Firewall

by DiAnn Mills

  Grayson looked at the screen. The time-stamped videos had been deleted. “What about the backup program?”

  “I can give you the security company’s information.” She reached inside a desk drawer and gave him a business card.

  He phoned the FIG for their assistance. Shepherd, or whatever his name was, had the cunning to cover his tracks. “Thanks for your help.”

  “I keep thinking I’ve missed a detail, but I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Odd, he never showed up to sign papers or pick up his keys. The Realtor handled it all.”

  “It’s not unusual for our clientele to have others handle what they feel is trivial. But there was a woman who stopped by about a week ago looking for him.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “Yes. I remember she said the two of them were engaged, and her first name was unusual. Had auburn hair. Attractive.” She tapped her chin and reached inside her desk drawer, producing another business card. “Taryn Young. Works for Gated Labs Technology. She left a gift for him, which I kept here until he called for one of our staff to deliver it.”

  Like bomb pieces? “Do you know what it was?”

  “No. I’m guessing a clothing article. It came from Neiman Marcus.”

  His BlackBerry indicated a notification from the FIG. The security company had reported a break-in. The footage from Shepherd’s condo had been deleted.

  4:45 P.M. MONDAY

  Taryn would do anything to get out of the hospital. Being pumped with IVs while a police officer stood guard outside her door meant she had no control of her life—defenseless against the strong accusations hurled against her. For once in her life, she needed to step outside her introverted role and seize life before it seized her.

  Media reports monopolized the TV networks. They claimed the FBI had a person of interest, and she knew it was her. Swallowing hard, she accepted the inevitable—once the doctor released her, she’d be in custody until the real bomber was found.

  She must find Shep. He’d be able to explain what happened this morning. Where could he be? He’d probably stepped away from the airport to surprise her with her favorite roses.

  Worrisome thoughts about his possible injury would not leave her alone. He could be in another medical facility with no ID. Or buried beneath twisted metal and concrete.

  The FBI claimed he’d left in a limo. Had the driver waited for him?

  Francis Shepherd wasn’t his real name?

  His website content had vanished?

  She shivered, and the chill had nothing to do with the hospital’s cold temps. They were wrong, and she’d find a way to prove her husband’s innocence. But how could she when others blamed her for today’s tragedy? She and Shep had far too many documented proofs to show their marriage was legitimate. A man didn’t get married one day and betray his country the next.

  A police officer stood in the way of her leaving. Dare she . . . ?

  She focused on the IV in her arm. Couldn’t be that hard to remove.

  CHAPTER 5

  5:05 P.M. MONDAY

  Taryn stole down the hospital stairway, grasping the rail to keep her balance. She hoisted her leather bag onto her shoulder, its weight digging into her flesh. The likelihood of someone coming up or down the steps filled her with dread. Questions. Lies to cover up her identity. Blood seeped between her fingers from the inside of her arm, where she’d yanked out the IV. She pressed harder to stop the flow. Dizzying pain beat a message into her body—she’d not last long without rest. She breathed in and out to steady herself. Where were her shoes? Buried at the airport? Or another point of action from the FBI? Her capri pants and top were torn, dirty, and bloody. Barefoot and ragged, she would easily be spotted by law enforcement types.

  She’d look for a taxi. Money wasn’t a problem. Destination was. The FBI would have already swarmed her old apartment, but she and Shep had purchased a condo, and she’d moved in a week ago. The address wasn’t on her ID.

  A metal door slammed below her, and the thud of heavy footsteps came closer. She braced herself. A middle-aged man dressed in scrubs appeared. He stopped at the landing and faced her.

  “Miss, do you need help? I’m a doctor.”

  “No, thank you. I’ve been treated and released.”

  “Were you at the airport this morning?”

  “No. An automobile accident.”

  “I see. Did you lose your shoes?”

  “They were heels, and one of them broke.” How many lies must she tell? Guilt pummeled her for the things she’d done in the name of innocence.

  “Do you have transportation?” He took two more steps.

  “Yes. My friend is meeting me outside the parking garage.” She forced a smile. “I’m okay, really.”

  “You should be in a wheelchair and escorted to a vehicle.”

  Her shoulders tightened. “None are available. Have you seen the people lining the hospital halls?”

  He shook his head. “Just got called in from Galveston.”

  “Many need your attention. Don’t worry. I’m going home to good care.”

  “All right. Be safe. You need to be in bed.”

  The doctor disappeared and Taryn sighed with relief. She’d need to hurry before he learned about the police officer in her room and realized she’d escaped from the hospital.

  At the emergency exit, she bent low to push the heavy door open, using valuable energy needed to think and act with a semblance of intelligence. Once outside, she scanned the areas where cameras would be positioned. The garage brimmed with vehicles, allowing her to slip between them without being videoed by cameras. A small group of people gathered where she needed to pass. She crouched between a pickup and a Lexus and endured the agony penetrating her body. When the people finally walked by, vocalizing their fears of loved ones hurt in the bombing and vowing revenge against the bomber, tears clouded her vision. She agreed with those grieving. Whoever was responsible must be found. A flash of the carnage from the explosion pressed her on.

  Across the street from the hospital, she secured a taxi and hoped the driver wouldn’t comment about her bare feet. For the moment she was safe, and the thought sent determination through her. She’d prove their innocence.

  5:30 P.M. MONDAY

  Grayson slid into his Mustang and sped toward Houston Northwest Medical Center. A nagging headache settled at the base of his skull, but he shook it off. No time to fall under a demon migraine or dope himself with meds. What were they missing? He wished he had a contact at the NCTC, but the National Counterterrorism Center revealed info on a need-to-know basis, and he wasn’t in that loop. His and Vince’s assignment was Taryn Young and her so-called husband. Grayson accelerated up the on-ramp.

  Vince snorted. “I don’t look good in a body bag.”

  Grayson scowled and checked his speed. “Neither did the dozens who died this morning. Kids too. Elderly. Bomber didn’t play favorites.”

  “The problem is Young saw right through you. She read a softy and took advantage of it. I’d have gotten her trust, then nailed her for information until she cratered. Instead you let her drift off to sleep.”

  Young’s doctor had demanded she have meds, and she did Grayson little good when she couldn’t string two words together. But why argue those points with Vince?

  Vince pulled his BlackBerry from his jacket pocket. “Her story just doesn’t check out. No application for a marriage license. Francis Shepherd doesn’t exist. The only thing she aced is no priors.”

  Grayson swallowed his pride. Being wrong went against his gene pool. “Contact the FIG,” he said. “I want to see her financial records. Cell phone history for the past year. Before the day’s over, I want to talk to her employer face-to-face. Find out if her concerns about the Nehemiah Project are legit. And I want everything we can dig up about her family.”

  “Young’s going to tell us who’s behind this. Let me take over the questioning. I know how to get things done,” Vince said while texting
the requests.

  Like Grayson didn’t? “What about her background, education, and organizations?”

  Vince held up a finger. “Got it right here. She graduated summa cum laude from Caltech. Obtained her PhD at MIT. Was offered a professorship there but chose her current position at Gated Labs.” He paused. “Nothing at Caltech or MIT to indicate radical thinking. Of course, she could have had some Middle Eastern friends.”

  “Get the FIG on it. See if something turns up.”

  “What if we told her Shepherd was in custody, nailed her as part of the scheme?” Vince said.

  “I don’t think you’d get a thing. I’m working on another angle.”

  “Another one of your special cases? You going to rehabilitate her, too?”

  Grayson wasn’t in the mood for Vince’s trash talk. “I’m telling you Taryn Young is no half-wit. We need to be straightforward and explain the possible charges.”

  “She’s a woman. It’s all about what feels right.”

  “Not for every woman. She rose in her career because of a high IQ, job performance, and knowing when to take calculated risks.”

  “Watch me. I’ll be her daddy. Act like I believe her, then zero in for the truth.” Vince’s BlackBerry beeped. “This is rich. Twenty minutes after the explosion, someone wired $50,000 into your lady’s account.”

  There went Grayson’s hunch that she was innocent. She must have been trained in body language . . . a pro. “Where did the wire come from?”

  “Singapore.”

  Grayson stepped on the gas, mentally organizing the facts about Young and Shepherd. Finding a connection between their financials and Singapore would set the stage for arrests.

  “Hey, farm boy, slow down. We’ll get a confession before the day’s over. Just because she made you look like an idiot doesn’t mean you have to drive like a speed demon.”

  Grayson again checked his speed, a habit when his brain overloaded. His BlackBerry rang. The hospital’s number popped up. Ah, a confession. Maybe things were going the right way for a change.

  “This is Houston Northwest Medical Center concerning Taryn Young,” a woman said. “Not sure whether to call you or the police.”

  “There’s an HPD officer posted outside her door.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Grayson’s senses hit tilt. His foot pressed on the gas, and he wove in and out of two lanes of traffic. “What do you mean?”

  “We found him unconscious on the floor of her room.”

  “What kind of wound?”

  “Self-defense tactic. He’s now alert and in the ER.”

  “I want to talk to him. Now.” Grayson swung toward Vince. “Do our records for Young indicate martial arts or a military background?”

  He smirked. “Told you she’d escape.” He whipped out his phone.

  The officer came on the line, groggy—fueling Grayson’s frustration.

  “What happened in that hospital room?”

  “Young called for help. When I stepped in, I realized she was in the bathroom. But before I could get a nurse, she kicked the door into my face, then did some kind of a snap kick to my groin.”

  “Anybody check the security cameras?”

  “Not yet. But one of the doctors saw her in the stairwell leading to the garage. She told him someone was picking her up.”

  Had to be Shepherd. “We’ll be there in five. Don’t leak a word to the media.”

  “Like I’d want them to know what happened.”

  “Right.” Grayson phoned the SSA at the command post and reported the latest development. He whipped around freeway traffic.

  “Find her, Grayson,” the SSA said. “And make an arrest. The FIG will get back to you on Young and martial arts. I’ll put out a BOLO.”

  Grayson slipped his phone into his pocket. A BOLO—a be-on-the-lookout bulletin—could bring in community support. Sure wouldn’t look good on his record that he’d let a suspect escape. But she couldn’t get far in her condition.

  “She was probably trained in Afghanistan,” Vince said. “Knows how to cut out a man’s heart and fry it up for lunch.”

  Grayson swallowed a remark aimed at himself while fighting the hammering in his head. To think he’d believed Young was innocent.

  CHAPTER 6

  5:45 P.M. MONDAY

  Taryn entered the rear of the high-rise building housing her and Shep’s condo. Not a single police car patrolled the grounds, but what did FBI agents drive? She assumed black unmarked SUVs like in the movies, and a few of them were parked around the area.

  She was tempted to take the elevator to the fourth floor, yet she couldn’t risk being seen. The taxi driver had asked if she’d been treated at the ER, and she affirmed it. Told him she’d been injured in a car accident and needed a ride home, adding one more lie to the mix. She regretted not having him drop her off at the complex adjacent to hers. Here she’d be so easy to trace. From the concern on his face, she must look battered. Even now she faced cameras at every angle. What she’d viewed as a means to keep her safe from potential criminals now posed a threat.

  Every step to the fourth floor sent shooting pain up her legs and peaked at the top of her head. Think, Taryn. Keep your mind occupied. She mentally listed what she needed before retrieving her car. On the run as though she were a criminal . . . and she was. If Agents Hall and Bradshaw had any doubts about her guilt, the officer on the floor of the hospital room took care of that. God forgive her for how she’d overpowered him.

  God? Where had He been at the airport? Spiritual answers were irrelevant when doubts paved the way for disbelief. For years she’d given God respect only on occasional Sundays, living every moment for the next breakthrough technology. Although recently she’d thanked Him for bringing the perfect man into her life. Shep claimed to be a Christian. That had to be a plus in the whole big picture.

  Where was her husband? In a hospital somewhere, worrying about her? Dead? Without her phone and iPad, how could she contact anyone? She didn’t have a landline in her condo.

  Leaving the city to get away from the chaos would give her time to think. But law enforcement officials would be covering major highways. No point involving her mom. Her home would be one of the first places the FBI looked, and they would surely tap her phone.

  Taryn Young Shepherd—top ten on the FBI wanted list.

  Suspected terrorist.

  Slow down. Breathe in and out. You are innocent.

  At the condo door, she listened for voices. Assured no one waited inside, she slipped her key into both locks, just as she’d secured them yesterday morning when Shep picked her up for their wedding. Relieved, she stepped inside and snapped on the lights.

  Shock paralyzed her. Overturned chairs blocked the entrance. Her antique dining room table lay on its side against the kitchen counter. Wall decorations and pictures destroyed. Sofa cushions and pillows slashed. Contents of kitchen cabinets strewn across the floor. Broken dishes. Even the refrigerator door stood open.

  Thank goodness Bentley was at the kennel. Rushing into her bedroom, she saw the same destruction repeated.

  Her pulse raced. All the photographs of her and Shep were gone. She examined the broken frames where the photos had once filled her with joy. When she and Shep started dating, she’d framed a dozen or more pics. In their new home, she’d placed them in every room. She wanted to see him wherever she walked.

  Pieces of glass littered the floor, and she stepped lightly in her bare feet. Panic snaked up her spine. Who had ransacked the new condo, and why had they taken only the things precious to her? The FBI had no reason to do this. Did they? And if they had, wouldn’t there still be an agent posted outside?

  She yanked open the dresser drawer that normally held her personal laptop. Gone. All it contained of value were photos of friends and family. Priceless to her. She was so careful to back things up at work—why hadn’t she taken the time to do the same at home?

  Taryn stiffened. She hadn’t locked the door when
she entered the condo. Hurrying back through the debris, she stepped on a piece of glass. Blood left a trail to the door. She double-bolted it and limped to the bathroom.

  Urgency nipped at her heels. She used tweezers to remove the glass, but her arm was starting to bleed again where the IV had been. Flipping open a box of Band-Aids, she pressed one onto her bloody arm and another on the bottom of her foot. She swallowed two Tylenol 3 and glanced up. The image in the mirror—hollowed eyes and a bruised face, especially around her right eye—challenged any brand of makeup. And the nurse claimed she had seven stitches along the left side of her head near the hairline. Later she’d attempt damage control.

  After scrubbing blood from her hands, she pulled her hair back into a ponytail and snatched sunglasses and a baseball cap. Definitely an improvement. An extra purse lay on her closet floor, so she stuffed it with tissues, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, a tube of lipstick, and all the other items from her torn leather bag. What was she thinking, fleeing like a criminal? She fought the urge to be sick. . . . She’d taken the prescription Tylenol on an empty stomach. Or the nausea could be from all of today’s stress.

  She dropped the Tylenol and Band-Aids into her purse, then grabbed jeans and a shirt, tossing her torn and dirty clothes onto the bed. Every movement sapped her strength and increased the chances of the FBI beating down the door. Wrestling with each leg of her jeans brought unbidden tears. She struggled with socks and tennis shoes while straining for the sounds of voices. Whoever thought getting dressed could be so painful?

  With one hand wrapped around her purse, she picked her way to the door and cracked it open to view the hallway. A familiar perky Hispanic maid pushed a cart toward her.

  “No need to clean today,” Taryn said in Spanish.

  “Sí. Have a nice day.” She held up clean linens and brought them to Taryn. Hoping the maid couldn’t see her unsightly bruises beneath the cap and sunglasses, she took the stack and set them on the kitchen counter of what was to be her home with Shep.