by DiAnn Mills
“Gracias.”
Please, forget you saw me.
Taryn limped down the hall to the stairway, silently begging the maid not to notice. She must get to her car. The FBI would have her license plate number, right? Where could she go for help to sort out this mess?
Claire. The one person she trusted to help prove her and Shep’s innocence.
Taryn opened the door to the garage level. Her white Mercedes was gone.
6:15 P.M. MONDAY
Grayson left Young’s hospital room and ended the call from the SSA. Tracing the bomb’s components and conducting the thousands of interviews that went with the investigation would take days. Media hinted strongly at a Middle Eastern plot, and the public was buying it. In fact, Homeland Security considered it a viable claim. Iran praised those involved, even offered names and faces of the masterminds, wanted members of al-Qaeda.
Learning Shepherd’s identity was crucial to finding out who really stood behind those involved. The one person who could provide that info now ran the streets. The FBI’s media coordinator had initiated twelve digital billboards across the city that rotated every eight minutes seeking information about the bombing. Young’s face circulated among them to garner public buy-in. The problem with a single person’s act or a small cell meant the intel chatter was at a minimum if there was any at all.
Both sides of the corridor were lined with wounded on stretchers and chairs, a bloody blur mixed with moans for help that rose from the injured and those with them. A woman’s lifeless body lay on a stretcher covered with a sheet. A man carrying a little girl grabbed a doctor. When the doctor shook him off, the man punched him in the face. More blood. Grayson stopped the scuffle, but he understood the combination of fear and fury in the presence of utter helplessness.
“They’re doing the best they can,” Grayson said to the man. He held him back from the doctor and captured eye contact. “Your little girl?”
He nodded. “Her arm’s broken. She got knocked down at the airport.”
The doctor didn’t waste any time leaving the scene.
Grayson focused on the child’s twisted limb. She whimpered through closed eyes and tearstained cheeks. “How long have you waited?”
“Over seven hours. My wife’s now in surgery.”
“Let me see if I can speed things up.”
“Please, she’s suffering.”
Grayson wove through the crowd to the nurses’ desk. “A man’s been waiting for seven hours with his little girl. Her arm appears broken, and she’s in extreme pain.”
The nurse buried her face in her hands. “Bring her here, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Grayson started back through the crowd and motioned for the man to join him. Protests erupted, and a middle-aged couple blocked the way for the man and his daughter. Grayson flipped out his badge. He didn’t care if this was preferential treatment—adults could manage life’s tough blows, but not a child. “FBI. Let the man through.”
“Still out to save the world, farm boy? Spin-off from Billy Graham?”
Vince’s smoker’s voice scraped at Grayson’s nerves. “Lay off.”
“Our job is to find out who did this, not escort kids to the front of the line.”
“I know my job.”
Vince chuckled. “Did you tell the SSA the hospital stuck another patient in Young’s room before a fingerprint sweep?”
Grayson glared.
“Just helping you keep track of your priorities. Saw a BOLO for Shepherd and Young. No pics of him—just your lady.”
Grayson’s patience was as thin as the man’s who’d punched the doctor. “They won’t get far.”
“Unless they have a private plane.” Vince pointed to the crowd. “Look around you. Nothing but misery. All hell broke loose this morning, and I don’t see it letting up anytime soon. Sure glad I’ve got only six months until retirement. Won’t miss this job at all.”
Vince’s retirement couldn’t come soon enough. The past year had been like having his dad for a partner, the same know-it-all, condescending attitude.
“So what did your bug give us?”
“Nothing but a pathetic ‘Sorry’ from Young when she assaulted the officer.”
“Where to now?” Vince said.
“We have the address to a condo where Young recently moved. We’ll meet the team there, then go on to Gated Labs.”
Grayson’s BlackBerry informed him of a notification. A taxi driver reported dropping Young off at a high-rise condo less than an hour ago. He’d seen her photo on a digital billboard.
CHAPTER 7
6:18 P.M. MONDAY
How could anyone think she or Shep were responsible for the airport tragedy?
The cacophony of voices on the bus drowned Taryn’s sobs—tears for all the innocent people who’d died today, for her beloved Shep, and for the things she’d done to protect herself. Embracing change had always been one of her strengths, but not when it involved horror. She’d gone from a bride to a fugitive. Her body ached, claiming the strength she desperately needed.
The whole concept of the Metro system had a learning curve, especially since she’d never used public transportation. She paid when she boarded, but she had no idea how long her money allowed her to ride.
A screen mounted in the bus displayed graphic scenes from the bombing. A woman reporter held a shaking mic while speaking about a church youth group in which three students had died in the bombing. They showed horrendous footage: missing limbs, first responders working tirelessly to pull the dead and injured from the wreckage. Taryn choked back the acid rising in her throat.
An interview with a local congresswoman called the perpetrators cowards, and she was right. “We are strong Americans, and we will unite to do whatever is necessary to find who’s responsible. Here’s a message to you: We stand strong. You think you put fear in us. Well, you’re wrong. You’ve only made us more determined to preserve our way of life—our freedoms—and we are resilient.”
Taryn’s picture flashed as a person of interest. She slumped in the seat, hoping no one recognized her. Two phone numbers were listed for anyone who had information about her.
The interview continued. “We don’t know if this is homegrown, foreign, or a combination, but know we will not rest until we find out who has done this and why. And hold them accountable.”
No words could express her terror.
Hope rested in seeing Claire. She’d believe in Taryn’s innocence. Claire had met Pastor Willis at the ceremony, and he’d given Taryn his card. Shep said he was a personal friend. Maybe he, too, could help her make sense of what was happening. She fumbled through her purse and pulled his card from her wallet—Pastor Willis, First Citywide Nondenominational Church of Houston. When she got to Claire’s studio, she’d call him.
Or was she fishing?
If only she could clear the cobwebs from her head.
Maybe the FBI would arrest the terrorists tonight, and all she’d face was what she had done at the hospital. They’d return her photographs and slap on a hefty fine for assaulting an officer. She’d need a good lawyer and resolve the issue at Gated Labs. Then she and Shep could honeymoon on a Puerto Rican beach. The nightmare had to end soon. But so many unanswered questions threatened what she believed to be true.
Three blocks from Claire’s studio, the bus stopped. If not for the torment raging through her body, she’d have run the rest of the way. Claire was her best friend, everything Taryn was not—outgoing, vibrant, fun to be around. So creative. And her three-year-old daughter was a joy.
The sign on Claire’s studio read Closed, but the knob turned. Taryn stepped inside and removed her sunglasses. Photographs covered the gallery. Claire often said, “God speaks through His children’s smiles.” A sign bearing shalom rested on the counter.
“Claire. It’s me.”
When no one responded, Taryn called again. She walked through the studio to the workroom, repeating Claire’s name. Typical lights were on.
The smell of glue and chemicals, so very much Claire, met her nostrils. She didn’t hear little Zoey’s giggles, though the girl usually played on Monday evenings while her mother worked late.
“Are you so engrossed that you don’t hear me?” Taryn laughed, despite the horrific day. Many times Claire lost track of reality in the midst of creativity, a common joke between them.
Not a sound.
“Zoey, this is Aunt Taryn. Are you hiding from me?” She looked in all the familiar hiding places—behind the counter, under an umbrella-shaped reflector that Claire used for lighting, inside a storage closet.
Empty.
What had Claire done with her computer? Odd that she’d moved her Mac desktop and the two twenty-seven-inch screens somewhere. Her cameras were missing too. A chill crept up Taryn’s spine. The phone lay upside down on the floor. The line had been cut. Fear swirled through her.
A pair of jean-covered legs jutted from the section of the workroom where Claire framed photographs. Horror repeated from the bombing.
“Oh no.” Taryn rushed to her friend’s side.
Claire lay in a crimson pool—her throat cut.
6:45 P.M. MONDAY
Grayson hadn’t seen such destruction in a long time. He and Vince surveyed Young’s residence, busy with agents sweeping for prints and DNA.
“Took more than one person to make this mess,” a female agent said.
“Looks more like rage.” Grayson stepped over the debris into the small kitchen. “Even the eggs are splattered on the floor. A stick of butter tromped on.”
“We got a shoe print from the butter,” she said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Wonder if they found what they were looking for.” Vince bent to the hardwood floor and used his pen to sort through broken glass that looked like the remains of a crystal vase. Roses and a small puddle of water lay to the side. “Agents found blood on the floor.”
“If they didn’t find what they were looking for, then it wasn’t here. And was it Shepherd or someone the two double-crossed?” Grayson pointed to the bedroom. “I see her clothes from the hospital. She didn’t waste much time here.”
“Probably meeting Shepherd for their mad dash out of the country.”
Grayson reserved his opinion. He made his way to the bedroom. Even the towel bar in the bathroom had been yanked from the wall. Whatever they were looking for must have been small.
What did they think Young hid in her condo? Maybe a flash drive? Possibly a list of those involved with Nehemiah? Those who bombed the airport? Was this in support of a blackmail attempt?
He pulled data from his mental bank. The international airport had been bombed with materials that were easily obtained. Although a handful of groups claimed responsibility, the who remained a mystery. The why might be the software in Young’s control, although that theory was a little out there. One scenario was she’d betrayed her country for the almighty dollar, and Shepherd chose to eliminate her instead of splitting their share. But why kill innocent people unless there were others at the airport who needed to be eliminated? Was there even a connection there?
Grayson stepped onto the balcony and closed the glass door behind him to call the SSA. The information he needed would eventually come through his BlackBerry, but he wanted it now.
As he pressed in the SSA’s number, his impatience mounted with the slow trickle of information. “I’m at Young’s condo. She’s been here and gone, and the place is a disaster. Got anything new?”
“One of the VPs from Gated Labs was killed this morning—Ethan Formier, head of product development. A friend of Young’s. He took an earlier return flight instead of his scheduled afternoon one. Follow up on that. Could be an unfortunate coincidence. Still checking the names of the dead and injured for anyone else suspicious.”
“What does Gated Labs have to say?”
“They regret Formier’s death. The CEO has no idea why we asked about Nehemiah because as far as he knows, there aren’t any issues.”
“And Young claimed she disabled it.” Grayson clenched his jaw. “Said only she had the activation code. She planned to contact Ethan Formier today about the situation.”
“Did she say why?”
“Refused to. Said she wasn’t authorized.”
“Find her and we’ll get to the bottom of this. Shutting down software with advanced protective mechanisms will get her jail time. She got greedy, and now she’s going to get herself killed before we have names. Formier could’ve been working with her.”
“Or caught on to what she was doing, and that’s why he arranged an earlier flight,” Grayson said. “Has Formier been on your radar?”
“No. Neither do we have Shepherd’s true identity. You realize all this will hit your BlackBerry in the next few minutes.”
The sharp rebuke in the SSA’s words halted any more questioning. “Just a bit anxious. Gated Labs knows we’re on our way?”
“The CEO is waiting and has called back in those who worked with Young. Don’t dismiss anyone until you get answers. Find out who’s using the software and have them confirm it’s fully enabled.”
“Yes, sir.” Extensive interviews were going on with the congressmen who’d participated in the closed-door session before issuing the export license for oil and gas companies. Leaks and payoffs could come from anywhere.
“Grayson, I want to know that Gated Labs isn’t hiding anything.”
CHAPTER 8
7:30 P.M. MONDAY
Grayson studied the face of Gated Labs’s CEO, Brad Patterson, a forty-eight-year-old man whose face-lift pulled his lips into a permanent smile, like the Joker from Batman. He sat across from Grayson and Vince at a twenty-foot-long solid mahogany table in the company’s boardroom, equipped with a full bar in one corner and an espresso station in the other. A wall of windows looked out from the twenty-story building onto the exclusive Galleria area.
“We appreciate your seeing us after hours. Our condolences on the loss of Ethan Formier,” Grayson said.
“Thank you.” Patterson nodded with a coolness that matched his arctic blast of white hair. “We lost a highly respected man. A strong leader.”
“Our interest is Taryn Young. Has anyone heard from her?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Patterson said. “After we received your subpoena, we faxed the FBI her employee information.”
“We also need confirmation that the software project she helped complete is secure.”
He folded his hands and leaned back in a dark-brown leather chair. “The Nehemiah Project. I assured your office we’re in good shape.” A twitch beneath Patterson’s right eye gave him away.
“We need verification.” Grayson removed a notepad from his jacket pocket. “Who are the companies using the software so we can double-check things?”
“It’s a highly secured program.”
“We’re the FBI. That gives us clearance.” Grayson hoped Patterson hadn’t contacted his attorney. “What happened at the airport today is of national concern.”
“What does the bombing have to do with who’s using Nehemiah?”
Grayson shrugged. “Maybe nothing. We’re looking at every angle, at anyone who has something to hide.”
“I resent the implication of my company’s involvement in any illegal activity.” His jaw tightened.
This guy needed to climb down from his CEO throne. “No one has accused Gated Labs of any wrongdoing. We’re both on the same side.”
Patterson danced a pen on the highly polished table. “There’s a problem.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “Please explain.”
“Our people are working on it.”
“Elaborate for us, sir. We aren’t as computer savvy as you are.”
Patterson continued to tap his pen. “I was informed that Taryn Young disabled the software late Friday afternoon. She phoned the two companies and told them she had activated an earlier version. This morning both companies called customer support and wanted to know
when the problem would be resolved. The situation escalated to my attention.”
“We know Nehemiah is a software program that protects the process control systems that regulate underwater pipeline temperatures for natural gas,” Grayson said. “We also know Congress requested Young be the lead developer. But we want to hear the history and details.” Would Patterson’s explanation match Young’s?
“She was the head of her team, our top developer. Creative. Imaginative. I have no idea what is happening here. We have safeguards, and we’re using those.” He pressed his lips together as though carefully choosing each word. “The US is positioned to export natural gas. It’s shipped in liquefied form, called LNG. Large companies are looking to ship the product all over the world. Nehemiah, at the moment, is the only software containing specialized hacker deterrents. If the wrong people had control of Nehemiah, they could raise the temperatures and cause a massive explosion.”
“We’d like to know what companies are using it.” Grayson would hate the time wasted if Patterson insisted upon another subpoena.
“A US company located in Kitimat, Canada, and one here in Houston that operates out of Corpus Christi.”
“We need contact information and all dialogue between Gated Labs and the two companies.” Grayson texted his request to the FBI office. “A team will be here shortly to review the information on-site. They will also need to acquire a mirror image of Taryn Young’s and Ethan Formier’s computers. The agents possess the necessary level of security for information classified as top secret. Mr. Patterson, as holder of the information, I think you would agree we have need-to-know.”
“My opinion doesn’t seem to matter here. You understand our lawyers will be notified, and we’ll need a subpoena.”
Grayson eyed him. “I expected no less. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Then we’re done here?”
“Not yet.” Grayson slid Young into the sellout category, but the airport bombing was a puzzle. “We understand Ethan Formier worked with Taryn Young.”
A shadow passed over Patterson’s face. “Nehemiah was her brainchild, and she worked closely with him.”
