Firewall

by DiAnn Mills

“I’m FBI. Don’t suppose you got a license plate number?”

  “Too far off. Phoned 911, though.” He peered at Grayson attempting to pull Joe from the pickup. “I’ll climb in on the other side and get this guy out of there. Hangin’ upside down ain’t good for nobody but possums.”

  Grayson considered the risk of taking him out of the pickup, but leaving him suspended with dripping blood couldn’t be healthy. Together, they eased him out and laid him on the soft ground.

  Local law enforcement arrived, and Grayson explained the situation. “I’ll need your backup once we locate the SUV.”

  “You got it. Did you get the license plate?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  By the time the ambulance pulled onto the scene, Joe had regained consciousness. Except for the deep slice on his forehead, he appeared all right. His first words were concern for Taryn.

  “Put a Band-Aid on my head and send those paramedics home,” he said.

  “You could have a concussion,” Grayson said.

  “Taryn’s out there somewhere with more injuries than me. Get us a vehicle and let’s leave this Popsicle stand.”

  Grayson blew out his response as the two paramedics laughed. “All right. I’ll find us a ride.”

  The truck driver pointed behind him. “I live about two miles away. The little woman and I have us a double-wide on forty acres. Anyway, we got two extra ve-hiculars sittin’ over there. Both run like racehorses. I’ll call her and let you boys borrow one.”

  Grayson loved down-home people. “It might not return in good shape.”

  “Aw. That’s okay. I got insurance.” He pulled a cell phone from his shirt pocket and pressed in a number. “Hey, babe. I’m over here on I-45 near the turnoff to home. Can you drive over? Got a couple of FBI agents who need one of our rides. Don’t care which one. You choose. Thanks, babe. . . . Oh, that’d be real nice. Love you.” He nodded at Grayson. “She’ll be here in a few minutes, and she’s bringing a couple of insulated mugs with hot coffee too.”

  Grayson reached out to shake his hand. “Thanks. I don’t even know your name.”

  The man offered a firm grip. “Frank Lewis.”

  Joe shook his hand too. “Appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “The good Lord would have me do no less. Wish I’d gotten that there license plate for ya.”

  “That’s all right. You’ve done a lot already.”

  Ten minutes later, Frank’s wife arrived with a ten-year-old Chevy Impala, not a mark on it and all gassed up. She handed them two huge travel mugs of strong coffee that tasted heaven-made.

  With Joe wearing his red badge of courage, he and Grayson sped in the direction Frank had indicated the car had gone.

  “Do you suppose Rollins or Pedraza came through with information we can use?” Joe leaned his head back.

  Grayson mentally kicked himself for not searching for Taryn’s pain meds before leaving the crime scene. Joe had to be in pain and too stubborn to admit it. “I called while you were getting fixed up. Pedraza said Dina lived in the Conroe area.”

  “Bet Taryn’s there. I’ll blow a few heads off if they hurt her.”

  Joe’s knock on the head must have shaken his brains. Grayson hoped he was okay and pushed forward. “Makes sense to me that Dina would have Zoey. Right now, we—” His BlackBerry interrupted him, and he read while driving. “Pedraza has no idea if his sister has the child.”

  “He knows more.” Joe paused. “Dad-blasted liar.” He rubbed his head around the bandage.

  “Are you sure you want to continue with this?”

  “Yes. Just managing a little headache.” He stiffened, then relaxed. “Anyway, sure would like to interrogate Pedraza and Rollins myself. The way I feel, I’d not be following any rules. Anything else?”

  “Pedraza gave his sister’s cell number. It’s a burner, and she’s not answering. Agents are en route to the address he provided.”

  “Makes me wonder if she’s alive.”

  Grayson had considered the same thing. Frustration burned. He had no idea where Taryn had been taken.

  “Were you unconscious when she was taken?” Joe said.

  “Yep. Don’t remember a thing.”

  When would these guys slip?

  CHAPTER 58

  4:50 A.M. FRIDAY

  Taryn rode with Wallace through heavy rain. What she’d originally thought was cleansing now splattered toward her life’s end. He drove down a lane that was about a quarter mile long to a deserted house in the middle of nowhere. The headlights showed boarded windows and a small structure in bad need of paint. A dilapidated porch. No visible lights, but the covered windows could conceal what was going on inside. Wallace eased the SUV behind a barn and pulled inside. A Lincoln Town Car was parked on the right and a Honda Accord on the left. He killed the engine. The only sound was the steady rain.

  “We’re here,” Wallace said, too chipper for her liking. “Doesn’t look like much, but it serves the boss’s purpose.”

  She blinked to adjust her eyes to the dark, but the blackness hid any sights that would give her a clue to her location. He opened his door, faint light illuminating shadows around her. A bridle looped over a nail on the wall. A bucket hung beside it. Tack for horses dominated what she could see on the barn’s wall. Four stalls, two on each side. In the corner two bales of hay rested next to a pitchfork. The latter she could use in defending herself. If she seized an opportunity to grab it. He closed his door. Darkness again.

  Her shirt had buttons in front. She yanked off the bottom two and clutched them in her palm. With the rain, Wallace couldn’t cover his SUV tracks, and she could only pray someone would find it unusual for a vehicle to drive back into deserted property. And finding two white buttons in the middle of mud and dirt would be random.

  He opened the door on her side. “You’ll need to wait here until it’s time for your appointment.”

  His face faded from view. The chameleon. What could she do to escape him?

  “The boss has been asking for you, but he has a few details to work on first. Stay right here.” He walked away, his feet slapping against the wet floor. A few moments later, he returned and jerked her from the vehicle. She couldn’t fight what she couldn’t see, and he wouldn’t fall for the same trick twice. He pulled her to the right. She scuffed her feet on the barn floor . . . whatever she could think of to leave a trail. He pushed her face-first against what she realized was the Lincoln and wrapped a rope around her right wrist and then around her waist, sealing her casted arm against her.

  “Does your boss have a name?” she said.

  “I’ll let him do the honors.”

  “Can you prep me for this guy?”

  “You won’t have any problem communicating with him. He’s the kind of man who asks the right questions and expects the right answers.”

  His ragged breathing seemed to singe her neck, his presence like a predator’s. He gagged her with what she thought was a sweat-soaked cotton scarf or bandanna. He stepped back, and a trunk popped open. Oh, please, not there. Claustrophobia plagued her, and since these people knew everything about her, they’d have this tidbit too. . . .

  Wallace swept her up and dumped her into the trunk. The scent of gasoline and worn boots met her nostrils. Another rope wrapped around her ankles. “Think of this as a precursor to a coffin. Get used to it.” He slammed the trunk.

  She’d have air, but her instincts told her otherwise. Fighting the panic that accompanied her fear of closed spaces, she prayed for strength. This was temporary until they questioned her, a holding place designed to frighten her. And it worked.

  A car engine hummed to life, but not the one she was in. Wallace was leaving in the Honda? How long would she be here? Wallace’s boss needed access . . . unless Save had managed to find it. Acid rose in her throat and she forced it back down. Choking to death on her own vomit while locked in a trunk wasn’t the ending she had in mind. The car left the barn, and she clung to the
purr of the engine until it faded into oblivion.

  God was with her, and He’d stay to the end. She thought of Claire and how she’d wanted to prove her love. And so many others—her parents and brothers, who’d supported her even when she was the school nerd. Dear Ethan, who’d always encouraged her to stretch her mind, and how she’d only wanted to protect him by not documenting every aspect of Nehemiah. Joe, who made her laugh and see reality. The FBI, who gave her an opportunity to prove her innocence. And Grayson, the man who wanted her to trust him. The man who would have won her heart.

  Soon she’d know who fought so hard to kidnap her, kill others, and do the same to her once she gave them full access to Nehemiah. If Wallace’s boss didn’t have Zoey, she’d refuse to cooperate and endure whatever they planned. If he did have Zoey, then God help her make the right decisions.

  5:30 A.M. FRIDAY

  Grayson pulled over to the side of a country road and waited for a call back from the SSA. His BlackBerry rang. Odd—the caller was Frank Lewis. Annoyance trickled through him at even a moment’s delay in finding Taryn.

  “Grayson, I have an idea,” Frank said. “I know this area like the back of my hand. Grew up here. I’m going to drive around to a few of my old haunts. See if I can find your friend.”

  “That’s dangerous. You’ve seen what they can do.”

  “Not the way I look at it. I’m a God-and-country kinda guy. Already called my two brothers. We all live right around here, and this is our territory. Those pissants ain’t got a thing on us boys who know where’s the best hiding places.”

  Grayson wanted to add that Taryn could be miles away, but Frank had a point. “Call me if you see anything suspicious. Don’t be pulling out your rifles.”

  Frank chuckled. “Someday I’ll tell you a few stories ’bout me and my brothers in our hell-raisin’ days. Gotta go.” He ended the call.

  Grayson explained to Joe what was happening on their behalf.

  “Hope those good ole boys stay safe,” Joe said. “Better yet, I’d welcome them finding something solid.”

  “I hate the thought of being outdone.” Grayson palmed the steering wheel. He’d failed all those who’d died at the airport and so many others. But worst of all, he’d failed Taryn.

  CHAPTER 59

  5:57 A.M. FRIDAY

  I’ve been awake for too many hours, and I need sleep. But I can’t close my eyes until my path is clear. Too many people have obstructed my vision, and one by one they’re paying for their lack of competency.

  What’s infuriating me the most is he’s not responding to my texts. He knows we need to discuss critical issues and get them resolved before eleven. I have a laundry list of priorities, and he’s not conducting business as partners. Neither is he keeping his part of the agreement by depositing money into my account. I’m ready to take him on, and my patience is crumbling.

  I shiver, and it has nothing to do with the air-conditioning set at sixty-eight degrees. Did I get in over my head with this deal? The man’s a killer and most assuredly set me up to take the fall for the Gated Labs theft and the airport bombing. However, he doesn’t have enough evidence to point any fingers at me. Rollins is the obvious scapegoat for Gated Labs. I thought he was too afraid of me to break, but the media claims otherwise. My money buys a better story. Confidence wafts through me. My lawyer has me covered. That’s what he’s paid for.

  Soon my thoughts take me to a place where fear seizes power. I’d bargained for a huge chunk of American pie, but his motives are deeper. Why else would he bomb an airport?

  Wait him out.

  Wait until he contacts me.

  Wait in this hole of a hotel for him to summon me like I’m an employee stuck in the mail room.

  This is a temporary setback. I, Iris Ryan, am at the top of my game, and I have no place to travel but up.

  His threats rumble around my brain, which is why I pack a gun. I have a permit to carry it, so all will be legal when I face charges of defending myself.

  I’ve called Save every thirty minutes. His partner is accomplishing zilch, and I paid her front money. No matter. They’ll both be dead by this time tomorrow. My tolerance for them has run thin. The deal was for this morning at 6 a.m., and they’ve both run out of time. I have to keep telling myself Taryn Young only thinks the software is attacker-proof. If I’d been smarter, I’d have bought her out at the beginning. But he told me it was impossible.

  My bottle’s empty, and I need to sober up. A shower sounds good, and I’ll have my phone nearby. In the bathroom, I turn on the water and curse the threadbare towels. Definitely not the Westin. A text comes through. It’s him.

  6:00 is approaching. Do U have what i need?

  I’m standing here naked, and I feel like he’s watching me. I text my response.

  Soon.

  Not good enough.

  Can we meet?

  We will.

  What does he mean? I text back and he doesn’t respond. Over the months we’ve corresponded and met, I’ve seen him take the upper hand far too many times. If Save doesn’t come through, I’ll need to leave the country. A new identification is in my purse.

  He won’t win.

  I take my shower. At least I have my own shampoo and conditioner, even if I have to wear the pixie wig. I dress the part and make sure my makeup is impeccable. My shoulders ache from the weariness and stress. When this is over, I’m taking a long vacation to the French Riviera.

  A text comes through, and I snatch my phone.

  Meet me 2.5 Miles E of I45 N on F M 1097

  The map on my phone indicates the point is outside a small burg called Willis. I’ll need gas. Especially if I’m driving to Oklahoma to catch a flight out of the country. Too risky to fly out of Texas. I pick up my phone to return his text.

  Leaving now

  I’ll contact U

  CHAPTER 60

  6:35 A.M. FRIDAY

  Taryn fought the rising anxiety and difficulty breathing that accompanied her claustrophobia. She thought the problem had disappeared after a year of counseling. No longer did elevators, closed doors, planes, and small cars cause her to hyperventilate. But the scenarios in the counselor’s office didn’t equate to being kept prisoner in the trunk of a car. Perspiration stung her eyes and dripped down her face. Her body temp had risen along with her blood pressure.

  Reactions solve nothing. Actions produce results, she thought and focused on the reality of not being alone. Hadn’t she told herself she’d not endure the future by herself, no matter how short?

  Her mind crept back to the three months spent with Murford and the foolishness of falling for him. Nothing clung to her heart and mind’s database that she could use to pull the mess together. If only Ethan were alive. He’d be able to help Grayson and Joe end this horror. Finding Iris Ryan would help too. Oil and gas traders had a reputation for being heartless, and Ryan’s hit tilt.

  Taryn focused on what she knew while her body calmed. . . .

  Ryan hired Murford to court Taryn and steal Nehemiah. Ryan also hired Rollins as a safeguard to get the same information through Gated Labs as an inside job, discrediting Taryn and sliding Kinsley Stevens into the leadership role. Murford thought he’d put Rollins to work, which meant Ryan had her backside covered. Murford also enlisted a team from his Navy SEAL days and a woman named Dina. The only survivor was Jose Pedraza and whoever had Zoey. Murford went to his grave with his knowledge of the child’s whereabouts.

  Nothing about Nehemiah registered with the airport bombing. But the link was there, and she’d not give up until she found it.

  A wild card by the name of Cameron Wallace, an international assassin, stepped onto the scene. He took out Murford, kidnapped Taryn, and claimed he was supposed to kill Iris Ryan. Wallace indicated he and Ryan had the same boss, and that person was calling the shots. The spiderweb wove tighter.

  The unidentified boss wanted full access to Nehemiah, and Taryn was confident the plan involved the destruction of LNG exports.
Would his identity reveal the why of the bombing? Because it still made little sense.

  Unless a foreign power was backing the crime, as many authorities believed. Some speculations said the Middle East. Others said Russia, the country that supplied Europe with LNG. If the export terminal exploded, the US would experience heavy delays before they’d be in a position to export again. Ryan, if she escaped the legal system, would make a killing on the market and continue to rake in money while prices soared. Taryn understood that aspect, but the unknowns were stopping the FBI from making arrests.

  Think, Taryn. Anything in this world is possible.

  Everything is negotiable.

  7:03 A.M. FRIDAY

  Grayson and Joe now drove north on I-45 in Frank Lewis’s Chevy Impala. The big car was a gas guzzler, but it ran like a dream. An anonymous tip indicated a deserted trailer house had shown signs of early morning activity. Wallace was a professional who used cunning and skill to his advantage. Highly unlikely he’d expose himself in the open, but Grayson would check out the area.

  He recalled snippets of conversations with Taryn and moments when they’d been in danger. Not once had she disappointed him. Personal thoughts would have to hibernate. If he allowed himself to dwell on the high probability of finding Taryn and Zoey dead, he’d lose his edge.

  If Taryn caved and gave Wallace or Ryan what they wanted, she’d need Internet connectivity to do it, but a good hot spot could accomplish that.

  In short, Grayson leaned toward desperation. Other agents were shooting blanks too, while the time ticked closer to eleven.

  Joe scrolled through his BlackBerry. “Agents haven’t found anything yet that points to Ryan. Obviously she was careful to use a burner phone on all transactions, and those whom she hired used them too. Doesn’t mean we won’t find out who made the calls and when. It’ll take time.”

  “Time. The shortage of it is driving me nuts.”

  “All of us. And you have a huge personal stake in finding Taryn.”