Spy Another Day Prequel Box Set: Spy Noon, Mr. Nice Spy, and Spy by Night in one volume (Spy Another Day Prequels clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  “Angelique DeRuyter. My husband is Charlie — Charles — Charles DeRuyter. Someone called and said there had been an accident?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. DeRuyter, this is Nora. I’m Charlie’s nurse.”

  DeRuyter focuses on the tray table in front of him, trying to maintain that casual attitude. But one muscle in his temple works with his clenching jaw and rising pulse.

  He won’t buy this unless I put her on the phone — but I can’t give him the opportunity to pass on a message. “Right now, we’re not sure whether he’ll come through, but sometimes hearing a loved one helps. Would you like me to hold the phone up for him?”

  “Yes, please.” She hiccups, and I squelch a smidgen of guilt.

  I hit the icon to mute the microphone and flip it to speakerphone, offering my cell across the aisle. “Charlie?” Angelique ventures.

  “It’s not her.” DeRuyter stares at the seat back until he thinks better of his argument. “I don’t know who this is supposed to be, but it’s no one I know.”

  “Oh, Charlie. I thought — Canada?” She gasps in a sob. “Come home to me, please. To us. What will I tell your ma?”

  He shakes his head. “Turn it off. Stop tormenting that poor woman.”

  “Chivalrous to the end, huh, Charlie?”

  His gray eyes are as hard as steel. I shrug one shoulder, like none of this matters to me, and take the phone back. I walk away, down the aisle, before I unmute the microphone. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We’ll let you know right away if there’s any change.”

  “What — what do I do now? Shall I come there?” The emotion in Angelique’s voice wavers. She’s still on speakerphone, and I’m still close enough for Charlie to hear his wife.

  This time the splinter of guilt lodges under my skin, persistent and painful. But I have to press on. “I’m afraid that doesn’t look like it’ll do much good right now. If you have a Do Not Resuscitate, living will, that sort of thing, we’ll need it on file with the hospital.”

  “Oh. All right.” After another long silence, she sobs. “Oh, Charlie.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. DeRuyter.” I pause for effect. “I hate to go, but I do need to get to the rest of my rounds.”

  Angelique doesn’t say anything else and I end the call.

  “So.” I address DeRuyter from the back of the plane. Charlie doesn’t acknowledge me. “You ready to talk to us?”

  He says nothing.

  “How long before she remarries, you think?” My phone chimes with an incoming picture message. Angelique. “I’m sure a pretty woman like her won’t have trouble finding someone else, once her heart heals, you know. Lots of guys like strawberry blondes.”

  Over the plane’s engines, I can barely hear the sharp little intake of air. I wait, my own breath sealed in my lungs. He’s going to talk. He’s going to cry. He’s going to crack.

  Nothing.

  We’re running out of tactics here.

  “I really wouldn’t have touched you,” Charlie says softly. “Not even if you’d come on to me.”

  I look down the aisle at him. He’s still facing forward. “It was because of her,” he says. “I never deserved her. Met her on the rebound and somehow she never figured out she was way out of my league.”

  After another long minute of silence, his head lowers. “You reminded me of her, when we first met. Beautiful and broken. I had to help.”

  I mete out as much sympathy as a spy can afford to say, “It was a nice gesture.”

  (Kind of like how calling me beautiful is a nice gesture, since even dear old Grandma Luella never lets me forget I’m “too plain to run around with so little makeup.”)

  Another long, sighing silence slides by. Finally, I turn away.

  “If I tell you who I’m after,” Charlie says, “you’ll leave her alone?”

  I stride back down the aisle, and lean down to level with him. “We’ll forget we ever heard of her.”

  He meets my gaze, intense. Worried. Petrified. “How long can I think about it?”

  His wife’s on the line, and he wants to think about it as long as possible? Chivalry just rolled over in its grave.

  “We’ll have to refuel soon.” At this rate, that’s got to be true.

  He turns to face forward, his expression stone. I wait there another minute. Not being married myself (not happening), I can’t be 100% positive, but . . . “Isn’t the safety of your spouse supposed to be a pretty big incentive?” I ask.

  Charlie glares at me. “What do you think I’m thinking about here? I don’t know who you people are — Canadian, American, whatever — but if my employers have any reason to suspect I’ve shared even a tissue with you, they’re a much bigger threat to my family than you are.”

  The words slug me like a gut punch. He’s right. We’ll never be a bigger threat than the Iranians (assuming that’s who he works for), because there’s only so much we’ll really do to an innocent family member. We’re going to have to take it up another notch a different way.

  We can’t just let him go if he’s here watching SARD. Worst of all, that means the Iranians at least suspect SARD’s sneaking around on them. My case, my responsibility, my failure if we don’t get this intel out of him.

  And then inspiration strikes. I hide in the bathroom to call Will again. (Yeah, this is a very intimidating office to operate from. No wonder Charlie’s shaking in his boots.)

  “Have anything?” Will answers.

  “Not yet. He says his employer’s a bigger threat — but I have an idea. How fast can you get SARD on the phone?”

  Will gets where I’m going right away. “Genius.”

  Much as I like to hear that praise, I’ll wait until we get down — and through the last phase of this op — to celebrate.

  As it so happens, we have enough fuel to finish that movie and begin its even more annoying and unrealistic sequel. (I was right. Cruel and unusual.)

  Finally, the signal from Will comes in a text message. Everything we need is in place. Endgame time.

  I leave Charlie to the misadventures of two people in love who totally don’t deserve it. (One of them is supposed to be undead, but I can’t tell which from the acting.) I jog to the cockpit where Elliott waits in the jump seat. I shut the door behind me before I make the announcement. “We’re cleared for landing.”

  “At the airport?”

  “Yeah.” Thank heavens. The alternate airstrip would not have helped my nascent phobia of flying or delivered our promised masterstroke. I turn to Elliott. “Buckle up.”

  I head down the aisle to check on Charlie, but a half-second of low gravity makes my stomach try to float away. I grasp the back of a chair until it passes, willing down the bile threatening mutiny.

  I reach Charlie and tighten his seatbelt. “Chair back, tray table up,” I confirm for his benefit. “All right, all set for landing.”

  “Guantánamo already?” Charlie smirks.

  “Well, no. You’re right, we’re not like your employers. Guess we don’t have the heart for it.”

  “So, what, we’re done? You’re going to let me loose?”

  “Pretty much.” I tap the back of his headrest. “Brace for impact. Pilot’s out of practice. You remember, put your arms on the . . .” I glance at his wrist restraints. “Oh. Good luck with that.”

  (Actually, the pilot’s just fine. Let Charlie be as nervous as me for the next part.)

  I buckle up behind Charlie and close my eyes, focusing on breathing exercises and not the twists and turns and turbulence of the landing.

  Someone plops into the chair next to me. I don’t have to open my eyes to guess it’s Elliott. “Come here often?” he murmurs.

  I shoot him a silencing glower. “Try not to.”

  He picks up my hand, and I jerk away. “Hey.” Elliott flashes that you-know-you-want-me-go-ahead-and-take-me smile. An echoing memory flashes through my mind: the sweet satisfaction of slapping him.

  Somehow, that doesn’t seem like it’d be as satis
fying now.

  Then we’re jolting over the runway. I grip the arms of my chair. One of the arms turns out to be Elliott’s, but he doesn’t complain and I can’t move. I can’t even breathe.

  After a few interminable seconds, the wheels even out and we’re rolling instead of bouncing. Elliott pats my hand and I release him.

  “Told you we’d get you down safe,” Elliott whispers in my ear.

  I look to him, and he is way too close. My stomach quivers worse than when we were hopping over the runway. I really might throw up this time.

  He gives me a lopsided grin and moves away without any further flirting. Now the relief floods into my chest.

  The plane taxis to its place on the tarmac, and we spring from our seats. Elliott tosses me aviator sunglasses with gold rims and slides on a matching pair for himself. A long blond wig, pinned in place, finishes off my disguise. Elliott tops his off with red hair. If we executed this plan without disguises, we’d be committing career hara-kiri.

  Elliott gives me the ready nod and we turn to Charlie.

  “Well, we really appreciate you taking the time to see us,” I say, like he came after an invitation he actually had the option of refusing. “We know how busy you must be.”

  Charlie glares at me. We slip into our jackets, then unbuckle his restraints and haul him to his feet. He staggers into Elliott.

  “A little late in the game to be getting fresh, isn’t it, slugger? That why you wouldn’t lay a finger on her?” Elliott winks at him.

  I roll my eyes. “Keep it moving, fellas. We’ve got a plane to get off.”

  Just like we brought him on a few hours ago, Elliott and I each take hold of one of his arms, though Charlie’s a lot more help this time than he was earlier.

  Instead of the usual jetway, we have to disembark our little passenger plane right onto the tarmac. We guide Charlie down the stairs, maneuvering to still flank him. Fortunately, they keep the tarmac clear of snow. (I’m sure that’s a hazard, right?)

  We march across the asphalt toward the glassed-in terminal. Elliott sticks his hands in his pockets and maneuvers closer to Charlie, hemming him in. We start to slow down. Elliott points it out. “There’s our gate.”

  Charlie follows. He has no idea what’s waiting for him yet, but I’m sure we’ll know when he gets the drift. If he gets the drift. He’d better get it. We reach the stairs to the terminal. An airport attendant opens the door for us and we duck in to shake off the cold. Once we’re clear, we seize his elbows.

  “What am I going to do, go tearing through the airport to get away?” Charlie says under his breath. Still, I grate my thumb against a nerve in his joint until we reach the baggage claim.

  And there’s my grand plan, waiting. Charlie doesn’t see it.

  “No hard feelings?” I attempt.

  Charlie shoots me a skeptical eyebrow. Elliott leads the way to the conveyor belts. Charlie still hasn’t seen the problem here. But he will.

  Elliott halts abruptly. Charlie maneuvers around him, but stops short to give him a wary eyeball. I arrive on Charlie’s right, grabbing his hand in a hearty shake. “Thanks so much! It’s been a pleasure working with you!”

  Elliott beams at him, too. “And on behalf of the United States government, thank you!” He pulls out a stack of cash. Charlie doesn’t react at first, so I rotate his hand from shaking mine to accepting the money.

  “We’ll be sure to call you the next time we need some more information.” I’m still half-shouting this normally sensitive exchange. And Charlie still has yet to figure out why.

  “I don’t understand,” he hisses. “You’re just letting me go? My wife —”

  “All right, fine,” Elliott sighs. He digs another pile of bills out of his pocket. (We’re nothing if not prepared!) “Remember, there’s always more where that came from!”

  Finally Charlie turns to see what we keep glancing at.

  SARD, sitting on a bench in the baggage claim, browsing the Toronto Star. But that’s not all. Converging on us from opposite directions? SARD’s tails: Red Polo, Esfandiari. Pink Floyd Fan, Shamshiri.

  SARD played his part perfectly, leading them here, and now they have something a lot more interesting to watch (and no reason to suspect SARD of betrayal anymore). They come to stand shoulder to shoulder in front of us. Arms folded. The same we-mean-business look on their faces. All staring at Charlie, who’s still holding our money.

  They know exactly who he is and what he’s supposed to be doing while on their dime. (Hint: none of it involves American payouts.)

  We just bought SARD his life back.

  “Okay, I’m sure you can take it from here,” Elliott says. I beam at Charlie, making a telephone hand signal, and Elliott and I peel off.

  “Wait!” Charlie stage whispers. “You — you can’t —”

  Elliott and I don’t stop, but I turn around to talk while we walk. “You said it, didn’t you? We can’t do anything to you worse than what they can.”

  He keeps up with me. “Esfandiari. I’m tailing Farrokh Esfandiari. It’s his first time out of the country, and he thinks I’m after Gul.”

  All this work, and SARD (Gul?) was safe the whole time? I shrug. “Offer expired, dude. Sorry.”

  “Please.”

  I check behind him. The Iranians are in pursuit.

  “The Iranians,” he adds. “I’m working for the Iranians. I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  I look up at Elliott. We slow down to let Charlie catch up to us. Elliott casts him that all-too-winning grin. “You know all the right things to say to a guy.”

  We give him directions to the cab outside where a disguised Will is waiting to dispatch Charlie. (Get rid of him, not kill him.) Elliott sees him off, ruffling his hair. “Hope you still respect us in the morning.”

  Charlie scowls at him before he dashes off for the safety of a cab and a CIA handler. We follow a bit more slowly. Even in March, after more weeks of winter than I care to count, the wall of below-freezing air waiting at the door is bracing.

  Elliott sticks close to me, rubbing his hands together. “Share a cab?” he asks. “I mean, can you settle for that?”

  “You are so annoying, you know that?”

  He looks at me, his expression crumpling with real hurt.

  There’s no way he could be that ignorant. “Hey, you come in here and you start checking me out —”

  “You’ve got good legs.”

  I brush aside his counterargument. “Is that what you like about the ‘scenery’?”

  “I like the snow.”

  No. No. He cannot be this ridiculous and still be innocent. “‘When are we going to get this over with?’”

  Finally, every pretense of flirting melts away. “I meant this stupid rivalry.”

  I look him up and down, recalculating like I had him in the wrong sized suit all this time. (Yes, both days.) “Can you not turn it off?”

  “Turn what off?”

  Can’t help it: I gape at him. “You flirt with everything that moves. You cannot tell me you don’t know.”

  “Oh, yeah. That.” He gestures to his face, again wearing that I-know-I’m-charming smile. “Comes with the territory.”

  I. Just. Stare. At him. He cannot be serious. He cannot be serious. He. Can’t.

  And then that façade of smarmy charm cracks, and a real smile shines through, with an even clearer message: gotcha. “But yes, this is how I treat everybody.”

  “You tell them, ‘You know you love me’?”

  “Oh, no,” he says. “That’s special for you.”

  I groan. “How did I get so lucky?”

  Elliott waits for me to meet his eyes, then lets the grin grow across his face. “I like messing with you.”

  Something about that grin, that line is too familiar — but this time he’s not bringing my ex to mind. Someone else, though I can’t quite put my finger on who. . . .

  Elliott steps up to the curb, too busy consulting his phone to signal a tax
i.

  “What’s so important?” I join him, nodding at his phone.

  He shifts the screen to me, showing an empty apartment. “A guy’s gotta live somewhere, doesn’t he?”

  “And you can’t do that later?”

  “Shanna just sent them.” He turns back to his browsing.

  “I’m sure your real estate agent would wait.”

  “Yeah, but my fiancée won’t.”

  His what? All this time — yes, both days — I’ve been freaking out about him coming on to me, and he never had any . . . I fix him with an excuse-me expression. “Does she know you’re like this?”

  “Like — oh. That,” he says, in that same teasing tone he used the last time he said it. “It’s hard to choose, I know, but I think that’s what she loves most about me. My charm.”

  “More like your cheek,” I mutter. “Five more minutes and you would’ve had our friend Chuck pretty creeped out.”

  Elliott elbow-nudges me, and when I look, he’s grinning, as always. “Who can get a cab first?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  The gleam in his eyes is familiar, but once again not because he reminds me of somebody that I used to know. Not that somebody — a different somebody. Three of them. My older brothers.

  That’s who he is: not the reincarnation of my ex-boyfriend who challenged and pushed me until I had to push back. He’s the obnoxious tormentor who thinks I’ll have to run just to keep up with him.

  Oh, we’ll see about that.

  I match his cocky grin and flip my long blond wig over my shoulder, lifting my hand for a cab. It’s there in two seconds.

  Elliott concedes defeat well and gets the door for me. “You win this round, T. And I didn’t have to wait for a cab.”

  “You think you’re so clever.”

  “I know it.”

  And I know: I can work with this guy. I might even like it.

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