Firewall (27 page)

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

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.”

Grayson chose not to respond. What could he say?

“Have you mentioned to her how you feel?”

“We’ve only known each other a few days. And during most of that time, I was trying to keep her alive or from a kidnapper.”

“So you haven’t?”

Grayson swung a look at his uncle. “I told her I wanted to talk after the case was solved.”

“What did she say?”

“Joe!”

“Okay. Not my business. You’re a grown man.”

“Any good updates? Like finding Zoey?” Grayson said. Anything to get Joe off the subject of Taryn.

“I’m looking.” He paused. “Nothing that we haven’t seen before.” He scrolled through his phone. “Agents haven’t reported
on the address where she could be held.” He glanced up. “This bang on the head has me a bit crazy. Ignore anything stupid.”

Grayson chuckled. “Pedraza’s been protecting his sister, but he’s obviously rethought another stint in prison. Did he offer any idea about the child’s welfare?”

“In fact, he did. He said his sister wouldn’t hurt her. The last time he saw the child, she was okay. And his sister drove the vehicle with the bomb into the airport.”

A call came through to Grayson from the SSA. “Yes, sir.”

“We have information on Zoey Levin.”

He didn’t like the sound of the SSA’s voice. “Let me have it.”

“Agents found Dina Pedraza dead, single shot to the forehead. The child was not there, but food and toys indicated she’d been with the woman.”

“Taryn and Zoey are probably together.” Grayson tasted the bitterness of reality.

“Then find them both,” the SSA said. “Alive.”

7:25 A.M. FRIDAY

I despise driving. Look at some of these houses. How do people live in such squalor? I don’t see a decent restaurant or hotel.

My cell notifies me of a call. Thinking it’s him, I answer it on the first ring.

“This is Save. I’ve penetrated the firewall. The software’s been tested, and it’s ready to go.”

My heart takes a rare leap. He’s late, but there’s still time to finish the deal. “And you’re sure there’re no unforeseen problems?”

“Positive. I’ll text you with what you need. Julie is off the radar. I’m the one who hacked in.”

“Great. I need it now, and once my work’s done, I’ll deposit a check into your account.” I hang up and make another call. “Be ready. I’ll text you after eleven Central time to take care of the hacker and his useless friend. You already have their information.” I end the call, wishing I had champagne. The killer has worked for me before . . . discreetly, of course.

A text from Save arrives. Money is no longer the issue. It will flood in, and I’m basking in the power.

I text him the news.

Have access details

With U?

On my phone

Drive until I text U

I want 2 no where I’m going

Do U?

Do not threaten me.

I wait, but he fails to answer.

7:50 A.M. FRIDAY

If Grayson didn’t find something substantial soon, he’d lose what little patience he had left. He felt inept. Stupid. His only job had been to take care of Taryn, and he’d botched it repeatedly. Those who’d planned the crimes since Monday weren’t clever enough to project what law enforcement officials would do, yet every lead went south. He and Joe had backtracked and covered the same roads twice. Where had Wallace or Ryan taken Taryn?

The futility of life seized him
 
—the lives gone in an instant, good people and bad. His dad’s cancer bothered him more than he wanted to admit. The wall between him and his dad and brother had thickened over the years. They blamed him for Mom’s death. No one knew that Mom had let go of his hand during the tornado. No point in telling them. They’d claim he lied. All thought he’d sent Mom into the whirling mass of wind that tossed her like a rag doll to her death. Joe had been telling him for years to forgive himself. But Grayson clung to the guilt as though he deserved condemnation.

He turned right off the interstate and into the small rural town of Willis, passing three churches. His gaze rested on a white Mercedes and a woman pumping gas at a convenience store. Earlier this morning, agents had been made aware of a third disguise for Iris Ryan, and the woman at the gas pump held a strong
resemblance to the photo. Spiked purple hair and sunglasses, along with short shorts and a pink T-shirt promoting breast cancer awareness. Grayson slowed and allowed a Honda Accord to pass, an elderly man bent over the steering wheel with a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Not Wallace. Grayson swung the car back around to the convenience store and pulled behind the Mercedes. The woman hung the handle on the pump and circled her car to leave. She did a 360 of the perimeter, climbed in, and shut the door. Perfect snapshot of the woman in the photo.

Grayson exited his car as hers sprang to life. He pulled his Glock. “Iris Ryan. Stop. FBI.”

She stared at him through the exterior mirror. Emotionless. Not frightened or angry.

“Step out of your vehicle and raise your hands,” Grayson said.

Ten seconds ticked by before slender legs preceded the woman, obviously for his benefit. She resembled a downtown working girl, not the Wall Street type. “Sir, what is this all about?”

Joe exited the passenger side of the car.

“Are you Iris Ryan?” Grayson said.

“Who?”

“Slowly show me your identification.”

“It’s in my purse on the car seat. Your partner can get it. I don’t mind.”

Joe moved toward the passenger side of the Mercedes. Grayson used his BlackBerry to take her photo.

“Who gave you permission to take my picture?” Her voice held a sharp edge.

“I don’t need it.” Grayson sent the pic to the office. “We’ll visit here for a few moments while I wait for verification of your ID.”

Joe held up her purse. “Ma’am, do you have a permit to carry this gun?”

“Yes, it’s in my wallet with my driver’s license. Be careful. It’s loaded and the safety’s off.”

Joe removed her wallet.

“Can I put my hands down? It’s tiring,” she said.

“Of course.” Grayson nodded. She couldn’t conceal a weapon in her skimpy garb. “Shut your door and move away from the car.”

Her eyes flitted in anger, but she complied.

“Joe, is she good?”

“Driver’s license with name and pic. Not Ryan.”

“Wonderful,” the woman said. “I have no clue who Iris Ryan is, but I hope you gentlemen find her.”

“We’re not finished yet,” Grayson said.

“I’m being detained for no reason.” She arched her back like a cat. “You have nothing legally to hold me here. My attorney will be notified of this unlawful obstruction to my day.”

Grayson’s BlackBerry snatched his attention, and he read the response. Pulling cuffs from his pocket, he took deliberate steps toward her, satisfaction pouring through him. “Iris Ryan, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent, the
 
—”

The woman’s head jerked back.

A pop indicated a sniper.

Grayson instinctively crouched, the hair on the back of his neck bristling. The bullet had soared between him and Ryan. Her body slumped to the pavement. A red pool dripped down her face, her eyes wide and empty. He cuffed her and felt for a pulse.

Gone.

“Joe, are you okay?”

“Yep. Sure hope the shooter doesn’t fire into one of these pumps.”

Grayson cringed. “We’ll all be burnt toast.” He moved to the opposite side of the Mercedes and pulled out his cell. “Requesting backup. Suspect shot by sniper. Need ambulance.”

Studying the area to the left, he saw that the killer could be in one of a half-dozen places
 
—hiding behind or inside a one-story brick house that had fallen prey to neglect, a detached frame garage in disrepair, a small grove of spindly pines, or a Ford that hadn’t been fired up in ten years.

Cameron Wallace had struck again.

Grayson itched to get back on the road and check out the area where Frank had indicated unusual activity. But he and Joe were forced to wait at the crime scene until local law enforcement arrived. Joe looked weak. No wonder FBI agents were required to retire in their late fifties.

“I’m going to take a walk. Check out where our sniper came from,” Grayson said.

“Not alone.”

“You can cover the crime scene.” Grayson walked toward the road with his gun drawn. “If we were in the sniper’s sights, we’d already be with Ryan.”

“Smart aleck.”

Grayson gave him a sideways grin and crossed the road. The brick one-story, littered with beer cans, had long since been a home. The recent rains were too late for the burned grass, and fire-ant hills had erupted like little volcanoes. A shame some folks allowed a piece of property to deteriorate when it wouldn’t have taken much to keep it looking presentable.

He explored the garage’s perimeter, snapping pics of fresh boot prints that disappeared into the woods. A lack of paint, a broken window with jagged pieces of glass and kicked-in boards reminded him of someone who’d been beaten and left to bleed out. About a half mile through a thick growth of trees on a winding, muddy path, a dirt road displayed the tracks of a car. He snapped more pics. The vehicle had come from the east, stopped, turned around, and then driven back. A motorcycle would be nice about now.

While he reversed his steps over the area and stood on the same ground as Iris Ryan’s sniper, he thought about what he’d learned of her past. She’d turned her bitterness into greed, and now she was dead. Grayson’s father was holding on to a lot of bitterness and facing a serious diagnosis. But Grayson, too, had been carrying the bitterness torch. It wasn’t his fault his mom died, but he took the blame and let it come between him and his dad.

When he stopped to explore the terrain for clues, his gaze swept over the abandoned home, reminding him of his own empty soul. Time to forgive himself, forgive his dad, and move on toward the man he was supposed to be.

And he did.