Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  Thirty feet from my position to the main shaft to the basement. I don’t dare look at the stinging spot on my calf. Not that I can see it in the dark.

  Focus. Keep my body spread out. Not too much strain on this claustrophobic little vent.

  I don’t bother keeping track of time, just distribute my weight over my hands and knees and drag through the dirt until I finally reach the drop. After being careful not to put too much pressure on any of the joists, it’s a little odd to wedge myself against the wall of the down shaft, toes braced on one side, back on the other. Down.

  And yes, since I know you’re wondering, my shoes may or may not be specially equipped for extra traction, but no, I can’t say any more. Some things are just classified.

  I lower one foot at a time, but with the way I have to keep my knees bent practically into my face, I can only move a couple inches. Within seconds, my legs are trembling with the excess energy and exertion.

  “I take it you made it out?” Elliott asks in my ear.

  I want to snap out a witty comeback, but he did come through in time, barely — and I can’t think of anything. “Of the apartment, yes,” I whisper. “The building? Working on it.”

  “How long?”

  Craning my neck, I peer into the dark. Have I made it feet or inches? “Let you know.”

  I press my arms against the metal flashing behind me to take the pressure off my back. I wish I could do a controlled slide, but that would make more noise. Not an option.

  It’s twenty minutes before I get to the bottom. The basement doesn’t hold a laundry room, so tenants don’t have a reason to hang out here. I don’t have to be quite as cautious. I climb out of the vent and replace it, doing my best to ignore my aching back and rubbery legs. “Okay. T-minus six to rendezvous, HAMMER.”

  For the last time, I dip into my left belt pack for two sheets of ultra-fine-and-yet-not-sheer fabric. (Now that’s a top-secret weave.) The sheets can compress down to two cubic inches, but unfolded and wrapped the right way, they can pass for the traditional Pakistani long tunic and headscarf, kameez and dupatta. Skin color–changing gloves and a quick swipe of our very special makeup should cover my fair complexion, and my hair’s already dark enough to pass, but just in case, I creep out the back.

  I have to hoof it to make our meeting point. Not that I want to be hanging around this part of town after dark. Ottawa’s generally a safe place (a lot safer than DC, I’ll tell you that), but like any city there are places you don’t go unless you’re looking for trouble.

  My planned route is mostly deserted, however, and circuitous enough that I’m sure nobody’s following me. I come up behind the gray van with a plumber’s insignia and look into the side mirror. Elliott catches my eye. I rearrange my dupatta to signal the all clear, and he shifts from park to drive with one working white reverse light flashing.

  We’re clear. It’s over. At last, I can hop in the back of the van and breathe easy. The cool, sweet satisfaction of a job well done — or at least survived — doesn’t hit my bloodstream until I’ve scrubbed off the makeup and we’re in line at a 24-hour Tim Hortons (like a Dunkin’ Donuts), the first stop on our surveillance detection run.

  We did it. It was close, but even if no one can ever know, we’re that much safer, that much closer to stopping Lashkar-e-Omar. I casually scan the late-night crowd, but the release of relief I’m waiting for, the last hit of that satisfaction, doesn’t come.

  Because I almost didn’t make it out. And Elliott and I both know why. The tension tightens along my spine.

  “Two medium Double-Doubles, please.” He orders two coffees with his I’m-so-charming-you-should-throw-in-something-for-free smile.

  “You pulling an all-nighter?” My question’s more of a challenge.

  He turns that smile on me. “No, I wanted to get you something.”

  I just stare back. He knows I don’t even pretend to do coffee (Mormon), and even if I did, does he think sixteen ounces of caffeine would make everything all better?

  He gives me elaborately casual elbow nudge. I’m taken and Elliott’s married, but the guy’s got tall, dark and handsome down to a T, with broad shoulders and blue eyes to match. And he knows it. He bats those baby blues at me. “You know you can’t say no to these eyes.”

  Again, I shoot him a cool glare. Normally, my deadpan response would be part of our banter, but tonight I’m not joking.

  “Okay.” Elliott turns back to the clerk. “One medium Double-Double and a donut.” He winks at me, though we both know I won’t eat.

  Against my will, I take the maple dip donut. I had to leave before dinner with my boyfriend for this op, but now I’m not hungry. If there’s anyone I can rely on at work, it’s Elliott. We’ve worked together so much, we anticipate one another’s steps and strategies and even sentences. Despite the teasing, sometimes I wonder if he remembers I’m a woman, with how long I’ve been in the boys’ club — though now I remember how much he looks the part of a superspy.

  But tonight he was less James Bond, more Maxwell Smart. Once we’re back in the van, I pick at my donut's maple glaze. “Five seconds are missing.”

  Normally, Elliott would whip out another of those killer grins and aim it at me. Tonight, he sips his coffee. “Sorry.” The charm switch is off, those baby blues fixed on the road. There’s no traffic, so it’s not like driving requires his full attention. I wait for him to continue. “I turned away — just for a minute. When I looked back, the screen door had moved. I backed up the tape and saw them.”

  “You were supposed to spot. Why didn’t you?”

  He’s still not looking at me. “Shanna texted about contractions. False alarm.”

  He was on the phone with his wife. His wife who I do not kid about. Who’s due any minute with their first. Who’s justifiably jealous of the time I spend with her husband.

  I’d like to yell at him. I really would. Those five seconds could have cost me my life. But they didn’t, and no matter what I do now, he’s going to get it when Will reviews the recordings.

  The elephant has struck again.

  Once we finish our verbal debrief, Will sends us to our desks and our post-action reports. But I only make it halfway there before Will takes my elbow. “Write it up tomorrow.”

  We generally turn in reports ASAP, and I was so close to a Saturday off, so I already don’t like this. But when Will casts a meaningful I-want-to-do-this-alone glance at Elliott’s back for my benefit, I know it’s not optional and not good. Elliott’s my best friend, but all I can do is let him salvage an ounce of his dignity and leave.

  I pop by the grocery store and a few more dull errands as a surveillance detection run. Instead of evading potential threats and tipping them off that you have something worth pursuing, we identify and then bore them. Tonight, I’m black (Agency-speak for clear).

  I head to my bachelor — Canadian for studio apartment, not an actual single man — and my pulse kicks into a higher gear. One last obstacle before I can feel safe.

  In the hall, I close my eyes for one second, relishing the adrenaline, letting it sharpen my senses. I set down my groceries and move to the hinge side of my door. In a single motion, I unlock the door and fling it open.

  If an intruder tried hiding back there, they’d get a nasty surprise. But as usual, my door hits the doorstop and bounces back, rattling.

  That’s just the beginning of the inspection.

  Don’t get me wrong. I realize being a CIA operations officer in Ottawa, of all places, is the bottom rung of the ladder in terms of detecting threats and being in danger. But when the options are be careful or be killed, we get “careful” drummed into our skulls pretty hard.

  I’m good at careful.

  Stress draws my shoulders up and I make an effort to lower them. A little fear keeps you safe. A lot of fear makes you crazy.

  My back to the wall, I begin a circuit of my apartment. A flick opens the cabinets. Only my cleaning products. I move from the kitchenette to
the living room/bedroom. My strategic mess — six socks, a skirt and three shoes, placed just so — appears intact.

  The bathroom door is still ajar, the shower curtain still drawn back when I check inside. The closet is empty. The silver ball bearing balanced against my window, set to roll out if anyone opens it, sits in its spot.

  I puff out a breath and turn off high-alert mode. We’re good. One advantage to living in the world’s smallest bachelor: the sweep is quick. I fetch my groceries and lock up.

  Okay, so I’ve never had someone break into my apartment. But I don’t know if a spy can be too paranoid.

  If you can, I might be getting close. I can’t eat unless I watch every step of the prep or make it myself. I can’t enter a room without scanning for escapes. I can’t relax until I’ve scoured my place for intruders.

  Professional paranoia saves lives.

  On the downside, living with the paranoia? Tough.

  I throw my salad together and text my boyfriend Danny. Believe it or not, you can date while you’re overseas with the CIA. If Canada counts as overseas.

  Danny calls five minutes into my salad. I answer with “Sorry to ditch you earlier.” We were supposed to bug the Pakistanis tomorrow, but they broke routine, and I had to break a date.

  “I know. Everything go okay?”

  “Brutal.” I settle on my bed and glance at the bandage on my calf. The cut’s superficial, but the brush with our targets was way too close.

  I can’t tell Danny the truth. For all he knows, my demanding job is with Keeler Tate & Associates, Barristers and Solicitors.

  Danny commiserates, though I can’t imagine aerospace engineering is all that stressful. I assure him I’ll live to litigate another day.

  “We’re still on for the morning, right?” he asks.

  My report shouldn’t take long. “I have a little work to finish up, but I should be good by nine thirty. Meet you there?”

  “Sure. Just don’t be late. We’ve got a lot to see.” He gives directions to a bike rental place under the Plaza Bridge in front of the Château Laurier. We rode the Ottawa River bike trails there for our first date, and I don’t bother trying to stop my silly grin. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’s definitely a romantic at heart.

  In fact, Danny’s absolutely adorable. It’s one of the reasons why, in spite of all my cultivated paranoia, I absolutely love him. And I can’t wait to see what he’s planned.

  Of course, I have to wait. The next morning, I march into work. You never stroll into the CIA, even if the name on the door is Keeler Tate & Assoc., even if you won’t be long, even if it’s Saturday. The weekend receptionist barely acknowledges me.

  I charge through my report, almost done when Will walks in. I look up to nod a greeting, and then I see it — Elliott’s desk. It’s clean.

  That’s bad. A lead weight sinks into my lungs.

  I have to do something. I have to fight.

  Will stops at his office door and beckons me to follow. He sits me down in front of his desk. “Talia,” he says. The hollow tone of his voice, the telling slump of his shoulders, the glance away, and I know. Elliott’s not coming back.

  Tension tweaks the bruises on my back. I can’t let this happen. I won’t.

  “After last night,” Will starts the let-her-down-gently explanation, “it was time.”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal. We got out okay. It was a little close — ”

  Now he breaks in, one eyebrow propped up an inch. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe it was your life on the line?”

  “Exactly. I made it out okay. There’s not a scratch — ” I stop myself, but it’s too late.

  Will fires an oh-really? look at the Band-Aids peeking out of my capris. “Elliott’s distracted. His head isn’t in the game — last night it wasn’t even in the ballpark. How many close calls can we take before someone dies?”

  He’s right, I’m wrong, and we both know it. Heat blooms across my face. Will sees the weakness and attacks. “Every time he goes out, he’s putting someone in danger, himself, his agents, you.”

  “Come on, we can’t put all the blame on Elliott. I could’ve moved faster.”

  “‘Flash’ Reynolds now, are we?”

  “Hey, we all know Shanna’s his Achilles’ heel right now. And that’ll change soon.” I hope.

  “‘Soon,’” Will repeats. “You want to bank on ‘soon’?”

  “I want to bank on Elliott.”

  Will laugh-snorts. “Account’s overdrawn, and he keeps kiting checks.”

  “Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “Not this many.” His voice is too quiet, his sigh too soft. “It’s a miracle we’ve lasted this long.”

  I know. I know even in Ottawa, not exactly a Shanghai or Moscow (heck, not even a Toronto), there are people who’d kill us without a thought. I know because the Canadians are kind enough to turn over that information to us on a weekly basis.

  And I know because the Elephant has already come close to losing one of our own. I see it in Will’s eyes. Last night was Elliott’s last shot.

  The argument is over. “Can I finish my report?”

  Will jerks a thumb at the door. The report needs a quick proofread before I submit it, but afterward I’m not ready to leave — not ready to face that empty desk — not ready for Elliott to be gone.

  The recordings from last night’s bug are already on my computer. Breaking in was my job partially because I’m the resident Urdu linguist, too: Urdu, Russian, Finnish, and passable French, as long as we stick to the weather.

  I pull up our transcription program — yes, classified — and I cue up the recording. The computer pops up with a couple of guesses at the words under the transcript waveform.

  About ten seconds in, I’m totally lost. I’m no native, but I’ve put in a lot of hours transcribing conversations like these. Like the computer, I catch a word here or there, enough to make me feel like I’m missing something important. Or just everything. This sounds like gibberish.

  On the third pass, it hits me: this isn’t Urdu, what they’d use with their neighbors. It’s a Pakistani regional language, maybe Pashto, maybe Punjabi, what they’d use among themselves. Whatever it is, I definitely don’t speak it, and my work and intel and case will go to someone who does, either at the embassy or Langley. Great.

  I pull off my headphones and rub my back between the bruises. I’m here to file a basic report, not receive notice my favorite fellow operative is about to be shunted off to DC for remedial training or worse.

  Maybe there’s still something I can do. I check the clock on my computer. Five minutes until I need to leave to meet Danny. Enough time to talk to Will, to keep Elliott from getting fired, to fight.

  Will doesn’t answer his door. I know it’s mostly a tactic to give him the upper hand when he doesn’t want to hear what’s coming. This time, he’s probably right.

  Finally, he opens the door. “Any luck with the intel?” he asks, though he knows I couldn’t find something that quickly.

  “I want to talk about Elliott.”

  Will’s sigh is hardly surprised. “Now who's he going to hurt?”

  The cut on my calf twinges at the reminder, but I ignore it. “Me. Just me. I can handle it.”

  He gives me a slow, patient blink, like I throw myself on my sword every week.

  I don’t. “Elliott’s saved me, or our team, so many more times than he’s put us in danger.”

  “You think this is a numbers game? The law of averages?”

  I can feel myself shrinking because I know he’s right. But I want him to be wrong. “I will go over every mission we’ve run to prove it. He is a better operative than last night.”

  “Are you willing to stake your life?”

  In most companies, that phrase is hyperbole. Not at the CIA. “Yes.”

  Will opens the door wider, shrugs out of his jacket and heads over to toss it on his desk. “All right. Prove it.”

  A thought tugs a
t the back of my mind. I need to leave if I want to meet Danny, but as much fun as a bike ride would be, this second, Elliott’s career takes precedence. He could be on a plane back to Langley or out of a job in hours. I’m the only one who can save him, and the man’s about to become a father.

  I step into Will’s office.

  “Start at the beginning,” he says.

  “With Lashkar-e-Omar?”

  “With Elliott. Every op. In detail.”

  A little sliver of shock shoots into my heart. Everything for the last two years? So much for seeing Danny today.

  It feels like hours (though I think it’s only one) before we finish slogging through the files. Not just the case material, but how Elliott acted, how his decision making skills were, how sound his judgment was. Every call, every question, every calculation, every mishap.

  I kill the last report on Will’s computer and look over the contents of the folder. It’s all there, the evidence that only in the last month has he taken this weird, sudden nosedive. “Once Shanna has the baby,” I tell Will, “he’ll get over the jitters and get back to work.”

  This meeting was about convincing Will, but I’ve convinced myself, too. It’ll be okay. It has to be.

  Will looks over the monitor for the last time. “One condition.”

  My lungs refuse to work.

  “Any mistake he makes? Falls on you. You got that?”

  This type of entanglement is exactly what you want to avoid. But Elliott is more than a friend or a coworker. We have the camaraderie that usually only comes from enduring the Farm’s paramilitary training together. “He’s saved my life, and I’ve saved his, and I know he can save mine again. I got it.”

  Will rubs the gray streak starting at his temple. “Talia, I’m going to give you one last chance to back out. You are better off alone.”

  Worry cat-steps into my stomach and I fight against the sickening twist. No one in the Agency, especially not Will, would ever say that. Despite the image as lone rangers, we all know you never, never go it alone. When you do, people die.

  Which means what Will’s really saying — I don’t dare put it into words.