Excerpt of Firewall by DiAnn Mills

Present day

Mid-September

7:00 a.m. Monday

Taryn’s perfect day melted in the heat of an early morning
bottleneck. Houston
traffic was a war zone during rush hour. Six lanes of
bumper-to-bumper vehicles
slowed to a crawl with a road construction crew flashing
warning lights ahead. Six
lanes narrowed to five, then four, then three, then two.

Shep touched her arm, his gold-brown eyes expressing
tenderness. “Babe, the driver
will get us to the airport in plenty of time.”

“I hate traffic.” She pulled her iPad from her purse, a
habit when she needed to
keep her mind occupied.

“Taryn, our honeymoon starts today.” He smiled. “Do your new
husband a favor and
put away your gadgets. Didn’t the VP tell you to forget
about work and concentrate
on your husband?”

“He did, and you have all my attention.”

“Better yet, let me have all your toys, and I’ll keep them
safe. The one thing I
plan to do for the rest of my life is take care of you.”

Oh, this wonderful man. And he was all hers. “You’re right.
My life’s no longer a
solo project. I’ve been single for so long—”

“And a workaholic. Don’t worry. I have room right here in my
backpack.” He
chuckled, the rich sound reminding her of a thundering
waterfall. “I’ll keep them
for you, Mrs. Shepherd. But I doubt you’ll have time to use
them.”

She blushed, remembering last night. How could she argue
with such devotion? “Can
I at least keep my phone?”

“I suppose.” He brushed a kiss across her lips. “I love the
blush in your cheeks.”

Would she always grow warm with his touch? “Comes with the
hair.”

“A gorgeous match.” He twirled a tendril of her hair around
his fingers and let it
fall against her neck, causing a shiver from far too many
sources.

Taryn knew what he was thinking, but she couldn’t respond
with the limo driver
listening to every word. She handed Shep her iPad, hoping he
understood that until
she met him, her first love had been designing software.
Now, with bittersweet
regret, she watched him tuck her technological lifeline into
his leather backpack.

“We’ll be at the airport in twenty minutes.” He took her
hand into his. “Then
we’re off to our San Juan paradise. We might never come
back. Live in Puerto Rico
forever.”

She snuggled close to him. For the first time in years, she
wouldn’t miss work—no
software development projects or unrealistic deadlines. And
to think she’d spend
the rest of her life with this delicious man. Had it only
been three months since
they’d met and fallen in love? From the moment he walked
into her life, he’d
become her prince. They’d been inseparable, just the two of
them, realizing they
were meant for a lifetime. She’d dreamed of a man like Shep
since she was a little
girl, a man who wouldn’t care that she kept her nose in
books. His entrance into
her heart was like a golden path to a fairy-tale future.

After checking in at the airport, she stared at her boarding
pass and wished it
held her married name: Mrs. Francis Shepherd. Their next
trip would show them as
husband and wife.

Security moved like the traffic they’d left behind. In the
crowd, everyone’s
personal space was invaded, and some people responded with
hostility. Taryn
stepped into a long, winding line, and Shep wrapped an arm
around her waist. Oh,
she loved her new life. He blew her a kiss while loading his
shoes and personal
belongings into a bin. If cravings like these occupied her
mind for the next fifty
years, how would she ever get any work done again?

Once they walked through the body scanner and gathered their
things, they wove
through the crowd and on toward the gate. The predawn coffee
caught up with her.
With the urgency, she pointed to the women’s restroom. “Do I
have time for a quick
stop?”

“Sure. My fault since I filled your cup twice to wake you.
Let me have your carry-
on, and I’ll wait here.” His smoldering look could have
melted the wings off a
jumbo jet.

“I’ll hurry.”

“No problem. The future’s ours.”

Rushing inside, she noted six women ahead of her, one with
two children. Shep had
a tendency to be impatient with time constraints, but she’d
be miserable on the
plane if she didn’t wait her turn. Her iPhone notified her
that she had fifteen
minutes before boarding time.

Finally a stall opened and she hurried in. While she was
drying her hands, a
thunderous explosion shook the floor. A crack snaked up the
wall. Then another.
The mirror shattered, breaking her image into shards of glass.

She screamed and swung toward the entrance. Before she could
take a step, the
ceiling collapsed. Amid dirt and fallen tile, moans filled
the air like a
nightmare that refused to end. The walls creaked, metal and
concrete shifting . .
. falling.

Muffled groans alerted Taryn to her impaired hearing from
the blast. Trembling,
she bent to check on a young woman sprawled at her feet.
Blood seeped from a head
wound, and Taryn couldn’t detect a pulse.

Debris rained on her. Something crashed against her head,
sending her spiraling
into darkness.

***

11:15 a.m. Monday

No one had the right to take the lives of innocent people.

Special Agent Grayson Hall always faced the challenges of
his life with dogged
determination. His experience with the Joint Terrorism Task
Force meant his skills
were needed, and he welcomed it. The bomb that exploded at
IAH in a parking garage
near terminal E had killed dozens and wounded countless
more. The initial response
team, Houston Police Department, fire department, EMTs, and
FBI searched for the
dead and wounded. The evidence response team labored to make
the crime scene safe
for investigators, conducting a postblast investigation to
determine the
components of what appeared to be a vehicle-borne improvised
explosive device.
Their findings, both electronic and physical, would lead out
the investigation
with the JTTF involved every step of the way. A team of FBI
bomb technicians along
with state and local law enforcement searched for a
secondary bomb. Nothing had
been found yet.

A command post had been quickly established at a hangar
outside the airport on JFK
Boulevard. A second post at the Houston FBI office housed
the Joint Intelligence
Center, and a third command post operated out of DC. Grayson
worked from the FBI
office, reviewing surveillance cameras. Hundreds of agents
were on the case, and
undoubtedly thousands would be involved before this tragedy
was solved.

Those within two hundred yards of the blast were dead or
would soon be. The
pressure exploded their sinuses, ears, and lungs—a cruel way
to die. Several
victims were foreign travelers, those who believed the US
was safe.

FBI agents and other Homeland Security personnel, as well as
local law
enforcement, were trained for disasters. But who wanted to
experience it? After
9/11, every terrorist threat had the potential to be
devastating, leaving too many
US citizens emotional cripples. History had proven an attack
on US soil could
happen again.

It looked like Homeland Security had failed, and that meant
Grayson had failed
too.

No chatter on the wires had indicated a potential bomb
threat. The FBI’s Field
Intelligence Group, the FIG, scrambled for missed intel. The
governor was en route
to Houston via helicopter, and the White House was demanding
an explanation before
the president spoke to the country and the world. Grayson
questioned how the
country’s leaders would soothe the chaos in this grave
situation, especially with
the death toll mounting. He mentally listed US enemies who
claimed responsibility,
and North Koreans and Iranians danced in the streets.

Grayson scrolled through screen after screen of heavily
scrutinized security
footage. The scene looked like a war zone merged with a
cyclone. Agents searched
for clues leading to a person or persons who might be
responsible for the tragedy.
He examined two segments that raised questions. Both
photographs showed the guy
knew where the cameras were located. Why? Unless he had
something to hide. Grayson
zoomed in and sent the image to the FIG.

His BlackBerry rang.

“What do you have?” Supervisory Special Agent Alan Preston,
the SSA of FBI
Houston, had phoned him every twenty minutes since the
explosion.

“I’ve run info through the FIG. A couple ticketed for San
Juan checked in about
thirty minutes before the explosion using the names Francis
Shepherd and Taryn
Young. Shepherd left shortly afterward. We have Young
entering a restroom, and a
few moments later, Shepherd heads out and leaves in the same
limo he arrived in.”

“Alone?”

“Apparently. The bomb exploded five minutes after his exit.”

“What do we have on them?”

“Shepherd’s name is fictitious. He avoided the cameras. Wore
a cap. Little for
facial recognition to compile. Young works for Gated Labs
Technology, a software
development company.” His BlackBerry notified him of a
message. “Just got a
response from the FIG on the couple.” Grayson blew out his
exasperation. “Nothing
on either of them. Continuing to search for Shepherd’s
identification, but we
don’t have a clear photo.”

“I want him found and brought in for questioning. It’s one
thing for a man to
change his mind about going away with a woman. It’s another
to dodge security
cameras and escape a bombing.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Back to Young,” the SSA said. “Gated Labs is high-tech.
Some top-secret
government contracts. Any connect?”

“Young’s their top developer. Maybe the best in the country.
Right now she’s in a
coma at Houston Northwest Medical Center.”

“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.”