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

  With the chain around his hand, Elliott punches him in the mouth. Kozyrev spits blood in Elliott’s face, but Elliott doesn’t stop his advance, forcing Kozyrev back until he’s pinned against the bridge’s glass railing.

  And Elliott keeps pushing, bending him backward over the railing. I’ve only seen the inferno in Elliott’s eyes once in the years we’ve worked together. I run over and pull what’s quickly becoming my favorite trick of the night: I kick Kozyrev’s knees out from under him, bend down, and lift. Elliott drops the chain and hoists him by two handfuls of his shirt.

  Kozyrev flips heels over head, twisting in the air like a cat, grasping for the bridge railing. But he misses, and lands on his back on the lower deck railing with a wet, hollow crack. Nausea rises in my stomach. His feet dangle in space, and slowly, slowly, his weight tips until he slides into the black water.

  Instantly, the last bit of energy is sucked out of me, leaving me both jittering with the caffeine and exhausted. I sag against the glass railing. “Now how do you feel about that beard?”

  “Timofeyev can keep it.”

  I draw in a breath. Despite the smoke and steam in the air, it smells like satisfaction. “We did it.” I look to Elliott. “You did it. You were here. All the way.”

  He rubs a smear of blood off his jaw and doesn’t meet my eyes. He’s finally done the one thing he’s failed at for weeks, and I want him to know I know it. “You just shut it out of your mind.”

  “No,” he says quickly. “I didn’t. I thought about Shanna and the baby every second.”

  “But you were . . . focused.”

  “For them. I was fighting to get back to them.” He heads away from the smoldering wreckage toward the still-sort-of-pristine helm.

  I follow, and it finally clicks. I felt that way swimming for Danny, that controlled panic.

  I know I’ve been an idiot tonight, but I didn’t know I was this wrong. For weeks — months — ever? — I’ve listed Shanna under Elliott’s “Liabilities” column. Someone could get to him through her. Even by herself (okay, well, her and the baby), she’s become a danger. And somewhere inside, I promised myself I would never make the same mistake. Because on that personal level, I thought I was better off alone.

  But that was the bigger mistake. And Will could not have been more wrong.

  Elliott cranes his neck over the boat’s windshield, like he’s looking for a way to get down. Or avoiding my eyes. “I know I’ve sucked it up lately.” His voice drops further. “Sorry.”

  “You made up for it tonight. Did better than me.”

  “You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

  That isn’t strictly true. “I called you Ellie a few times.”

  I think he knows what I mean: I joined in the office joke. I wasn’t just making fun of him, I was undermining him. In some emotional way, I had already betrayed him. And maybe that was why I fought so hard to keep him here.

  “Look.” Elliott takes a deep breath. “I deserved everything I got. No, more. I know, I screwed up. You’re a big reason, or maybe the only reason, I’m here.”

  But he isn’t the only person to make mistakes. I focus on the console sink. “I shouldn’t have left you. I should’ve been there for you, too, and I almost—” I swallow around a lump in my throat that I can’t blame on the river water. “I’m sorry. I hope this doesn’t change things between us.”

  “There are things between us?” He raises an eyebrow, and I can’t tell if that expression is playing or pulling the pin on a charm-grenade.

  “Whoa, no, I mean at work, things at work—” I falter to a stop.

  Elliott flashes a gotcha smile. “I know what you mean. You made the right choice. If it’d been Shanna out there . . .”

  The tension in my back dissipates. He understands. And he’s right. I think.

  Elliott pats my shoulder. “It’s over.”

  I hope he’s right on every level: this case, his focus problem, this hellish night. I arch my back to stretch. “Yeah,” I say, “until the fuel tanks explode.” I laugh, because that’s what you do after a joke, right?

  Apparently Elliott’s worst injury was to his sense of humor. He grabs my wrist and drags me behind him on top of the console. He doesn’t let go as he slides down the front of the boat on one hip, Dukes of Hazzard style, and I manage to do the same. And I follow when he hits the deck at a run and vaults over the railing into the river.

  I wasn’t expecting to go into the drink again, and I do not want to. But Elliott isn’t letting go and at the risk of hurting us both, I guess that’s the better alternative.

  Fortunately, the fall is shorter than from the sky lounge, so I don’t have time or need to brace for impact. I burst through the surface yet again, and it’s like my muscles are sighing in resignation: we’re back in the water.

  Elliott pops up next to me, shaking the water from his hair, and I whack his arm. “You idiot! Gas doesn’t explode. Gas fumes, or a BLEVE.” And conditions are clearly wrong for a boiling liquid expanding vapor explosion.

  I’m so annoyed to be in the river again that I splash him, too.

  “Sorry.” Elliott pulls his hands above the surface for an exaggerated so-sue-me shrug. “Erring on the side of caution.”

  I hold back the “idiot” rising to my lips and we start for the port side of the boat, since the fireboat has moved on to the starboard side. Either way we’ll get to Danny.

  It doesn’t take long to see we’re not alone in the water. Kozyrev bobs a few feet in front of us, making a lot of effort with his arms. Somewhere inside, I’m glad he’s not dead. But when I check with Elliott, I purse my lips. He gives me the same look back, and we know exactly what we have to do. We change course to head for Kozyrev. We each hook an arm around one of his and tow him, ignoring his screams that he can’t feel his legs.

  When the shouting turns to protests against our intervention, I try to explain in Russian, but I don’t think the problem is a language barrier. The problem is the guy doesn’t have the vocabulary of human decency.

  He won’t get what he deserves, but maybe CSIS will get what they need. We approach the CSIS boat, and I spot Danny, now sitting in the captain’s chair (Luc and Alex will love that), his back to us. I call to him. “Little help?”

  He doesn’t hear me. Elliott, Kozyrev and I reach the side of the boat, and Elliott tries again. “Hey, Danny, little help?”

  “No, don’t!”

  Before Danny finishes his protest — does he not want us to help Kozyrev? — Alex or Luc reaches over the side. They’re back already? I raise a hand to signal him to wait while we get Kozyrev ready, but the hands grab my wrist and hold.

  Those are not Alex or Luc’s hands. I try to yank free, but I’ve got nothing left. The hands haul me out of the water and into the boat, my skirt sucking around my legs.

  And I’m once again face to face with Fyodor Timofeyev.

  The second I hit the deck, Fyodor pulls his gun and aims at Danny. Danny turns the key and opens the throttle. I slide back toward the corner of the transom. We swing a tight circle between Elliott and Kozyrev, the cabin cruiser and the fireboat, leaving them all bobbing in the wake of the nautical equivalent of peeling out.

  How did Fyodor get back to the boat?

  We leave behind the blaze, and the sounds and lights of the fireworks begin to register again. They’re still going? How long has it been? With the noise as a cover, I could bail again so easily. Like Danny, I’d rather take my chances with the river. But I’ve fought way too hard protecting Danny to ditch him now.

  Trying not to draw Fyodor’s attention, I move onto my fingers and toes, ready to make my move. I’d go for him right now if he didn’t have a gun on Danny.

  The throttle is fully open and we’re flying over the water toward the dark section of the river again. This is bad. Really bad. My stomach feels like it’s dragging the river bottom.

  I have to do something now. I shift my weight to spring into action, but somethi
ng hard digs into my ribs. Danny’s knife. I have literally brought a knife to a gunfight.

  Better than nothing. But before I can reach for it, Fyodor turns to me. Over the bang of a purple firework, he shouts in Russian. “This is all your fault!”

  “Da,” I agree. “And I bet yelling at me helps.”

  “No, but killing you both will.” Fyodor smiles, and it looks like he’s been taking jack-o’-lantern lessons from Kozyrev in the gold light of the next firework. “Starting with him.”

  “Not. Happening.” At least I think I say it out loud, though I don’t know what to do. But I will stop him, or I will die trying. Once again, not hyperbole. I will fight until the last drop of blood leaves my body to keep him from hurting Danny.

  “Oh, Zhzhyonova, this is out of your hands now.”

  A red firework explodes behind us — they’re coming faster now — but it’s not the lighting that makes Fyodor look sinister. “You thought you were so much better than me. So much smarter. Do you feel smart now?”

  If he wants to take his frustration out on me, great. Keep him talking, and he’ll talk through his anger and forget about shooting Danny. I hope.

  “You do not look as smug anymore.” Fyodor readjusts his grip on the gun.

  Is he wavering? I know of one potential nerve where I can strike at him on the same personal level where he’s attacking me now. I scramble through my memories until I hit on the name I need: his ex’s. “Is this how it went with Olga?”

  Fyodor blinks with a visible flinch in the orange light. “How do you know about her?”

  If I were three feet closer, I’d make a run for him now. Especially if I had the knife out.

  But I’m not and I don’t. So I continue with the attack I do have. “Was she smarter than you? Was she smug? She never let you forget anything. She always had to be right.”

  “What do you know about it?”

  A lot less than I plan to tell him. But I’m running out of generic guesses. “What happened? Didn’t she want you anymore? Wouldn’t she take you back?”

  I can see his Adam’s apple bob above his blood red collar. I’m getting to him.

  But then he sets his jaw and puts his finger on the trigger. I suck in a breath before he strikes back verbally. “Is that how it happened for you two tonight?”

  My mind hits a patch of black ice and goes spinning back to the scene on the locks. Regardless of what happened there, I’ve made my choice, and it’s a lot bigger commitment than Fyodor’s vodka-fueled Facebook message to his ex. I’m with Danny no matter what.

  “Unless rings are casual gifts in Canada?” Fyodor taunts over a volley of firework pops.

  “They come with a slightly different expectation than bracelets, at least.”

  His lips tighten, but before I can come up with a better tack, the roar of the engines abruptly ends. My stomach shifts with the deck. Fyodor whirls on Danny and goes back to English. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” Danny throws up defensive don’t-shoot hands. “It just cut out!”

  I start to reach for my knife, but Fyodor swings the gun back to me. I slide my hand up like I’m holding my neck. Yeah, that’s less suspicious.

  “Get the boat moving again or I shoot her.”

  “Wait.” Danny jumps to his feet, pacing across the deck. “Wait, I think—”

  Fyodor switches targets again when Danny gets closer to him, but Danny changes direction. Fyodor hesitates. The pyrotechnics pause. I get a second of distraction and dark to pull the knife, but Fyodor glances at me before I can open it. I wish Danny carried a switchblade. (Okay, not really; that’s creepy, but it’d help now.)

  Fyodor strides to the helm to try the keys. Nothing. Not even a rev.

  “Fix it or she dies!” His threat is a little hollow since he’s promised to kill us anyway. Fyodor pursues Danny across the deck. Danny turns on his heel, and Fyodor’s right behind him. They both jump in surprise.

  Danny recovers first. “I have an idea.” He pauses again, like he’s still thinking. Fyodor edges closer. I sink my thumbnail into the blade groove and pull. My mind does a super-speed mental run-through of my tactic and target: the muscles in his forearm, hand with the weapon.

  “Get it running.” Fyodor shoves the gun in Danny’s face.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Danny backs up a step. “I need your help.” He beckons Fyodor closer. Fyodor lowers his weapon and leans in.

  And Danny punches Fyodor so hard his head snaps back. Even I feel the impact, as if a shockwave hits my skeleton. Holy. Crap.

  “Don’t you ever touch her again!”

  I jerk out of the shock and sprint toward them. Fyodor stumbles backward, blood streaming from his face. I cross the last two steps toward him, ready to go for my backup plan: knife against his throat.

  But Danny isn’t done. He moves for Fyodor too. Danny lands a kick to the back of Fyodor’s knee. Fyodor falls forward. And I’m right there. Time hits the brakes.

  He’ll land on me. I can see it all, like I’m there and twenty feet away at the same time. Fyodor falling toward me. Lifting my hands to catch him. My fist clenching the knife.

  The knife blade up, the last second before impact. And I don’t move. I can’t. I can’t try.

  You have to understand: in my four years with the CIA, I have never had to take a life. My job is to save lives, and on the one occasion where I captured someone, I handed him off to experts and washed my hands.

  But at this second, I can’t breathe. Can’t move. The fireworks crescendo in a finale filling my ears, all explosions, and the light shifts to deep red.

  His weight lands on my arms and I know — I know it’s done. The knife handle hits my stomach. The blade crunches against his ribs. The jolt shocks through the knife and my arm and my body. Then the blade grates deeper, past the bone. His face is inches from mine and he’s screaming and he’s screaming and we fall.

  My back hits the hard fiberglass. The knife handle jabs my stomach. Fyodor slams on top of me and I flash back to the park. Revulsion and fear churn in my gut. But this isn’t the park. This is totally different.

  He’s not giving up. I let go of the knife handle and he scrambles away. Fyodor flips onto his back, laying across my deck chair, gaping. Now he’s not screaming.

  I can’t — I did this — I can’t just let him — I throw myself after him, grabbing for the knife now between his ribs like I can take it all back. My right hand is slick with river water or sweat or blood, and slips off the handle. My heart freezes.

  The shock in his eyes shifts through horror and straight into hate. Fyodor lifts his hand. I hesitate — will he pull the knife out? I can reach — should I — ?

  But his hand is already full. The gun. My heart hurtles double-time. I brace my right on his ribs and grab the knife with my left. Fyodor winces and cries out but takes aim at Danny.

  I have to stop him. I have to stop him. I have to stop him.

  I have no choice, and only one way to strike holding the knife like this. I plunge the blade into his neck. Still holding the handle, I use my arm for leverage to break his grip on the gun.

  Fyodor hacks and the sound scrapes and burbles out. I withdraw the knife and rock back onto the deck. The knife and gun clattering to the fiberglass behind me barely register. I can’t take my eyes off him, choking, writhing, bleeding.

  Minutes. It takes minutes to die this way. Under normal circumstances, that sounds like a very quick way to die, but to watch, to listen, to live it feels like hours. Days. Decades.

  Shock screeches in my ears. I don’t hear the fireworks bursting behind us, immersing us in red light again. After too long, I remember I have to act. He’s not armed. He’s not a threat anymore. He’s not going to make it if I don’t do something. I slap a hand over the wound.

  It’s not enough. Every heartbeat pounds under my palm. I add my other hand, but the blood keeps spurting. Danny covers my hands with one of his, the other on Fyodor’s ribs. We both push until I worr
y about Fyodor’s breathing. The fireworks pound on, blazing red on the boat’s white fiberglass until the deck is stained black with blood.

  A warm tide of nausea thaws my ice-coated stomach. I have to keep him with us. “Are you GRU? SVR?” Terrible timing, but I have to know, and maybe if I get him talking —

  Fyodor just shakes his head.

  “What about Kozyrev? Did you know he’s GRU?”

  Confusion veils his eyes, but that might be from blood loss. He coughs, making my hands slip, spraying us with blood.

  “Proshchai,” he gasps.

  It means “farewell.” It means “we’ll never meet again.”

  It means “forgive me.”

  I’m not giving up this easily. We put pressure on the wound again, but it’s not helping. The last red lights from the fireworks fade to black and Fyodor’s hacking slows. And stops.

  The only pulse I feel in my hands is mine, too strong and swift. I’m alive.

  And I killed him. The shock shutdown starts with my brain.

  I’m frozen. He’s dead and it’s my fault. He was threatening Danny, but did I have another choice?

  Danny wraps his arms around me, drags me back to my feet, to the present. There are tears on my cheeks. And for once, I don’t care.

  He tows me to the side of the boat. Finds a water bottle. Washes our hands.

  As if that will erase the memories. It doesn’t even take care of all the blood on me, I’m sure, though I don’t look for any other spatter.

  We clear the dark section of the river, and the city lights and reflections offer a little more visibility. Like I want to see Fyodor laying there, his eyes flat and dead.

  I turn away.

  “Are you all right?” When I don’t answer, Danny walks around to face me. I pull my eyebrows together and he adds, “Physically.”

  I manage a nod. “You?”

  “Yeah,” he says, but I catch the quick gaze-drop down at his hands. I take his right wrist. There’s a clean cut below his first two fingers on the palm side. He turns it over to reveal the back of those fingers with a dashed line of fresh gashes.