I Spy... Three Novellas

by Josh Lanyon

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  VIP Offer

  What This Book is About...

  I Spy… Three Novellas

  I Spy Something Bloody

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  I Spy Something Wicked

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  I Spy Something Christmas

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  About the Author

  Also by Josh Lanyon

  Copyright

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  The complete I Spy series collected digitally for the first time.

  I Spy Something Bloody

  Espionage was always a game, but now British spy Mark Hardwicke wants to retire and settle down with ex-lover Dr. Stephen Thorpe—if Stephen will have him. Unfortunately, Stephen has other plans—and so do the terrorists who want Mark dead.

  I Spy Something Wicked

  It's All Hallow's Eve and Mark Hardwicke's past has come back to haunt him. The Old Man needs Mark to go on one last mission to the wild, lonely hills of Afghanistan—a mission Mark knows he can't survive. Even if he does make it back, Stephen has made it very clear Mark is out of second chances. Should Mark place his lover and his own happiness before duty?

  I Spy Something Christmas

  Nothing says Christmas like a bullet with your name on it. Mark is used to death and danger. Stephen will never be okay with violence—or Mark's attitude toward it.

  Like the holidays weren't tough enough on a romance.

  I Spy… Three Novellas

  Josh Lanyon

  I Spy Something Bloody

  Josh Lanyon

  Chapter One

  The telephone rang and rang. I stared through the window glass of the phone box at rugged green moorland and the distant snaggletoothed remains of a prehistoric circle. The rolling open hills of Devon looked blue and barren against the rain-washed sky. I’d read somewhere they’d filmed The Hound of the Baskervilles around here. It looked like a good day for a hellhound to be out and about, prowling the eerie ruins and chasing virgin squeak toys to their deaths.

  To the north were the military firing zones, silent this afternoon.

  The phone continued to ring—a faraway jangle on the other end of the line.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. It felt years since I’d really slept. The glass was cool against my forehead. Why had I come back? What had I hoped to accomplish? It wasn’t as though Barry Shelton and I had been best mates. He’d been a colleague. Quiet, tough, capable. I’d known a lot of Barry Sheltons through the years. Their faces all ran together. Just another anonymous young man—like me.

  He died for nothing. A pointless, stupid, violent death. For nothing!

  I could still hear Shelton’s mother screaming at me, blaming me. Why not? It was as much my fault as anyone’s. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t exactly the sensitive type. Neither had been Shelton. The only puzzle was why I’d imagined the news would come better from me. Wasn’t even my style, really, dropping in on the widows and orphans and Aged Ps. That kind of thing was much better handled by the Old Man.

  My leg was aching. And my ribs. Rain ticked against the glass. I opened my eyes. The wet-dark road was wide and empty. I could see miles in either direction. All clear. The wind whistled forlornly through the places where the door didn’t join snugly; a mournful tune like a melody played on the tula.

  Unexpectedly, the receiver was picked up. A deep voice—with just that hint of Virginia accent—said against my ear, “Stephen Thorpe.”

  I hadn’t expected to be so moved by just the sound of his voice. Funny really, although laughter was the furthest thing from me. My throat closed and I had to work to get anything out.

  “It’s Mark,” I managed huskily, after too long a pause.

  Silence.

  He was there, though. I could hear the live and open stillness on the other end of the line. “Stephen?” I said.

  “What did you want, Mark?” he asked quietly. Too quietly.

  “I’m in trouble.” It was a mistake. I knew that the instant I said it. I should be apologizing, wooing him, not begging for help, not compounding my many errors. My hand clenched the receiver so hard my fingers felt numb. “Stephen?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Can I come home?”

  He said without anger, “This isn’t your home.”

  My heart pounded so hard I could hardly hear over the hollow thud. My mouth felt gummy-dry, the way it used to before an op. A long time ago. I licked my lips. No point arguing now. No time. I said, “I…don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  Not his problem. I could hear him thinking it. And quite rightly.

  He said with slow finality, “I don’t think that coming here would be a good idea, Mark.”

  I didn’t blame him. And I wasn’t surprised. Not really. But surprised or not, it still hurt like hell. More than I expected. I’d been prepared to play desperate; it was a little shock to realize I didn’t have to play. My voice shook as I said, “Please, Stephen. I wouldn’t ask if it—please.”

  Nothing but the crackling emptiness of the open line. I feared he would hang up, that this tenuous connection would be lost—and then I would be lost. Stranded here at the ends of the Earth where bleak sky fused into wind-scoured wilderness.

  Where the only person I knew was Barry Shelton’s mother.

  I opened my mouth—Stephen had once said I could talk him into anything—but I was out of arguments. Too tired to make them even if I’d known the magic words. All that came out was a long, shuddering sigh.

  I don’t know if Stephen heard it all the way across the Atlantic, but after another heartbeat he said abruptly, “All right then. Come.”

  I replaced the receiver very carefully and pushed open the door. The wind was cold against my face, laced with rain. Rain and a hint of the distant sea; I could taste the salty wet on my lips.

  * * * * *

  The flight from Heathrow to Dulles took eight hours. Eight hours through the stars and the clouds. Between my ribs and my leg, sleep was impossible—even if I’d felt safe enough to take a couple of painkillers and shut off. I tried reading a few pages of Dickens’ Little Dorrit, then settled for numbing myself with alcohol and staring out the window. I don’t remember thinking much of anything; I barely remember the flight. I just remember hurting and welcoming the hurt because it would keep me sharp. Which was proof of how drunk I was.

  I waited longer for my connecting plane to Virginia than the flight itself took. By then I was sobering up, and my various aches and pains were fast reaching the point where I wanted to murder the bloke coughing incessantly behind me—and the baby screaming in front. I wasn’t crazy about any of the other passengers either. Or the flight crew. Or the ground crew. Or anyone else on the ground. Or in the air. Or on the planet. Or in the solar system.

  I tried to think happy thoughts, but happy thoughts weren’t a big part of my job description. So I thought unhappy thoughts about Stephen not wanting me to come back. “This isn’t your home,” he’d said, and so much for Southern hospitality.

  I waited my whole life for you. I can wait a few months more…

  Time flies when you’re having fun, I suppose.

  Was it that easy for him to turn it off? Because I’d tried and I couldn’t do it. If anythin
g, my need for Stephen grew stronger with each passing day. It would be convenient to be able to turn off the memories: the way his green eyes crinkled at the corner when he smiled that slow, sexy grin; the way his damp hair smelled right out of the shower—a blend of orange and bamboo and vetiver that always inexplicably reminded me of the old open air market in Bengal; the way that soft Southern drawl got a little more pronounced when he was sleepy—or when we made love. Yeah, made love. It hadn’t just been fucking. Stephen had loved me. I was sure of it.

  He’d said so. And I didn’t think he’d lie about it. Like it said in Little Dorrit, “Once a gentleman, and always a gentleman.”

  I was the liar. But I’d said the words too. And meant them.

  * * * * *

  We landed at Shenandoah Valley Airport just after eleven o’clock in the morning, and I stumbled off the plane, exhausted and edgy, tensing as hurrying passengers brushed past, crowding me. Too many people—and everyone’s voice sounded harsh, too loud, nearly sending me out of my skin.

  After what felt like several nerve-wrenching miles of this, Stephen appeared out of nowhere, striding towards me in that loose, easy way. I had never seen anything more beautiful. Tall and lean, broad shoulders and long legs, hair prematurely silver—striking with his youthful face. He was fifty now. I had missed his birthday. Missed it by a month. By a mile. Just one of many things I’d missed.

  At the sight of me, he checked midstride, then came forward.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  I offered a smile—to which he did not respond. “Long story.”

  There were tiny lines around his eyes that I didn’t remember before—a sternness to his mouth that was new.

  “Another one?” The tone was dry, but his expression gave me a little hope.

  I hadn’t realized how much I missed him till he was standing arm’s length from me, and then it was like physical pain: He was so familiar, so…dear—like a glimpse of land after months at sea. The boyishly ruffled pale hair, the spring green of his eyes…

  I thought for an instant he might even take me into his arms, but no. Instead he took my bag, took my elbow, took charge. His fingers were warm—if a little steely—wrapping around my arm. And although it was not exactly what I wanted, it was a relief. A welcome relief to rely on someone else—to rely on Stephen. There was no one else in the world I trusted. Not even the Old Man. Not anymore. Only Stephen.

  The feeling no longer appeared to be mutual.

  “We’ll have to hurry,” he said crisply. “I’m on call.” And he glanced automatically at his wristwatch. The watch I had given him on the one birthday I’d been around for. An artifact of a relationship lost to time and distance; there seemed something ironic in my choice now.

  “You needn’t have come yourself,” I said, hobbling along. “I could have grabbed a cab.”

  Wrong answer again. He gave me an austere look, his hand tightening wardenlike on my bicep, unconsciously lengthening his stride. He must have talked to one of his mates in the Justice Department. I hadn’t expected him at the airport, and hadn’t offered any flight info.

  Sweat broke out along my back, my underarms. It was oppressively hot in the airport terminal—or maybe it was just me. Stephen looked as cool and poised as a marble statue in a crystal fountain—if marble statues wore jeans and black polo shirts. His profile was impassive as he steered me along, impersonal and efficient. Overhead the loudspeaker announced another arrival—or perhaps another departure. It was all starting to run together.

  We stepped outside and the late May sun blasted down, shimmering off the pavement in waves. I swayed a little and Stephen’s arm came around my waist, hard and reassuring.

  “All right?”

  I offered a crooked grin. “A bit tired…”

  “The Jeep’s just over here.”

  The “Jeep,” which was in fact a black SUV, was parked in one of the lots adjacent to the general aviation terminal. The smell of asphalt and jet engine exhaust hung in the still, humid air as we walked across the parking lot.

  Stephen unlocked the front passenger door, tossed my holdall into the rear seat, and helped me up. I dropped back in the seat and wiped my forehead.

  He lowered the window a few centimeters. “Sit tight.” The door slammed shut; Stephen locked me in using the remote key fob and was gone before I got myself together enough to tell him I didn’t have any luggage.

  I sat there, head back, feeling woozy with heat and exhaustion—the dregs of alcohol still moving sluggishly through my bloodstream. I stared up through the twin sunroof windows at the unmoving clouds in the blue sky. Blue as water. Deep water. For an instant I had the sensation of falling forward into it.

  I shook my head, reached back for my holdall. Unzipping it, I fished out the steel and polymer pieces of my Glock 18, assembling them quickly. The grip felt right in my hand. Familiar. Reassuring. I slapped the magazine in.

  Untrue about the Glock not setting off airport metal detectors. The metal barrel, slide, magazine—not to mention the ammo—could all be detected by X-ray machines. But my employers had a certain…licensing agreement with the U.S. Government. And I’d taken advantage of that. These days I never traveled unarmed. Not that I was expecting trouble. No more than usual.

  I let my head fall back again, pistol resting in my lap. Closed my eyes telling myself it would just be for a moment. Just to rest my eyes. Christ, I was so…tired…

  The sound of the automatic locks flicking over jerked me awake. The door opened and I lunged across the console and shoved my pistol in Stephen’s face before I realized it was Stephen.

  “Jesus Christ! Are you crazy?” he said furiously, even as I brought the pistol down.

  A legitimate question. I wasn’t sure myself of the answer anymore. He was staring at me like I was from another planet.

  “Sorry,” I got out. “Stephen, I’m…sorry. You startled me.”

  “It’s mutual.” He got in, slammed the door with barely restrained violence. He rested his hands on the steering wheel, not looking at me. “Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

  A right rollicking cock-up from first to last, Mr. Hardwicke.

  I’m sorry, sir.

  Sorry? Sorry is for lovers and politicians. If the press gets wind of this…

  “Can we have…the air?” I requested. I mopped my face with my sleeve. It was stifling—impossible to breathe in the close confines of the vehicle.

  He did look at me then. A hard long look. He turned the key and cold air blasted out of the dashboard vents; it steadied me like a slap. I took a couple of deep breaths. ICBM. Instant Calm Breath Method. And I was okay again.

  I realized that Stephen had made no move to start driving—still waiting for me to talk.

  I wondered if he’d do it. If he was angry enough, disgusted enough to shove me out of the car and leave me. I found the idea funny, and I knew I had a weird smile on my face—could tell by the way his brows drew together. I said, “There’s not a lot to tell, really. The job…went south. I had some leave coming…”

  “And you wanted to spend it here? I’m honored.” He didn’t sound honored. He sounded acrid.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. That last had clearly been wrong—giving no clue to how much I’d missed him, how much I wanted to make it all up to him. I was so bad at this kind of thing. Always. Until Stephen made it easy. Probably because he had done all the work.

  My vision blurred, and I rubbed my eyes, trying to focus on his face. But Stephen’s profile didn’t encourage further heartfelt confidences. He started the engine.

  We pulled out of the airport car park without further discussion. I thought of the pain pills in my bag, decided they weren’t worth the bother.

  Stephen expertly negotiated the SUV’s passage through pedestrians and other vehicles. Before long we were on the main motorway, picking up speed. I relaxed a fraction.

  Signs flashed by, offering information, urging caution, spelling
out the rules. So many rules in a civilized society. How did people remember them all? So many things to be careful of, cautious of.

  Stephen turned on the radio.

  “…stated in a press briefing, “U.S. and coalition forces operating in Afghanistan are to continue to have the freedom of action required to conduct appropriate military operations based on consultations and pre-agreed procedures…”

  He changed the channel, sliding through talk radio, adverts, static, and settling at last on a classical music station. Ballade no. 1 in G Minor.

  I realized I’d been holding my breath, and I exhaled softly. Focused on the scenery sailing past. I’d forgotten how pretty it was here. “Daughter of the Stars,” that was what the Indian word Shenandoah was supposed to mean. It was one of the loveliest places I’d ever been. Green as England, but a nicer climate. I remembered cool, crisp mornings and lazy, sunny afternoons—and the stars at night. A sky full of stars glittering like diamond dust. I had left before the first snowfall, but I could imagine how pretty it was in the winter. Like an old-fashioned greeting card. There were a lot of farms here, and we wove our way through a patchwork quilt of gold fields and green orchards.

  To the east were the Blue Ridge Mountains, to the west, the Appalachians, and through the rich and fertile valley, the famous river itself glinted and tumbled along its rolling way. Compared to the ancient worm-holed history of Afghanistan, this part of the world seemed relatively young and untouched. But that was an illusion. The American War of Independence, the War Between the States—the valley had been a strategic target for both the South and North.

  Most of Stephen’s family had fought for the Confederacy—and their fortunes had fallen with it. But they had been lucky. The Thorpes had Northern relations and loyal, influential friends; picking up the pieces after the war had been easier for them than for most. The family had recovered its fortune within a generation. Now Stephen belonged to a committee dedicated to preserving Civil War battlefields in the Shenandoah Valley.