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

  Wish I had plans for right now instead of sitting here, but all that’s left of the weekend is tomorrow. “Just church.”

  Now Elliott scoffs. “Okay, you’ve gotta tell me. Why do you bother with church?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He turns to me. “Is it the social life? A lot of hot guys in your parish?”

  “We call it a ward. And I don’t have time for a social life.”

  Elliott checks his rearview and the empty park. “The food?”

  “No food.”

  “Then what?”

  I stare at on my mess of yarn and needles. “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t care, I just don’t get it. I mean, you claim to believe in the Bible, following all these extra commandments about sex and coffee and smoking, but we run around every day, lying through our teeth and doing everything the Bible says thou shalt not.”

  “Everything? Last I checked, we’re not killing, adultering, coveting — in fact, I’m pretty sure I’m good on nine of the top ten commandments.”

  “What, you use the David Letterman Version of the Bible?”

  I stifle a laugh. Fortunately, we’re still alone enough I can talk. “There are spies in the Bible, you know. On God’s side.”

  Elliott’s silence seems to suggest he didn’t know.

  “I know I don’t have to lecture you on the morality of our job.” We both know the CIA needs people not necessarily with religion, but with a moral code, people they can trust completely — and that means people who won’t turn around and lie to them. “Soldiers kill. Spies lie. I’m pretty sure God gets that. I hear He’s smart.”

  He shifts on the bench, flipping another newspaper page. The quiet shifts into the awkward range. “Sorry,” he finally says. “I didn’t mean —”

  I interrupt his apology. “I know.”

  “Just seems like you’d be better off — I don’t know . . . without that stuff holding you back.”

  I break off watching the street behind us to look at him, really look at him. Elliott has delighted in tormenting me like a brother would for over a year. He’s already betrayed my trust, my security in this friendship, with that stupid kiss. But this is the first time his words have actually cut.

  On a logical level, he’s right. My life would look a lot easier if I didn’t have these “silly” rules “burdening” me. If I didn’t obsess over doing the right thing all the time. If I let that all go.

  But on a deeper level, Elliott truly doesn’t get it. Being Mormon — the real reasons I believe — isn’t something I can toss out like a scratchy sweater. I didn’t spend over a year in Russia preaching the gospel, risking my life a couple times, for kicks, and I certainly didn’t do it to go and give it up now because it’s inconvenient. It’s who I am. I know Elliott doesn’t get it, but I thought he respected that.

  Elliott may be one of the few who knows what I’m really doing in Canada, but he has no clue who I really am. None whatsoever.

  “FEATHERSTONE’s about to turn,” comes Eric’s voice over my earpiece. “You got him?”

  We both face forward to look backward and Elliott twists his lapel pin to switch his mic back on. “Not yet.”

  Five seconds later, I pick up the movement in my mirrors. Vasily’s short, svelte silhouette walks into view under the streetlamps, highlighting his light blond hair where it sticks out of his dark cap. A lot more subtle than his favorite red dancing shirt. “Got him.”

  Elliott and I don’t make a move, not even to breathe, our eyes glued to the guy behind us. Vasily veers off the sidewalk for the drainage ditch. We have to turn our heads slightly, the opposite direction, to keep watching, but the tiny splash by his ankles gives us our answer.

  “He’s done,” Elliott murmurs. “Moving out.”

  We sit there, watching Vasily’s retreating figure in our rearviews. Elliott switches off his mic again. “Listen,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to say —”

  I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. Let’s focus.”

  We turn to the park in prickly silence, me pretending to knit, Elliott pretending to read, both watching the road behind us. Vasily’s long gone, and we listen to Eric and our team coordinating surveillance on him, getting farther and farther away.

  Could be hours or days before a courier comes to check for his signal and pick up his intel — or it could be minutes. Once Vasily’s far enough away, Elliott and I go to work, dropping off our props in the car. We pull on gloves and head to the drainage ditch, ambling like we’re not we’re aiming for it. We’ve been watching long enough to know nobody’s around, but that could change any minute.

  I watch for Vasily or his courier while Elliott fishes the container out of the water, a small black sphere. We casually walk away, taking the left just past the church. Once we’re out of sight, he unscrews the sphere halves and opens them. Inside is a USB flash drive. This time, we’re doing more than copying. We’re on the offensive.

  “Let’s see what he’s got,” Elliott mutters. He gives me Vasily’s drive, and takes up scanning the street for me. I wedge my thin-bladed screwdriver into the seam along the side of the USB drive casing and pry out the circuitry inside. Elliott hands me a replacement, and I snap the whole thing back together.

  Whatever Vasily’s handlers expect, I think they’ll be disappointed to find two corrupt files infected with a Ukrainian virus. Elliott and I split up, him going back to replace the dead drop, and me to rendezvous with our team and pass off Vasily’s intelligence to be analyzed.

  We’re closing in on him.

  I’m grateful to be away from Elliott for my surveillance detection run back to the office. At least he can’t pin me down for another “soul-searching.” I like the guy, I do, but . . . I thought we were really friends.

  Apparently I’ve miscalculated that relationship in more ways than one. And that cuts worse than anything Elliott could say.

  I finish up my SDR at the office, where my car waits. Of course, Elliott’s leaning against my door. I check my phone, like I can get out of the conversation that way, and find a voicemail waiting. I hit the icon to listen so I can brush past Elliott without talking.

  It’s my mom, and that would be the “insanity” decibel range. I can’t even make out half the words through the distortion of her screams. I yank the phone away and touch the button to delete the message.

  “What was that?” Elliott asks.

  “My mother,” I mutter, trying to reach behind him for my car door.

  “Oh.” He groans. “Don’t tell me you’ve got ‘mommy issues.’”

  His derisive tone knocks the wind out of me. As if the first blow tonight and my mother’s attack weren’t enough.

  “Move,” I order him.

  “Hey, wait —”

  “Now, Elliott!” My words hold enough bark that Elliott backs away, defensive hands raised. I get in and whip out of the parking lot fast.

  I’m used to taking risks — I have to do it all the time. But now, I feel . . . exposed. Because the people who should know me the best don’t know me at all. Or don’t care.

  I go through the motions of an SDR, gradually angling for the place a paranoid spy feels safest. I don’t realize I’m not driving to my apartment until after my last stop. Instead, I’m headed to Danny’s.

  Despite all their (conscious or subconscious) efforts, I know I’m not invisible — because there’s one person who sees me, the real me, the me I have to hide even deeper than my CIA connections, and he cares.

  I debate the wisdom of this choice the rest of the way there, but I don’t talk myself out of it. As soon as Campbell answers the door, the noise from inside attacks me almost like my mother did.

  Exactly what I don’t need after tonight.

  “Hey!” Campbell greets me. “You’re here for the party!”

  Before I back out, Campbell grabs my wrist and pulls me in. A party it is, mostly people from church. Danny’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, laughing with two g
irls I kind of know, Maddi Burton and Jenna Overson. Both of whom probably would’ve made it onto my “Girls from church over 25 without major, obvious issues” list. The list for Danny to date.

  He should. It’s an arrow to the heart, but he should. I came here because I need him, and soon he won’t need me.

  Campbell’s dragging me to the living room, but I get free. “Actually, I can’t stay. Just wanted to stop by and say hi, but you guys are busy.”

  “Oh, okay.” Campbell’s brow crinkles like he couldn’t possibly understand how someone could resist a party, but he walks me to the door.

  And follows me out. I turn back in the hall as he closes the door.

  “I can make it to my car okay,” I assure him.

  “Of course you can.” He stops walking, and I wait for him to talk. “Danny and I are going dancing next Friday — not together, as a double date. Want to go?”

  I’d wonder why Campbell’s arranging Danny’s dates for him, but it did look like he was busy. (With other girls.)

  We’ve pretty much established that if you mention Danny, I’m down. Movie I have no desire to see? Sounds good. Viewing a home neither of us want to buy? I’m in. Walking over a bed of hot coals for the chance to just see him? Here, hold my shoes.

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and do you think you could find someone else to go with us? Somebody cool.”

  I raise an eyebrow. He wants me to line up his date?

  This is Campbell we’re talking about. He’s gone out with every girl over twenty from church (and half the teenagers). He isn’t picky. “I guess.”

  He beams. “Great. Pick you up at seven?”

  A year of telling him to meet me at church for home teaching every month, and he still hasn’t figured out I don’t give out my address. “I’ll be here at seven.”

  “Oh, okay. That works.”

  He flashes one more quick grin and ducks back into his apartment. I’m in the elevator when it hits me: we’d better not go to Rahim’s on this date/not-a-date.

  There have to be other places to go dancing in Ottawa, right? And it’s not like Vasily hangs out at Rahim’s every week.

  I hope.

  With two full-time jobs (have I mentioned that?), one of which requires a lot of time out-of-office, it’s not hard to avoid Elliott for a couple days. But Wednesday afternoon, I’m back to file reports, and Elliott acts like everything’s fine.

  Sure. Fine.

  He stops by my desk and nods at my computer. “See the analysis on FEATHERSTONE’s files?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t look away from the monitor.

  “Apparently the USB drive he gave to Galina was music.”

  “She’s already off the list.”

  “And I compared his cryptonyms to our surveillance records,” Elliott singsongs like this is the world’s most tempting intelligence.

  World’s most tempting? Maybe not, but I have to bite. “Identify anyone?”

  Elliott squints slightly. “Not exactly.” He steps to his desk to wheel his chair over and plops down. “This week and two weeks ago, he reported intelligence from someone code named STRAUS.”

  I don’t know the term right off. Doubt he’d use someone’s real name as their cryptonym. A quick search shows straus is Russian for ostrich, and I report that to Elliott.

  “Lame,” he mutters. He pulls out a file folder with lists of Vasily’s customers. “I looked for overlapping customers from those two weeks.” He lays two pieces of paper on the desk and waits for me to draw the conclusion. I’m not going to comb through the alphabetized lists, but clearly no name is circled, and at a quick glance, I don’t see anyone listed twice.

  “Find someone?” I ask.

  He offers his empty hands. “Nope.”

  What does that mean? “Did he make it up?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Making up intelligence is a dangerous game. Then again, Vasily might want to be cut loose. “We can’t take anything he’s said in these reports at face value.”

  “Nope.” Elliott grabs a list of names and passes the folder to me. “You know the guy. Could he be useful to us?”

  I ponder that a minute. “He’s talked to me about a stressful friendship. Sounded like it might be his handler.”

  “If that’s got him manufacturing his intel. . . .”

  I meet Elliott’s gaze. “Maybe we could manufacture it for him.”

  He grins. “How close are you to pitching him?”

  Crud. The wind dies in my sails, and my shoulders fall. “Not close.”

  “Well, let’s get that way.”

  I turn back to my desk. We both know that’s easier said than done. But if Vasily’s making up stuff, we’d better get to him before his handler catches on.

  I’m desperately trying to find a reason to not regret this double date. Talia and whoever she picked for me aren’t even here yet — can’t believe Campbell asked her to do that. Mean-while, Campbell’s so happy to be going out! Having fun! Dancing! That he’s practically bouncing off the walls.

  Maybe I should work on getting out of this instead. But before I start, there’s a knock at our door, and suddenly, I don’t regret this idea, because Talia’s here. Even if it’s for a date with Campbell.

  I beat him to the door — no, I didn’t run. Much. I open it to find Talia, extra hot in black and jeans, and . . . Maddi, I think? “Hey,” I say.

  “Hi.” Could be my imagination, but I want to believe I only see that light in her eyes when she’s talking to me.

  Maybe we can ditch Campbell. Though I guess we probably can’t lose Maddi too.

  “You know Maddi, right?” Talia gestures at the blonde next to her.

  “Oh, yeah, hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Talia takes over the conversation, fighting back a grin. “I thought you didn’t dance.”

  When did I say — oh yeah, in our search for a “creative activity.” “You didn’t ask me.”

  “Ready to go?” Campbell jumps in. “Don’t want to be late for the lesson for you guys.”

  Goody. Campbell insists on driving as well as dominating the discussion on the short ride to . . . a brick church.

  It’s not too weird. We have dances in our building; we just hold them ourselves instead of hiring them out. By the time we walk in, the dance floor is nearly full of people for the lesson.

  Talia’s fidgeting, scanning the crowd. Does being around this many people bug her? It’s not that many more than at church.

  Campbell scopes out the crowd, too, and frowns. “I think we’ll sit out, and you noobs can get all the help you need.”

  Maddi giggles. Yeah, he’s hilarious. Fortunately she’s a good sport — neither of us are great dancers — but we make it through the lesson with a rudimentary understanding. We find Talia and Campbell in the chairs ringing the room. “Ready?” Talia asks.

  I try not to grimace. “Not really.” I turn to Maddi. “You?”

  “You guys’ll wipe the floor with us.”

  “Is that a challenge?” Campbell hops to his feet, puffing up his chest like a bantam matador. He holds out a hand for Talia, and she jumps into the part, striking a Latin pose, placing her hand in his with an extra twist of the wrist.

  My stomach falls to about my feet. This is what it’ll be like all night.

  “I give.” I raise my hands in surrender, then check with Maddi. “You give?”

  “Definitely.” She nods for extra emphasis.

  “Aw.” Campbell thrusts out his bottom lip to pout, but decides to show off anyway, moving closer and lifting Talia’s hand. She pivots under his arm, and he spins her twice, finally bringing her in for a slow dip.

  No, this is what it’ll be like all night. Now I’m Captain Third Wheel. I fight to unclench my jaw. “Still giving,” I mutter.

  Campbell rights Talia, and the host takes the microphone to welcome us. First, he introduces a couple who performs an impressive solo. Talia’s still watching the crowd, but Cam
pbell keeps whispering to her through the show — and is she giggling? I’m not a fan.

  At last, the DJ starts the music for everyone to dance. I don’t always like to be right, and tonight I’m sorry I am. The definition of torture: watching Talia in Campbell’s arms. I knew I was lying when I told him I didn’t care if he dated her, but I wasn’t betting on having to watch, either.

  Watch I do, whenever I remember to not ruin Maddi’s evening. That isn’t often enough, though, because I see Talia walk away from Campbell three times — coming our way? — and he pulls her back at the start of the next song. After the first hour, he finally spins Talia over to us.

  “Mind if I cut in?” Campbell grabs Maddi and twirls her away before I answer, leaving me and Talia partnerless and surprised.

  She recovers first. “Shall we?”

  Hm. Let me think. “Are you asking now?”

  “Yep.” She takes my left hand and shifts closer. Nerves buzz in my brain. It’s one thing dancing with someone else who’s clueless. A hot girl who moves like a pro is another.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit, a preemptive strike.

  “That’s okay.” She takes my right hand and places it on her back, on her shoulder blade, resting her arm on top of mine. “They forgot to mention ‘proper’ arm form in the lesson.”

  “Bet that drove you nuts.”

  A smile sneaks out, and Talia looks up at the beams on the ceiling, feigning innocence. “Let’s just say if I were teaching, there are a few people whose form I would’ve corrected.”

  “Mine?”

  She laughs. “No.” She lifts my left hand and spins underneath, pulling away until our arms are extended, then spinning back to me. I try to put my other hand back where she had it. Talia nods her approval. “What I’m trying to say is ballroom’s ruined me,” she sighs.

  I roll my eyes. I’m barely managing to keep my feet moving here. “What made you start dancing?”

  Her focus moves over my shoulder, but finally she speaks. “It was my creative activity.”

  “Oh.” Did I make fun of it when she suggested it for mine? Either way, I feel like a jerk for bringing it up.

  “It’s okay.” But as soon as she starts to reassure me, her eyes track over my shoulder again, and she tenses in my arms. Her gaze lowers to my shoes. I check our feet too. Did I do something wrong?