She’d been incredibly lucky with only a head injury. After dragging her purse onto the bed, she fished through it with both hands. No phone. A surge of panic raced through her.
Maybe it was hospital policy to confiscate cell phones, especially during a crisis such as this. A landline sat on the nightstand, and she’d memorized most of her contact list. Her mom was probably sick with worry, especially since she’d told her about the flight to San Juan. Although they were miles apart and somewhat distant in their current relationship, they cared for each other. She had to get through to her. That meant turning her head to dial and enduring blinding pain. But her mom needed to know she was okay, and maybe she could help Taryn find Shep.
She deleted her last thought and attributed it to desperation. Her mom lived in Florida. Shep didn’t have her information, and her mom didn’t have his. Who could help her? Their romance had been three months of seeing each other daily until he proposed. She hadn’t met his friends, nor did he know any of hers—except Claire. She pressed in Claire’s number. Her dear friend would be waiting to hear from her after the bombing, and the many hospital lines would be tied up with inquiries. The number rang several times. Before she could dwell further on Claire, the two men who claimed to be FBI agents walked into her room.
She was in no mood to talk to them. “Get out unless you have identification other than your badges.”
A police officer stood in the doorway. Agent Bradshaw, the older man, secured the uniformed man’s attention. “Officer, would you tell Ms. Young who we are?”
