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

  I’ll pretend that wasn’t an insult. “So what’s the question?”

  “Do you want Abby to make your dress for you?”

  “I couldn’t ask her to do that.” I turn to her. “It’s too much.”

  Abby shrugs. “If we’re sticking with that basic style without the train, I might already have a pattern. But we’d have to get started right away.”

  Speaking of right away — I hold up my phone. “Got a text. They need me at the office ASAP. Major crisis.”

  Kathi brushes aside my concerns. “You can work tomorrow. You only have one wedding, I hope.” The last two words slice into my heart. Like she thinks our marriage is bound to fail and it’ll be my fault.

  Danny runs to the rescue. “Why, you want to throw us another one? Change your mind about hosting a reception?”

  Kathi turns to Abby. “Isn’t it traditional that the groom’s family hosts the luncheon?”

  Abby’s eyes grow wide, but Danny steps in to help us both. “Save yourself the trouble and write us a check.” He’s still smiling, but there’s steel under his tone. He’s daring his mom to come at me again.

  “Oh, Danny, I only mean that, given her family history —”

  “Stop before I put you on a bus home.” And this time he isn’t smiling. No one is, especially not me.

  But then Kathi smirks at him. “To Aylmer?”

  “To Grand Rapids.”

  Abby and I glance at one another. I can’t really object to Danny sticking up for me, but . . . awkward. I twist my ring around my finger. “I really need to go.”

  “Okay.” Danny packs up the donuts. He offers me the box; I push it back to him. He nods. “You need a ride, Abby?”

  “No, thanks, I’m a block away.”

  Ever resilient, Kathi leaps in. I brace for another blow. It doesn’t come. “You wouldn’t happen to have a measuring tape in your car, would you, Abby?”

  Abby shrugs again. “Part of the uniform.”

  Kathi holds out a there-you-go hand. “You can get started tonight. Give me your number so we can discuss options.”

  I’m glad enough to get away I almost don’t care what kind of “options.” At least I know she’s pushy with everyone. I kiss Danny goodbye (and say it to Kathi), and Abby and I leave.

  As soon as we’re on the street, Abby apologizes. “If you don’t want me to sew your dress, I won’t be offended. I know how personal these things are.”

  “No, Abby, I’d love it, if it’s not too much trouble. And of course we’d pay for it.”

  “Sorry, I can only let you cover the fabric.” She grins. “Guess I know what to get you.”

  “At least let Kathi pay you.” I’m only half joking.

  “Well . . . okay.”

  Abby hurries through my measurements, then bids me good luck at work.

  I’ll need it.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I was infiltrating my own office, though that’s exactly what runs through my mind as I park in the shadows. At least entry will be easy.

  I can’t make myself look at the nondescript stucco-and-glass office building. What hasn’t changed about work lately? Will’s gone, Elliott’s gone — Elliott can’t back me up — and I’m facing my ex-boyfriend-turned-CIA-mole. Alone.

  Instead of going upstairs to do that, I dig through my glove box for an operational burner phone. I don’t need to look up the number to send the message: Could use you on my side, HAM.

  I doubt the comical nickname for Elliott’s code name is enough to convince him. Stupid of me, especially using real codes over open comms, but I need the guy. I need somebody.

  Before I get out of the car, the operational phone vibrates. I’m on your side, FOX. Just don’t know if I can be on your team.

  “Don’t know”? That’s an improvement over last night.

  Think about it, I text back. I pull up the classified bells-and-whistles app to clear the phone’s data. (Better than a factory reset, but that’s all I know about the “nuclear option.”)

  A sick little beam of hope practically carries me up the stairs. I don’t risk switching on the lights. With only the glow seeping under the heavy wooden doors, our reception area’s eerie.

  Practically by feel, I approach the security swipe: the real barrier between anybody who walks in off the street and the classified, Top Secret intelligence we collect, process and send on. All I have to do to get through is slide my card, the card I use every day.

  The card that will register my afterhours visit.

  Only if someone checks the logs. Only if someone cares about a coworker running back into the office. Only if someone’s trying to cover their tracks.

  I have to make this quick. Once I’m inside, I head straight for our supplies. I’m not sure what I’ll do and I’m not sure Elliott will change his mind, but I will be ready. I stock a disguise purse with earpieces/comms, two operational phones — although anything wireless could be intercepted. Though our texts were oblique enough that I think we’re safe, it might be better to stick to a classic.

  Low tech, developed a century ago, and the only truly unbreakable code: the one-time pad. I grab a pair of codebooks on mini-SD cards, and quick-dissolving paper, in case either of us gets caught without a lighter. (Not the tastiest thing in the world, but eating paper doesn’t rank high on the list of the job’s hardships.)

  I’m past my desk on my way out when I hear the soft swick of the security card swipe again. I freeze, right down to my pulse. Somebody is watching our logs — in real time, from nearby.

  Only one person has that level of access. And that could only mean —

  “Oh, Talia.” Brand doesn’t bother to flip on the light, and the oblique shadows from the exit sign cast his face in ghoulish green. “What are you doing here?”

  Excuse. Excuse. Excuse. “I had to come back for my phone.”

  He ponders that. “Maybe we should institute a hard line here, like at Langley.”

  Technically we’re not supposed to have our phones with us in the office, but operations in the field are always different than what Langley expects. Before I call him out or leave, my phone chimes to announce a text message. From inside my purse. My breath catches.

  “Already find your phone?” Brand crosses the distance between us. Slow. Casual. Stalking his prey. “In the dark?”

  “Guess it was in my purse the whole time.” I dig through the spy gear I just packed and finally come up with my real phone. “Man, I gotta clean that out.”

  The joke misfires. The spy moves in. The fear ramps up. I swallow against a dry throat.

  I can’t give up ground to him; I won’t. But I also can’t meet his eyes with him this close. I can smell that aftershave, that woodsy smell I know he thinks drives women wild.

  Wrong kind of wild tonight. My adrenaline’s high, though not from excitement. This is bringing back memories buried so deep even the Agency doesn’t know about them. (Not a whole lot they don’t know about either of us.)

  “I want you to know,” he says, his voice soft. All calculated to draw me closer.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  He starts over, a little louder. “I want you to know, I meant what I said the other day.”

  “Which time?”

  “That I’m sorry about how I treated you. How I ended things.”

  Yeah, well, he should be. But I have to seem like I’m okay with this.

  “I manipulated you,” he says. “That was wrong. And I’m sorry. I know I was a jerk.”

  He moves slightly, and though he can’t possibly know this, the one emergency light in the hall hits his highlighted hair at an angle, lighting him from behind like he’s a medieval saint or angel.

  Then it hits me. The whole reason he’s apologizing. It’s. So. Obvious. Something we’re trained to look past. And I fell for it. Again.

  To see the truth, sometimes you have to ignore the things they’re saying that are true. The apology might be sincere. Doesn’t matter. He’s s
aying it to make me believe him, everything about him, the halo effect from the apology spreading over our relationship. Then he’ll feed me whatever lies he wants about him and Samir and Wasti and the entire operation.

  He’s trying to convince me instead of convey information.

  He’s still manipulating me.

  And I know how to manipulate him right back. “Thank you. Good to have closure.”

  Brand shifts his weight a millimeter in my direction.

  Too far. “Have you seen the news tonight?” I hold up the question like a shield. “Wasti’s in DC, calling for jihad.”

  Even through the shadows, I can make out his eyebrow tic, his tell. “Really?”

  The surprise might be genuine. “Is there any reason they’d be running around like chickens with their heads cut off at Langley?” I ask.

  It’s a classic strike, a bold thing for one officer to pull on another: a bait question. Sometimes that alone is enough to shake out a confession.

  Not today. “Doubt it. A terrorist on American soil? The F-entity might be freaking out.”

  “We have to say something, don’t we?” If anyone finds out we just recruited Wasti’s cousin and had no idea this was coming? Yeah, that’ll hurt — and it could hurt a lot more than our pride.

  I hope all that goes through Brand’s brain, too, as he’s formulating the lie. It’s been too long now to judge whether any of his reactions to my question are deceptive.

  My phone chimes again. Brand nods at the phone.

  Danny. So sorry about Mom, says the first text. Then: Should I really put her on a bus?

  “You going to take that?” Brand asks.

  I hit the button to dial Danny. Brand brushes past me, as always way closer than a casual contact. At the proximity, a cold wave washes over me, but I stand my ground.

  “You okay?” Danny answers the call.

  “Fine,” I murmur, keeping my back to Brand. “No busses necessary.”

  “We had a nice, long discussion on the way home. It’d better not happen again.” His tone is pointed, as if his mom’s right next to him.

  “Why? You going to ground her?”

  I’m way too aware of Brand’s eyes on my back to join Danny’s laughter.

  Time to do something. I start for the exit. Ironically, to face down Brand, I have to get out of here. “Well,” I wind up the call, “thanks for helping me find my phone.”

  Somehow I can tell exactly what kind of silence this is from Danny: knowing. He knows I had my cell at dinner — and he knows what I’m really saying. “Will you be over later?” he asks. “I’ll muzzle her if I have to.”

  “Probably won’t be necessary. A lot of planning to do.”

  I think he mutters, “You’re not the only one,” but I can’t be sure. He still says I love you, so we should be good. Good-ish.

  I let the bullpen door swing shut behind me before it hits me: Brand came in almost as soon as I did. Coincidence?

  The door opens again, and Brand steps into the reception area. “So did you find a dress?”

  “No.”

  “Time’s running out.” If that’s supposed to be helpful advice, he shouldn’t couch it in the voice and vocabulary of a threat.

  “That really isn’t your concern, is it?” The bullpen door latches behind Brand and the security swipe engages. I have to change the subject — and I have to check if he’s really monitoring this. “Did you see if I shut my computer down?”

  “Nope. Sorry.” Brand strides for the main exit.

  I swipe my card. Brand opens the door, but can’t escape before an unfamiliar belltone dings. He freezes in the doorway. Silence stretches between us, thick with tension.

  The bullpen latch clicks again, indicating it’s locked. I swipe again — and the same now-not-so unfamiliar bell sounds. From the doorway. From Brand’s phone.

  Frost shoots down to my nerve endings. There’s an app for spying on the spies?

  I leap into the bullpen, counting one hundred too-quick heartbeats until I dare to peek out. No Brand. Where am I supposed to feel safe now?

  I’m out of here. Though the operational phone I snagged has a triangulation-obfuscation app that’s way beyond my understanding (not Q, here), I still want to be well clear of our office before I try this scheme.

  I head into the heart of suburbanville, far from anywhere sensitive: work, Danny’s place, mine, Elliott’s. I pull out my operational phone, plug in Brand’s number and twiddle my thumbs over the virtual keyboard. I have to get this message right. Might be my only shot.

  You’re not as safe as you think. I know what you’re doing. We need to talk.

  I second-guess the vague approach until the phone vibrates. Really, Mr. Anonymous & Kinda Threatening? Sorry if I’m not quaking in my boots.

  Though normally it’s not cool to be addressed as “mister,” I’m actually glad he thinks I’m a guy. I’m that much safer.

  Now I drop the vague act. My reply is a single word: Farooqi.

  You’ve got my attention.

  Understatement of the year. I allow myself one little smile. Meet under the Plaza Bridge. Tomorrow, 1830.

  Let me guess. You’ll be the one in dark glasses.

  Blue jacket. Come alone. I add the last bit mostly for theatrics. Not sure who he’d use as backup. Not sure I want to find out.

  Bring all the help you can get, he replies.

  Cute — but all the help I can get might be sitting in this car.

  If you’re man enough to face me, that is, Brand adds.

  I could have let him twist in the wind, but now I know I’ll be there. Less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to fight.

  I’m used to maintaining cover identities. Just not at the office. But if I change my habits, if I don’t show up, I’ll tip my cards faster than anything else.

  By three o’clock, I can only pretend to work, despite a good morning tracking Morozov’s buddy. At quarter past, Brand’s office door swings open. I flinch. I hope he doesn’t notice — but if he didn’t see the reaction the first fourteen times he marched through the bullpen, I doubt he’ll start now.

  He thinks he’s meeting with a guy, I remind myself. He has zero reason to suspect me. I’m safe. Right?

  “Talia,” Brand calls. My gut takes a tiny dive. “Where’s the report on the Russians from this morning?”

  “Working on it.” I keep my gaze on my monitor, like the two-paragraph addition to the Russians’ file requires my complete concentration.

  Brand’s door closes, and my lungs function properly. My adrenal system shifts down through the gears until we’re back in the normal range. No need to get worked up. Yet.

  After one last proofread, I save the report and pack up. Why pretend anymore? I have prep work to do. I’m amazed Brand’s here at all — he should be reconnoitering too. He can’t possibly intend to walk into this blind.

  Unless he doesn’t intend to walk into it at all. I need to find out. Instead of leaving, I go to Brand’s office for one last little check. “Yeah?” he calls through the door.

  “Got a minute?”

  “Come in.”

  I’ve spent so long trying to avoid his office, it’s strange to be relieved to make it inside. But I have to know if he’s planning to show. My mind races through options, each less appealing than the last: invite him to catch up. Ask if he’s seeing anyone so we can double. See if he wants to get together with Danny.

  Yep, in the face of those options, I’ll have to go fishing. With Danny as the bait. (Sort of — he’s nowhere near danger.)

  I shut the door behind me and place my hands on the back of the chair facing his desk. After a second, his attention shifts from his computer to me. “I think we got interrupted while we were talking last night,” I say.

  “Oh yeah, your phone.”

  “So I didn’t get a chance to tell you — thanks. For the apology.”

  “Sure.” His eyes reveal a current of caution, I hope because he doesn’t k
now where this is going.

  “Anyway, do you have any plans tonight?” Smooth. Yeah. “My fiancé and I want to have you over for dinner.”

  The eyebrow twitches. “Really?’

  “Kind of a policy. New bosses get dinners.”

  “Thought I was never going to meet him. And isn’t Danny’s mom in town? Kathi, right?”

  A cold chill buzzes down my spine. He’s got me. He’s got Danny’s name. Crap. Crap crap crap.

  Fortunately, the spy part of my brain is two steps ahead of the rest of me. “Okay, you caught me. She’s the one who wants to see you.”

  Brand laughs, like he’s hardly surprised ladies love Cool B.

  And this might be the best way to sneak past his defenses. “She also wants to know if you’re single.”

  He chuckles again. “A curse, you know.”

  “I bet.” A sickening tide slowly rises in me. This is too much like flirting with him. Focus. “So, are you free tonight? Kathi needs to know how many to cook for.”

  “You can tell her I’m sorry to disappoint, but I have other plans.”

  A little flash of triumph jumpstarts my lungs. The completely ambiguous confirmation is the best I’m going to get, and I will take it.

  “I’ll relay your regrets,” I promise. And it’s totally natural for me to make my escape now. I wait until I’m out of the building and past my first stop to give Elliott a last chance. I text him again. Meeting at 1830 under canal bridge at Rideau St. Wear blue jacket if you come.

  I’m almost done with the SDR when he writes back. Jacket? Who wears a jacket when it’s like 50 degrees? I’d look like an idiot.

  So . . . like normal? (And the guy isn’t on centigrade yet?)

  He doesn’t respond. If that’s a no, I’ll kill him. But I don’t have time to put him through the wringer. I’ve got work to do.

  I survey the scene in front of me, both sides of the sidewalk flanking the emptied canal, beneath the bridge. As if I haven’t already identified the best tactical position for me, Elliott, and our imaginary backup team. It’s only 6:15, but I’ve nearly convinced myself neither Elliott nor Brand will show. Elliott should’ve been here an hour in advance to go over recon, lookouts, and game plans. Though we’re familiar with the area, you can never be too prepared.