Tell Me No Spies

by Diane Henders

  His voice was very quiet. “Always.”

  “Thanks.” I gave him a smile as I opened the door and slid out.

  “Aydan.”

  I leaned into the truck. “Yeah.”

  “Remember when I said earlier that you sometimes don’t realize how much something means until you think you’ve lost it?”

  “Yeah.” I glanced up at the sound of a vehicle turning into my driveway. Tom’s truck. Shit.

  “I thought I’d lost you.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve spent the last few months trying to ignore how I feel. Telling myself that what I want can’t happen. But when I saw you and Arnie together, I…”

  Tom’s truck rolled up, gravel crunching behind me. Kane’s fist clenched on the steering wheel and he spoke quickly, staring out the windshield. “I know you don’t want to hear this, and I won’t bring it up again. But I have to say it, because I obviously didn’t say it clearly enough this summer.”

  He turned at last to meet my eyes, his hand reaching out between us. “Aydan, I love you. I’m not saying that because I have orders. I’m saying it because I can’t help it. I love you,” he repeated.

  His words hung in the air.

  A door slammed behind me, and I turned to face Tom. His gaze raked Kane before turning to me. “Aydan, is everything all right?” he asked dangerously.

  I sighed. “Everything’s fine. And John was just leaving.”

  I gently closed the door of the Expedition.

  A Request

  Thanks for reading!

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  Books in the NEVER SAY SPY series:

  Book 1: Never Say Spy

  Book 2: The Spy Is Cast

  Book 3: Reach For The Spy

  Book 4: Tell Me No Spies

  Book 5: How Spy I Am

  Book 6: A Spy For A Spy

  Book 7: Spy, Spy Away

  Book 8: Spy Now, Pay Later

  Book 9: Spy High

  Book 10: Spy Away Home

  Book 11: To be released early 2016

  Humour by Diane Henders

  Probably Inappropriate

  Definitely Inappropriate

  Totally Inappropriate

  More books coming! For a current list, please visit www.dianehenders.com

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  About Me

  By profession, I’m a technical writer, computer geek, and ex-interior designer. I’m good at two out of three of these things. I had the sense to quit the one I sucked at.

  To deal with my mid-life crisis, I also write adventure novels featuring a middle-aged female protagonist. And I kickbox.

  This seemed more productive than indulging in more typical mid-life crisis activities like getting a divorce, buying a Harley Crossbones, and cruising across the country picking up men in sleazy bars. Especially since it’s winter most of the months of the year here.

  It’s much more comfortable to sit at my computer. And hell, Harleys are expensive. Come to think of it, so are beer and gasoline.

  Oh, and I still love my husband. There’s that. So I’ll stick with the writing.

  Diane Henders

  Since You Asked…

  People frequently ask if my protagonist, Aydan Kelly, is really me.

  Yeah, you got me. These novels are an autobiography of my secret life as a government agent, working with highly-classified computer technology… Oh, wait, what’s that? You want the truth? Um, you do realize fiction writers get paid to lie, don’t you?

  …well, shit, that’s not nearly as much fun. It’s also a long story.

  I swore I’d never write fiction. “Too personal,” I said. “People read novels and automatically assume the author is talking about him/herself.”

  Well, apparently I lied about the fiction-writing part. One day a story sprang into my head and wouldn’t leave. The only way to get it out was to write it down. So I did.

  But when I wrote that first book, I never intended to show it to anyone, so I created a character that looked like me just to thumb my nose at the stereotype. I’ve always had a defective sense of humour, and this time it turned around and bit me in the ass.

  Because after I’d written the third novel, I realized I actually wanted other people to read my books. And when I went back to change my main character to not look like me, my beta readers wouldn’t let me. They rose up against me and said, “No! Aydan is a tall woman with long red hair and brown eyes. End of discussion!”

  Jeez, no wonder readers get the idea that authors write about themselves. So no, I’m not Aydan Kelly. I just look like her.

  Bonus Stuff

  Here’s an excerpt from Book 5: How Spy I Am

  “We need to do damage control.”

  I suppressed an exhausted yawn along with my urge to say, ‘No shit, Sherlock’, and eyed the civilian director of clandestine operations with distaste.

  Charles Stemp returned his usual impassive stare from across the table, and I let my gaze slide off his reptilian features to the much more rewarding sight of John Kane beside him.

  Stemp’s flat voice continued, “Fuzzy Bunny came too close to capturing you this week. That would have been disastrous to our national security, not to mention to you personally.”

  “Wouldn’t have been much worse than being captured by you,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

  Stemp met my eyes levelly. “We needed you to believe you were in enemy hands. And I don’t need to remind you that Fuzzy Bunny will not stop at a small burn to force your cooperation if they capture you.”

  I swallowed the sudden dryness in my throat and willed myself not to hug my bandaged arm. Hell, no, he didn’t need to remind me. The only thing cuddly about Fuzzy Bunny was their name.

  God, what if they were hunting me again? My gaze flicked toward the doorway despite the knowledge that we were in a secured building.

  Jeez, woman, relax.

  I drew a deep breath and attempted to follow my own advice. I was safe. Kane was probably Canada’s most lethal weapon, and after our conversation yesterday, I was pretty sure he’d protect me with his life. My mind sidled away from the memory of his lips framing the words ‘I love you’. I’d spent half the night worrying about that.

  Deal with it later.

  Stemp’s voice dragged my tired brain back from its rambling. “We need to convince them you are dead. And Kane informs me your cover here in Silverside is not as,” he hesitated. “…Robust,” he said finally, “…as we would prefer.”

  I met Kane’s steady grey eyes, wondering exactly what he’d reported. My gaze strayed lower without my permission to admire the massive chest and bulging biceps straining his black T-shirt. Lethal and unbelievably hot, goddammit…

  “Aydan?”

  “Ms. Kelly?”

  Kane and Stemp both spoke my name, and I herded my mind back to the meeting table yet
again. “Sorry, what?” I asked, massaging the ache in my forehead.

  “Do you have any ideas to contribute regarding your cover identity?” Stemp repeated.

  I forced myself to appreciate his attempt to include me in the process. “Not at the moment, I’m sorry.” I didn’t bother to add, ‘I’ve been a little busy trying to stay alive lately’.

  “It’s all right,” Kane said. “We can work on it today.”

  I shot him a grateful look.

  Stemp rose. “Very well. Have a proposal ready by end of day.” He fixed me with his expressionless gaze. “Please check the network first thing for any chatter regarding yourself. Our analysts haven’t picked anything up from the public channels, so you’ll need to breach Fuzzy Bunny’s firewalls and check their systems directly.”

  He strode out, and I sighed and sank my forehead onto the table, cushioned by my crossed forearms. I grunted and quickly repositioned my arms at the jab of pain.

  “Are you all right?” Kane’s velvet baritone was quick with concern.

  “Fine. I just bumped that burn,” I mumbled into the table. I hadn’t even heard him stand, and his touch startled me. “It’s fine,” I repeated, but he was already lifting the dressing away from my arm, his powerful hands deft and gentle.

  We both contemplated the angry-looking wound. “I thought Stemp said it was just a small second-degree burn,” Kane growled.

  I shrugged and retrieved the bandage from him, smoothing it back down onto my skin. “Richardson panicked. I guess he held the torch on me a little longer than he meant to. It’ll be fine.”

  “Aydan, I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I know it doesn’t make it any less traumatic to know it was faked.” His face darkened. “Except for that burn.”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” I stood and drifted toward the door. “Stemp, on the other hand, owes me a buttload of apologies, which I’m highly unlikely to get. Let’s go.”

  Slouched on the small sofa in my office a few minutes later, I scowled at the tiny piece of circuitry in my hand. Why the hell did it only work for me? And why the hell hadn’t its unknown inventors created something that wouldn’t drive flaming spikes through my brain every time I used it?

  I drew a shallow breath through my mouth.

  “Are you okay?” Clyde Webb’s voice made me concentrate on putting a more pleasant expression on my face. It wasn’t difficult when I looked up to see the concern on his youthful face.

  “Fine, Spider, thanks.” I flicked my eyes in John Smith’s direction, and Spider’s expression cleared in comprehension.

  I had hoped to work with Kane and Spider as usual today, but apparently Smith had orders to attend as well. I took another shallow breath, trying not to inhale his stench. Somebody really should tell him to change his shirt more than once a month. You’d think he’d get the hint when its pattern of food stains started to resemble a particularly creative Jackson Pollock canvas.

  I shook off my mood with a sigh and waited for Kane to pull up a chair before eyeing my team. “Everybody ready?”

  Spider nodded, his fingers already flying over his laptop keyboard. Smith concentrated on the desktop computer, and Kane gave me a nod and a smile, fingering the fob that would give him painless access to the brainwave-driven simulation network.

  Painless. Huh. I wish.

  I banished my self-pity with another sigh and gripped the network key, concentrating on stepping into the white void of virtual reality. A second later, Kane’s avatar popped into existence beside me.

  The network was a busy place. Kane stepped protectively in front of me when a couple of researchers’ avatars approached in the virtual corridor. They exchanged wary glances and gave us a wide berth.

  I patted Kane’s hard shoulder. “Don’t scare the locals. I’m pretty sure we’re safe here.”

  “I’m not taking any chances,” he rumbled.

  I smiled up at him. “Thanks.”

  His strong square face softened into an answering smile, activating the sexy laugh lines around his eyes, and we made our way to the virtual file repository in comfortable silence.

  Inside, I surveyed the towering stack of virtual files with dismay. “Shit, they really piled up.”

  Guilt prodded me. If I hadn’t run off last week…

  I tamped it down. Too late to be sorry, just fix the problem. “Have the analysts flagged anything in particular?” I asked.

  “Nothing that’s a higher priority than hiding your identity,” Kane said. “You need to check Fuzzy Bunny’s network first. You can worry about these other files later.”

  “Okay. This will probably take a while.” I created a virtual chair in the sim and sank into it, and Kane pulled one out of thin air beside me, reaching toward me as he sat.

  I took his extended hand and gave it a little squeeze. “Thanks for being my anchor.” I glimpsed his smile one more time as I faded into invisibility to seep into the data stream, feeling my consciousness stretch from his grip like a rubber band.

  Hitching a ride on data packets, I shot through a roller-coaster of connections, following the delicate tracery of markers I’d left behind in my earlier surveillance. When I reached Fuzzy Bunny’s first firewall, I paused for a deep virtual breath before trickling through the pinhole I’d left open in my previous visit. Their intrusion-detection software passed harmlessly over me, and I continued my stealthy progress, nosing around invisibly in their file system.

  If I’d had a stomach in my current form, it would have clenched at what I discovered. I willed calm. Search it all out.

  I sifted their data with the finest filter I could create before moving on to the next server. And the next.

  And the next.

  By the time my exhausted consciousness oozed back into the file repository, it was all I could do to recreate my avatar. When I faded into wavering existence, Kane reached carefully for my shoulders.

  “Stay with me now,” he encouraged. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

  “Okay…” I whispered, concentrating fiercely.

  He gathered me up and guided me to the exit portal, the warm strength of his arm holding my virtual form together.

  My momentary relief at getting to the portal was erased by the familiar explosion of pain when I returned my consciousness to my physical body.

  “Aaah-God-dammit-sonuva-fucking-bitch!” I spat, clutching my temples.

  Kane’s hands gently pushed mine away to close around my head, and I whimpered gratitude while his massage eased the worst of the pain.

  At last, I slumped back on the sofa. “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  Kane stooped to look into my face as I sprawled limply. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Thanks.” I wedged myself into a corner of the couch in an approximately upright position. “God. Shit.” I ran a hand over my still-aching face.

  “What?” Kane demanded. “What did you find?”

  I blew out a long sigh. “Lots of chatter about me, unfortunately. They’re not positive I’m alive, but they’re sure as hell stirred up about finding me if I am.”

  ***End of How Spy I Am, Chapter 1 excerpt***