Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  Still blocking Bridger’s view with his body, Elliott passes me the weapon.

  If you’re familiar with an EpiPen, get ready to meet its polar opposite. The jeans Bridger’s wearing aren’t ideal, but we can handle this. I give Elliott his cue. “Just go, Luke. You’ve messed up my life enough, don’t you think?”

  “Fine.” He turns to face the doors.

  Now’s my best shot. I come to stand right next to Bridger, looking up at him with all the innocence I can heap into my wide hazel eyes. “Thank you.”

  He offers me a sincere little smile.

  And then I stab him in the leg with the spring-loaded needle. Elliott whirls around and grabs hold of Bridger’s arms, pinning him to the wall of the elevator car. I count aloud, still holding the emergency syringe in place for the necessary seconds.

  Instead of delivering a dose of adrenaline, this pen injects a fast-acting sedative. (And no, this pen isn’t available over the counter, or by prescription.) Unlike on television, however, the effects aren’t instantaneous.

  “What is this?” Bridger demands, struggling against Elliott’s grip. “A robbery?”

  “You’re going to wish it was a just robbery,” Elliott mutters

  Bridger gets quiet, but that’s not the drug working (yet). “Who are you?”

  “The Spanish Inquisition.”

  I flick my gaze to Elliott. What . . . ?

  “The people you least expect,” Elliott clarifies. (Still don’t get it.)

  “The people you really don’t want crashing this party, Bridger,” I try.

  We have two more minutes before he’s unconscious. That’s enough time to cause a lot of problems.

  Like now: the elevator reaches our floor and the doors slide open. Out in the middle of the hall stands SARD, ice bucket in hand.

  Could there be worse possible timing?

  SARD spots the three of us — and recognizes Elliott. He strides toward the elevator, hopping through the closing door. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  Bridger snorts back, as if SARD was talking to him. “Only that I’m gesuip.”

  None of us can look away from the guy — but I don’t think any of us has any idea what he’s saying. That can’t just be slurred English, can it?

  “Is that the drug?” I ask.

  The elevator begins moving down. Bridger gains a new strength, struggling against Elliott’s grasp. He glowers at Elliott with 100% pure hatred. “You soeking with me?”

  “Definitely the drug,” Elliott says.

  “Let me go and fight like a man.” Despite his brave words, the set to Bridger’s jaw gradually begins to soften. “I’ll give you a skrik.” He blinks twice, then a third, slower blink. “You,” he repeats.

  His facial muscles slacken and he lists to the right. Elliott and I both maneuver to catch him as he slides down the wall. Finally, his eyelids drift down.

  “Whew.” Elliott hoists Bridger’s arm around his shoulder. “Faster than I expected.”

  “Alcohol. Interacts with the ketamine.” I hold up the anesthetic pen.

  SARD cranes his neck to look at Bridger. “How long will he be unconscious?”

  The anesthetic pen label provides the answer. “Two hours, give or take. He might sleep it off longer than that.”

  “Was that English?” Will asks over my earpiece.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply. And if he wasn’t talking complete nonsense, Bridger might have given himself away.

  I turn to SARD, who’s focused on the elevator display’s falling numbers. We’ve got to get one or the other of them out of here. I help Elliott with Bridger’s other side. The elevator slows to a stop and dings. The lobby.

  The doors slide open, and we start forward until I think better of that not-a-plan. I hold up a hand and leave Elliott holding up Bridger to peer into the lobby.

  Shamshiri watching cable news in the lounge. Esfandiari on his laptop at the table.

  Suddenly my black wrap is trying to strangle me. I whip back into the elevator and hit the Door Close button. “Let’s go, let’s go,” I chant, hitting the button again.

  The doors finally start to obey, but I swear they’re twice as slow as normal. I scan the elevator alcove, though Shamshiri and Esfandiari have no reason to come after me.

  “Well,” Elliott sighs. “That wasn’t awkward.”

  “Not at all.” I hit the button to stop at the first floor, and the elevator rises.

  Elliott shifts Bridger’s weight awkwardly. “What are we going to do?”

  “Gotta be a service elevator, right?”

  “Yeah, but after that?”

  I glance around the elevator: the American/Iranian double agent, the CIA newbie to Canada, the unconscious counterintelligence contractor between us.

  And then the best option materializes in my mind. “Turnabout’s fair play, right?”

  Elliott meets my eyes with an obnoxiously tantalizing grin. “Always.”

  Whether it was the alcohol or his usual biorhythms, Bridger is still out of it at sunrise the next morning.

  Lucky.

  I pace the narrow aisle of the tiny passenger plane, working off the excess energy humming in my veins. We’re not supposed to be off the ground long, and yet I’m still building up to a panic.

  This was not part of my plan.

  I take a deep breath again and turn back to march the other way. We survived takeoff. We’re circling low now, and we’ll touch down soon. Soon. Soon. I run through another breathing exercise.

  “Hey,” Elliott interrupts my deep inhale. “We’ll get you down safe.”

  “Aren’t most crashes right after takeoff, or right before landing? We’ve compressed our entire flight plan into those times.” Great idea, folks.

  “Sure you don’t want this?” He holds out another auto-injector. This time it’s a real EpiPen.

  “Yeah, I’m all set on the adrenaline front, thanks.”

  He shrugs. “Figured I’d offer.”

  I scrutinize him. “How is it you’re so nice and normal now?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You — usually you’re all, ‘I’m so good-looking and we all know it.’”

  Elliott waggles his eyebrows. “You think I’m good-looking, huh?”

  I groan, grab the EpiPen and stab Bridger’s thigh, holding the needle in. Bridger jumps and rouses. Between the chemically-induced fight-or-flight response and the wrist restraints, he has every reason to freak out. Elliott swoops in to pin his knee in place for the requisite ten-second dose.

  “Hello, hello,” Elliott chirps. He releases Bridger’s leg. “No use struggling.”

  Bridger scowls at him. “This won’t work,” he says, still using that American accent. “You’re not going to scare me with this little tactic.”

  Elliott laughs. “Yeah, the only one scared now is her.”

  I punch his shoulder a little harder than playful. “So I don’t like flying.” I get down in Bridger’s face. “I imagine your fears are about to become a much scarier reality.”

  “You don’t know what I’m afraid of.”

  I glance at Elliott, then back up to leave him room to come at the guy. He perches on the molded plastic arm of the chair across the aisle from Bridger. “I can guess one thing.”

  Bridger scoffs.

  “Okay. Sure. Play the tough guy.” Elliott leans back against the blue upholstery, arms folded, ankles crossed, lips smirked. “Too late for that act to help, but if it makes you feel better, go for it.”

  Bridger glares at me. “I was trying to help you.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it. Though you were kinda pushy about it.” I lean forward to peer at the site of his two injections. “Do you need a Band-Aid or anything?”

  Bridger’s glare grows harder. “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Comfortable?”

  He flexes his wrists in their restraints. “Very.”

  I sweep an arm out in invitation to Ellio
tt. “He’s all yours.”

  “Happy birthday to me.” Elliott rubs his hands together. “Shall we get started, then?” He waits until Bridger faces him before he adds the clincher. “Charlie?”

  Bridger’s — Charlie’s hard stare melts away. “Sorry, who?”

  His drug-induced slip last night gave us one other hint we needed to pin him down. (Well, that, and Google.) The nonsense he was talking as he passed out? Afrikaans. He’s South African. That was enough to find out his real identity, and we’ve run with it.

  Elliott slips in a little South African slang himself to subtly hint that we really do know who Charlie is: “You tuning me?”

  DeRuyter (formerly known as Bridger) stops mouthing off.

  Elliott continues. “Did you really think you could come waltzing in the country and nobody would notice?”

  I kneel on the seat in front of DeRuyter, facing him. “There aren’t any stewardesses on this flight,” I warn him. “But I might be able to dig up some tap water.”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Good Cop.” He scowls at me and turns back to Elliott. “Who are you?”

  “Luke. Remember, we met last night? Oh, but that was right before you passed out, so maybe you don’t.”

  “Retrograde amnesia.” I give a sympathetic frown-nod. “Pretty common. You don’t have a headache or anything, do you?”

  “I already told you I’m onto your feeble little ploy,” he sneers. “Won’t work.”

  “I don’t give rocks what you think.” Elliott taps into our South African slang bank again, leaning over the aisle, resting his forearms on his legs. That winning smile returns at full strength. “So,” he says. “Let’s get this straight. We’re your worst nightmare.”

  “Only without the snakes,” I interject.

  “But we could get those if you’d like,” Elliott offers. “You know. On a plane. And that’s just the beginning for you, Charlie. You’ve got a one-way ticket to Guantánamo right now.”

  “Then what’s my incentive to help you?”

  “We might be able to book you a return flight in a few years,” I say. “But only if you cooperate.”

  “Come on.” Elliott’s now-classic cajoling tone returns. “We could just as easily lock you up and lose any records we have of your existence.”

  DeRuyter rolls his eyes.

  “Do you like games?” Elliott asks. “I do. Nora?”

  “Yep. Card games. Board games. Head games.”

  “If this is round one,” DeRuyter says, “then you’ve lost, folks.”

  “You’ve forgotten a very important rule of poker, my friend.” Elliott kicks back in his cocky you-know-you-love me attitude. “Don’t count your money before the call.”

  “You haven’t seen our trump card yet, Charlie.” I reach over the chair to squeeze his leg (where I’ve now given him two injections). “You’re going to love it.”

  DeRuyter turns to the window. The shade’s drawn, because we’re planning to stay in the air circling Ottawa.

  “Well, it’s a ways to Cuba.” I climb over the top of the seat (no mean feat in this pantsuit) and hop into the chair next to DeRuyter. “Why don’t we get comfortable, Charlie? Get to know one another a bit? Maybe we can queue up that chick flick you wanted? I’ve got Netflix on my phone.” I grin, then look to Elliott.

  He’s smiling back at me, but instead of flirting, his eyes hold plain old camaraderie. Because we’ll have fun with this as long as it takes to get what we need.

  “I’ll go see what the status of the in-flight WiFi is,” Elliott offers. “Back in a minute.”

  We watch him head down the aisle. Once he’s gone, I puff out a breath and turn to DeRuyter like I’m sharing a secret. “You’d better hurry up if you’re going to cooperate. You won’t like Luke if he gets mad.”

  “I don’t really like the guy now.”

  Point taken. “Well, you’ll like him a lot less if you don’t give him what he wants.”

  “That’s going to be a problem, considering neither of you told me what you want.”

  I crane my neck to look over the seats. “We just need to know what you’re doing in the country. Who you’re after.”

  “Who? What makes you think I’m after a who?”

  “Or a what. A when? We need to know.”

  DeRuyter squints, scrutinizing me. “You do know, don’t you.”

  It’s not a question; he’s jumping to a conclusion so I’ll reveal my intel. He thinks he’s caught me, but I can work with this. I chip off a corner of the truth, albeit one he doesn’t know. “We’re guessing you’re after a who, after the way you reacted to seeing somebody right before you passed out last night.”

  “Oh? And who was that?”

  “Don’t know his name. Middle Eastern guy.”

  DeRuyter frowns. “Sorry, not ringing any bells.”

  I tsk at him. “Too bad. It’s going to suck to be you in about twenty minutes. He’ll bring out the surgical tools next.”

  DeRuyter regards me, trying to gauge whether I’m serious. I keep up the slightly airheaded act. “Are you right-handed or left-handed?”

  “Right.”

  “Cool. I’ll see if he can start with your left.” I climb over him and reach the aisle. “Long way to Guantánamo. He’ll have plenty of time to get to your other hand if that’s not enough to convince you.”

  “This is all to find out who I’m here to see?”

  I pause two rows up and turn back to him. “Well, that’s the first question. But if you don’t want to answer, I’m sure we can arrange something. You don’t wear sandals too much in Cape Town, do you? Like, flip flops — oh, you call them ‘slops,’ right? They don’t stay on well without toes.”

  DeRuyter merely scoffs.

  Like we didn’t come in here with props. Elliott rolls the cart down the narrow aisle, the tools on top rattling as he approaches. I step out of the way, into the row in front of DeRuyter.

  “Here’s your tap water.” I pluck the Styrofoam cup off the corner of the tray and offer it to him, pausing for a second as if I’ve forgotten his wrists are strapped down. “Here.” I pour it into his mouth, not stopping until his wide eyes roll up to me. (And then I add a little more.)

  Elliott picks up a gleaming pair of wicked wire nippers. “These yours?” he asks me with an appreciative note in his voice.

  “Yep.”

  “You keep them in good shape.”

  “Use them enough.” For nipping wires.

  Next, Elliott assesses DeRuyter’s fingers. “You bring the tourniquets?” Elliott asks me.

  “You haven’t asked me anything,” DeRuyter points out.

  “Oh? Oh, right. Kind of a formality now, but I guess we can get it over with. Do you want to talk?”

  “No,” I supply for him. “He told me he doesn’t.”

  “Guessed as much. Let’s jam.” Again with the South African slang. Elliott drops to his knees by DeRuyter’s chair. “Little finger first? Ring finger?”

  “Little finger. He’s less likely to pass out from the pain.” I grab a handful of EpiPens and fan them out, silently offering to help DeRuyter maintain consciousness.

  “No.” Elliott stands and looks me in the eye. “I’m thinking ring finger.” He casts the briefest glance at the guy’s restrained wrists. What’s he getting at?

  I check DeRuyter’s hand — and then I see it: a ring tan.

  Intelligence officers, as least with the CIA, always travel as single people. Because their families could be the greatest leverage against them.

  I look to Elliott again and give him a subtle nod. “Welp.” I revert to my bouncy cover personality. “I’ll leave you to your work.” I wander down the aisle and duck into the bathroom.

  I’m on the phone in half a second. “Will? DeRuyter’s got a family.”

  One beat of pause. “We’ll get on that, then. You stay in the air.”

  Joy.

  “How’d you figure that out?” Will asks.

  Great
. There goes my little triumph. “Elliott saw his ring tan.”

  But instead of congratulating Elliott via me, Will simply moves on. “How do you want to play this?”

  How do I —

  “This was your idea,” he concludes. Not like he’s laying the blame at my feet. Like he’s giving credit where credit’s due.

  I don’t bother holding back the smile. “You guys track down his wife. We’ll go from there.”

  I end the call, then crack the door to listen to Elliott’s conversation. “So we avoid the major arteries, and you don’t bleed out. At least not quickly.”

  “Thoughtful, aren’t you?”

  “I know, right? So, did you want to tell us who you came here to see?”

  DeRuyter snorts. “As convincing as your posturing is, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”

  “Pity.”

  I dial Elliott’s number next. His phone rings and he sighs before he answers. “What?”

  “Will’s hunting down his family. In the meantime, we need a different stalling tactic.”

  He pretends to pout. “If you say so.” He pushes the cart back down the aisle. He pauses for a second. “Sorry,” he calls to DeRuyter. “I know you were looking forward to this.”

  “More than anything.”

  “We’ll get on those snakes, though. Should be waiting when we stop to refuel.”

  Elliott reaches the end of the aisle, secures the cart and slips into the cockpit. He returns to our call. “So seriously, what are we supposed to do now?”

  “Do you have a Netflix account?”

  “Try the free trial. Have a movie in mind?”

  It take all of four seconds to think of the perfect choice. “Yep. But this kind of punishment is cruel and unusual.”

  After an hour, DeRuyter is watching the ceiling, the closed window shade, the empty seats next to him — anything but my phone on his tray table. (Figured my ex-sister-in-law’s favorite movie would be a good choice.) Even I’ve resorted to my Torts textbook, hidden inside a fashion magazine. But our preferred form of torture is cut short when my phone rings. I set aside my studying and answer. “Hello?”

  “Yes, hello? I’m looking for my husband?”

  Through the extra static on the line and the emotion in the voice, I recognize the vowels of a South African accent. “Who’s this?”