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

  One more chance. I hit the button to dial him again, and let it ring. (No voicemail — wouldn’t want an agent to leave a message someone might hack.)

  We really do have to go in. I end the call.

  Danny doesn’t need an explanation. “We have to stop him.”

  “Guessing I can’t ask you to hide in an airport bathroom until our flight?”

  “Uh, let’s see. Last time your plan was to die, so . . . no.”

  “Worth a shot,” I mutter. I stare at my white knuckles on the steering wheel, like that will somehow let me control this situation. My instincts scream I’ve put Danny in too much danger this week — not just this week. Over the last three months. How can I risk him again? How can I make him—?

  I can’t make him do anything, just like I haven’t made him do any of this: today, the mission, our marriage. He’s totally on board, and whenever I’ve needed him (and let him), he’s executed perfectly.

  We can do this, and we will — together. Because I’m not just on my own anymore. We’re building a marriage, a team, a new thing. Scary and uncertain . . . and right.

  Danny’s eyes scrunch like he’s really contemplating something. “What if I told you I had an idea?”

  Against my will, one eyebrow creeps up. “I don’t know,” I say, carefully working around each word.

  “Hey, give me some credit here. I did put the pieces together on this.”

  I shoot him a touché expression — but I’m still hesitating.

  And it’s still obvious. Danny gives me a look of seriously, come on. “Need I remind you whose idea it was to get married?”

  My touché turns into a skyward glance. “Are you trying to convince me that was a good idea or a bad one?”

  “Fine, let’s go with your plan.” He avoids all sarcasm, keeping his tone neutrally magnanimous. I’d be convinced if it weren’t for the underglow of gloating in his smile.

  But he’s got me and he knows it: I don’t have a plan. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  For half a second, his gloating grin turns into his eye-crinkling, Talia-melting, heart-catchingly-genuine smile. And then he starts into his plan.

  Just when I thought I couldn’t love him any more. Don’t know if I’ve ever been so happy to be so wrong.

  We’ve picked up our bags from the hotel (Danny had sent his down to the front desk before they kidnapped him; I’m telling you, he’s brilliant), and changed back to our “regular” disguises: Danny’s coat is right-side out and he’s lost the hat; I’m back in my red coat and wig. We’ve done all we can to prep. Time to put Danny’s plan into action. Together.

  We roll down ulitsa Novatorov in our borrowed SUV. The area’s deceptively quiet for the residential and commercial mix.

  Danny points across the street. I look: amid the evergreens, a camouflage-painted combat helicopter on a pedestal. Fitting for someone going into battle.

  We’ve found the Rostvertrol complex. Good place to start searching.

  I take the next left into their parking lot — and there’s a gate. I roll up to the guard station and roll down my window as slowly as possible, giving me a whole three extra seconds to think.

  I’d love to use elicitation or mind tricks or other impressive spy skills to get what we need, but we do not have the time for the observation and persuasion and finesse required. So I go for the sledgehammer of social engineering: all-purpose, appealing to baser instincts, and fast.

  I hold out a banknote in the largest denomination they print, five thousand rubles.

  Bribery is a line-item in our budget. The guard accepts and raises the boom barrier. We roll past.

  “You know, you’re pretty awesome,” Danny comments.

  I stop scanning my side of the street to cast him a smirk. “Just learning this?”

  “No. I’ve known it a long time.”

  We head deeper into the helicopter complex, following the road until I see a sign: СтAлюминия, Компания Щербакова. StAlyuminiya — steel aluminum? Kompaniya Shcherbakova: a Shcherbakov company.

  “That’s it.” I nod at it, but I don’t slow down or stop.

  “Park at the next building.” Danny nods at the next warehouse beyond the trees.

  “I’ve done this once or twice.”

  “Right, sorry.”

  I look over at him. “Actually, I appreciate it — it’s nice working with you.”

  A grin hides in his eyes. Around the corner from the Shcherbakov place, I pull into the lot of a neighboring building and park in its shadow. I look to Danny one last time. “Ready?” I breathe.

  He holds up a red USB drive. “Close enough.”

  “Okay.” I signal for us to move out, and Danny obeys without hesitation. But that might be the last time I’m in control today. I step out of the car, too, and lock it (like that’ll do us any good). Danny’s already starting toward the Shcherbakov warehouse. I jog to keep up. “Hey!” I whisper-shout.

  He stops and waits for me. “Sorry,” he says. “Want to get it over with.”

  I take his hand for a quick squeeze. Together, we reach the corner of the building, peering out at the black Jeep Cherokee parked near the front of the Shcherbakov warehouse. Borya’s car. He’s still here; one factor in our favor. Now, if only we could see inside. There have to be others here — a couple cars sit beyond Borya’s. Can we sneak up on them?

  “Security cameras.” Danny indicates the roof’s corners. Nadia had tapped into the cameras at her rendezvous. Has Borya done the same?

  And then I notice something beyond the opposite corner of the warehouse: the back of a white van.

  Right. Because I told a federal agent where her boyfriend was meeting with a wanted arms dealer. I’d be here too — but it doesn’t make it easier on us. “Nadia’s here,” I tell him.

  “Do we avoid her?”

  “She’ll be watching the cameras if she can. Don’t like adding an unknown variable.”

  Danny studies the building. “Find her and add her to the plan.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  He turns to me. “If I said the words ‘Wookiee prisoner,’ would you know what I meant?”

  I release his hand to grip his coat lapel. “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  I catch that allusion too and groan. I throw that mostly-fake aggravation into my cover and start out, dragging him behind me, my expression annoyed in case someone’s watching. And on that note—“Resist some more. This was your idea.”

  He immediately obeys, stopping so abruptly that he jerks me backward and nearly wrenches free. “By the way, you know what you just said sounds totally crazy.”

  He has a point. I tug on his coat and raise my voice for anyone who might be listening. “Come on.”

  We cross the last feet to the Shcherbakov warehouse, aiming for that white van. Clear of the cameras a minute, I press myself against the back of the building and Danny does the same. I exhale slowly and barely peek around the corner. The rolling garage door to a high loading dock is open beyond the apparently empty van. Could be a trap, but Nadia has no reason to believe anyone’s following her.

  “’Kay,” I say. I pull Danny around the corner after me. I can’t drag him onto the loading dock, but we climb up, and I grab his coat again.

  I lead him in, blinking like that’ll make my vision adjust to the dark faster. “Storage,” Danny mutters, his eyes on the tall metal racks holding various metal parts. Nobody in sight.

  Tough enough to choreograph a Russian ballet on the fly, but when your principals are unaccounted for, it’s nearly impossible to get your timing right. “Nadia?” My call echoes. No answer.

  Is she out front with Borya? Who else might be out there — or in here?

  As soon as I think it, a hand seizes my arm. I whirl around and whip free of the stranger’s grasp.

  But it’s not exactly a stranger. It’s (a very surprised) Eager Igor.
And I just dragged my husband back to face him. Sometimes I’m a genius.

  This was all part of the plan — Danny’s plan. We’re going with it. I shake my handful of Danny’s coat lapel. “He has the list.”

  Eager Igor suddenly isn’t so eager. “We should wait for Nadezhda Vasilyevna.”

  “Get her in here.” But if that isn’t her van out back . . .

  “I will search him, then I will get her.”

  Nope. Not only am I not letting go of Danny, but if Eager Igor takes our game-changer bartering tool, it might negate all our careful choreography.

  “Don’t you think I’ve searched him already?” I shake Danny’s coat once more for emphasis and he shifts away from me slightly, enough to complete the effect.

  “I’ll call Nadezhda Vasilyevna.”

  We’ve got time to kill, and we have to make this look believable — and not give Eager Igor the chance to think too much — so I grope for one of our script ideas. “What were you thinking?” I ask Danny. “Why would you jump into something that didn’t involve you?”

  “Didn’t involve me? Pretty sure kidnapping me from my hotel is ‘involving’ me.”

  “You had a chance to get away, and you didn’t take it.” The instant I say that, I realize I’ve made an excellent argument if we’re both in our covers. Taking that list makes absolutely perfect sense if he’s my husband. It makes absolutely no sense if he’s my interpreting client. Clearly Danny sees the logical fault. (It’d be nice if Eager Igor really didn’t speak English.)

  “You know,” comes a woman’s now-familiar voice reverberating through the shadows, “for someone who worked this hard to free Danny, I am surprised you bring him back.”

  Danny shoots me a glare so cold, the Russian winter outside seems inviting. (I’ve never been so glad to have married a man who was a drama geek. In high school. Briefly.) “Yeah,” he agrees with Nadia.

  I pitch my response toward the corner where I think she is. “Oh? So you were lying when you threatened to hunt me down if you didn’t get the list?”

  “Not at all.” She strolls out of the dark and into the column of light from the door, her footsteps echoing over the cement floor like mine did not that long ago. Her dark coat and hat set off her platinum hair in a stark contrast that matches the stern set to her face. She can make an entrance when she wants. (Should’ve picked up on that with her dramatic setup earlier.)

  “Yeah, well, I like being alive, and I’d like to stay that way.”

  Instead of acknowledging me, she focuses on him. “And Danny. Why did you interfere?”

  He scowls at her, then me. “I want what’s mine. You people have no right to take it. I’m here to get it back.” For a minute, I’m not sure if he means the plans or me.

  Nadia doesn’t notice any double meaning. She glances at the tablet she’s holding (security cameras?), then over her shoulder. I track her gaze to a window to a front office. The shade’s drawn, but the light silhouettes two men, one freakishly tall. Borya.

  “Give me the list, and we’ll all go,” Nadia says. She speaks to Eager Igor in Russian. “We can still get out without him knowing.”

  Who knowing? Borya? That’s my cue. I release Danny to reach into his pocket and snatch the red USB drive. “Here!” I step to the edge of the light. “I’ve got your stupid list. Now will you leave us alone?”

  And all eyes are on me, and the prize I’m holding aloft. For a moment, we all stand there — and then the chaos begins.

  Nadia’s the first to move. She nearly drops the tablet and runs for me.

  Danny’s turn. “No, wait,” he shouts. He reaches for the USB drive, but I plant my free hand on his chest and keep the drive as far away as I can. He tries to maneuver around me, but I can hold a man-to-man defense (not that it did me much good fighting off three older brothers).

  Nadia plucks the USB drive from my fingers, and I push Danny back a couple feet, still holding him at bay. He comes at me again, but I grab his arms to stop him. He keeps shouting at Nadia. “Don’t! That’s the wrong one!”

  She aims a skeptical eyebrow at him, not about to be persuaded. A cold weight sinks in my middle. I hope that’s the curiosity we want and not the suspicion we need to squelch.

  No. We’ve got this. “Shut up,” I snap at Danny, and shove him back another step. “I saved your life with that list, thank you very much, and you had to go screw it up.”

  “That’s the wrong one,” he insists — and loudly. At least we’re getting that part right.

  “Tsss!” Nadia attempts to quiet us. “Zatknis′!”

  Shut up? Yeah, right. Nadia pulls an adapter from her coat pocket and hooks up the USB drive. While her attention’s away from us, I nod for Danny to continue.

  “Stop her,” he pleads with me at full volume (and then some). “That’s not your drive.”

  He’s supposed to be doing more than arguing with me. I give him a look of come on already, just do it. He shoots back an I-don’t-want-to expression. To which the only possible response would be a face that says don’t be a wuss. We have to sell the lie.

  That probably wouldn’t be enough to goad my husband into what he needs to do, but the situation is adding urgency. Enough to cut off the argument.

  Danny shoves me aside. I was expecting it, but my stumbling heel snags on a crack in the cement. I twist to catch myself. Hot, icy pain ignites in my ankle and I slam to the ground.

  Bad. Really bad. I freeze on the floor, trying to recover my breath, hoping Danny plays his part. He doesn’t stop to help me, he doesn’t look back — he does exactly what we planned, exactly what I need him to. He strides over to Nadia to get his USB drive back.

  “That isn’t what you want,” Danny tells Nadia (still loudly). He reaches around her to snatch the drive away.

  “Get him off me,” she snaps.

  Eager Igor moves in to defend her. I clamber to my feet, favoring my good leg. But when I try to move, pain slices through my ankle like a shard of freezing glass. I barely manage to stay upright, and I can’t stop the yelp that escapes.

  Danny whips around to look at me at exactly the wrong time. Eager Igor has to hop to grab him by the collar, but he yanks Danny right off his balance (and I’ve barely kept mine).

  Eager Igor wrestles Danny’s arms behind him. I start for them in an awkward limp, but I’m too late. Nadia strolls up and gets in Danny’s face. “Dotron′sya do menya eshcho raz,” she says, her voice dangerously quiet, “i umresh′ prezhde, chem uspeyesh′ pozhalet′ ob etom.” She stays there, an inch from his face, but she’s talking to me. “Translate, Lori. Tell him what I said.”

  “I think he can figure it out from context,” I murmur.

  “Tell. Him.”

  I take a deep breath. A week ago, a day ago, an hour ago, I would’ve pegged out the terror-meter. Part of my brain is scared — I’d have to be crazy to not be — but suddenly, even though they have Danny, I’m not panicking.

  Because no matter what happens, we’re in this together. It’s not just me fighting to keep him safe, or him fighting for me. We’re a team, fighting to get through this together.

  Maybe Sylvie and her forty-two years of marriage were onto something.

  I translate Nadia’s threat, though it’s a little hollow now. “She says, ‘Touch me again and you won’t live to regret it.’”

  Danny, to his credit, doesn’t flinch or react, holding her gaze, calm and level. Nadia stands there glowering at him for another second.

  No time for pain — and neither of us can afford it. I have to not be hurt. So I won’t. I gingerly place my foot on the floor, keeping my weight on my good foot. Distraction. I need — I need to keep up the cover, too. “What do you mean that’s not what she wants?” I yell. “What did you do with the list?”

  “I have it, I have it.” Danny turns to me to make the argument.

  “Shut your jaws!” Nadia shoots us a glare. She plugs the USB drive into t
he adapter.

  “Where is my list?” I insist. “Do you have any idea what I went through to get that?”

  Danny tries to pull free from Eager Igor’s grasp. “I have your list! Just give me that drive and I’ll give you the one you want.”

  Nadia pauses, cagily watching him, clearly trying to gauge whether he’s telling the truth.

  Yeah, I definitely don’t want her scrutinizing him too long with that intent. Danny’s far enough away to justify a real shout from me. “If that’s not my list, what is it?”

  “What is it indeed?” A new voice — a familiar voice — carries from the shadows past the table. “What is going on?” he demands.

  Every single one of us goes still. The footsteps approach, measured and calculated. Finally he reaches us, and we can see him past the bright light over the table. But we already know who it is: Borya.

  “What are you doing here?” Borya looks over each of us with varying degrees of hurt. “Danny?”

  Nadia pointedly waves Eager Igor off, and he releases Danny.

  “I’m sorry,” I break in, half-hopping to him. “This is Nadia’s fault.”

  But Borya’s not listening. He turns to Nadia, the real hurt playing across his face. “A ty zhe?” And you too?

  “You don’t know what’s going on, Borya,” she says — but the set to her jaw, uneasy and forced, says the cold voice is a brave front that she’s hoping all of us, all the way up to Borya, will buy. “You need to go. Now.”

  “I can’t.”

  Danny cuts his gaze toward me, but I don’t dare translate. I’m too busy watching Nadia’s reaction. Whatever Borya’s meeting al-Ansari about, it’s not good for Nadia.

  Is Borya a double agent? Probably should’ve considered that sooner. I certainly don’t want to jump in the middle of an FSB internal affair. Is this a setup for me?

  No. No way. I saw Nadia’s reaction to Borya and al-Ansari. I know what I’m doing. I’m stirring the pot, and I’m doing it on purpose. And I’m about to do it some more. “So who is al-Ansari?” I ask.