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

  “Teeth.” I show him a matching white scar that I’ve never explained to him on my right knuckles, two dashes, souvenirs of the one and only time I’ve had to resort to a fistfight. (Pure luck. The guy never landed a punch. It could be worse: a friend from the Farm got hit trying to break up a fight on her first mission; crushed her eye socket.)

  We have to get back. We have to take Fyodor’s body back. I look up the river, but we’ve rounded a bend and can’t see Kozyrev’s boat. “Should I try to radio for help?”

  “Hm?”

  “The boat? The engines?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Danny pulls a key on a yellow lanyard from his pocket. “Emergency shut off.”

  That same key Alex tossed to Luc when the boat wouldn’t start last night. I can’t decide whether stalling the boat or the sucker punch is Danny’s pièce de résistance. But for once, my first thought of reward or celebration or whatever isn’t a kiss.

  We broke up, and after all this, we’re not exactly talking reconciliation. We killed someone. I want this night to end.

  Following Danny’s instructions, I replace the emergency overboard shut off key, turn the main ignition and steer us back up the river.

  Now it’s all over.

  Memories and nightmares tangle together. Swimming against the current. Slipping under the surface. Cleaning Danny’s cuts and closing them with the medical equivalent of super glue. Blood on his hands, on mine. Blood that won’t wash away.

  A hand on my shoulder drags me back into the waking world, and my first impulse is to check my palms. I don’t understand. They’re clean.

  Okay, Lady Macbeth. Now I’m not just professionally paranoid. I’m completely, certifiably crazy.

  Then the pain hits: I feel like I’ve been broadsided by a truck. A truck that can also break your heart. I look up from the empty CSIS desk I’ve borrowed for my post-paperwork nap. The windows are still dark. Luc’s standing over me. “Elliott called for you.”

  “What?” My voice is thick with sleep and the aftereffects of the river.

  “He made it. They named her Celine Talia Monteith.”

  My bruised heart melts a little. He never told me they were thinking — or maybe they weren’t thinking of it before tonight. But still: pretty much the best thank you ever.

  “Are you ready to go home?” Luc interrupts my thoughts.

  “Waiting for Danny.” As a civilian, he has to endure very different processing. Nothing like what Kozyrev and his four goons are going through, but not where you want to be after the worst night of your life.

  Luc points across the room. Danny’s halfway to the door. Did he walk past me already? I jump to my feet (and one’s asleep and I was so tired I didn’t think about, you know, finding a pair of actual shoes to borrow) and half-limp after him. Fortunately, Alex, who’s escorting Danny, sees me and stops him.

  I don’t know if Alex knows who Danny is, unless that came out during the interview, but I hope at the very least he’ll get the hint of me waiting here for hours.

  Alex holds out a hand to Danny, now dressed in a CSIS polo shirt, and he hesitates, but finally fishes the USB drive from his suit pants pocket. I’m a little surprised he still has it, but then again, it’s not like it would have floated away.

  Alex nods a thank you to Danny and turns to me, eyeing the CSIS polo they let me buy from the shop downstairs to throw over my thrashed dress. “You know you’re not supposed to wear those out and about.”

  I glare my answer.

  “So . . . need a ride?” Alex’s tone is as much of an apology as I’ll get.

  And I’ll take it. “Sure,” I say, like it’s all casual, like I’m not practically running after them. But with Danny and Alex? A single drop of dread sinks in my stomach. Why couldn’t they shunt me off with some agent without a name or face or ears, so I can talk to Danny without Alex for an audience?

  But I don’t have that choice. “Let’s go.”

  Danny and I both sit in the back of the car, but the fifteen minute drive isn’t exactly the best time to define the relationship (slash beg him to take me back), and it’s really not a spectator sport. We pull up to my building. And sit there. Time to go. Danny’s staring at his hands.

  I check mine, again surprised to find them clean. Is he thinking about the blood?

  “Can I come in?” he says. He says it.

  I want to say yes. Of course I do. Somehow my heart musters a spark of hope, but after a night like that? We’re both too vulnerable to trust ourselves to be alone, especially in my apartment, where practically the only place to sit is my bed. “I don’t know if that’s a great idea.”

  “Well, can we talk?” His eyes stay on his hands.

  Here? With Alex? Yay. “Hey, Alex, know anywhere good for an early breakfast?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “Great. Go on, driver.” I tap the back of his headrest.

  “You people,” Alex mutters. But he pulls back into traffic. Okay, it’s not 5 AM yet. There’s no traffic.

  He drives us past the Château, but I can’t bear to look up. Alex spots me a couple toonies and lets us out a few blocks further at a Tim Hortons. Yeah, I don’t think they’re going to seat us in Wilfrid’s wearing polos over eau de la rivière des Outaouais (that’s eau de Ottawa River) and . . . yeah. We, or at least I, look rough.

  But no comment on how we’re dressed among the morning’s first customers in Tim Hortons. While we stand in line, Danny doesn’t say anything. While we wait for our food, Danny doesn’t say anything. While we eat our oatmeal, Danny doesn’t say anything, staring out the window with his chin in his hand. I guess I’m glad not to be alone, too, but this wasn’t what I was hoping for when he didn’t want me to leave.

  I can’t help but point that out. “You’re very quiet for someone who wants to talk.”

  “Guess I’m kind of shaken up by all this.”

  I’ve pushed myself further than I’ve ever gone tonight, and my bravery is completely worn out. I have nothing left to dare ask what “all this” entails, because it could be anything. Breaking up with me seems like a lame thing to be this upset over when you saw a man die.

  “Sorry.” He straightens in his chair. “I’m sure I look totally awesome right now, since this is all a day’s work for you.”

  “Are you kidding? That was like a week’s work in one night. After a week and a half’s worth packed into the last four days.”

  “Long week for me too” is all he says.

  Yeah, let’s see: planning and working up the courage necessary for three proposals to a girl who never wants to get married, and failing every single time? A very different kind of stress, but not one I envy.

  Danny shakes his head slowly, stirring his oatmeal. “And seeing someone die, being glad someone’s dead — obviously I’m new at this.”

  I seriously consider reaching across the table for his hand, but I’m not sure we want to reunite over PTSD. I turn to the window before I speak. “My first.”

  He doesn’t respond until I look back. “I’m sorry.”

  I bow my head. I think we both understand: we did what we had to. As much as it sucks and we wish it could’ve been different, it was necessary. Now we just have to deal.

  And I guess that same line of thought applies to more than one of tonight’s many low points. Danny did what he had to, too. And now I have to deal.

  Maybe I put too much sugar on my oatmeal, but now I don’t want it. By silent accord, we give up on our half-eaten breakfasts and leave. I try to figure out how to call a cab; Danny starts down the street. Yes, I’m still barefoot (though I doubt Danny’s feet are any more comfortable in wet shoes), but I follow him anyway. I think he wants me to, at least. He doesn’t turn when I catch up to him, but he doesn’t seem to object.

  He finally stops on the Plaza Bridge, past the Château. He folds his arms on the chest-high concrete railing, staring down the locks to the river. After last night, I don’t know if any of this will look the sam
e again. Especially not to Danny.

  Will he ever see me the same?

  I’ll never know if he doesn’t say anything. I can be very patient when I have to be — waiting is often the best way to get someone to fill the silence — but this time it’s not working. “So, was that all we need to talk about?”

  “Yes.” He sighs. “No.”

  “Look. I know last night was rough.”

  He laughs, and I try to gauge his emotional state. I can’t tell if he’s only laughing because nothing makes sense anymore, but he almost looks happy. Really, he doesn’t look like he’s coming off the worst night of his life. I mean, even his hair has actually dried flipping out in all the right places. I’m sure my bangs are everywhere and my hair is more of a matted mess than it was in the CSIS bathroom.

  Danny’s laughter dies and his eyes fall to the full locks below us. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yes?” I hate the anxiety in my voice that curls my answer into a question.

  “Was I ever a target?”

  I jerk back. I was not expecting that one. “Seriously, Danny? What, do you think I’ve spent the last year trying to bed you to get into NRC Aerospace?”

  “Note: if you were, you’re doing a bad job.”

  “I know, right?” I mimic his posture leaning on the railing. “You’ve only invited me half a dozen times. To NRC,” I rush to clarify. Nice. Insult him, too. I drop my forehead on my arms.

  “Would you tell me if you were working me?”

  “I’d want to.” I do not have the mental capacity for what-ifs and hypotheticals right now. Suddenly that can of caffeine catches up with me and the pain and pressure collect behind my eyes. I put two fingers to my temple. “Can we stick to reality?”

  “I don’t know.” He doesn’t add the “can we?” at the end, but I hear it in his tone. “I want to know the truth, but—”

  “But you don’t know if you want to know,” I finish for him. “Because ignorance is bliss.”

  Okay, I’ll admit that last one is aimed to bug him. He casts me a sidelong glare and doesn’t say anything else. But maybe now he’ll believe there are some things you’re better off, or at least safer, not knowing.

  Like I can keep the truth from him now. Like not knowing protected him tonight.

  And like Elliott said, Danny’s read himself in. Maybe, finally, I can trust him. I glance at the streets behind us. Some foot traffic, but it’s pretty quiet. I move closer to Danny, and watch his reaction. Nothing. “Might as well have the truth, right? Can’t be any worse.”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure it can.”

  My broken heart stutters. Is this how we’re going to end it?

  I can’t. “Danny, I think this isn’t as bad as it looks right now.”

  “I’d love to believe that.”

  Great. The truth might not make a difference, but I have to try. “So I’m not a lawyer. Professionally.”

  “Oh, really?” There’s no teasing, just edge in his tone. “Are you CSIS?”

  And this is the second I’ve been looking forward to and dreading and trying not to think about for a year. I breathe through the fear or excitement pounding in my veins. “CIA.”

  Only his eyebrows flinch, like he doesn’t quite believe what he hears. “Are you joking?”

  “No. I’m an operations officer for the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “In . . . Canada.” As if his expression weren’t enough, his tone is even more incredulous.

  “Minimal operations, coordinating with CSIS, only on cases with US interests.”

  He blinks and shakes his head and blinks. And shakes his head. “For the past year, I’ve been dating a CIA agent?”

  “Operations officer.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Oh, come on, this is the most surprising thing that’s happened in the last twelve hours?”

  The shock in Danny’s eyes turns to I-don’t-appreciate-your-sarcasm sarcasm, and I don’t have to ask what he’s thinking about. We both watched a man die.

  “CIA.” He turns to the locks again.

  “Yes, but could we keep it down?”

  “Yeah.”

  It doesn’t seem like he wants to talk much, but I have to try. “So, I’m sorry I’ve stood you up so much this week.”

  “You had to save the world.”

  Even my half-smile is a weak apology. “Basically.”

  I want to ask him how he feels about this, but I don’t know if it makes any difference. If we’re not “us,” then does it matter how he feels about it?

  Danny’s gaze stays fixed forward when he speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you guys kill the Arrow?”

  “Are you kidding?” A little I-can’t-believe-you laugh tumbles out of my mouth. “I have no idea. Don’t want to know. Ignorance, bliss . . .”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He draws in a breath, holds it, sighs at the sky. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

  “About the Arrow?”

  He meets my gaze. “About you.” And for the first time, I really see the hurt in his eyes. He’s trusted me with everything, and I lied. Even if I had to do it, it was a lie.

  No, I told him the truth when I could. “You already know everything, other than my job.”

  “Other than your job?” He scoffs. “You’re pretty deep in your own deception, huh?”

  What does he mean? I back away a step before I ask.

  “Um, how about your mission? South Carolina is a far cry from Russia. And I’m guessing you didn’t go to the University of Ottawa Law School, either.”

  I check the sidewalk around us though Danny hasn’t raised his voice. Foot traffic is already getting heavier in the pre-dawn light, but only half a dozen people are in sight. “Actually, I worked my butt off — ”

  “So what, exactly, is true about you? I mean, is Talia your real name?”

  “Hello? You spent a week with my family. What else do you want? My birth certificate?”

  “I’m pretty sure you could fake that.”

  I back away two more steps. While he’s right about the documents, I’m trying to come clean here. I’m not going to be able to prove anything if that’s how he’ll take it. “Okay. Fine.”

  As if he’s reading my mind, and doesn’t like the direction I’ve veered, Danny pushes off the railing. He shoves his hands in his pockets, staring at the soft silver patch of river between the black trees of Parliament Hill and Major’s Hill Park, still clinging to the night’s shadows.

  He’s done. We’re done. The oatmeal settles in my stomach like . . . you know what? Like oatmeal. It’s just oatmeal. It’s time to call things for what they are.

  Though it’s the hardest thing I’ve done in — okay, well, hours — I know what I have to do now. I walk away. I get as far as the gap in the railing where the stairs lead down to the locks before I realize I can’t leave it like this. I just can’t.

  I turn back, and Danny is two steps behind me. He continues past me to the top of the stairs and looks over his shoulder, a question written in his eyebrows, like You coming?

  Why, so we can continue to rehash what a terrible person I am?

  I am a glutton for punishment. But I can’t deny the little sunrise of hope in my heart. Stupid, stupid hope.

  We retrace the route we took last night, down the stairs to the locks. They’re not running this early, so each lock is full, water tumbling down the giant staircase to the river. Danny settles under a streetlight on the cement curb of a lock, feet dangling over the side. Posture resigned and probably also exhausted. Eyes closed. “So remind me what’s true again?” he calls over the rushing water.

  I tentatively join him. “Well, so far we’re up to everything but where I served my mission, what I do for a living and a couple other things. All of which you know now.”

  “No, I don’t. Where did you go to college?”

  “U of O, for real. Undergrad, BYU–Idaho. Politi
cal Science, Foreign Affairs emphasis. Russian minor.” Other than the minor, I’ve told him that before, and I hope he realizes it’s one little thing I could’ve lied to him about, but didn’t.

  He doesn’t even acknowledge my tiny scrap of honesty.

  My bravery had better be ready for another round. He wants the truth. He wants out of the bliss — no, the hell that is ignorance. He wants the real me.

  I hope.

  I focus somewhere above his eyes. “I don’t like kitchens with open restaurants because I like to watch people cook. It’s so I can monitor my food. Same reason I don’t store ingredients or save leftovers. Every time I go in my apartment, or your house, I search for signs of an intruder. I don’t go to movies because there aren’t enough escapes and I don’t trust people in the dark. I don’t have a bad sense of direction — every time I drive, I have to check for surveillance.”

  A combination of horror and shock sneaks into his expression, like he’s really seeing me for the first time, and he’s not happy.

  This is exactly why I didn’t tell him any of this sooner. He’d think I’m insane, and his deepest, darkest fear is falling for another psycho.

  I hurry to clarify. “I’m careful, not crazy.”

  “I’ll take your word that there’s a difference.”

  “Thank you. I understand why you’re upset, and why you were last night.” Especially now that I know what he was planning.

  “When?”

  “When you broke up with me?” I gesture at the second lock down, where he shoved the pie into my hands and marched out of my life.

  “Oh, right. That was last night.” Silence. “I did that.”

  I can’t tell whether that’s regret or wonder that it’s only been like eight hours. And if I’m brutally honest, I was kind of hoping he’d tell me I misinterpreted the whole thing, that it was only an argument, not a breakup.

  But he doesn’t.

  Because I deserved it. Yeah, I was rushing off to save the world and yeah, I had to be there, but . . . I don’t even know what. I should have done more? Been more?

  Let him in more. It wasn’t just my job that kept pulling me away. I kept letting it because I was afraid. Afraid of letting myself love Danny as much as I want to — as much as I do — because falling that hard could mean changing my mind about marriage.