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

  He takes that more seriously than I meant. “Do you want me to?”

  The whole truth, the real truth, is ready in an instant. “I want you to be happy.”

  “Then I don’t want to work for the CIA. Your hours suck.” He taps the envelope. “That’s your travel form.”

  I turn it over, eyeballing the open flap. I could take out that sheet and know exactly where we’re going. Even if it were sealed, I can get in there without being detected, but still —

  Trust is earned. Apparently I’ve done something right over the last year because if this isn’t his trust, I don’t know what is. I lick the adhesive and press the envelope flap shut. “I’ll hand this in,” I murmur. “I better get going.”

  Danny watches me. We both know what that means. He leans across the center console to kiss me, relief and fear running through us like a current. He pulls back to kiss my forehead.

  “I love you,” I tell him.

  “I love you too.”

  “I need to go.” I check his eyes, and I can already see the disappointment forming.

  The question screams to get out: Where?

  No matter how much I trust him, this isn’t his job. I kiss him goodbye, and I’m halfway out of the car before it hits me. “I didn’t ask. Does your story have a happy ending?”

  “Not exactly.” He squints pensively. “More of a happy beginning. I hope.”

  Me too.

  A quick stop to dig up a cache and retrieve a gun chews through even more time. It’s fully dark by the time Samir and I roll into the right part of town a little later than I wanted to be. I park to let Samir out half a block from our destination: Brand’s building.

  We’ve got a lot to do tonight.

  But first? I swivel to Samir, serious in the reflected glow of the streetlight. He’s watching me, waiting for a last bit of wisdom, I guess.

  If I had any of that, I wouldn’t be sitting in this car. “Here.” I fish something from my pocket and offer it to him: a stack of bills. “We do try to take care of our friends.”

  Samir fixates on the money. “I cannot.”

  I keep holding it out. “We would’ve given this to you no matter what.”

  “No matter what?” He ponders his hands. “No matter what,” he murmurs again.

  “Is there something else you need? I mean, this is the least we could do, after all you’ve risked for us. You name it —”

  He turns back to me. “Your friend was shot, you said?”

  I keep my gaze level despite the images in my mind, Elliott in that canal. “Yes, he was.”

  “And Ali Muhammad? And the people Hassam-ud-Din will kill?” Samir looks away. “It is blood money.”

  I swallow my own guilt and take back the cash before I offend him further. “Thank you. For your help.”

  “Stop him from killing again, and that will be thanks enough.” He gets out of the car.

  I hope and pray we can deliver. Before I drive off, he bends down with the same trepidation that’s hung behind his eyes all night. I roll down the passenger window. My brave bluff had better fool him. “You can do this.”

  He nods, then straightens. Man, I hope he can do this.

  Of course, he has the easy part. I roll away from Samir, still watching him in the rearview. He’s already asked Brand to see him, but we need to get more specific. We need to signal for this meeting. Time to drop off our engraved invitation.

  All Samir has to do is find Brand’s car and stick a message under the windshield wiper. Simple. Samir finally veers for the parking garage.

  Now it’s my turn. I park around the corner from Brand’s building and get out a disguise kit. The CIA turned to Hollywood decades ago and nearly poached an Oscar-winning makeup artist (he decided he’d rather consult). Our effects pass close examination and change our appearance enough our own mothers-in-law couldn’t recognize us. (I. Wish.)

  Oh, did I mention they’re designed to be applied in under a minute, while walking through a crowd? Seriously. Four years with the Agency and I’m still in awe.

  I apply my prosthetic: a new nose to change my profile. With a wavy blond wig and glasses, I’m ready to fool even Kathi. Brand might be a different story — and I’m about to find out.

  I check my supplies (real keys, fake keys, apartment key, clicker, micro jammer, disguise and bag) until Samir texts with the go-ahead and the number three. I climb out of the car, leaving a pair of binoculars on the passenger seat. Halfway down the block, I cross paths with Samir. I execute a classic brush pass, invisibly passing my keys to him without a hint of a pause. He does pretty well, considering he wasn’t expecting it. I stay on course.

  Hooray, yet another purposeful walk situation.

  I keep up my march into the parking garage until I find that teal Nissan on level three. Sure enough, Chinese takeout menus are tucked under the wipers of the whole row. (You’re welcome for the free advertising, Chez Szechuan.) Without slowing, I check the walls for cameras: three, all with good views.

  I got this. I draw my hand from my pocket and “accidentally” slide my fake keys out too. They clang against the cement, and it takes me two paces to stop.

  I sigh, making a show of turning around, and gathering my jacket and my skirt around my legs to bend down. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, right? And Elliott, Brand, and every other man I know has made it clear that I’ve got it: legs that drive guys to distraction.

  Not that I want to objectify myself, but, hey, any diversion is a bonus for a spy.

  The next bit requires crucial coordination. I make sure the magnetic micro signal jammer is stuck on my thumb before I place my left hand on Brand’s trunk, close to the license plate, like I need help to balance while bending over in these heels. With my right, I scoop up my keys, grabbing them by the DS&T-issue fob. I hit the special “pandemonium” button. Brand’s car alarm shrieks to life.

  I curve my thumb to attach the magnetic signal jammer to the trunk above the license plate half a second before I stumble away from the screeching. Pretending to glance around for the owner, I hurry away.

  Now Brand’s got a problem. The jammer will block the signal from his real clicker. He’ll have to come all the way in here and unlock the car with the key, or maybe start the ignition to switch off the alarm. Meaning that not only will he get the message on that menu, but he’ll also have to leave his apartment as soon as the garage attendants let him know he’s the one disturbing the peace. (Oh, wait, that’s me.)

  Step one: check. On to step two. In the stairwell, I reverse my jacket, switch out my skirt for slacks and sling on the sneakers in my huge purse. I trade my blond wig for light brown. Before I hit the street, I’ve added two scars and a spritz/dab of freckle paint. Sorry, the application technique’s classified.

  I check the windows of Brand’s building. About half the lights are on. Happy Friday night. Then I spot what I need: lights off, flashing blue. Somebody watching TV. Fourth floor.

  Though the next part might not be strictly necessary, I want to make this to look as believable as possible. I’m sure when you live in a building with a buzzer, you get lots of calls for your neighbors. But I’m also sure when you design a building like this, you make the buzzers loud — loud enough to be heard from anywhere in the apartment. Louder than a standard movie night.

  The pandemonium button has more than one application tonight.

  I count three cars past the garage exit and hit the button. Not sure how it works, though it’s just as effective as with Brand’s car — the nearest vehicle starts up its obnoxious wail.

  Even in Canada, land of little crime, car alarms are no cause for alarm (except to grab your keys to make your car shut up). But doing this once also isn’t enough to pull off my plan. I count out three more cars and hit the button again. Lather, rinse, repeat until the people in the movie apartment are hitting the button to shut up the car or turn up the television. Or both.

  Samir’s been using the binocs. He times his arrival at Brand
’s building for when I reach the corner of the block. Now to tackle the so-called obstacle of the buzzer.

  Man, I hate those things. I know, you’d think someone as paranoid as me would want a building guarded by that extra level of security. As I obviously already know too well, you can’t trust your security to random strangers trying to be helpful.

  I text Samir a single digit: 4. He knows what to do with the intel. He heads up to the buzzers and hits one. When they answer, he’s supposed to explain his plight: those neighbors can’t hear the buzzer over their movie. From my vantage point crossing the street, I can see him holding up a Chez Szechuan takeout bag, like the microphone is transmitting his image, too.

  I’m at the end of the block when I hear the door buzz. My sneakers slap the cement as I sprint down the sidewalk. Samir holds the door for me. I hand off my bag and jog in.

  I don’t have time to catch my breath — but I don’t have any breath to catch, either. Brand will be walking down these halls any second, and I have to march past him. Are purposeful walking and prosthetics enough to fool a trained operative who’s watching his back?

  My adrenaline level picks up with the mounting worries. A loose edge on my cheek scars will show. My nose is too crooked. My eyebrows don’t match my wig — crap, they don’t match.

  No. It’s fine. Lots of people dye their hair. I skip the elevators and hustle up two flights of stairs. By the third, my pace is closer to a trudge, but still faster than waiting around.

  I reach Brand’s floor. My cover is dating one of his neighbors (though I’m hoping not to explain that), so I have no reason to slink around. I stroll down the hall like I belong here.

  Until I round the corner and nearly smack into someone. I stop short: Brand.

  My system hits the deep freeze. I fake a nervous giggle that I hope’s more annoying than my real laugh. Brand barely notices me. “Sorry about that,” he says, Canadian accent in place.

  “No problem,” I murmur. He’s already down the hall, his keys in hand.

  I drag in a deep breath, thawing my heart and restarting my pulse — but that’s only the beginning of my job tonight. Once the elevator around the corner has chimed, I zip to Brand’s door. My would-be office key slides into the lock and turns.

  I’m in. No time to celebrate. I shut the door behind me and scan the apartment for a laptop. Nice place, new gray couches, hardwood floors, neutral walls, but not many places to hide in the same style of décor I have now: mid-century moving boxes. (He always did have great taste.)

  The card table in the messy kitchenette holds my quarry. I open the laptop case. The power button starts automatically and the screen flips on, revealing a picture of a city at night.

  No icons for programs. No menu bar, if this computer has one. No password box.

  Did I break it? Great way to betray myself.

  Now what?

  I don’t have time to mess around. Setting my key aside for a minute, I’m on the phone to my personal tech support hotline in ten seconds — and no, nobody at Langley.

  “I take it you’re still alive,” Danny answers.

  “I’ll keep you posted on that front. How much do you know about hacking?” I know, I make conversation an art.

  He pauses, though I doubt he’s ignoring me. “Do I dare ask what you’re doing?”

  I shouldn’t say, but keeping secrets from Danny has blown up in my face lately. He’s got the background on the case, knows the danger — he even has clearances. All Danny wants is to know me. I just have to let him. “I’m hacking Brand’s computer to see if he’s reporting intelligence from that one source.”

  “And if he is?”

  If he is, the UN isn’t in danger in two days. But that falls on the Top Secret-y side of the line. “I have more time to build the case. So, how much do you know about hacking?”

  “Not enough to talk you through it.”

  Dang. I check Brand’s keyboard, like he’s worn out the letters used in his password. My eyes travel back to the skyline on his monitor.

  His touch-screen monitor.

  For once a stupid, frivolous business expense might work in my favor. “How about hacking a touch screen?”

  “Sure,” Danny says. “Tilt the screen in the light to see the fingerprints.”

  Duh. I push the screen back to catch the light at a raking angle. My thumb brushes the bottom of the screen, and the cityscape rolls up to reveal a password pane next to a picture of Brand skiing across his monitor.

  Fingerprints slash across the surface in all directions, but a couple streaks are more pronounced, like they’ve been repeated more: tracing Brand’s skis and a circle around his face.

  Narcissist.

  “Sometimes you can set up a touch password,” Danny provides. “The right motions in the right order unlock it.”

  “And let me guess: too many mistakes lock it down completely.”

  “Depends on the computer.”

  Great. That wouldn’t be a dead giveaway.

  My phone vibrates and I pull it away. Text from Samir: On his way back.

  My stomach plummets to the ground floor. No time to mess around. All right, if the guy’s so self-centered, maybe his face is first. The fingerprint streak runs clockwise and lifts off at the top. My breath stops of its own accord as I follow the pattern, then trace his right ski and left ski.

  The picture password is incorrect. Please try again. The little defeat lands in my gut like a punch.

  “How many attempts do you get?” I ask.

  “Dunno. Typically three. It can be pretty tricky — personally, I hate them.”

  I try again, ignoring the tension stealing into my shoulders: face, left ski, right ski.

  And once again, I’m in. I have to hide the mental party. “Got it.”

  “And where’s your boss now?”

  “You don’t want to know.” I fall silent to focus on checking his email — crap. The mail client downloads his new messages. I glance over them. Nothing seems relevant. A quick search for Samir’s code name in the outbox queue yields no results. I skim each of the sent messages from yesterday, in case he’s changed Samir’s code name. Today’s messages.

  Nothing.

  No. No. He had to have reported at least once. At least that he was taking over the case. I search the sent messages. Before the results come up, keys jingle outside the door. My heart lodges in my throat.

  Yep, just what I need. Brand’s back. “Gotta go,” I whisper to Danny. “Love you.”

  I pocket my phone. Three of Brand’s emails pop up for my search. I click the last and scan it. A key slides into the lock. My fingers are already hitting the keys to kill the program when the words hit my brain. TARMAC determined unreliable, limited access. Relationship terminated.

  The doorknob twists. I slap the laptop shut and scurry into the bedroom. By law, there has to be another way out, right?

  Behind me, I hear the front door click closed. Brand sighs and either throws something big and heavy onto the couch, or he’s plopped down. “Stupid car,” he moans under his breath.

  Nice that he still has the freedom to breathe. That makes one of us. I slide my feet over the carpet to reach the window and peer out. Fire escape.

  I have no idea how well the window works — it could scrape, it could squeak, it could be painted shut — but I have to at least try. My heart clenches as I work my fingers under the sash and give it a tentative tug. It slides up, but not as quietly as I’d like with the door behind me ajar. At a dead stop, I listen. And listen. Did he hear me?

  A rustle and shuffle carry from the other room. I still every muscle, straining to hear Brand above the pounding in my ears. His footsteps grow louder, echoing over the kitchenette linoleum.

  I creep backward to hide behind the door. It swings open half a second before I’m ready. I rear back to press myself against the wall, rotating my ankles out to let the door open that much farther. (Who’s got no turnout now, Madame Willikers?)

 
Brand’s footsteps pass through the room, and even my blood turns to solid ice. I can’t move. Physically. Impossible.

  Something drops onto the bed. Another door shuts. I dare to breathe, to peek around the door, still half-hidden in its shadow. The laptop and Samir’s menu lie on the ratty bed quilt. The only other door in the room is closed, light leaking around its edges.

  My chance. I steal back to the window. He’s closer now, though we have a closed door between us. I have to wait for the right minute.

  And it comes with the sound of a flush. I yank the window open, practically dive out, and ease it shut.

  I focus on regaining my breath and moving my feet down the rungs of the fire escape with as little vibration as possible — not on the words of the email. Not on the facts I confirmed. Not on the blatant lies Brand’s feeding up the chain about Samir. Lies that will cost lives.

  I already knew he was a traitor. The email only confirmed it. Now I just have to prove it.

  And I will. Tonight. Brand should definitely recognize the menu, from Samir’s actual restaurant. The signal — a star by the Friday night special, a circle around the 22 in the price — is clear enough for a spy: meeting tonight at 2200. In fact, in hostile territory, that would be flirting with suicide.

  But the only hostile here is Brand. I can only hope he shows.

  Good thing Samir and I already have our plans in motion. I rendezvous with Samir again at my car, and we pass the time rehearsing possible scenarios for the meeting with Brand. We have to convince Brand to act right away on this seriously actionable intelligence, while I record the whole thing so he can’t deny this happened when he fails to file a report.

  We’re as ready as we’ll get. The sunlight faded hours ago, and every minute drops the temperature another degree. I tug my jacket tighter around me and check the dash clock again. Samir’s already hidden in the alley down the street, waiting.

  And Brand’s late.

  We’ve tipped him off. I don’t know how, but he has to know. Or maybe he doesn’t feel like pretending for Samir’s sake anymore. Why would he? It’s not like he’s really running Samir. He’s faked the reports and taken the money, so why bother with any of the other motions?