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

  And then I don’t believe it.

  There’s nobody there. The door to the galley and dining area is closed, and we are completely, embarrassingly alone.

  I drop out of my attack posture, trying to shake off the excess adrenaline and refocus. This isn’t a setback; it’s a second chance. There’s got to be something in here that can help. “All right.” I keep my voice to the same whisper. “Inventory.”

  I have no idea if the wall between the bedroom and kitchen is soundproofed, but at least the portable DVD player on the bed cranked to full volume will mask a little of our noise. Two overhead storage compartments made of rosewood flank the bedroom ceiling, and Danny and Elliott start the raid.

  I would help, but both of them have a better vantage point. I.E. they’re taller than me. I drop to the floor to check under the bed skirt. The bed frame is solid. Unless they stow an extra 2×4 under here, this isn’t going to do us a whole lot of good. I rock back to my knees.

  And then I see the shadow under the door. My stomach drops, leaving a cold void in its place. “Incoming!” I whisper-shout, then shove Elliott’s and Danny’s haul out of sight.

  Elliott dives around the bed. I jump up and herd Danny behind the door, behind me. His hands land on my shoulders, tensed, ready, one small gesture of protection.

  Maybe — ? No. No time to think about that.

  We fall silent except for my pulse. And then I hear the whistling: one of the songs I was humming earlier. The Finnish one.

  The door swings open, heading for us. I push backward, keeping us clear, trapping Danny against the wall. The door stops half an inch from my face. The henchman walks in. My heartbeat skyrockets.

  He hasn’t seen us. Yet.

  My ribs freeze. We’re not even hiding. But he keeps his head bowed over the icepack on his neck, a man on a mission. Before he reaches the middle of the room, I lunge at him. My tackle catches him in the middle of the back, and he falls face first onto the bed. Elliott’s there in a heartbeat, dragging him to the floor. The icepack slips to the ground. Elliott clamps a hand over his lips, I kneel on his thighs and we have the guy pinned.

  “Um, whoa?” Danny’s whisper barely carries to me. I turn to him but before I can tell him to close the door, he does. The lackey isn’t fighting. I make sure my skirt isn’t hiked up, then signal Elliott to uncover his mouth. “Outs.” The guy groans.

  Outs? What — and then I get it. Not outs. Auts. Ouch. And that’s not Russian. I scrutinize him. “Sinä ja . . . ?” I fill in the last lines of the Finnish song he was just whistling.

  “Minä.” Me. You and me.

  Could be a lucky guess. I switch to Russian. “Say ‘steamroller.’”

  If I’m right, he’ll understand what I’m asking.

  His eyes narrow for a second — I’ve given away that Russian card again — but he answers with the nearly-impossible-for-non-natives-to-pronounce shibboleth. “Höyryjyrä.”

  I can’t believe this. This guy speaks my this-will-never-come-in-handy-in-the-real-world, obscure first language. Natively, or nearly so. But I have to check. “How do you know Finnish?”

  “My grandparents raised me. Finnish Karelians.”

  I eye him, and he frowns at me and Elliott holding him against the carpet. He’s still not resisting.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  “Your help. I want Mikhail Kozyrev dead.”

  I lean closer, daring him to answer. “Why?”

  “I work for him to pay off a debt. He’s holding my family over my head.”

  Just like he’s doing with us. Elliott is watching me, I know, waiting for the intel, but I can’t read this guy. He’s leveling me with a very calm, even gaze, but let me tell you, if you don’t know Russian criminals, you don’t know criminals. There’s nothing they won’t do, nothing they won’t say and no one they won’t destroy.

  The old Russian thieves’ code required them to answer truthfully, without shame, if they were ever asked directly about their crimes. I fumble for the key question they use in their secret language. “Who are you for life?”

  “Ivan Pavlovich Morozov.” His eyes don’t leave mine.

  He’s supposed to say Vor, thief. But I ask again: “Are you a Vor?”

  “Nyet.”

  What’s the other question they use? There’s an untouchable caste in the prison system where Russian criminals feel they belong, and they’re supposed to identify themselves by a special phrase.

  Then it comes to me. “Do you have problems in this life?”

  “Not that kind. They are threatening my children.” I watch his whole body. I don’t know him as well as I do Danny and we’re kind of restraining his body language, but I’m inclined to believe him.

  I gesture with my eyes for Elliott to get off. He stretches his neck like he didn’t hear me right.

  “Let him up.”

  “What?” Danny leans over the bed, his whisper urgent and incredulous. “No.”

  Elliott barely acknowledges his protest. “You’re going to give your boyfriend trust issues.”

  “Yeah, like that’s his biggest problem now.”

  “Still here,” Danny reminds us.

  We glance at him and turn back to our conversation. I jerk my head for Elliott to get off Ivan again. “He’s not a criminal; he’s working off a debt. They’re threatening his family.”

  “You believe him?”

  I shrug one shoulder. With that, Elliott moves. “Seriously?” Danny says.

  “Trust issues.” Elliott, again with the helpful commentary.

  I silence him with a sharp glare and look to Danny. “Roll with us here, okay? Stand look out. Watch for a shadow under the door.”

  To his credit, he takes a knee by the door and doesn’t grumble about the nothing job beyond a little headshake.

  This is really, truly bizarre. But I turn back to Elliott like we always work this way. We conduct a superfast conference to figure out our intel priorities, and then I relay the questions. Ivan verifies Danny’s info. There are six men including Ivan. He lists the others off: Volkov, asleep at the dining table, Smirnov and Sergeyev on the sky lounge, and Kozyrev and “what’s-his-name” drinking on the bridge.

  Which wasn’t on our walk-through. “Where’s that?”

  Ivan points at the door, sending a brief bolt of panic down my spine. Elliott and I whirl around, but there’s no one there. He’s only giving directions. He traces a route in the air: out of the cabin and up a flight of stairs. Oh great. They’ll be able to hear and maybe even watch us coming the whole time. Exactly the kind of approach I want when we’re already outmanned and outgunned.

  “Is there another way up there?”

  “No.”

  Elliott and I silently confer again. We both know we don’t have a choice. We have to go in. So we’ll get what we can from him now. “Is anyone weak or hurt?”

  “Volkov’s nose and finger, and Kozyrev has a limp he did not have before.”

  That much we knew. “Any vulnerabilities?”

  “It is dark” is the best he’s got.

  With killer instincts like these, it’s little wonder they haven’t armed him. Our strategic advantage is quickly disappearing. I check with Elliott one more time. “Weapons?”

  “Guns. Three, perhaps more. He wouldn’t have me carry one.”

  Of course not. “How about Volkov?”

  Ivan scowls like I’m stupid. “He has a broken finger. Why would they give him a gun?”

  Right. When would it ever be that easy? “Give us something to work with.”

  “I have given you all I have.”

  “All right, come on.” I have Ivan follow me in the bathroom. Elliott gets what I’m going for. Danny — I don’t check.

  Ivan watches us with round eyes. “What are we doing?”

  “Giving you plausible deniability. Just in case we don’t come out on top.”

  In the bathroom, the words form an ominous echo. I said it, the thing we’ve al
l worried and haven’t dared to even think. We might not come back this time.

  Ivan keeps wringing his hands. “Who did you say you work for?”

  I huff out one syllable of a laugh. “Buddy, right now we work for Let’s Not Die, Inc.”

  Worry still etches lines around his eyes, but he nods. Elliott and Ivan put the door hinges back in place, trapping him. He maintains his stoic concern, and we return to the bedroom. At the very least, we won’t have him on our consciences.

  “What the heck?” Danny points at the bathroom door.

  “Kozyrev’s using him. Consider him neutralized.”

  “Neutralized? He’s not even going to help us?”

  I don’t think the guy’s lying, but I’m not about to trust him that far. “We depend on one another.” I check our triangle. “Right?”

  Danny avoids my gaze, but nods. I pretend to not notice the annoyance radiating from every tensed muscle in his face, and I riffle through the finds on the bedspread. Two extra sets of bed linens and a couple life vests. Was that all we had?

  Elliott checks his compartment one more time and produces a thick hank of nylon rope. That’s a little better. I toss it to Danny at the door. He catches it without a sound — but something in the kitchen bump-thumps.

  We all jump. The air’s too heavy to breathe for half a second. But nothing else happens. I signal for Danny to cut (finger scissors) two (two fingers) three-foot lengths (hold up my hands that far apart). He pulls out his knife.

  Elliott moves to finish the interrupted sweep of Danny’s compartment and comes up with three pairs of foam earplugs, which may or may not be used, and a set of Sharpie markers.

  The tiniest inkling of a plan begins to tickle my mind, and I turn to Danny. “Any change in there?” I eye the galley.

  “No,” he mouths.

  I use the Sharpies to motion for Elliott to follow me and we both join Danny by the door. “I have an idea. Kind of a stopgap, but it’s something.”

  Danny leans forward, closing our circle, but there’s something more in the gesture, something more behind his fierce focus. I’m involving him, and he’s grateful not to be excluded.

  And like an idiot, I turn to Elliott first. “Which finger did you break?”

  He wiggles his right index finger. Good. Won’t have to touch it for the Kubotan grip.

  “Okay, well, that guy is asleep at the table. You haven’t heard anybody in there, right?”

  Danny shakes his head.

  “Good. Can you give Elliott the pieces of rope and cut a longer one?”

  He obeys, jaw set. I wish I could explain why I keep depending on Elliott and not him for the real work, why I need Danny to stay back, why we aren’t running or swimming for our lives.

  But I don’t know how to say it.

  At least skulking around in here has one advantage: it really precludes conversation. Careful to keep quiet, I open the package of Sharpies and hook two on the collar of my dress. Anything can be a weapon.

  Once Danny’s done cutting the rope, I signal for him to give me the knife, and he does without hesitation. He’s suddenly taking this situation well. I go back to the bed and cut a slit in the edge of an extra sheet, then rip it, again keeping it quiet. I slice the long strip in half, give those to Elliott, and return Danny’s knife.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  Danny noiselessly clambers to his feet. This time, I take point. I think Elliott knows where I’m going with this, but it’s my plan. The visualizations run through my mind in fast-forward, each repetition picking up the pace of my pulse.

  Before I start the final mental countdown, I turn back to Danny one last time. “We’re going in silent. Our target is asleep and we’d like to keep him that way until the last second.”

  He nods again, his eyes forward. I turn around and ease the door open. My ears hum with my heartbeat.

  A lone figure hunches over the table, asleep on one bent arm. His other arm’s in front of him, a pack of ice on the broken bone.

  I look beyond him to the door out of the cabin. Open, but for now, we’ll want it shut.

  “Danny,” I barely breathe. He leans down to listen, close enough my mental run-throughs switch to leaning those last few inches and kissing him like we have so many times.

  But the corners of his lips turn down at my silence. Focus, I tell myself. And then I tell Danny, “Lock the door and tie it shut.”

  I expect him to hop on board like he has for the last few minutes, but his eyebrows leap up an inch. “What? Why don’t we make a swim for it? They’ll never find us in the dark.”

  What do I say? How can I tell him we have more work to do here, when Fyodor has already threatened to “eliminate the competition”?

  The competition. Fyodor has something up his sleeve that has to do with aerospace, and it isn’t the business agreements he outlined over dinner tonight. After his gloating that we don’t know what’s really going on here, I have to assume it’s something a lot more sinister.

  “You can make a run for it — swim, whatever. But Elliott and I have to finish this.”

  Danny sets his jaw and keeps his eyes on me. “Then I’m with you.”

  The worry steals in so fast I almost don’t notice the undercurrent of relief. But we have work to do now. I creep into the kitchen, rolling my bare feet exaggeratedly, and hoping Danny takes the hint. He does, following quietly. Elliott’s similarly silent.

  Once we reach the table, I let Danny pass me. I ready my Sharpies, holding one across my palm by my thumb and pinky, and the other in a stabbing grip. Danny slides the glass door shut and starts to tie the handle to a wall-mounted handrail.

  Volkov stirs slightly at the noise. I look to Elliott to sync a silent countdown once again.

  Three. Two. My lungs shut down.

  I slip my thumb and pinky under Volkov’s on his injured right, aboiding the icepack to leverage the Sharpie across the back of his swollen hand. He starts a sharp gasp. Before he sits up, I pin him down, jamming the other Sharpie against his neck vertebrae.

  Volkov opens his mouth wider to scream, but Elliott stuffs in a wad of the sheet first. I lean down to whisper in his ear. “Dobroye utro, dorogaya.” Good morning, darling.

  He reaches for me with his other hand, but Elliott’s there to grab his arm. I hold my Kubotan grip (okay, I tighten it a bit) and wrench his arm behind his back. Elliott lashes his wrists together, then moves to get his ankles, too. I release Volkov’s neck long enough for Elliott to tie the other sheet strip around his face.

  Once he’s good and gagged, I sheath my Sharpies in my asymmetric collar. Volkov’s still protesting, but it’s fairly muffled. I don’t see why he’s complaining. Neither of us touched his broken finger or bruised nose. We’re not cruel.

  We check the guy’s suit pockets, but he doesn’t have anything useful: a wallet (Volkov is apparently his real name), cigarettes (without a lighter again), tissues. We toss the meager finds on the table next to the discarded bag of ice.

  Danny’s suddenly at my shoulder again. By an unspoken signal, Elliott and Danny lift Volkov — who’s not a small guy, by the way — and haul him into the bedroom.

  Two down, four to go.

  Like it’s that simple.

  No, it’s a lot more complex than that, because two of those four have guns, and at least one of them has information we need.

  A kettle on the stove starts up a billow of steam. I’ve definitely had enough of that. I cross the room to turn the tiny glass stove burner down a notch. Who’s expecting this tea? I check; the curtain is open. I stride back to the door to give us that one bit of shielding, and hit the rear deck lights. There. Now we’ll be able to see them coming.

  I glance at the handle to make sure it’s secure. The rope is a tangle that hardly looks sturdy. Geez — the guy is an Eagle Scout. It’s been a while, but I thought he’d be able to manage a simple square knot.

  Elliott and Danny return and unload the stuff from the bedroom on the table. />
  “Danny, what the heck kind of knot is that?” I ask.

  “A weaver’s knot?”

  I can’t stop my little head-jut of disbelief.

  “It’s better. Stronger.”

  Well, I guess he’s the Eagle Scout. I’ll take his word for it. I look from Elliott to Danny, and this time I don’t have to say it. We all turn for separate corners and start raiding every cabinet we can find. Inventory.

  Within three minutes, our total haul includes the rest of the rope, some snacks, more life vests (hooray, we can lash together our own raft. Not.), a roll of duct tape (nice), enough paper goods to host half of CSIS (working on the invitations), two single-use safety flares (almost zero weapons potential in real life) and a good array of cutlery (so we can all bring knives to a gunfight).

  Despite what I told Fyodor and Kozyrev, I’m not hungry, but I open the pretzels anyway. Violating my food rules is worth it to settle my stomach and my nerves.

  Elliott asks the question we’re all thinking, but none of us can answer. “How long do we have before they get down here?”

  Well, I can answer: no matter how much time we have before they check on us, it’s not long enough unless we can conjure up a weapon.

  Episodes of MythBusters notwithstanding, duct tape does not make a great weapon, aside from a bludgeon. And even then, it’s only moderately good. I stand between Elliott and Danny and we survey our less-than-stellar haul.

  “So.” Elliott claps once. “Four on three, huh?”

  “Can I suggest something?” Danny asks

  I turn to him. If it’s swimming for safety again — the course of action for any sane, reasonable person with no greater responsibility than the average citizen — I really don’t know what to say.

  “There might be a remote shut-off system.”

  Now that’s something we can work with. “Like what?”

  “Well, my parents have this Internet and cell phone system on their boat — ”

  “Your parents have a boat?” Elliott interrupts.

  “Not like this, but yeah. Their system monitors the boat, and it can remotely control a copy things. Like the kill switch.”

  Perfect. If we can shut down the engine, we’ll buy ourselves time to figure out what Fyodor and Kozyrev are trying to pull here, and stop them — and be able to get home. “How do we access the system?”