SAINTS & SUSPECTS
DURHAM CREST BOOKS
Cover design by Steven Novak
© 2017 Jordan McCollum
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
First printing, 2017
OTHER BOOKS BY JORDAN McCOLLUM
SAINTS & SPIES
Saints & Spies
SPY ANOTHER DAY
I, Spy
Spy for a Spy
Tomorrow We Spy
SPY ANOTHER DAY PREQUELS
Spy Noon (novella)
Mr. Nice Spy (novella)
Spy by Night (full-length novel)
NONFICTION: WRITING CRAFT
Character Arcs: Founding, forming and finishing your character’s internal journey
Character Sympathy: Creating characters your readers have to root for
Character Depth: Keeping readers riveted with real characters, emotion & deep POV
Get a FREE copy of I, SPY, the award-nominated first novel in the Spy Another Day series
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Saints & Suspects
Cover
Front Matter
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Thank you for reading!
More from Jordan McCollum
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Surveillance. Special Agent Zach Saint shifted against the gray upholstery. He’d already served in surveillance squads, but with their target’s regular babysitters testifying in court, here he was again. Two hours and thirty-seven minutes of sitting in downtown Chicago, trying to seem inconspicuous in their car, staring at nothing, waiting for Irish terrorists.
Today, they weren’t so much terrorists as regular people running errands.
Zach rubbed his hands together, though staying warm was a lost cause. Next to Zach, Supervisory Special Agent Xavier Mason sipped his coffee without taking his eyes off the street. “See the Bulls game?”
“Nah.” College ball was more his thing. “They win?”
Xavier snorted. “Another loss.”
Zach suppressed a wince. That record took him back to his own college team. He scanned the sidewalk down the block. The Canavans were still in the red brick tailor shop. Even terrorists had to shop. And eat. And bank.
For two hours and — he checked the dash clock — forty minutes.
Sometimes the hardest part of surveillance was staying awake.
Zach rubbed his eyes, refocused on the street, and continued the world’s slowest conversation. “Think they’ll make the playoffs?”
“Not at this rate.”
Down the block, the tailor shop’s wrought iron security gate swung open. Zach grabbed the binoculars from the console between the seats. A stout woman with dark auburn hair and a taller, craggy-faced man stepped out of the building. The target couple. Zach reached for the keys in the ignition. “Eyes on.”
Xavier raised his camera and peered through the viewfinder, sweeping the lens across the scene. “Wait. I’ve only seen pictures, but isn’t that your . . . Molly?”
What? No. Last he’d heard, the FBI assigned Molly to Arizona. Zach swung the binoculars to follow Xavier’s line of sight.
He spotted her in front of the bright yellow burger shack at the corner: tall, beautiful, dark curls that bounced with her springing step. Yep, definitely Molly, but she hadn’t been “his” for a long time. Seeing her hit him like a no-look pass drilled straight to the gut.
Molly rounded the corner, heading toward their target. What was she doing here?
Maybe visiting her parents. Zach held his breath. If she passed the Canavans, he could imagine this hadn’t happened. He wouldn’t have to see or talk to her, and he could keep doing his job and pretending to forget her.
But could it be a coincidence his Irish ex-girlfriend was walking right toward Irish terrorists? Zach slid the binoculars to the target couple. Still headed Molly’s direction.
Every step brought them closer together — and pulled Zach’s ribs tighter. Ten steps apart. She passed the nail shop. Five. They passed Subway. Molly came even with the Canavans, and time seemed to stop.
Molly kept going. The Canavans didn’t acknowledge her. Nothing. Finally they passed one another.
She was safe.
Before Zach could release a breath, Grace Canavan stopped short and turned back. And Molly did the same, turning to the target couple.
So much for the day going well. With the way things worked in the Bureau — and his life — Zach figured he might see Molly again. But he didn’t think she’d be talking to suspected terrorists.
Much as he wanted to act like he’d never seen her, no way would he leave her out there, alone and unprotected. Urgency pushed him into action. Zach reached for the door handle. “You drive.”
Xavier caught Zach’s sleeve without taking his eyes from his camera. “Do not approach, Z.”
“She’s got no idea who she’s dealing with.” He knocked X’s hand away and stepped out of the car into the sharp cold. He needed a heavier jacket. He needed a cover.
He paused at the street vendor on the corner to buy two pretzels — and buy himself one more minute to pick an identity, someone with a right to jump into their conversation, or at least something to tip Molly off that this was bad. She might’ve danced an Irish jig on his heart, with all the things that she wanted to do before she could think about marriage, but he couldn’t leave her alone with terrorists.
The target couple was too busy chatting to notice him until he slung an arm around Molly like she’d never left. He finally settled on a cover: deep South. “Here ya go, darlin’,” he drawled.
Molly looked up at him with a spark of surprise in her deep blue eyes. Did she have to be even more beautiful than he remembered? She hesitated a moment before smiling and accepting one of his pretzels. Good recovery.
Zach let go of Molly only long enough to offer the target couple his hand. “Jason Tolliver.”
“Is this your man?” the stout woman gushed in a thick Ulster accent, clapping her hands over one of Zach’s.
“That’s me.” Zach grinned and hoped he covered the flinch at “your man,” although he couldn’t be sure whether Molly had mentioned a boyfriend. Either that, or Grace was guessing, or maybe using the Irish equivalent of “that guy.”
“Brilliant.” Grace beamed at him. “You’re a lucky on
e, aren’t you?”
“I know it. Now, who’re y’all?”
The woman shook his hand again, even more emphatically, her dark auburn bob bouncing from the effort. “Grace Canavan.”
“Ed.” The man gave a curt headshake, a standard Irish greeting, his weathered face impassive.
“We’re friends of Molly’s parents.” Grace turned to her husband. “When did we last see the Ryans?”
Ryans? Molly’s last name was Malone. Zach kept his expression unchanged, and his mind on his mission: get Molly out safe. “Great to meet y’all, but we really gotta run.” He slipped his arm from Molly’s shoulders to take her hand.
“Actually, Jason, we were just catchin’ up,” Molly said. He’d forgotten how much he loved her Dublin lilt — but not so much her talking with terrorists. “It’s been — what, twenty years?”
“We did see you only a few years ago, in Dublin.”
Despite her gloves muffling the sound, Molly snapped like you’ve got me there. “How could I forget?”
Zach picked up on a tiny undertone of tension in her voice and shifted closer. If she insisted on staying, the least he could do was protect her.
Down the street, the church bells of Holy Name Cathedral pealed. The place Zach had begun his FBI career in Chicago was giving him the perfect excuse. “Molly, darlin’, we’re gonna be late for Mass.” He met her gaze, trying to urge her along without attracting the Canavans’ suspicions.
“Jason.” Each syllable was a prelude of practiced patience. “Surely five minutes won’t hurt.”
His stomach dropped an inch. If she was this set on talking to them, could she know who they were? And if so, what was going on here?
He wasn’t about to be the last to know. “Hey,” he said, “why don’t you get their number and we all can catch up later?”
A heartbeat of silence, and mettle flashed in Molly’s eyes. He’d been on the receiving end of her determination more than once — when she was the one trying to keep him safe.
Wait. That wasn’t happening here. Right?
Then Molly smiled. “Sure now.” She released his hand and got her phone to trade numbers with Grace. “I’ll be seein’ you soon, I hope?”
“Aw, sure look it,” Grace said. Which didn’t mean yes or no, but probably meant no if she wasn’t saying yes.
“We’ll give y’all a call,” Zach said, like Molly hadn’t tried to cut him out. “See ya.” As soon as her phone slid into her purse, Zach took her hand and tugged her away. They walked to the end of the block, eating their quickly cooling, over-salted pretzels in silence.
He had to say something about what he’d done. Using a cover had to be a huge red flag. Her insistence on talking to them certainly sent him the same warning.
Of course, the things they hadn’t said today were only the tip of a much bigger iceberg.
They rounded a corner, and Molly withdrew her hand from his. She shook a few wind-whipped snowflakes from her dark curls, like that was the reason she’d pulled away.
What did he expect? She didn’t want to hold hands with the guy who’d dumped her six months ago. Zach stuffed his hand into his pocket.
Molly finally spoke. “Watchin’ the Canavans, are we, ‘Jason’?”
“Yes, we are. They could have your badge for consorting with suspected terrorists.”
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look at him. “Think this is all a coincidence?”
Zach had sensed something else was going on but — “You’re here on assignment.”
Why hadn’t anyone warned him?
“Naturally. Headin’ back to the office?”
“Yep.” He led her across the street and tossed the wrapper from his pretzel in a trash can.
She fished in her purse for her phone. “Let’s see if my parents are ready to talk.”
Could her parents be the Ryans? Though he’d known Molly for over a year, he still had a lot to learn.
But he’d already figured that out the hard way.
He walked on, pretending it made no difference that he was once again inches from the one that got away — no, the one he’d had to let go.
Grace waited until they reached their platform for the ‘L’ before allowing her elation to register on her face. “Imagine, Molly Ryan.”
“Forgot how tall she was,” Ed muttered.
“Her fella, too.” Grace checked the platform. The claustrophobic waiting area was hardly more than a hallway. Whoever heard of an “elevated” train underground? “We just found our fourth,” she whispered, letting the Friday afternoon hubbub drown out her observation to all but Ed.
Ed shook his head. “Not a chance.”
Could the eejit never do anything right? “Are ya coddin’ me? She’s a Ryan. If she heard half what her parents must’ve told her, she’s already politicized.”
“Politicized, maybe. Big leap from there to here.” He glanced around the platform, subtly holding his hand palm down, signaling Grace to keep quiet.
She lowered her voice. “Her uncle was martyred for this.”
“So was Donal’s.”
Grace flinched at the double punch of emotion. Ed knew better than to casually mention her brother, God rest his soul. Somehow, even after British soldiers deliberately ran down his uncle during a peaceful gathering, Donal, their older son, had devolved into tepid nationalism.
She changed the subject back to her original tack. “Wouldn’t it be better if we had a fourth?”
“Not someone we’ve hardly seen in twenty years.” Ed’s certain tone showed he was right and he knew it. The only reason they’d recognized her was because they’d briefly met Molly with the Ryans in Dublin seven years ago.
After all these years, the empty-headed man still knew nearly nothing. She’d have to ease him into seeing reason. “How’s about we feel them out a bit?”
“Not for this job. Too late,” he stated emphatically. “We haven’t the time to bring them up to speed now everythin’s in motion.”
Grace huffed, hiding her small victory with a show of frustration. She didn’t need Molly now, but she’d slipped the idea of her joining them into Ed’s subconscious. “Fine. I still say she’s our fourth.”
“‘Time can but make it easier to be wise.’” He motioned for them to draw closer to the blue loading line on the floor as their train approached. “Maybe next time, Grace.”
A step behind him, Grace allowed herself to smile. If she was half the soldier her parents had been, Molly would make the perfect addition to their team. In four weeks, when this job was finished, she’d see that they needed her — Ireland needed her.
Only four more weeks.
By the time the Canavans had been tracked back to their apartment, Molly was waiting for her parents at the security gate of the Chicago FBI office. And Zachary had disappeared inside the building. Thankfully. Hard enough feigning calm when she was talking to terrorists, but to be faced with the man she’d loved — a man still handsome enough to take her breath away? Who could work under those conditions?
He’d broken up with her last summer because their lives were “headed in different directions.” Why did those different directions have to throw them together again?
At last, she saw the familiar sight of her parents, her mum’s funky purple glasses and shock of bright highlights hiding the gray in her short hair, her father towering over Mum, his narrow features and even his stylish wire-rimmed glasses weary with the world. Hopefully, now that she’d officially met the Canavans, her parents could add something to the case file.
Once they were past the security gate, Molly led her parents into a windowless conference room where an African-American agent waited. He stood and introduced himself. “Supervisory Special Agent Xavier Mason.”
“Colm and Katie Malone,” Molly’s da said, gesturing at himself and Mum.
Molly shook Agent Mason’s hand. “Special Agent Molly Malone.” Her father raised an eyebrow, but because there were already Special Agents
Mary Malone and Mary Margaret Malone in the Bureau, Molly had to use her nickname officially at work.
After a round of handshakes, SSA Mason gestured for the Malones to take a chair at the long faux-cherry table and did the same himself. Molly seated herself between her parents and the supervisor. This would be interesting. Though she “knew” what her parents had done until she was five or so, she’d never pressed for specifics before. Never needed to.
Agent Mason placed a photo of the Canavans in front of them.
Da looked up first — no recognition. “Sorry, can’t help you.”
“Colm.” Her mum remained fixed on the photograph.
He turned to Mum. “We can’t be talkin’ about that.” They stared at one another in silence, the steel in both of their eyes speaking for them.
“It’s been over twenty years,” Mum whispered.
“I don’t recall there bein’ an expiry date on ‘Top Secret.’ And seven’s a lot less than twenty.” He added a pointed glance in Molly’s direction.
Molly tried not to laugh at her father. “Don’t go tellin’ us you’re withholdin’ information for my sake. The IRA’s been an open secret in our family since before I was born.” And the real nature of their involvement in the Irish Republican Army hadn’t been a secret at all since they’d been whisked to the States seven years ago — after seeing the Canavans. Having her parents here was a formality for the Bureau’s sake.
Mum glanced at Agent Mason across the table and back to Da. “If they’re here and they have the FBI’s attention — you think they called us because the Bureau wants their phone number?”
“Oh, the FBI’ll spirit us away if they go bumpin’ into us again?”
“If the FBI arrests them, they won’t have to relocate us.” Mum turned to Molly and Agent Mason.
“You know them from the IRA,” Mason stated.
“We do,” Mum said. “But it’s not quite what you’re thinkin’.”
“Oh?”
“We didn’t join the Provos to ‘liberate’ the northern counties, exactly.”
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