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

  Oh, crap. I have to move. On this ankle.

  Gotta suck it up. I flip up my collar and pull on the knit hat I bought yesterday. I change my walk as part of my disguise, shuffling past my waiting area on the other side of the thoroughfare, averting my gaze, praying Nadia, Igor and friends keep focusing on that crowd until I’m clear, praying to survive the next step, the next bolt of pain.

  The bathroom’s approximately ten miles away, but finally I make it. Though the interior’s no cleaner than any other public bathroom in Russia, it’s cool, protected, safe.

  I hobble to the mirror to undo the last week. Off comes the copper wig. Off comes the makeup thicker than a runway model’s. Off comes the red coat. My cheeks are pink from scrubbing and a new set of zits greet me — a positive for my cover. (Russia makes you appreciate the little things: advertising, pimples, not having to run for your life every day.)

  In under a minute, I have dark hair wavy from braids, residual liner smudgy around my hazel eyes, black coat to (finally) blend in with Russians, like my black carry-on does. A slouchy beige hat finishes the disguise, and I’m me again.

  Well, I’m almost me. My ticket and my passport will tell you I’m Merja Härkönen.

  I have to stay near the wall, stopping every couple minutes to rest, to make it back to my doors. Still no Danny. Eager Igor’s scrutinizing every person that passes the stewardess looking over tickets. The other two guards are still in the waiting area, pretending to read their phones.

  Nadia’s got to be here somewhere.

  I get in line, inching toward the tarmac doors. Eager Igor takes up pacing. Back and forth. Staring everyone down.

  Most people ignore him and avoid his gaze, and I try to do the same. After a couple passes, I’m three people away from the front — and Eager Igor plants himself by the ticket agent. He whispers to her.

  And then I see who’s in that uniform: Nadia.

  My heart rate hops into fifth gear.

  The man before me gives his ticket to Nadia. “Your passport too,” she orders him.

  I reach in my coat and check one of my passports quickly — right country, wrong photo. Red hair. I put it away, careful to note the order of the booklets in my pocket.

  Nadia lets the guy go. My turn. “Passport and ticket.”

  I pick the right passport (I hope) and hand it over with my ticket. I draw a bracing breath to calm my palpitating pulse. She shields it from the sun and shines a special flashlight on it — black light. Does she have a retinal scanner to test the biometric chip?

  I sigh out that deep breath, bored and Finnishly reserved. I sneak a peek at Eager Igor — he’s watching me. Crap. Will he recognize me, my eyes? Hazel isn’t exactly the world’s most common eye color.

  I force myself to wait to look away until it’s not suspicious. And I catch Nadia staring at me. My mind keeps running through the same logic I presented in Paris: without their heavy makeup, celebrities are unrecognizable. I should be, too.

  This is taking too long. Forget fifth gear; my heart rate hits the redline. Could Danny have gotten past these people?

  Finally the burgundy passport appears in front of me. “Ole hyvä,” she says. Finnish for be good. Oh the irony — though I’m sure she doesn’t know what it means, a phrase a foreign-speaking “flight attendant” might memorize. If that’s the best test they have, try again. I’ve spoken Finnish since before I could . . . um, speak English.

  “Kiitos,” I say. Thanks.

  No, this is the final test: I accept my passport and brace for those last feet to the glass doors. I can sense Nadia’s scrutiny on me, and Eager Igor’s. Watching to see if I can walk.

  I fall into the tired-of-travel shuffle, fighting back every wince.

  Nadia regards me for a second that lasts an eternity. I almost count the heartbeats I’m skipping — then she turns to the next passenger. I make it to the doors, and Eager Igor jogs off for another waiting area.

  We’re in the clear. I hide the limp the best I can to the bus. Danny’s not on the bus, but they have to have taken passengers there once already.

  Now, what if Danny’s not on the plane? Do I run back to Nadia and Igor? Gee, that’s not obvious. The flight leaves in twenty minutes and I — I have no backup plan. I’m all in on this bet.

  Because I trust Danny.

  The bus deposits us at our plane, and I haul myself up the stairs. Every row of passengers, clutching onto every seat, I’m scanning faces. Row five, no Danny. But he’s here. I know it.

  Row ten, no Danny. He’s here. He’s got to be.

  Row fifteen, still no Danny. Panic pools in my chest, ready to well up and overwhelm my brain.

  I know he’s here. I know he is.

  Row twenty. I stop in the aisle and scan the last few rows.

  No Danny.

  I left him. I left him when I should’ve taken care of him and let him take care of me. I fight back the tears, but they prick to the surface anyway, blurring my vision of people who aren’t my husband.

  I try to breathe, but I can’t, I can’t, I —

  A hand lands on my waist. I try to jump away. A shockwave rips up my leg, and I lose my balance.

  I steel myself for the impact — but my fall abruptly stops. I’m caught. (The good kind of caught, I hope.)

  “Careful there,” says a familiar voice. He pulls me to stand. “You could use some help.”

  I blink past the tears and almost laugh: Danny. In that stupid gray hat and reversed jacket. The disguise fooled even me for a second. He used a disguise — he did everything I asked. No, he went above and beyond. And it worked.

  “Thanks,” I murmur. I let him help me to the seat next to him (though it isn’t mine), clinging to his arm way more than I would any other day.

  He holds up a plastic bag full of ice and leans down to put it on my boot. (Now that’s love.) “Good to see you,” he whispers.

  “How did you get past her?”

  “Who, the stewardess?”

  I scan the aisle — nobody — and lean closer. “Nadia?”

  “I went out a different door.”

  “You — I—” I cut off my stunned stuttering and shake my head in wonder. “I guess it does take a rocket scientist.”

  He leans even closer. “It takes a spy.”

  Obviously he means me, but I mirror his grin. “It takes two.”

  His smile turns up a couple kilowatts, and I’m so close to him, so close to kissing him — but I can’t. The term in CIA slang is “wheels-up” for a reason. Nadia might have enough authority to board or even stop this plane, so we’re not “safe” until we’re in the air (and preferably international airspace).

  I sit back. It’s not just the ice or getting off my feet that feels good — feels right. I glance out at the glowing Rostov-na-Donu sign atop the airport. Once again, I’m leaving Russia, but this time it’s different. Though I still love it, I’m not sure I ever want to come back, not even to visit.

  I can carry off a Russian mission, but this definitely isn’t where I belong.

  Assuming we pulled this off, and didn’t give al-Ansari something even more dangerous. I look to Danny. “So, what did we give our friend?”

  “Oh, personal project.”

  “Nothing useful?”

  Danny dismisses the idea. “Doubtful. The version on that drive’s half done, a mix of one direction on the nose, another on the tail, and nothing in the middle. Borya saw some of the cool elements, but it’ll never fly. Can’t even be built.”

  “‘Cool elements’? Sounds like an understatement.”

  Danny shrugs one shoulder, his smile saying, Aw, it was nuthin. (Only “nuthin” to him.) “It’s an updated version of the Avro Arrow.”

  I cover my face with my hands. “You’re terrible, you know.”

  “I know.” At the front of the plane, the doors seal. Almost home free.

  I touch his knee. “You were right about Borya.
Mostly.”

  Danny gives me a consolation-prize smile. “You were right about the situation, mostly.”

  The plane starts rolling and my stomach flip-flops. I hate flying, hate, hate, hate. I close my eyes and focus on my oxygen intake while we start forward at a slow, bumpy roll.

  “I was thinking,” Danny says. If he’s trying to distract me, it’s not working. “Could we raise the money for your friend’s daughter? Maybe ask people at church?”

  After what I put Valya through, it’s the least I can do. “Great idea.”

  The plane lurches, then stops. He takes my hand, and I latch on, clinging to him like he’ll save me from my inevitable, fiery death. (I know we’re on the ground, but that doesn’t help. Did I mention I hate flying?)

  “You’re okay,” Danny says in my ear. “Remember the principles of flight?”

  “Lift, pressure, speed. Not reassuring.”

  Danny laughs and pries my fingers loose from his — why, why, why?

  I look to find Danny examining the pocket of his suit coat. Seriously?

  The plane does a 180, and I really contemplate sticking my head between my knees or breathing into a paper bag.

  I can do this. I can. I just don’t like it.

  Danny pulls something from his jacket’s lining. Wonder where he picked up that trick.

  “You can keep the passport for now,” I tell him.

  “For now? Or next time?”

  “Next — there is no next time. I don’t know if there’s a next time for me.”

  Danny frowns. “What? Why?”

  “I can’t put you in danger anymore—”

  “I knew what I was getting into.”

  The same double meaning as before hangs in his words. “But I—”

  The engines whir to life, cutting off my response. I’m not ready.

  If that wasn’t enough, Danny shoots me a look of can I say something seriously?. “I don’t want you to do that for me.”

  “But I want to.”

  “But would you be happy if you quit, right now?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes. “I don’t know.”

  Danny raises a really? eyebrow. I have to admit the truth: “Maybe not right now.”

  “How is making you unhappy supposed to make me happy?”

  “Safe, Danny. Safe.”

  “I want you to be safe, too — even if it means being crazy-paranoid. Because I love you.”

  I look into those brown eyes as my favorite genuine, he-is-who-he-is-all-the-time-even-when-he’s-a-spy smile dawns. Yes, he wins this round — because I can’t argue with that.

  “I love you too,” I breathe.

  “If you do want to quit, I won’t stop you — I just don’t want you to feel like you have to for me.”

  Okay, they may not be the best at romance, but engineers can definitely do love right.

  The plane starts forward. I clutch Danny’s hand again and scrunch my eyes, my face, my whole body as we pick up speed.

  Danny leans close enough I can feel every breath of his whisper against my cheek. “I know you’re used to making sacrifices for work, but I’m not asking that,” he says. “I just want to take care of you—”

  That’s got my attention. “Danny, I can take care of myself.” And I’ve spent my whole life trying to prove it to the people around me — my brothers, my classmates, my coworkers.

  Danny searches my eyes a minute, and the plane’s lift isn’t the only reason my stomach swoops.

  We’re wheels-up. We’re safe. We’re together. (And we didn’t die a fiery death!)

  He frees his hand from mine. I pretend not to notice the white imprint my fingers leave. And then he slides on my rings.

  I’m sure my shock’s showing, because Danny explains, “Got them from Lori in Paris. You’re not the only one who can use a travel sewing kit.”

  “But if you’d gotten caught with them—”

  “I’d say my wife lost them in my suitcase.”

  I can’t even fault his explanation. “Okay,” I admit. “You’re not terrible at the spy stuff.”

  “Thanks. I guess.” His gaze turns serious. “Talia, I know you can take care of yourself — but you don’t have to do it alone.”

  That last piece clicks into place. Because we’re a team now.

  “How about this?” He lets that smile I love light his eyes. “I take care of you, and you take care of me, and that should cover all the bases.”

  I lean the last inch to kiss him. Because finally, that sounds like a perfect plan.

  THANK YOU FOR READING!

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  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for reading the Spy Another Day series! I’m thrilled to share this series with you, and I hope you enjoyed it!

  I’d love to hear from you! You can write me at Jordan@JordanMcCollum.com or find me (and fun bonus features!) at http://JordanMcCollum.com. If you haven’t already, be sure to check out the prequels as well to see how Talia met Danny and Elliott!

  Finally, can I ask a quick favor? Could you please leave a review of this box set or the individual books in the series online, or tell your friends about it? A book’s success truly depends on readers like you spreading the word — and who isn’t looking for a great read? Plus, send me a link to your review & I’ll send you a coupon for a free book from my website (up to $4.99).

  Thank you for reading!

  P.S. Want to be the first to know about my next release? Join my mailing list at http://JordanMcCollum.com/newsletter/. (I will never spam you!) The Spy Another Day series is complete (for now . . . ?), but I have many more adventures and fun stories planned to share in the future.

  Also available from Jordan McCollum

  Read about Talia and Elliott’s first meeting, that one kiss, and how Talia met and fell for Danny, all in one omnibus edition!

  Spy Noon (novella)

  Mr. Nice Spy (novella)

  Spy by Night (full-length novel)

  Get a FREE copy of SPY BY NIGHT, the award-nominated, full-length prequel to the Spy Another Day series

  just for joining the author's VIP mailing list!

  Get started here: http://jordanmccollum.com/newsletter/

  For I, Spy

  Although writing can be very solitary, no writer produces a book all by herself. I owe a debt of gratitude to the many people who supported me during the writing and publication process, most of all my patient husband, Ryan, who listened to everything from the crazy idea I started with to the opening paragraphs to the plot conundrums. Thank you, also, to my children, Hayden, Rebecca and Rachel, who endured the demanding drafting process, and Hazel, who came along just before this book did.

  My first editors, my parents, Ben and Diana Franklin, have taught me to love reading and writing from a young age, and along with my sisters Jaime, Brooke and Jasmine, they have believed in and encouraged me. My friends Sarah Anderson, Kim Tran and Erin Brown have also supported my writing for more than a decade.

  For the text of this book, I have had so much hands-on help from so many people. Thank you to my beta readers, Sarah Anderson and Benjamin Franklin (a.k.a. Dad), for plot guidance, fact-checking and engineering knowhow, and most of all, for being the first people to love this book who weren’t me. (And oh yeah, thanks for taking me to Ottawa, Dad.)

  Next, my critique partners, Julie Coulter Bellon and Emily Gray Clawson. Talia, Danny, Elliott, and I owe you a whole heck of a lot, and none of us would be quite the same without you!

  Margie Lawson, and the generous members of our Deep Editing class, gave in depth fine-tuning and insight. My editors, Angela Eschler and Heidi Brockbank, further polished the prose.

  Austin Anderson helped my French, while Angela Millsap, Dasha Ivanova and Christian Ehrisman fixed my Russian and the transliteration.

  My review readers: Michelle Davidson Argyle, Deana Barnhart, Stephanie Black, Jami Gold, Cindy
M. Hogan, and Donna K. Weaver gave me their time, their feedback and their kind praise.

  My proofreader, Diana Franklin (a.k.a. Mom), did her best to make sure the manuscript was as free of typos as possible. If there be errors here, they be the mistakes of the printers.

  And of course, you, my reader, for making my characters come to life for more than just me.

  Thank you!

  For Spy for a Spy

  Sequels are always challenging. This one was no different. This book challenged me so much that I seriously considered calling the whole thing off. But I’d made a commitment to my readers, and I had to see it through.

  As always, my wonderful husband, Ryan, supported me throughout this tough process with a listening ear and helping hands. My children, Hayden, Rebecca, Rachel and Hazel, endured a long summer of drafting and editing and rewriting.

  Once again, my parents, Ben and Diana Franklin, were my first editors. They continue to help make my books all they can be. Along with my sisters Jaime, Brooke and Jasmine, they have believed in and encouraged me.

  I would also like to thank Ross and Jane, my in-laws, for being nothing like any of the terrible in-laws in this book, and for all the kind support you’ve given me and our family.

  My critique partners, Julie Coulter Bellon and Emily Gray Clawson, helped me take the raw material that fell so far short of my vision and gave me the encouragement I needed to make it into what I’d always hoped it would be—even though that meant a lot of rewriting, and a lot of rereading for them.

  My next readers helped to make sure that work was worth it. Thank you to Becki Clayson, Arline Holbrook, Deanna Henderson, S. M. Anderson, and, as always, Sarah Anderson and Benjamin Franklin (AKA Dad).

  Rustin Lewis, Heidi Kimball and Valérie Williams helped with my Québécois French. Angela Millsap and Dasha Ivanova perfected my Russian and the transliteration. Benjamin Franklin (again) fixed my Finnish.