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 Brand walking by every twenty minutes, I don’t get a lot of time to search. By midafternoon, I’ve made it through a third of the list, and for all I know, I’ve passed him.

  Brand makes yet another round and again, I pretend I’m not investigating him. This time, he drifts to a stop at my desk, and I have to look up. “Yeah?”

  “You said you knew some good meeting sites. Got time now?”

  I wish he’d ask his little friend Justin (the traitor). I wish I could guarantee Brand would go away if I said no — but I can’t. “Sure. Give me ten minutes.”

  He backs off long enough for me to run through two more pages before I pack up.

  We meet outside the office doors. “You driving?” he asks.

  With one final breath to steel myself, I nod. We take the stairs down and in another minute, we’re in my black Honda, cruising out of the parking lot. Face to face. Alone again.

  “Have a place in mind?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Thought we could try the Aviation and Space Museum. Sounds quiet.”

  “Nope.” I clip off the single syllable. No way am I giving up any clues about Danny. “You want quiet? I’ll show you quiet.”

  I wish the Currency Museum of the Bank of Canada was open, but I’ll settle for second boringest — I mean, second best. The Royal Canadian Mint. Biggest drawback: it’s down the street from the US Embassy, but I’d hope the officers in there know better than to contact agents in their own neighborhood.

  I narrate the drive with the Mint’s schedule, and the best tour to slip in, like my intimate knowledge of this museum, which I acquired on my own, proves I’m as good a spy as he is.

  Brand gets out a block away from the beige stone castle. (Canada does royal right!) I circle around to park so we can test out my intel on slipping into the same tour. By the time I get in, the tour’s underway, and Brand’s wedged in with three other tourists. The guide finishes her spiel, and I approach Brand.

  He stares at a (fake?) gold bar on display. “Definitely quiet,” he murmurs.

  “Hard to bug,” I point out. “Well guarded.”

  “They let questionable types in here?”

  I scrutinize him. “They let you in, didn’t they?”

  “Would you bring someone like Samir here?”

  “Sure.” I survey the lighting like it’s anything worth noting. The security cameras, on the other hand . . . “Speaking of our friend, how’s it looking long term?”

  “Only been one meeting. Too early to tell.” He moseys after the tour guide, keeping a polite enough distance to keep up our conversation. “Do you not have enough cases?”

  “No — yes —”

  “How are our Russian friends?”

  I watch him for a second, gauging whether he’s doing his job or trying to throw me off the trail. “Still working on contact. Should go smoothly. Is Samir handling things okay?”

  Brand laughs, and for once it doesn’t sound like he’s mocking me. The tour guide lowers the lights and starts a video on an LED screen. Brand drops the conversation to a whisper way too close behind me. “Don’t you trust me?”

  Who wouldn’t trust someone who acts so creeptastic? He steps even with me before I murmur back, “Trust is earned. Even here.”

  He nods like I’m imparting wisdom of the ages instead of echoing the words I hated to hear from my stepmom. “Guess I haven’t always done so well in that department with you.”

  I shift back a step, out of whisper range, and the overhead lights flicker back to full power. He actually sounds . . . sorry. Like he regrets what he did to me.

  “Guess not,” I manage. The tour guide dismisses us.

  “So.” He starts strolling again, but it’s the leading little note in his voice that tells me we’re going a different direction in this conversation. He slows to a stop in front of the Olympic medal display. “You’re getting married?”

  “Yep.” I guess the polite thing would be to ask if he’s seeing anyone.

  Pardon me; I’m not here to be polite. I start for the exit.

  Brand follows. “When?”

  “In a month.”

  Again, the eyebrow twitch. “Halloween. Popular for weddings, huh?”

  I don’t acknowledge him, just push through the doors and head for the street. As if sharing a car is that much better.

  He saves his next question until we’re in said car. “Having fun with planning?”

  My silence passes for my answer.

  Brand’s expression converts to concern. “What, getting cold feet?”

  Only every time I think about the actual wedding. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Nothing wrong with it. I hear most people have second thoughts.”

  “Do most people hate wedding planning?” I merge onto the Queensway.

  Brand smiles, and it isn’t one of his I’m-better-than-you-and-you’ll-like-it smiles, or his you-know-you-want-me-more-than-you-hate-me smiles. Just an amused grin. “Yep. Universal.”

  His smile fades before I can mirror it, and he sits up, now serious. I don’t like this turn. Not one bit.

  After a second of silence, he leans closer. “Listen, Talia. I need to tell you something.” He licks his lips, but again, nothing about him is the slightest bit wolfish.

  He’s nervous. Do I want to know what about?

  He meets my gaze. “Look, I know I didn’t . . . handle things so well between us and — I’m sorry.”

  That’s the second apology he’s given me in ten minutes. I monitor his body language. Earnest eyes, tense shoulders, pinched mouth. He means this. He’s waiting for me to respond.

  “Yeah, you were a jerk.”

  “And I haven’t been the best with you since I’ve been here. I guess I was just surprised to see you. Didn’t know how you’d react to me.”

  I manage to exit the Queensway, though I feel like car interior is starting to rotate. This doesn’t make sense. This isn’t the Brand I knew. This is too weird.

  And I can’t help but wonder. Could this all be engineered to get me to back away from Samir, so Brand can do what he wants? All a tactic?

  “Well, you didn’t help the situation,” I say at last.

  “No, I guess I didn’t.”

  More bizarre by the minute. He’s agreeing with me? I shift away from him in my seat.

  “But — listen,” he says again. We reach our parking lot and he bows his head toward me, urgency in his tone. “There’s another reason I wanted that case. I have something else in mind for you.”

  My mouth works, but no sound comes out. I’m gonna bet whatever it is, it isn’t a confession. Brand leans even closer and any curiosity about what he’s got is trampled by fight-or-flight.

  I need to get away. What am I going to do? Shove him out? I reach for my favorite shield with a friendly (sort of friendly? Too friendly?): humor. “If it isn’t the Russians, I’ve got enough on my plate.”

  “Later, then.” Not the answer I’m looking for.

  We pull into a parking spot at our building. There’s one more thing I need from him while we’re alone. “Quick question,” I say.

  Brand looks to me with a yeees? expression.

  “Did you ever figure out what we could do for Samir in return?”

  “He decided on the cash.”

  He says it so calmly, but the words drop into my brain like incendiary bombs. I know what I saw. Samir got a token payment. Brand didn’t deposit nothing in the bank. Right?

  Numbness creeps over me. I have to act normal. “Guess we all have our weaknesses.”

  Brand opens his door. I can barely make out his response. “Guess we do.”

  Cold prickles inch down my back. I have nothing: no evidence, no confession, nothing more than one second of a meeting and a bad feeling.

  Suddenly, I feel like the woman who knew too much.

  I wish I could run away, but I can’t, and the gravitational pull of Brand’s charisma isn’t what draws me back into the office. I have
my list. Within an hour, I’ve whittled that to the last four pages out of sixty. My hopes are dwindling faster than the battery on a first-generation smartphone.

  I check the office and flip to the next page. And then the name vaults off the paper. A spy should be better at hiding in plain sight, but there he is: Brennan Mathers. A cover he used five years ago, featuring prominently in stories of his derring-do. Too much of a coincidence, right?

  Before I can talk myself off the high, I put in a request for the full records of the account. I’ve barely tucked the list in my locked drawer when Brand comes by. “It’s later,” he says.

  I glance around. Justin and César are still working. At least we aren’t totally alone.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  He nods toward the doors. “You’re about done, right?”

  I’m supposed to meet Danny after work, just outside the security swipe. Could he be waiting already? I swallow hard. My stupid brain can’t get in the right gear. “Sure.” I shut down my computer and follow him out.

  My mind and my gut wage war over whether this is a good idea. The upper hand switches with every step.

  He was actually a decent person to me this morning.

  He said Samir took the money.

  He apologized.

  He lied.

  At the door to the reception area, my lungs squeeze shut. If Danny’s out there, he’ll stop me. He’ll meet Brand. Worst of all, Brand will meet him. The whole charade will come crashing down, and Brand will win this round of his little “Game.”

  But the reception area only holds our receptionist, a local who supposedly doesn’t know she’s working for anyone other than Keeler Tate & Associates (and we take client confidentiality really seriously). Linda’s busy typing away at a fake file we’ve made up. I take the lead and hurry to the elevator, punching the button twice like it’ll come faster.

  What if Danny’s on this car? My heart climbs into my throat.

  The elevator dings at our floor, and I clench my fists. The doors slide open — empty.

  So why is it still hard to breathe?

  We board. He hits the Door Close button. It feels like he cut off this little box’s oxygen.

  He launches into his meeting halfway through the short ride. “I’ll be straight with you.”

  I don’t bother to hope he’ll confess this easily. I haven’t mentioned my suspicions, and Brand was never the type to volunteer the truth. Not with me.

  “I told you I need Samir because I have something else in mind for you, right?”

  “And apparently it isn’t Morozov.”

  “No, it’s bigger. A lot bigger.” He grabs one thumb and rubs it. Nervous again. “You’re the only one I can trust with this — the only one up to this.” He puffs out a breath, like he’s prepping himself for the big reveal. One floor left.

  And then he hits the STOP button. We come to an abrupt halt. My lunch revolts, and I hang onto the railing to keep my feet and my stomach in place. Trapped, trapped, trapped.

  “Can you handle this?” he asks.

  No. No. No. But that little undertone of doubt in his voice makes my decision for me. “Of course I can.”

  Brand nods, somewhere between agreeing and confirming what he already knew. “Then I’ll cut to the chase. It’s Will.”

  “What’s —”

  “Will’s the problem.”

  I can’t stop my eyebrows’ slow climb, incredulous, or my gut’s slow fall, ominous.

  Will, who just gave me that one bit of validation I’ve always craved?

  Will, who talked with me every day to help me cope with killing a man?

  Will, who shared some of the awful things he’s done in the line of duty, things no one else knows, to coach me through that dark time and come out the other side?

  Will being a problem, Will being in trouble? Brand might as well be speaking Bantu.

  “I know it’s a shock, but we’ve been shuffling offices partially because Will’s done such a good job covering his tracks.”

  “Tracks of what?” I snap back. “What is this, another move in your ‘Game’?”

  Brand laughs softly, like I’m a pitiful story. “Tell me he doesn’t have you wrapped around his finger like the rest of them. Nice ring collection.”

  I set my jaw and wait for him to continue. No way am I letting anything slip.

  He starts circling me, the vulture. “Like I said, there’s a reason we’re shuffling people.”

  “You’re saying Dixon’s heart attack wasn’t an accident? You telling his widow?”

  Brand rolls his eyes. “It was convenient. Not like we went all MKULTRA on him.”

  That top-secret CIA project from the ’50s on poisons, truth serums and psychotropics failed as badly as Brand’s tactic is now. I back up a step. “This is ridiculous —”

  “This is for real, and I need your help. Will is colluding with somebody. We just have to figure out who and how.”

  I don’t trust Brand. I do trust Will. How can I take this seriously?

  I have to make Brand think I am. “I assume the Agency is building a case against him? Collecting evidence?”

  “We need more. We’re talking big trial. Familiar with a little thing called ‘treason’?”

  “Not personally, no.” My tone curls that into an accusation poised to strike.

  Brand doesn’t take the bait. “That’s why we need your help. We figured you’d be the one person who he wouldn’t have reached —”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. First you’re asking me to believe Will’s conspiring with the enemy; now you want me to believe he’s been recruiting the rest of my office, too?”

  “Not recruiting, not actively. Just carefully turning away. Carefully misleading. Carefully spying on the spies.”

  “Isn’t that what you want me to do, spy on the spy?”

  Brand points at me, like you got it, sister. “I need someone who wasn’t tainted. Out of anybody, that had to be you.”

  I search through that casual stance, that expression, that voice. I know it’s there; I know it. This is all coming back to the reason we broke up. I don’t think he’s trying to punish me for not sleeping with him four years after the fact, though isn’t that exactly what he’s saying all over again? Hey, Mormon ice princess, nobody can touch you up in your high tower?

  The condescension has to be there. It has to be. Incredible. The guy was apologizing this morning. “You’re unbelievable.”

  Brand sighs. “Yep, that was my one concern. The reason I haven’t come to you sooner.”

  My hand’s on the button, but some masochistic streak makes me stop, to wait, to listen for the final blow.

  He leans away from me to deliver his sad conclusion: “You’re too caught up in the past to be objective.”

  “I know what you’re doing. Won’t work.” He’s trying to make me doubt myself, my impartiality, my instincts. The same instincts saying Will’s good and Brand’s bad. Very bad.

  “Take some time. Sleep on it. I think you’ll see the light.”

  I choke back a scoff and hit the STOP button. We judder to motion. I don’t have time to stress before the doors slide open. No Danny.

  “Think about it,” Brand tosses over his shoulder. I press the button to go back to our floor. I’m still marching by the time I hit our reception area again. Laughter smacks into me like a wave of cold water. Who can laugh when stuff like this goes on?

  Not anybody — my friends. Linda and Danny. My Danny.

  I have never even disliked Linda, and all of a sudden, I hate her. Hate her. Like I’m thirteen and Danny’s my first boyfriend, and she’s the BFF betraying me.

  Misplaced aggression much?

  I arrive at Linda’s desk to cut off their banter. French. I pick up something about a photographer before Danny spots me. “Te voilà, mon cœur.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Allons-y.”

  I give him a don’t-get-Frenchie-on-me-now scowl. Confusion flic
kers across his face. He bids Linda bonne journée and we leave. “Longue journée?” he asks me.

  Long day? Um, yes. “How many French swear words do you know?”

  He examines me from the corner of his eye, since neither of us (are supposed to) swear. “More I did ten years ago. The worst Québécois swear words are mostly Catholic stuff.” He’s silent until we reach the elevators. “Why?”

  I glance back, but we’re around the corner from my office and the surveillance cameras trained on our doors. “My boss is a jerk. I mean, I didn’t EOD yesterday —”

  “EOD?”

  “Enter On Duty. Start working at the Company.” That’s oblique enough for our hallway.

  Now Danny pivots toward our doors. “Want me to set him straight?”

  He flashes a hint of that he-is-who-he-is-all-the-time grin, mixed with a dash of I’m-so-clever-and-you-love-me, and the tension in my chest releases one little notch. Danny taking on Brand — aside from a horrible nightmare, it’s hardly a fair fight. I mean, Danny’s no ninety-nine-pound weakling, and he has a couple inches on Brand, but Brand’s got at least twenty pounds, ten years in the field as an operative, and CIA training behind him.

  Not that I think Danny’s a wimp — he’s not — and I wouldn’t put my money on Brand. I just wouldn’t let Danny take him on alone.

  Once the elevator doors close behind us, Danny rubs my shoulders. The muscles are so tight, his little gesture of comfort grates over taut fibers. “I can make dinner,” he offers. “You like macaroni and cheese, right?”

  I turn to him, pulling free from his neck rub. “I’ll pick something up on the way home.”

  “Oh.” He frowns. “And the dry cleaning, and those library books you never read, and seventeen PO boxes you have under various names. . . .”

  Though his voice holds a spark of teasing, he can’t hide the unease in his eyes. I’ve been better since I told him I’m CIA, and admitted to (most of) my routines. He’s tried to help me, but honestly, I don’t know if I want to shake all of my paranoia.

  For Danny’s sake? “It’s only six PO boxes,” I admit. “And I read some of the books. For research.” Two shreds of truth.

  Can I spare another?