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 still haven’t recovered from falling, and instantly, the desperate need for oxygen screams through my veins, filling my hearing and my sight. I can’t even squeak.

  Danny is out there, risking his life to help me. He could be ten feet away; he could be on lock-down at Langley now, it wouldn’t make a difference. Either way, he can’t know I need to be rescued.

  Heat and pressure are mounting behind my eyes. Sleeper hold. This knocks you out by cutting off blood flow to the brain. Couple seconds too long, and you don’t wake up.

  I claw the air behind me, but Brand’s face isn’t there. I shoot elbows at his waist; he sidesteps. I kick at his shins and his feet and his knees. Every movement gets slower, using precious oxygen, killing me faster.

  Finally, that training kicks in. I push back a step. Brand isn’t ready for my weight, I guess, because we both tumble back. His grip loosens for half a second and I gasp for air, roll away, try to blink away the red crowding my vision.

  Not enough. Brand’s on my back in a second. I dip my chin. This time he’s anticipating the defense. He snatches a handful of my hair and forces my head back. Pain flashes hot through my skull. His arm around my throat strangles my screech before it starts.

  Again, I’m swinging an elbow, still finding nothing. Brand’s weight across my back is too much, and we both slam onto the cement. The air I managed to grab is trapped between his weight and his arm.

  The red tint advances across what little I can see. The edges of my vision grow black.

  The last thing I’ll ever see in this life: my super-silent camera. Better make this worth it. I brace my toes and push those last couple inches, straining my fingers for the camera. My mouth is working, trying to croak out something, anything to distract Brand from my goal.

  “You want to know why?” he whispers, his breath seething against my ear.

  I can’t see anything, but my fingers find the camera. I hit the button to record a video.

  Nothing.

  I can’t even feel the defeat.

  “What?” Brand continues. “You’ll die happy if you can figure out how I went wrong?”

  I move my head a millimeter, a nod. Then I feel it: the camera’s lens zooming.

  I turned it on. The hollow triumph boosts my strength to hit the record button again.

  “Why else?” Brand whispers. “I did it because I could. Is that what you want to hear?”

  It barely registers that my forehead is cold. The camera’s getting heavier. I can hardly feel my hand.

  No, I have to fight, I have to protect Danny, I —

  I have to do this for him. I fight for him. I have to let him fight for me, too. I have to let him know.

  The camera tumbles away.

  Will this be enough? Will they get Brand? Will Danny forgive me?

  I’ll never know.

  A blinding light grows closer, and I let go.

  Suddenly, I’m on my back, sucking in air, hacking, coughing, sputtering. It’s black again, but if I can just blink, if I can just breathe, if I can just be, I’ll be okay.

  Did I live?

  My eyes recover before my ears. I’m still in the dark warehouse. Brand is gone.

  Then my hearing kicks in — no, what I’ve been hearing all along registers. A yelp followed by a wet thud. And again.

  I force myself up, still choking, like my body figured I wouldn’t be doing this breathing thing anymore, so it didn’t have to remember how. I drag myself toward the yelping — a bright light. A figure kneeling on the ground, hunched over. Hunched over someone on his back.

  My burning lungs clamp down on the little air I’ve caught. I’ve destroyed everything. I didn’t give Danny a chance to fight for me, I set him up to take on Brand alone. Now he’s got Danny — he’s got Danny — he’s got . . . Danny?

  The kneeling man: Danny. And on the cement floor: Brand. Danny has a knee and all his weight in Brand’s stomach. Danny’s phone, in flashlight mode, casts them both in grotesque chiaroscuro.

  That bright light approaching me as I passed out.

  “Stop, stop,” Brand begs. He’s got ahold of Danny’s arm with one hand; the other arm is twisted beneath him at an angle that makes my stomach quiver. Danny has him by the shoulders. Danny’s grip tightens on Brand’s jacket, and he yanks him up and slams him down. That wet crack is Brand’s head hitting the cement, his rolling arm rolling my stomach along with it.

  He groans. “Please,” he whimpers. “Please.”

  Danny’s fingers tighten again.

  “Don’t!” The voice is so hoarse I don’t recognize myself. I throw my hands against Danny’s chest, like he couldn’t understand me.

  “Don’t tell me you’re coming down with Stockholm syndrome, T.”

  I shake my head between gasps. “Too good for him,” I croak.

  Danny shifts his weight to press on Brand’s shoulders instead, and Brand dissolves into ragged moans.

  If you expect me to have any sympathy for the guy — sorry. Please take it up with my chafed neck, bruised windpipe, scarred lungs, overloaded brain, etc.

  On cue, that brain seizes with pain. We need to end this. Pinning Brand down is effective for the moment, but we have to get Brand totally neutralized.

  I still can’t see much — hope that’s from the dark and not permanent brain damage — so I have to work by feel. I slide my hands down Danny’s chest until my fingers hit his belt. He jumps back a millimeter. I ignore him to undo the buckle.

  “Hel-lo?” A dead-on imitation of the same reaction Elliott would’ve had. (Okay, just about any guy would react that way.) “We’re a little busy.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I cough and tug the belt free in two tries. “Roll him over.”

  Danny scrutinizes the situation for a second until he figures out the best way to do that without letting Brand go (tricky) or ripping his arm off (optional). Once he’s maneuvered a still-groaning Brand face down, I give the belt back. “Wrists.”

  Again, Danny obeys. With Brand securely bound, I can take a full breath. Sort of. Danny keeps one knee in Brand’s back and pulls me close. “You okay?”

  I bury my face in his chest. Not exactly “okay” yet, but I will be. After about three seconds of comfort and relief, all the freezing fear left in my system converts to fury. I withdraw to backhand Danny’s chest. “What were you thinking, coming here?”

  “I was thinking, ‘Gee, why don’t I sit around and let Talia get killed? Yeah, sounds like a good Saturday night.’”

  My brain grapples for a witty comeback to his sarcasm, and fails. So I backhand him a second time. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

  Danny pulls me closer again. “Not a promise I’m willing to make.”

  “Since when do we get to pick and choose our promises?”

  “Are you going to let me kiss you or not?”

  I manage not to purse my lips so he can do just that.

  “Wait — wait — wait a second.” Brand shifts beneath our weight with a squeak of pain. “You — what about your fiancé?”

  “I think I just changed my mind about introducing you. Meet Danny.”

  Brand’s jaw clenches. “A civilian?” he hisses. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Maybe you’re slipping.” Danny adds an I’m-totally-not-mocking-you-even-though-I-totally-am smirk.

  “After all,” I continue, “nobody gets promoted to Canada, do they?”

  Danny draws me in for another kiss, but stops short. “What do we do with him?”

  We have about 1.7 seconds to consider that conundrum.

  The metal doors slam open, light floods the warehouse, and pounding footsteps run in. Men everywhere, swarming over us, dragging me and Danny apart. I try to fight, to pull free — no way can we let Brand escape now.

  Until the guy towing me backward changes tacks. He wraps his arms around my waist, locking my arms to my sides. I try to push my weight back into him, but he’s onto my strategy. Picking me up and pivoting, my
attacker brings me face to face with — “Will?”

  He gives me half a grin. “Nice job, Talia.”

  The guy holding me lets go. I barely land on my feet. The mental jolt of seeing Will leaves me reeling. My not-exactly-attacker slings an arm across my shoulders. I shove him away before I see it’s Justin. “But — but you and Brand —” I whirl back to Will. “And Brand said — you were —”

  Will raises an eyebrow, and I bite off the rest of my incoherent blubbering. “I’ll . . . I’ll have to explain in my report. Have you known about this all along?”

  “No, someone finally tipped us off tonight.” He glances at Danny, wrapping up a studious conversation with several more men.

  I almost don’t dare to ask. “How did —?”

  “Not what I intended when I gave him my card, but well played.” Will nods to Danny, who’s now sliding an arm around my waist.

  “Didn’t think you were coming,” he says to Will.

  “Would’ve been here sooner, but you have to plow through a lot of red tape to bring in an officer.” Will shakes Danny’s free hand, then moves on to direct the guys hauling Brand out.

  “You can thank me any time.” Danny shoots me a smirk.

  “You can stop being Elliott. Seriously.”

  He puffs out a breath like that’s the biggest relief of the night. “Thought you’d never ask.” He turns me to Will again. “I’m guessing you should go be Top Secret-y.”

  Samir — the camera — the files. “Will!” I call. “We’ve got work to do!”

  Six hours later, I’m still pacing the embassy hallway. I’ve done all I can: retrieved the camera, filed it with Will, got Samir to share his intel again. Now we’re waiting on cooperation from the FBI.

  “Never thought I’d want to be here less than during the polygraph,” Danny murmurs.

  I jump and spin around. He’s still in the same chair, waiting like me — but I thought he fell asleep hours ago.

  He rubs his eyes and shifts in his chair. “Still nervous?”

  “Yeah.” I settle in the seat next to him.

  “Seems like you’ve done that a lot lately.”

  “What, be nervous?”

  Danny slides one hand between both of mine. I realize I was twisting my engagement ring around my finger. “Actually, I kind of do it to keep calm. Anchored.”

  He interlaces our fingers without taking his eyes from mine. “You’ve given all you can.”

  You don’t have to be a spy to interpret that code. It’s enough. I’ve everything I could. For my country (I hope). For Samir. For Danny.

  Will pokes his head out of the room. I have never been so glad — or so stressed — to see those graying temples. “Time.”

  I’m on my feet and across the hall before I can think about it, still clinging to Danny. But Will doesn’t move from the door to the command center. He isn’t looking at me.

  He’s peering at Danny. Danny takes the message faster than I do. He squeezes my hand and releases me. “Tell me how it goes.” He steps back from the door. “If you can.”

  That little act of faith in me speaks volumes, though I only nod. Will sweeps me into the darkened command center. The half dozen men in the room are seated around the conference table, but they’re all watching the scene projected on the screen: a quiet Colonial home in a quiet neighborhood, though the green night vision tint does add an air of stress.

  “Westchester,” Will whispers. Where Wasti told Samir to meet. “Live feed, courtesy of the FBI.”

  “Playing nice?”

  “So far. Three checks at the UN. Looks like they hadn’t placed anything yet. Highest alert for the week.” Will and I take the last two seats and join the tense silence.

  “Perimeter secured,” comes a voice from the feed. “Go.”

  Shapes and shadows converge on the two-story brick house. I grip the edge of the table. Cottony silence descends on us.

  “Move the camera,” Will says in an undertone. I think he’s talking to himself until I see he’s on the phone. The guy on the other end gets the message and obeys — sort of. The feed switches to a camera carried by one of those shadows, jumping us to the door.

  Our accidental cameraman is holding up one finger, then lowers it. The team explodes into action, bursting through the door and into the house. Hard to make out exactly what’s happening in shades of green and black, but five or six men in the living room leap off the floor. Several agents — assuming they’re all FBI — jump in to take them down. Camera Guy has a bigger fish. He wends his way past the arrests in progress and up the stairs.

  Target spotted: the bedroom guarded by a thug asleep in a chair. Shouts from downstairs finally rouse the thug. Not in time to fend off the two agents who come from behind Camera Guy to slap on the cuffs.

  There’s no time to breathe for us or Camera Guy. He keeps moving, AR-15 at the ready in this first-person shooter video game that’s beyond my control. A battering ram efficiently eliminates the door. Camera Guy sweeps the room with his rifle. Two more agents rush in to tackle the man climbing out the window.

  Camera Guy closes in and shines a flashlight on the man. The burst of light blinds us, so I can’t ID him, but Camera Guy has no problem. “We got him.”

  The soft sigh of celebration is all we get. The feed continues through the arrest, but that’s enough for me. Will stands too and shakes my hand, then gestures for me to follow him. He leads me out a different door than we came in, and through a series of hallways. Every minute we get farther from Danny, I can’t help the worries multiplying in my mind (and my middle). Surprises like this are seldom good in the CIA.

  We reach a door and Will opens it without preamble. In the room, an armed guard stands over a bloodied Brand, handcuffed to his chair and still reeling. His eyes land on me like fists.

  “Well, hello,” I say. “Too lazy to get out of those cuffs, or is it not worth it in Canada?”

  Brand aims his gaze at the wall.

  I consult Will, still standing in the hall. He gives a go-on nod. Sure. We’re all in the right frame of mind for interrogation. But if this is our last chance to hit Brand when he’s weakest, I’ll do it. No need for a hint on what I should ask. The questions have been ringing through my brain for weeks.

  I step in and the door swings shut behind me. “So. Long night?”

  Glare.

  “Yeah, me too. Want to talk about it?”

  Glower.

  “Oh, I didn’t peg you for the strong, silent type. Since you’re not either of those.”

  “What do you want?” Brand finally breaks.

  I dismiss the question with a condescending smile. “What do you want?”

  He reverts to the silent treatment. I slide into the chair across from him. “Seriously,” I continue. “What makes you tick these days? Moved beyond sadistically torturing your exes?”

  “One of us has,” he mutters.

  “Yeah, I’m living in the past. Sure.” I sigh. “We both want to be done with this, right? Let’s cut the crap. You tell me the real reason you did it, and I’ll leave.”

  “What difference does it make? It’s all the same.”

  I fold my arms, and he takes that as a challenge. He leans forward. “Tell me it isn’t all the same. Don’t you ever get tired of being a pawn?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Wastis, the Agency, the UN — we’re all part of the Game, aren’t we? Does it matter what side people claim to be on?”

  I’m on my feet without a thought, heat surging through my muscles. “Seriously? Because manipulating people is fun for you? Playing fast and loose with their lives is all a game?”

  “The Great Game. That’s what we call it. Why not play to win?”

  My turn to scowl in silence. “Sure, Brand. It’s a game.” The heat in my veins grows chill. I bend down, grit my teeth, get in his face. “But if it’s just a game, then you’re just the loser.”

  I don’t even care how he reacts. I
pivot on my heel and march out.

  Will’s still in the hall. His back to me, he’s conferring with someone, blocking my view. I linger there for a minute.

  “Yep, I’ll take it from here.”

  I know that voice. I maneuver around Will, and there he is, sling and all: Elliott. He pretends to elbow me with his good arm. “I hear there’s an opening at Keeler Tate.”

  “I dunno, dude. Nobody gets promoted to Canada.”

  Elliott and Will both snort in derision. “Who told you that?” Will asks.

  I don’t bother fighting back my answering smile. “Nobody.”

  Elliott jerks his head toward Brand’s door. “You soften ‘Nobody’ up for me?”

  “He’s all yours.”

  Elliott rubs his hands together, careful of jostling his shoulder, then opens the door. “Hello, old friend,” he chirps. “Name’s Elliott. I think you’ve heard of me.”

  The door swings shut, not fast enough to muffle Brand’s shriek of indignation.

  That feels a little too good. Will pats my shoulder, and I lead the way back to the conference room. “Starting to learn your way around,” he says. “Care to join me?”

  “Flattered, but no. And if Danny ever wants to work for the Agency, we’ll let you know.”

  “‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’?”

  “Exactly.”

  Will eyebrow-shrugs, but doesn’t press it. We round a corner to find Danny still on his feet, hands in his pockets like I’m interrupting mid-pace. Just seeing him triggers that final release in my ribs: relief. I almost run to him. He wraps me in his arms and kisses the top of my head, clinging to me like we’ve survived a very long battle, and I’m finally home. We both are.

  And then it hits me. It doesn’t matter what Brand thinks. It doesn’t matter if he did recommend I get sent to this American espionage backwater. (Sorry, Canada.) Serving here is the only way I’d ever have met Danny, and he is definitely worth it. So, hey, thanks a lot, Brand. Nice knowing you.

  Danny pulls back to eyeball the conference room door. He doesn’t have to ask the question; I give him a double thumbs up. I take his hand, and we find our way out.

  We’re both too tired for conversation until we reach his car, parked across from the National Gallery. I don’t know what they’ve got going on in there, but the glass towers glow red at night. Danny opens my door and once again draws an envelope from the glove box. I take my seat and the envelope. “You’ve been carrying this around the whole time?”