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

  Brand hangs up and gets back in his car. I can breathe again — though now I really don’t have time to talk. “Love you,” I tell Danny, and end the call.

  I don’t think Brand’s noticed me here, but I can’t take any chances. I slip the brown wig back into my surveillance bag and replace it with a blond one and a fashionable beret I couldn’t pull off in real life. My jacket turns inside out from tan to dark green. With a little help from some magnets, I even change my license plates quickly.

  When Brand pulls out and flips a U-turn, I’m ready to take up pursuit again.

  I stay a good distance back during the perfunctory stops of his SDR (or actual errands he’s running). Is he even trying to not be followed? That’s the point of an SDR — identify your pursuers, then bore them to death so they think you don’t have anything, give them the slip when their interest wanes — but you’d think a criminal mastermind would at least break the speed limit or something.

  Nope. Every appearance of the perfect citizen.

  Until he parks on a quiet street in the middle of downtown and walks into an alley. I know better than to slowly cruise past and put him off his quarry, so I park down the block — ironically, by Between Friends — and hit the pavement.

  The best operatives know that if you’re caught doing something you’re not supposed to be doing, the worst reaction is to jump. We practice listening to our instincts and fighting our reflexes, going about business as smoothly as possible, even when we’re doing something that looks totally weird. Yep, I mean to dig through that garbage can. Yep, I collect boring rocks. Yep, I want this bottle coated in motor oil. Yep, love me some dead pigeons.

  Dead drops are another thing that’s way more glamorous in the movies.

  I can’t stop to see if Brand’s getting into one now, but I stroll by the alley as slowly as I can, holding a pretty compact mirror. Sometimes when you can’t conceal something, the best place to hide it is in plain sight. Or on display.

  I make a show of checking the lipstick I’m not wearing, while angling the mirror into the alley. Facing one of the blank walls, Brand’s got an old-school, standard-issue dead drop spike, a hollow plastic tube designed to hold anything small the officer or agent wants to drop off.

  I can see from here this drop-off isn’t something small. Brand dips into the spike again — and draws out a wad of green paper.

  Cash. American.

  Maybe Samir or someone else left something Brand’s already retrieved. Maybe Brand’s giving him the rest of the money from Saturday. Not the securest way to pay, but maybe.

  I pretend to stumble and lose my heel. Brand doesn’t look up, and I take the chance to pause, lean down, replace my shoe.

  He’s pulling the money out. And he’s not even careful about concealing his subterfuge.

  Static steadily invades my hearing. I make it around the block and back to the car. It could be discretionary funds. But . . . why would he be taking that out of a dead drop?

  No misconstruing that scene, no misinterpreting, no explaining it away. And it’s anything but good.

  I’ve got to do something. I’ve got to figure out what’s going on here.

  With Brand watching me, I have to be extra careful. Know what extra careful looks like when you’re already the most paranoid spy in Canada?

  Actually, it looks like nothing. It looks completely unnoticeable, untraceable — unremarkable. So basically my entire Saturday is an SDR designed to bore Brand to death while I’m catching up with Danny, who plays right into my plans. We’ve enlisted a friend from church, and we spend most of the day driving across town and posing for engagement pictures. (Turns out it’s the last weekend they’re running the locks on the canal, and they’re great in photos.)

  By the time I head home for the evening, I know I’m safe to go directly to my real destination: Elliott’s. I park down the block and watch the cute little brick rambler in the suburbs. Quiet. Peaceful. Wife, baby and picket fence: the complete American dream package. Except in Canada. The perfect hideout for a spy.

  Brand’s already suspicious of me. He might have everyone in the office under the same scrutiny. Or he might’ve added them to his jewelry collection, like he accused Will.

  He knows Will. He knows César, Justin, and Robby. He knows Mack & co. at CSIS, our Canadian equivalents.

  I need a plan. I need help. I need someone Brand doesn’t know.

  I need Elliott.

  With him under official cover and me not, he and I shouldn’t have any contact outside the secured area of the embassy. And we haven’t, not one phone call or email or text. Wouldn’t want to start breaking those rules with something that easily traced anyway.

  Which is why I’m here. Most people don’t expect visitors three hours after dark (even if it’s only ten), so I can’t blame Elliott when he answers the door with a guarded expression. But it doesn’t go away when he recognizes me. “What are you doing here?” he says instead of hello.

  “Good to see you, too.”

  “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  I watch him a minute, willing him to figure it out. Close as we are — were — I wouldn’t show up to chat, and I’ve been to his house all of no times, so something must be wrong, right?

  “Are you in trouble?” he asks.

  “I think I’m about to be.”

  Elliott scrutinizes me, and suddenly I realize how tired he looks. Even backlit by his house, the shadows under his eyes, the patchy whiskers on his cheeks, the grim set to his mouth are evident. All except that last one seem typical for a father of a newborn. I think.

  “Bad trouble?” he asks.

  “Would I be here if it weren’t?”

  He glances at the street, then over his shoulder, but he isn’t really scanning the room behind him. He steps onto the front porch with me. “Come on.” He leads me around the side of the house, through a gate to the backyard. An old metal playset, like a leftover from my kindergarten days, slumps in the corner of the yard. Elliott plunks down in a kid-sized swing.

  Uh, sure. I take the other swing. “Everything okay?” I ask. Like the answer isn’t obvious.

  He laughs, a humorless, halfhearted huff that devolves into a sigh.

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “Been a long month.”

  When Elliott doesn’t continue, I push off the mud to start the swing.

  “Did you ever tell Danny about that time we —” Elliott breaks off, and he doesn’t have to finish. I know exactly what he means, though we were never supposed to talk about it. (In fact, it was so Top Secret, we never actually had to talk about never talking about it.)

  “No. He hadn’t even asked me out.” That was, what, three days after Elliott kissed me?

  It was a cover. It was a cover. It was —

  Wasn’t it? I turn to Elliott. He’s not looking at me. “Why are you bringing this up?” Concern creeps into my voice.

  “Shanna found out.”

  “You mean you told her.” I don’t have to tell him how stupid that was, though they weren’t married — no, they weren’t even dating at the time. On a break, her decision.

  “It came out.”

  My swing slows to a stop. “Elliott, don’t tell me — this isn’t about me —”

  He cuts me off with a laugh. “I was trying to prove how much I’ve changed. Not like I’d throw away my marriage over you.”

  “Throw away — what happened?”

  “She took the baby. Went to her mom’s.”

  Because he kissed me over a year ago, when she was pushing him away? Sounds like things have improved (not). Now I hate to bring up why I came, like he needs more bad news.

  “Wait,” I say. “We aren’t inside because . . . ?”

  “How does that look? Shanna leaves and two days later, you’re in my house?”

  Once again, that’s something he’d have to tell her. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Sometimes it’s the things we say that hurt people; sometimes, it’s th
e things we don’t say that hurt most.

  “Do you think you can fall in love with the wrong person?” Elliott asks.

  “Let’s see. My dad did. My mom did three times. My only brother who’s still married has a husband.”

  “Appreciate the suggestion, but I don’t think that’s gonna work for me.” No humor hangs behind his words. His expression — I can’t understand. Is he trying to warn me off marriage?

  Maybe this distraction is just what he needs. “I need your help, E.”

  He doesn’t respond at first. “Can’t you ask Justin or someone?”

  “Not this time.”

  Elliott kicks at the mud. And says nothing.

  Okay, the guy’s hurting, but this isn’t like him. “Elliott?”

  He grunts in response. Fortunately, I have four brothers, so I’m completely fluent in grunt. And that’s a what?

  “Will’s replacement is trying to set Will up — possibly me too — as a cover.”

  Now I’ve got his attention. He slowly swivels to me. “Cover for what?”

  “He’s taking money. Something to do with an agent he pushed me to recruit.”

  Low whistle. “That’s big. Told Will?”

  “I can’t ask him for help. It’d look like he’s trying to protect himself. I need somebody who seems impartial. Somebody I can trust.”

  “Nobody else springs to mind for this suicide mission? I’m flattered.”

  I give him a fake elbow-nudge, even though I’m a foot too far away. “Come on, who else would I turn to in the face of certain death?”

  “Yeah, again, flattered.” He rubs his forehead with the flat of his palm, then slowly stops until he’s just holding his head.

  I know I’m asking a lot, but this isn’t the response I was expecting from Elliott. “I can give you a little time to think. Not sure how long we have.”

  Elliott kicks at the mud again. Okay, it’s a lot, yes, but we risk our lives every day (sort of). Catching a traitor is part of our job. Isn’t it?

  Finally, he meets my gaze, and he doesn’t have to say it. I can see it — the slump in his shoulders, the pain in his eyes, the agony of holding my gaze. “T . . .”

  I have to pretend he’s not stomping on my heart, pretend it’s not collapsing like an empty dead drop spike. And I have to get far, far away. I’m on my feet before Elliott finds the rest of the words to drop the guillotine. Jacket buttoned up, though it’s not even below freezing. Hands in my pockets. Walking away. “I understand,” I say over my shoulder. “No worries.”

  “T, wait.”

  Nope. I stride across his backyard, avoiding the mud, making a beeline for that gate.

  Elliott catches up, catches my arm, whirls me around. “Don’t think this is easy for me.”

  “I can see that. Can’t say I blame you.”

  He studies me again. “I . . . I’m so sorry.”

  His face tells an entire epic that his mouth can’t. He wants to help me. He really does. But right now he is so broken that he doesn’t have enough shards left to give to anyone else.

  “Focus on your family. Go get her back.” I can use the courageous voice. I can put on the fearless expression. I can’t stand here and watch Elliott’s response. Not really that brave.

  His quiet words reach me at the gate. “Good luck.”

  “You too.” I don’t turn around. Whether he’s breaking a bit more or (gag) inspired by my “noble sacrifice” or I don’t know what — if I have to see Elliott, this heroic façade will break, too, and I’ll have to admit I’m totally alone.

  I knew things would change when Will left and Elliott went with him. But I never guessed things would change this much.

  I don’t remember walking back to my car or driving away. Somehow it’s half an hour later and I’m across town, going through the motions of yet another surveillance detection run, without actually watching for surveillance. I should. I need to. I just can’t.

  My phone rings. At nearly ten o’clock, I know it’s got to be Danny, but that stupid little bloom of hope shoots up in my chest anyway. Has Elliott changed his mind?

  It’s Danny. And I’m not disappointed. I’m not. After all, this might be just what I need. I can head back to his place to drown my sorrows for an hour in his favorite comfort food, milk and cookies. “Hey.”

  “Hi.” His voice, unnaturally bright, hits like an LED flashlight to the eyes. “Are you busy?”

  Oh, this is bad. Bad, bad, bad. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, nothing. But guess who just waltzed in to save our wedding and our marriage?”

  “As long as it isn’t a certain ex-girlfriend, I think we’re good.”

  Danny laughs, forced, thin. “Détrompe-toi.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I do know who it has to be if he’s this unexcited. I’m not thrilled either. I do not need to heal from the Elliott-sucker-punch with my soon-to-be mother-in-law. Who happens to wish Danny was marrying his psychotic ex instead of me.

  “All right, well, do I need to stay away for a couple days?” I ask.

  The hollow sound of a door closing carries over the line. “You need to get over here.” Danny’s tone is back to normal. “Can you?”

  I check what neighborhood I’m in. “Do you need backup that bad?”

  “She wants to take you wedding dress shopping. Monday, right after work.”

  How can I say no? Seriously, how can I say no?

  “She’s spent the last hour telling me that because you don’t have a dress, you must not really want to marry me.”

  “And I suppose the fact you don’t have a wedding ring means you should be her sweet little baby forever?”

  Danny groans. He’s actually the oldest, but he’s the last of his siblings who’s still single, and therefore, still available for total manipulation on demand.

  Probably shouldn’t talk that way about my STB MIL, but . . . no, I can’t pretend to apologize.

  “You know she’ll harangue me until you agree to this.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. Any night except tonight.

  “Don’t you perform all the time?” Danny asks, the closest he can get to referring to my job with his mom in the province. “Act like she’s being nice to you.”

  “Even I’m not that good an actress.”

  “What did you tell me? ‘You have to be the part’?”

  True. But again, even I can’t be that part. “I won’t save you from your mother forever.”

  “Isn’t that the point of getting married?” This time, the light note in his voice is genuine.

  “It’d better not be.” At least one of us will get a happy ending tonight. I start my car and pull out. “Go ahead and warm up that pineapple chicken from last night.”

  How do I get myself into this much trouble?

  I stare up at the stars painted on the vaulted ceiling of Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica Monday afternoon. Normally, I like visiting Ottawa’s oldest church, but with the present company, even a house of worship can’t be peaceful.

  That cocky, well-coiffed company slides into the wooden pew next to me. “So a Mormon and an agnostic walk into a Catholic church . . .”

  I don’t bother to look at Brand. “Didn’t know you were agnostic.”

  “I dunno.” He shrugs one shoulder. “All seems the same to me.”

  I look past the parishioners filing in, to the ornate altar, the wood paneled choir loft, the light streaming through stained glass windows. Looks pretty different from my church (part of the reason I like it — reminds me of Russian Orthodox cathedrals, minus the icons).

  Why am I here? Because Brand wanted a tour of good meeting places? Didn’t he have the same training I did? I stand and edge past Brand. “Well, you’ve seen it,” I say. “The next Mass starts soon.” And we have just enough time to get back to the office for me to meet Kathi. I resist the urge to plant myself here and text my regrets because I’m “tied up in a meeting,” and we head out.

>   Brand waits until we’re on the sidewalk to ask, “Anything else you’re hiding?”

  My heartbeat slows down, though he can’t know what I saw. He can’t. I’m still safe. I have to be. And what’s he hiding? What was with that dead drop spike? The fake investigation on Will? The money from Samir?

  Brand continues before I can ask any of those. “Or did you show me all the good sights?” He might actually mean “sites,” as in meeting sites. I’ve spent the afternoon giving him a tour of “prime” spots downtown — ones I no longer use for one reason or another. The Cathedral? Too weird contacting spies in any house of God.

  I point across the street. “National Gallery. But now we’re pretty close to the Embassy.”

  Also an awkward place to meet spies. As we reach the church parking lot, a text message comes in. Finally, one bit of good news: Abby’s in for reinforcements tonight with Kathi.

  If only I had backup with Brand.

  He opens my door for me the second I hit the clicker. “Getting a lot done with your wedding planning?” he asks.

  “Always more to do.” I try not to let my tone sound as curt as my words. (And I fail.) I get in and yank the door from his grasp.

  He takes the passenger seat. “Let me know if I can help. I’m always around.”

  An image of him staring up at my building last week leaps to the forefront of my brain. He’s watching me, watching what I do. Even watching my wedding planning.

  Much as that makes me want to fight back, follow him, freak him out a little, reality weighs down that prospect. Kathi’s waiting, Abby’s on her way to the boutique, and Brand could have someone watching me to make sure I’m actually planning a wedding and not orchestrating some huge plot against him.

  Not yet.

  We’re halfway to the office when Brand tries small talk again. “When do I get to meet this guy?”

  I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Never, I hope.”

  Yes. I did say that out loud. I’m not sure I regret it, either. I’ve managed to keep him from even learning Danny’s name so far, and I’m not letting anything slip.

  Brand waves it off, though everyone in the office usually works hard to keep their personal lives at home. No Bring Your Daughter to Work Day in this branch of the Company.