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 shakes his head. “True, you know. Everything has a price. And so does everyone.”

  “So what’s yours?”

  Brand gives a little laugh, still slowly circling me. “I never went looking for this. It found me. He found me.”

  “Ali Muhammad.”

  He pauses. “Quicker than I thought you’d be.”

  “Not brain-dead. He was in Tajikistan. What happened? Recruitment turn on you?”

  Again with that laugh like someone so simple couldn’t possibly understand. And no, I couldn’t possibly understand, but it’s not because I’m stupid.

  “Then what?” I ask. “You got in trouble, and Ali Muhammad was the one who got you out?”

  Brand scrutinizes me for a second, like he’s sizing me up, weighing whether I can handle the truth. Whether I deserve it. “Something like that.”

  “Ali Muhammad’s dead. Not on good terms, either. So why protect his brother?”

  “Wow. Are you — are you really this naïve? It’s too late. Wasti would roll on me, and I’d spend the rest of my life on the run.”

  That is way too good for the guy. “Better to sacrifice innocent people at the UN?”

  “You’ve been in Canada too long. No such thing as innocent people. Especially not at the UN.”

  Realization and dread hit rock bottom in my stomach. He’s signing a death warrant for hundreds of people, innocent or not, just to cover this up. What won’t he do to the one person who can expose him?

  And yeah, maybe they’ll find my intel and stop him eventually — but there’s no way they can before Monday. I didn’t tell Danny about that deadline.

  So much for my backup.

  “Okay, let’s be rational,” I say.

  “I am. I’m being totally rational. All part of the Great Game, Talia.” He stares at me, as if he’s mystified that I don’t understand him. “What difference does any of it make?”

  “It makes a difference to the people who work at the UN, their families. You can still fix this, you still have a choice —”

  “Are you kidding? I had to make my choice a long time ago, and I chose the one thing I can depend on. The one person I can trust. Me.”

  Those words are a little too familiar. And yep, he’s desperate, reckless and dangerous.

  “I’m not playing to win the Game for someone else. I’m playing for me.”

  Can I get through to him? “And you can still be a hero, here. Don’t make things worse.”

  “Doesn’t get a whole lot worse than it already is, does it? Or were you not pulling the strings on blue-jacket Josh?” Brand keeps up his pitying/disagreeing laugh. “‘Meet me at the mall.’ How did it feel to make me jump?”

  We’re both dropping our pretenses, I guess. Why bother lying? “Good. Felt really good.”

  Brand stops sauntering and simpering and staring at the floor. He turns to me. “You know, I was almost concerned, seeing you that first day. Bumping into you on an SDR. Thought you knew then. I shouldn’t have worried.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He turns his back, like he has so little to worry about from me. “You said it, didn’t you? Nobody gets promoted to Canada.”

  “Canada to Brand: you’re assigned here, too. How does that make you better than me?”

  “Think about it, Talia. At least they wanted to see me in action. More than once. And obviously I screwed up — but you. Fluent in Russian? Lived in the country? They weren’t even interested in seeing what you’ve got. Not quite bad enough to fire you, so they squirrel you away in the safest, slowest post in the world.”

  That can’t be true. It can’t. Getting me into law school here took a year of work. That cannot be true. I fight back indignation and shame and heat rising to my face. “That isn’t how it works.”

  “Isn’t it? You’ve certainly proved them right, haven’t you?”

  “What do you know?” I scoff.

  “The Turkmen scientist? Your fiasco with Fyodor Timofeyev? Slipping on Morozov?”

  The words sting, but I jut out my chin. “I only slipped on Morozov because I was busy tracking you. Think I picked the bigger threat.”

  “Worked out well for you, too, didn’t it? You came so close — I had the money on me at Between Friends. You never even knew, and now I get to keep everything while the Agency will hardly miss you.”

  I set aside the fear flipping in my middle and force myself to chuckle to shore up my bluff. “Don’t you see, Brand? It’s too late. I’ve already reported it. Langley has everything they need to bring you in.”

  He doesn’t take the bait. One eyebrow sneaks up to a sarcastic angle, and he glances around. “Then why haven’t they?”

  “I just barely sent it.” But the explanation rings hollow (and lame).

  “Ty-pi-cal, blowing the biggest case of your career.”

  “It’s too late for you, Brand,” I try again. “You’ll be lucky if you make it to a trial.”

  In a flash, he’s in my face, that casual pretense long forgotten. I stumble back a step, out of the light. Brand catches my upper arm and my throat (figuratively). “You didn’t.”

  But that’s not insisting he’s right. It’s begging me to be wrong.

  “Of course I did. The biggest case of my career, isn’t it?”

  “Right. The biggest case of an officer assigned straight to Canada.” He drags me an inch closer. “Want to know why you’re here?”

  “Sure,” I say, heavy on the sarcasm. As if the desire to know isn’t burning through my brain.

  “Then tell me the truth.” His growl is more than a threat.

  “The truth?” Yeah, right. “You’re on borrowed time.”

  His icy eyes search mine, his jaw set in such determination my lungs frost over. “If I’m on borrowed time, then so are you.”

  He hauls me in another inch, grabs my other arm. My last tenuous grasp on my composure snaps, but instead of flying into a fear-filled freak-out, I let the anger take charge. I struggle against his hands, edging backward, trying to get away. “Stop it. Let me go —”

  “You’ll listen like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.” He tightens his grip. “It might be.”

  That stills me long enough to meet his gaze. He stares at me with pure hatred.

  I have to end this. The person who starts the fight is usually the one who finishes it — and that’s got to be me.

  “You want to know why you’re in Canada?” he keeps monologuing. “You’re lucky they didn’t fire you. You already owe me big time.”

  “You mean —” I recover my sarcastic front, and hope he didn’t see that real vulnerability in my faltering. “You can’t seriously think you had anything to do with my assignment. You’re delusional. Again.”

  His face becomes menacing. “I had everything to do with your assignment. You wouldn’t give me what I wanted, so I took what you wanted. Think about it: everyone knows me, trusts me. Loves. Me. You were nobody. That hasn’t changed.”

  Cold flashes through me, and for half a second, every muscle freezes. Brand sees the opportunity and pounces on that, too, jerking my arms to bring me within millimeters of his face. “Now I think it’s time for payback. For everything you owe me.”

  Heat evaporates that freezing fear. I bring my forearms up between his, wheeling them out to break his grip. He drops me; I stagger backward a foot.

  The menace in his expression hardens into something more dangerous. I steel myself against the terror and the reality of taking on a guy who’s much bigger than me.

  He may have nothing left to lose, but I’ve got everything to protect.

  I charge forward, and Brand lunges at me. I sidestep him, then shove an elbow into his kidneys. He grunts, but it isn’t nearly enough to stop him.

  I backpedal for the shadows until Brand whirls around to attack.

  And then we both hear it: the metallic clang of a door closing, deep in the warehouse. In that shaft of moonlight, Brand turns to stone.

  I have
no idea whether I should be reassured or even more terrified.

  “Who’s there?” Brand demands. “Samir? Is that you?”

  “Guess again, dude.”

  Oh no. No, no, no. My heart tumbles off a cliff and my stomach follows. Adrenaline pours into my muscles. I stay frozen in the shadows.

  Footsteps echo through the warehouse, their pace casual. Brand doesn’t move either, scanning the dark surrounding him, like he can get the jump on whoever’s closing in.

  I should move. I should find the newcomer. I should shout for him to run, run now, run as fast as he can. But I can’t move a muscle, not even to yell.

  “Who’s there?” Brand demands in a shout.

  “Come on,” rings that too-familiar voice from the dark. “Haven’t figured it out yet?”

  I have, but every cell in my body wants my brain to be imagining this, to be wrong.

  “Sorry.” Brand laughs, back into that dismissive mode. “Is all this posturing supposed to scare me? One guy all by himself to bring me in?”

  “Bring you in? Better than you deserve.”

  Brand snorts. “Points for style. Still at zip for substance.”

  The footsteps finally reach Brand. Time slows as that beam slides higher on the man stepping into the light.

  Danny.

  Terror tramples all my other thoughts. I see Danny there in the light, though in my mind I keep seeing him battling Brand, facing off with Fyodor, bleeding and broken.

  Not a pretty picture.

  Danny looks my general direction. “You about done, T?”

  He doesn’t call me that. Nobody does, except for — “Elliott,” I breathe.

  It’s enough; they both wheel on me with apprehension in their eyes. I understand Danny’s worry immediately. I told him over and over that Elliott was the only one who could help me, so now he’s got to be Elliott.

  If I let Danny maintain this pretense, Brand will think he’s taking on the guy who jumped out of the helicopter after General Aytmatov.

  I don’t know which is the lesser of these dangers, but if this is the length Danny will go for me, how can I not let him?

  “What are you doing here?” I pour impatience into my tone.

  “Who were you expecting?” Danny asks. “The Prime Minister?”

  He hasn’t spent much time with Elliott, but he’s mastered the cavalier attitude down to the you-know-you-love-me smirk. He is the part. And I’ll do my part to help him keep this up.

  “No,” I say. “Good ol’ What’s-His-Name hasn’t been returning my calls.”

  “Rude.” Danny tsks. “Shall we go?”

  “Oh no,” Brand breaks in. “We’re just getting started.” He stares Danny down. “Elliott, huh? Sorry, guess I was expecting . . . more.”

  Danny folds his arms. “Same to you, dude.”

  Brand scrutinizes him. “This is really the great, jumping-out-of-a-helicopter Elliott?”

  My breath stutters and dies, though Danny maintains that smirk. “Did you want to see my ID?”

  He reaches for his back pocket. Why is he going for this bluff?

  Elliott’s ID. I had it. Did I leave it with Danny?

  Not a good move. They’re not exactly twins. But he’s already pulling out his wallet.

  Brand heaves a sigh and looks away. “You could be the president. Wouldn’t make a difference to me.”

  But it makes all the difference to our situation, and to the balance of power — if I can handle this right. I’ve lost this game too many times already, and unfortunately, it’s not something that gets easier with repetition.

  Apparently it isn’t my turn. It’s Danny’s. He glances back and forth between us. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting your standoff?”

  “Yeah, and we’d all like to get back to that.” Brand rolls his eyes. “Thought you were having problems at home.”

  Danny looks to me. My heart skips. That’s a giveaway. He doesn’t know his story. My gaze drops to the cement floor, though I try to give Danny the slightest nod as a signal.

  “Can’t believe you told him that,” Danny mutters. “Yeah, okay, things are rough. So I’d like to get back there and work on it. Now, let’s end this: you’re guilty. You’ve got rights.”

  Not . . . exactly. We’re not law enforcement, and we have no obligation to abide by Miranda. (And considering I got my law degree in Canada, I only know what I’ve seen on TV.)

  Danny isn’t done. “Well, I’m sure you will have rights. If you’re arrested.” He grins, and for a minute, I’m not sure he won’t take waaay too much pleasure in enhanced interrogation techniques.

  (Remind me to never cross Danny.)

  Brand shoves his hands in his pockets and starts up his circuit — toward me. Danny and I both move as well, a slow motion chase around this little square of light.

  “Don’t make this difficult.” Something like that should sound coaxing, but Danny makes it condescending.

  “Here’s the thing,” Brand begins. He pauses in our rotation. “No thanks.”

  Brand barrels across the circle and throws his momentum into a swing — at Danny. He ducks, and Brand’s fist whooshes through the air.

  But Brand already has a backup plan: me. His missed punch transitions into hooking that arm around my waist. My stupid heart leaps into my throat, choking me.

  I squirm back, shove at him, try to get out of reach. Danny’s there in half a second, grabbing Brand by the shoulders to yank him off me.

  Not enough. Brand pulls me tighter. I cram the panic into a corner of my mind so I can act. I stomp on Brand’s foot. He barely grunts. I fake a knee to the groin, and he takes the bait, doubling over to protect himself.

  Exactly what I’m aiming for. His face is in range. I slam the heel of my hand into his nose. The bones of my wrist connect with his teeth, jarring us both. He shouts in pain, and releases me.

  Danny lets go of Brand to catch my elbow and my waist. Brand reels backward, holding his jaw, stumbling into the shadows.

  “You all right?” Danny’s voice is an undertone as he scans the darkness. I’m not sure whether he’s “being” Elliott or Danny for a minute.

  This is one time they’d do the same thing. “Fine. We can’t let him get away,” I whisper, panting from adrenaline and fear.

  Danny points in the direction of the door we both came in. I answer with a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the door behind us. “Those the only two doors?” he asks.

  I wish. We could guard them and wait him out. “Has to be a way to the front offices.”

  Somewhere in the warehouse, a dull thud echoes. I glance at Danny. Unless Brand walked into something in the dark (fingers crossed), I don’t think that’s good for us.

  Numbers are our one advantage. Brand’s already out there, maybe setting traps, picking his hiding spot, possibly making his escape. We need to act this instant. “Split up,” I whisper.

  “Bad idea.” Danny’s inflection plays a tune that matches his words.

  I start the direction we last saw Brand go, cautiously creeping until my eyes adjust to the dark. “Pretty sure I can handle myself.”

  “Have it your way, T.”

  When I check behind me, there’s no Danny-sized shadow. After all the times I’ve left him in the dark, suddenly I appreciate how much that experience sucks.

  I turn my back on the light and the disappointment and worry and terror — I ignore everything. Most people are afraid of the dark. No, they’re afraid of what lurks in the dark. When you already know what’s out there, you can see the dark for what it is: a great equalizer. Brand is just as blind as we are. We all have the same weakness.

  I close my eyes to shut off the in-born reliance on sight. Straining to make out shadow from shadow would distract me from the real clues.

  After a couple seconds I hear it: the sound to my left. Reverberating metal. I slink that direction, rolling my feet to keep them silent.

  I can only hope he’s concentrating so hard on what he’s d
oing and the sounds he’s making, that he doesn’t hear me coming.

  The vibrations get closer. I stop short and open my eyes in time to see the huge metal racks feet in front of me. I reroute to avoid the obstacle. What could Brand be doing to make that noise?

  As if on cue, the noise stops. I pause to scan the area. That last sound almost seemed like it was . . . above me.

  I raise my gaze, slowly scaling the thirty-foot tower next to me. My visibility ends way before the shelving does. The wire shelves are at least five feet apart. Can he climb up? I rotate to take in the 360° view. The absolute, utter silence and the complete, total blackness steal my breath. I try to swallow. My dry mouth balks.

  What was Danny saying about not splitting up? Where is he now? I shut out the ravening black, but the quiet is no more help. Wherever Danny went, he isn’t moving now. The only thing I hear is my own heartbeat muffled in my ears.

  Until another soft sound echoes from far off. Danny. Giving his position away.

  Suddenly the whole room feels like it’s spinning in a void. I have to help him. I have to find him before Brand does. I have to save Danny.

  I edge away, trying to get my bearings. The back of my heel strikes something hard, and I suck in air, fast and sharp. My thoughts crystallize into ice. Now I’ve given myself away.

  Above me, the metal starts vibrating again. He’s going after Danny. I’ve got to stop Brand. Without being able to see him —

  Sacrifice play.

  I whirl and send whatever I hit crashing to the ground. (Wood?) One stride into my escape, I kick another obstacle. I tumble to the ground, slamming onto something hard. The impact knocks the wind out of me. I don’t have time to be hurt.

  I struggle to my hands and knees, the need for air dulling my senses. Finally I drag in a breath, and my vision clears. In the reflection from the skylight, I can make out the silhouette of something by a low shelf a couple feet in front of me. My camera and equipment from earlier.

  I pull myself to standing, but again I only make it one step. This time, it’s not my own blindness that stops me.

  It’s the arm wrapped around my throat.

  I try to dip my chin to block him. That only works to prevent the lock. I’m too late.