Those blue eyes search mine. “And?”
“What can I say? She’s not you.” She never was.
The grin peeks through those ice-storm clouds again. “And he’s not you.” She slides her hand into mine, and my fingers wrap around her engagement ring.
“So, marriage, huh?”
“Big step.” Her tone tiptoes on a tightrope, carefully noncommittal. Like she didn’t flat-out tell me this is exactly what she needs from me. And if Shanna needs me . . . “I’m there.”
The clouds melt away and her full smile shines through, warmer than the sun. “Are you sure? I don’t want to push you if you’re not ready—”
“Hey, I was born ready.”
Shanna rolls her eyes.
“But can I ask one thing?” I ask.
She nods, her eyes brimming with trepidation.
“Can we please not go for the actual picket fence? Those things are a beast to paint.”
Shanna nudges me with an elbow. “Knowing you, you’d charm the neighborhood kids into doing it for you. And make them think it’s fun.”
“Or I could just force ours to paint it.”
She hesitates half a beat. “Kids, too?”
“I’m ready if you are.”
Shanna pulls her hand from mine and slides her arms around my waist. “I was born ready.”
I tuck her hair behind her ear. “Then I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”
I lean down and kiss her. Because she totally needs kissing. And so do I.
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SPY BY NIGHT
DURHAM CREST BOOKS
Cover design by Steven Novak
© 2014 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, 2014
For my children,
who mean everything.
I don’t do romance. After all, when your job involves lying to almost everyone, you aren’t set up for success on that front — and emotional entanglements have never helped me do said job. On a personal level, it’s much, much safer to spy alone.
Fortunately, feelings have nothing to do with the allure (and lust) of Latin dance, or the fluttering in my stomach, or the guy escorting me onto the dance floor. Elliott’s tall, dark and handsome enough to make James Bond jealous — and he shoots a wink my way. I skip my normal eye-roll, because I need the luck. We’ve been working for weeks, and if we don’t look legit in these next make-or-break minutes, the whole thing will be a waste. My partner and I take our places, and the smirk passes unspoken between us.
Neither of us look at the couple to my left: Galina Isayeva and Vasily Loban, the Russian spymaster we’re tracking. I know, an amateur ballroom competition in Canada might be the last place you’d expect a Russian spy, but everyone needs a hobby — and his day job as a barber in Embassy Row gives him plenty of access to prime targets. For now, I need to focus on my cover and my partner.
Most of the time, the real jobs of people like Elliott Monteith and Talia Reynolds (that would be us) look very little like the exciting lives of Bond or Bauer or Bourne, especially in Canada. But once in a while, being a spy is a scene right out of a movie. Today that scene’s a ballroom dance sequence — but instead of blending into a sophisticated, glamorous reception, I’m on display to be criticized and scrutinized. I may be covered in sparkly flesh-toned spandex from ankle to wrist, and yet I feel completely naked.
I take a deep breath that smells of musty high school gym and anticipation. A couple semesters of Latin dance versus the top dancers in Canada? I’d be lucky to be naked (because nobody would be paying attention to my technique). We may not confront many direct threats in Canada, but today’s biggest danger is to my dignity — and I haven’t even started dancing.
“First,” the melodramatic Moviefone-wannabe announcer booms over the public address system, “the cha cha.”
The music starts. My heart stops. Show time.
Hyperattuned to the judges ringing the dance floor, I fasten my gaze to Elliott’s. He gives his favorite signal to begin the count, an eyebrow waggle. Not hard to find the beat when the music’s blasting through my bones. Two bars later, we start our steps in unison.
If I screw up, our covers are shot, and no way will we get in with the head of a spy ring. Elliott crosses the hardwood floor between us, hips swiveling in time and arms flailing in stylized flourishes. I try to forget my self-consciousness and slither and sway to the music. I’m here to protect my country, not my pride. (A lost cause in this costume.)
Grueling practice over the last few weeks has paid off. Elliott and I are usually in sync — we’ve worked together enough that half our conversations go without saying, and these days we’re harmonized down to our heartbeats, all set to the Latin rhythm of our routines. We follow the general counterclockwise motion around the floor, but we don’t have far to go. Ninety seconds in, the cha cha music fades, and Elliott spins me into a deep curtsy to finish. Next, the samba. The an-nouncer’s voice echoes through the small gym, confirming the lineup, and the whole thing starts again.
Our samba routine has the sequence that’s hardest for me, promenade and counterpromenade runs, where Elliott and I take turns spinning across one another’s paths. A standard skill, so I need to make this look good. I have to keep my feet up to clear his steps between mine, and the performance smile slips from my lips. I overshoot the second to last crossing, and I swear time slows.
My glittery Latin shoe heads straight for Elliott’s toes like it’s being reeled in on a wire. At the last second, he slides his foot two inches to safety.
“Ha,” he whispers. My eyes snap to his again, and my winning grin is back.
Man, am I glad Elliott was on his college ballroom team. The dork.
Elliott spins me free and we dance, mirroring one another, ten feet apart. Another couple passes between us, also dancing separately. The woman moves behind me, and for a moment I’m dancing with a miniature cross between an athletic surfer and a Scandinavian god. Vasily.
The sheer intensity of his concentration and his effortless technique dazzle me for a minute, and I almost imagine I’m dancing with him instead. That throws me off a beat. But he wiggles out of the way, and the music winds down. Hope this doesn’t make things awkward later when we’re targeting him.
Samba might have the hardest step for me, but rumba’s my weakest dance, where my lack of experience shows. I avoid any major gaffes through our short rumba, paso doble and jive (ugh) routines. The Jerry Lee Lewis–inspired jive music fades out at the end of our catapult (a lot less impressive than it sounds: basically me walking and spinning around Elliott). He completes the move, spinning me clockwise, then counterclockwise, and we finish with a bow. The minutes of full-out effort catch up with me, and I’m both grinning and gasping to the thin audience’s applause. Amateur ballroom isn’t exactly drawing the Canadian ESPN.
The dancing might be over, but my heart rate only climbs. For all the time we’ve put into these seven and a half minutes of ballroom, they’re just window dressing for our real mission. Get to Vasily, get his phone, get everything off it to analyze and find the rest
of his spy ring.
Starting now.
We walk off the floor though the break in the bleachers at the corner, mingling with the other couples dancing in our heat. (Don’t ask me how the judges do it; no idea.) Elliott and I blend in, critiquing ourselves, as if we’re hoping we’ll make it into the next round. Our dancing was decent, but only good enough to pass for competing on this level. We wait until we’re within earshot of our targets by the bleachers, and then by a silent signal we begin the argument.
“Not saying it’s your fault.” Blame weighs down Elliott’s words. “Just saying, if you hadn’t done that, we’d be a shoo-in for the next round.”
“Excuse me? We agreed the rhythm was syncopated on those beats. You can’t call an audible in the middle of a heat.” We’re close enough now I can turn to our targets, hoping for sympathy from the female partner, Galina. “Tell him he’s insane to change the routine the day of a competition.”
She raises a disapproving, ornately shadowed, bejeweled eyebrow at Elliott. “Very unprofessional.”
“In an ‘amateur’ competition,” Elliott mutters. I silence him with a look. He pleads his case to her partner, Vasily — our target. “Don’t you think the rhythm looked off?”
I shake my head before Vasily answers. “They weren’t watching us. They’re way too professional, way too focused.” I stick out a hand. “I’m Joanne Hodges, and you’re amazing. I don’t know if you’re naturally talented or you’ve worked your tails off — probably both — but you’re seriously the best I’ve ever seen. Your lines, your technique, your connection — it’s a privilege watching you, let alone dancing next to you.”
Galina and Vasily break into matching smiles of false modesty while shaking my hand and introducing themselves. “Though I do have to admit,” Vasily confesses to Elliott, “the syncopation was awkward.”
“You noticed?” Elliott grimaces.
“It wouldn’t be hard to fix.” Vasily tries to make his tone encouraging, but the little rise of hope falls short.
I pounce on that not-so-much-an-invitation. “Are you guys around for dinner tonight? Not sure what our schedule’s like, but if we’re free, we’d love to pick your brain.”
Vasily wavers, his eyes flicking to Galina. Elliott and I instantly tune our features to matching please-please-please looks. Galina must sense the desperation/fangirling, because after a long second, she gives Vasily an at-least-it’ll-get-them-off-our-case nod.
“Why don’t I give you my number?” Elliott suggests. “So you’ll know to answer.”
Or, you know, not. But Vasily retrieves his cell from his locker and returns to us, and I find myself holding my breath.
“Here.” Elliott holds out a hand. “I’ll just put it in.”
This is it. Vasily hesitates, and my lungs shrink even more. Let it go, dude. Let it go.
Finally, Vasily gives up his phone. Elliott slides the icon to unlock it and types the number for his latest burner phone. He saves it under his cover, Gord Hopkins. Once he’s done, he flips the phone over, admiring the expensive case. “OtterBox?”
“No, off-brand.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
I try not to telegraph how badly I want him to say yes. Vasily waves his permission and Elliott pries the phone out of its case. He passes the case from one hand to the other — and then he fumbles the phone, which clatters to the floor. Perfect.
“I’m sorry!” Elliott exclaims immediately.
“Sorry,” I apologize, too, and move forward to grab the phone. Except before I can take it, I “accidentally” kick the cell, and it skids underneath the bleachers ten feet away.
I glance at Vasily. His lips pinch together until they start to turn white. Galina touches his elbow, but he subtly shifts away.
“Sorry!” I say again. (Playing the part of Canadians to a T.) “Don’t worry, I’ll get that for you.” I hurry to the bleachers before Vasily can decide he’d rather not trust his phone to people who’ve already abused it this badly. Elliott keeps apologizing as I drop to my knees to crawl under the half-vacant bleachers.
The flesh-toned fabric of my costume bodice hides more than my skin. I extract a tiny device from inside the elastic strap. Well, two devices — the first, a tiny flashlight. I shine the beam around the shadows. The phone’s half-hiding under a metal rod, part of the bleachers, and a wheel. I crawl over, ignoring the threads and sequins popping on a dress that was made for a totally different kind of wriggling.
Elliott’s apologies grow louder, and I click off my flashlight. They’re coming this way. I need another minute to get what I need.
“Found it yet?” Vasily calls.
“No, I need a flashlight.”
“I’ll come get it.”
Elliott jumps in. “You’ll never get the dust out of your pants in time for the next round.”
Galina’s voice echoes to me, too. “He’s right,” she murmurs.
“I’ve got my phone,” I claim. “I’ll use my flashlight app.” I turn back on the (real) flashlight and shine it around like I haven’t located his phone yet. My pulse accelerates in my throat.
“What’s taking so long?” Vasily again.
I still every muscle, focused on the phone lodged under the wheel. If removing it makes noise, my cover’s shot. Tension tries to draw my shoulders up, but I fight it. I make up something to say over the noise, pray and pull. “There are dust bunnies the size of Dobermans in here,” I reply over the slight penk of the phone tugging free.
I swear I can hear Galina and Vasily recoil in horror at the prospect of dust. (I’d better come out covered in the stuff to sell this lie.)
Okay, a few more seconds. A new surge of music covers the clicking as I pry the back of the phone’s slick plastic cover off. The SD card mount is aluminum or some other silver metal, hard to miss against the backdrop of black plastic. I push the card in to make it spring free.
The size of my fingernail, the tiny memory card fits per-fectly inside the second device I brought: a card cloner. A little blue LED on the side lights up, and I count the seconds. Six, seven, eight . . .
“Do you need help?” Galina’s voice echoes into the dark.
“No, I think I’ve got it.” I hope I do. Twelve, thirteen — the LED goes out. Done. I slide the micro SD card out and remount it in the phone. The music will stop any second, and adrenaline makes my fingers fly too fast. I drop the back cover. It rattles across the floor.
I clutch the phone, hoping, hoping, hoping they didn’t hear. The music stops, and applause carries from above the bleachers and beside — Galina, Vasily and Elliott. For my sake, they’d better be watching the floor to see the next dance. “Jive,” the announcer . . . announces. I clamp down on an automatic groan. We’re already to the last dance of the heat — and after the nerves and adrenaline of four other performances, you’re supposed to jump around like an overcaffeinated acrobat on spring shoes.
The bouncy music blares, and I swing my flashlight beam around to find the back of the cover again. Bingo. I snap it up, snap it on and make it out of there, snappy. My tights are covered in dust. I hold out the phone to Vasily and apologize several more times, until he frowns. He examines the phone. My costume feels like it’s three sizes too small, my lungs are straining so hard to breathe. Will he buy it? Did I miss something?
“Thank you,” he finally says. He takes his case back from Elliott and pops the phone in. Vasily bids us goodbye and shepherds Galina away. Elliott waits until they’re clear before he looks at me, silently asking if I got the data card copied. I nod.
“That’s the good news,” he mutters.
“And what’s the bad news?”
“We’ve run out of chances.” He takes my elbow and turns me to the Jumbotron. The judges posted the couples from our heat moving on to the next round. I scan the list twice, but the results don’t change. No 612.
Elliott, acting his cover, slips an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “We’ll get ’em next ti
me.”
Still holding the SD card copier, I pat his hand. We’d better get ’em this time.
We change and slip out as soon as we can, trying to seem laidback instead of lame. Elliott walks me through the parking lot, and it doesn’t take three years of spycraft to see the hurt haunting his vague smile — again. “Disappointed with the results?” I ask, though I doubt that’s the reason he’s been upset for the last several weeks.
He shrugs, back to a business-casual expression. “Did what we came to do.”
“Even if we have to compete again?” If this SD card isn’t as productive as we’d like, we’ll need to. Unfortunately.
“We’ll figure it out.”
I swallow an inward groan. Preparing for one competition was grueling enough; not ready to think about another.
Before I can steer the conversation to whatever’s been bugging him, Elliott sizes me up, though we’re both back in street clothes. “Your skirt should be shorter.”
“Thanks.” But I level him with a half-mock glare.
“Just saying — ballroom’s all about aesthetics. Nothing wrong with playing up your most aesthetically pleasing feature.”
I scoff.
“What?” Elliott holds up defensive hands. “Have I ever steered you wrong? I mean, about ballroom?”
We’ve established he’s far more of an expert in that area. “No, just surprised you know the word ‘aesthetics.’”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on. A couple weeks of practice and you got this.”
A couple weeks of practice? Between the endless paper-work and agent meetings of my job, and the law internship I’m doing at Terfort & Sutter, also part of my cover, I barely chiseled out the time to prepare for this competition. “Let’s wait and see if it’s worth the trouble first.”
We reach my nondescript Company car and he concedes the point. “Still with me tonight, right?”
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) Page 15
