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

Campbell invited me to play video games.

  Since when can Jonathan Campbell invite people over to Danny’s house? No idea. I ask Arjay.

  Since he moved in a week ago. Joel’s here too.

  Well, if it’s a party . . . I toss my phone on the passenger seat and start the car. I’m one short surveillance detection run away from seeing Danny. In a totally platonic, hey-how’s-that-baggage-mine’s-about-the-same way. But honestly? Even that sounds good.

  In fact, it sounds good enough that when I reach his door thirty minutes later, my heart’s sprinting (and not because Galina might be here — I checked; she’s busy at the dance studio). This won’t be awkward, will it? Church was kinda weird, but that might’ve been because his mom was there, and I didn’t dare get too close.

  No, it’ll be fine. I’ll play it cool, and he’ll play it cool, and it’ll be . . . cool.

  I know he lives here, but Campbell answering the door (and the loud music) is still a shock. He’s even more surprised to see me, his eyes wide open, lifting his brows enough to wrinkle his forehead. “Hey, Talia. Do you need something?”

  “No.” I subtly crane my neck to peer past him. “Arjay invited me. For his last hurrah.”

  “Oh. Cool.” He moves back to let me in. “Look who’s here, guys.”

  Please, please, I so want to make an entrance. I walk in, folding my arms. But I don’t let myself scan the room for Danny, like I came here for him.

  Not just him.

  “Talia!” Arjay bounds over to me. “You’ve got to try these.” He holds out something, and I take it before I see it’s a spear of asparagus wrapped in bacon. I don’t normally eat asparagus, but with bacon? Sure. I take a bite. Probably better warm, but it’s still pretty good. It’s encased in bacon; of course it’s good, but there’s something else going on there, too, something complex and tangy.

  “Did you make this?” I ask Arjay.

  He jerks his chin to indicate someone behind him, then steps aside to open my path to the kitchen — and Danny, leaning against the counter, ankles crossed.

  “You made this?” I point the asparagus at him.

  Half a modest smile flickers across his lips. “First thing that’s gone right.”

  The full implications dawn in my mind: Danny’s cooking. Like we talked about. And if this is the first thing that’s gone right, this isn’t his first attempt.

  Well, I guess that answers the how’s-your-baggage question. Sort of. I take another bite to hide the grin like we’re sharing an inside joke. “It’s good,” I say.

  Arjay slaps Campbell’s shoulder and heads for the living room couch to resume their video game. Danny lingers in the kitchen. I didn’t come for the gaming, so it’s only natural to join him, right?

  I pick a semi-neutral distance and mirror his posture, kicking back against the counter. I gesture at the speakers blaring behind him. “Bowie fan?”

  “That’d be the ‘Space Oddity’ over there.” He shoots a pointed glance Campbell’s direction and lowers the volume.

  “How have you been?”

  “Not bad. You?”

  “Busy.” I finish off the asparagus. “Thought you were supposed to call me to help eat.”

  “Sorry — cooking mishap killed my phone and lost all my numbers. Would’ve posted on Facebook, but you know.”

  I laugh. “If this is your cooking, I’d better make sure you have my number. It’s really good.”

  “Thanks. Surprisingly easy, too.”

  “How does it feel?”

  “To convert vegetables into a viable heart-attack method?” He smirks, but softens quickly, looking past my shoulder. “Good, actually. Pretty proud of it.”

  “You should be.” I nod to one of the last two spears on the tray to ask permission; he holds out a hand. I have to maneuver closer to get it, but neither of us object. “It’s a feat to get me to eat asparagus. I had a bad experience.”

  “Sounds like something I do not want to hear about.”

  I pretend to roll my eyes. “I was supposed to feed my little brother asparagus, and Timo — well, it’s a family legend.”

  You’d have to hear a lot more of the story to get the joke, but instead of asking, Danny slips into thought, focusing behind me again. “Didn’t you say you’re the youngest?”

  I nearly choke on my food. Did I let that slip?

  Crap. Now I have to tell more of the truth than I like to. “I am — I — um.” I meet his gaze, and he’s waiting, free of judgment.

  “I mean,” I try again, “I was the youngest for twelve years. Until my half brother was born.”

  “Ah.” He nods slowly, but I see the pieces fitting together in his mind. He knows what that says about my parents’ marriage, about Timo, about me. So much he could pry into with that one little detail. “Are you close?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “He doesn’t remember when I lived with them, so not really. I try, but . . . guess that’s the biggest drawback of not being on Facebook.”

  I don’t talk about this stuff, not with Arjay, not with Elliott — but despite the change in our dating status, it’s not (all that) weird to talk to Danny. He doesn’t pester or push or press for clarification. He accepts whatever I want to share without giving me grief or guilt.

  Except I kind of do feel bad for keeping so much from him. It’s my job to deal in secrets, but honestly, I take that to a whole new level when it comes to my personal life. This relationship was always going to be a dead end for me, with everything I don’t dare say, to anyone. Secrets always carry a high price.

  Before I can figure out which direction to go in the conversation, Campbell, Arjay and Joel pile into the kitchen, raiding the pantry. Rather than going back to their game, the three of them join us in the kitchen. Now it’s a party. Yay. But Campbell starts sharing mission stories, and we all join in.

  Another area where I have to tread with caution. We’re alternating between ragging on Arjay and encouraging him, but I have to be careful how much of any story I share because no one in this room knows I really served my mission in Russia. So Aleksei becomes Alex and Katya becomes Katy, and I have to leave out tales of the extreme cold and heat, the history, the culture. The others, even Danny, tell stories with enough enthusiasm that my silence isn’t that noticeable.

  We’re getting into the stupid pranks Joel and Campbell pulled — they’re mission buddies, so talking about this stuff makes them act like nineteen-year-olds — when my phone chimes. My stomach slowly sinks. Either my mom or work, and either way, it’s bad.

  Yep. Elliott: You busy? Another red letter day in Mr. Featherstone’s calendar. Could use you in case we need a distraction. I glance back at Danny — and Arjay. This is my last chance to see the guy for two years. “Hey, guys, I gotta go. Apparently I forgot to close out my files at work.”

  “Do you need someone to walk you out?” Campbell offers.

  “I’m good, thanks.” Though I don’t know if I could have turned Danny down that easily. Arjay follows me to the door, but I can’t exactly hug the guy with an audience. “Be good, kid. Live by the rules, no matter what these idiots tell you.”

  “I’ll try.” He grins, and I punch him in the shoulder to say goodbye. Like he’s Timo, or how I wish things were with Timo.

  I suppress the urge to cast one last look at Danny. Yeah, most of my relationships are nothing like what I wish.

  Pursuing a shadowy figure down a dark street is a spy movie cliché, but once in a while, we do it in real life. Fortunately for me and Elliott, we can finally bring the rest of our team in to help — Eric running comms, Justin tailing on foot and Rashad with vehicle support. As long as we keep one another apprised of Vasily’s movements and change disguises, we can stay on his tail for hours if necessary.

  Which is good, because we’ve already been at this for ninety minutes, and I’m getting really cold. Especially since we stopped moving when he entered the Pine Grove “tree plantation” (huh?)/forest. Eric, feeding us information from a
safe distance, cheerily told us the marked paths alone are over eighteen kilometers (that’s eleven miles) when Vasily disappeared into the woods. We’d be in trouble if Elliott hadn’t packed infrared/night vision binoculars.

  And that leaves me pacing alone in the parking lot of a beige brick church — St. Bernard, no joke. A safe distance from Pine Grove, I’m still close enough to swoop in if they need me to run interference. Vasily and I have rehearsed all of twice, but that’s enough of a connection to use me as a diversion.

  “How’s it coming?” I ask into my minimicrophone, wired into my jacket’s top button.

  “Hasn’t done anything interesting,” Eric tells me. Which means Elliott’s too close or too preoccupied to answer. “Coming up on Athans Park.”

  Half a mile away. “Want me to move in?” If I get to him and get him talking, that should give Elliott time to check any drops he might’ve made in there.

  Eric doesn’t respond right away, so I start across the street past the Russell Boyd Park sign. A paved path from the parking lot skirts the trees, running in roughly the right direction.

  “He hasn’t made a drop yet,” Eric finally says. “Take cover.”

  Trees will have to do. I leave the path and duck into the shadows. I don’t know exactly where he is, so I watch the part of the street I can see. Empty. Quiet.

  “Breaking off,” Elliott reports. He followed Vasily through Pine Grove and then this adjacent park. Only so many marked paths in there, so it might’ve seemed like a coincidence for Elliott to be behind him the whole way, but until Elliott changes disguises, he’ll look too suspicious tailing him longer. “He’s leaving Athans Park on foot, taking a left on Eureka.”

  “OTIS is on Athans Avenue,” Eric responds. “Headed to intercept.”

  Hope he doesn’t make a drop while we’re blind. It’s just a minute or two, but that’s long enough. Rashad catches up and follows Vasily down Athans a minute

  “Left on Sixth,” Rashad says.

  “Coming your way, FOXHUNT,” Eric reminds me. Oh boy. The trees along here are thick enough I can barely make out the street — but not nearly thick enough to hide me safely. My shoulders start to tense, but I remind myself to stay loose.

  “I’m behind him,” Rashad says. “About to pass him.”

  “I got it,” I barely breathe.

  But I don’t got it. I weave between the trees — can’t risk a flashlight. Vasily would see.

  “Passing,” Rashad says. “I got him in the rearview.”

  CIA officers spend so much time practicing the skill of watching behind them while driving — and Ottawa streets are so well-lit — that I’m not too worried.

  Except about being spotted myself. My heart echoes in my ears as the seconds slide by.

  Vasily appears at the edge of my view, walking along the shoulder, thirty feet away. I’m in the shadows, but he could still see me if he looked. I sneak behind the biggest tree I can find. As he nears the corner of the park, the trees between us grow thicker, and I lose sight of him.

  “He’s turning again,” Rashad announces. “What street is that?”

  “Saint Bernard,” I murmur. “On him.”

  I slip through the trees again until I have a clear view of Vasily. The trees afford way less cover from this direction, and my pulse throbs in my throat. He’ll see me. All he has to do is turn his head.

  “Heads up.” Elliott’s hushed voice comes over comms. “We’ve got a chalk signal.” He describes the line on a lamppost back by Athans Park. Now we have to figure out if Vasily made a drop in the seconds we were blind or if we missed some-thing — or if he isn’t done yet.

  I stay well behind him, and the trees grow even more sparse. He marches past the brick school across the street. Before he reaches the pedestrian crossing at the parking lot entrance, he veers off the sidewalk. His hand slides from his pocket, and a small black object tumbles out. He barely pauses long enough to kick it into the drainage ditch then continues to the crosswalk.

  “And a drop!” I whisper. I describe the site, and Justin and Elliott signal they’re on the way.

  Time for my part, too. Vasily continues down the block. I hope he turns on the street just after the church so Elliott and Justin will have that much more privacy to dig in the ditch. But Vasily continues straight down St. Bernard Street.

  Okay. My job: make sure he’s distracted. I hurry across the street and past the church, hunching my shoulders like I’m trying to get out of the cold. Yes, it’s only September, but an early cold snap makes a leather jacket not enough warmth, and I’m really feeling it. I pass Vasily, barely looking at him — and then I slow down. “Vasily?”

  “Joanne?”

  I make my face light up. “What are you doing here?”

  Probably shouldn’t ask him that, but I want to see how he’ll answer. “In the neighborhood, visiting a friend. You?”

  “Helping at the church.” As soon as I say it, I realize I don’t know what “helping” constitutes in the Catholic church — but this is usually a safe bet. “Putting away tables and chairs, you know.”

  “Oh, do you live around here?”

  Yep, that’s a lie we should’ve backstopped. How can I back it up now? “Yeah, on the next street over.” Wait — if someone he knows lives nearby, they’ll change his drop site. “Well, until we move next week.”

  “I’ll make sure you get there okay.”

  “Aw, thanks.”

  On one hand, this is great — I can get him off this street and give Elliott and Justin more time. On the other hand, this is bad — what will I do when I get to my “house”?

  I need to use this opportunity to my advantage, to look like a potential agent for him. “This week’s just been crazy. Big stuff on the Hill. But I suppose you’ve heard about all that.”

  He shrugs. “I watch the news when I can.”

  I puff out half a laugh. “The news? They’re so clueless, you might as well listen to This is That.” Um, if he doesn’t know the satirical radio news show, I’ve just confused him.

  But he nods. “I can imagine. You must know a lot more about the inner workings than you ever anticipated.”

  Almost an attempt at eliciting information from me. But before he presses further, Vasily changes the subject. “Have you been practicing?” he asks.

  “Not as much as I’d like.” Or as much as we both know I need to.

  We near the street I said was my home a minute ago, and I see the yellow sign: No Exit.

  Great. As if I wasn’t doomed enough.

  “Are you enjoying dancing?” Vasily asks.

  “Yes, of course.” Then I see my opportunity. I enunciate very clearly, the message intended for more than Vasily: “But obviously I need a lot of help.”

  “I can tell you’re trying hard.”

  “Thank you.” We reach the corner, and I point down the street. “This is me, Treetop Court.” I give the name for Eric’s benefit. Hope Vasily will buy me being able to afford rent in one of these two-story brick houses. “See you soon.”

  “Oh, I can’t let you go now.”

  I swallow hard.

  “A pretty young woman walking alone at night? I have to see you to your door.”

  Why is it the spies threatening your homeland always have to play the gentleman? I scramble for a strategy, an excuse, an escape. We near the end of the cul-de-sac, and I pick a house with lights on. “Oh.” I pat my pockets. “Guess I forgot my keys. Good thing my roommate’s here. Thanks for walking me.”

  Again, I’ve dismissed him, but he isn’t going anywhere. Testing my story? Running into me is a pretty big coincidence.

  Gotta play this cover to the hilt. Vasily waits on the driveway, and I march up to the front door and knock. While I wait, I make my expression scared and innocent and work up to shallow, panty breathing. Someone answers quickly — a middle-aged woman with gentle eyes. “Can I help you?”

  Good thing her voice is soft, too. I grab her forearm. “Don’t lo
ok behind me,” I say in a stage whisper, “but there’s a man following me. Help!”

  Her gentle eyes widen and, against my orders, she glances behind me where Vasily waits. Fortunately, she also pulls me into the house and closes the door. “What happened?”

  “My car broke down by the school, and I was walking down to the main road to take a bus, but this guy started following me. He gave me the creeps.”

  “Oh, you poor thing! Should we make a police report?”

  “I couldn’t describe him. He just . . . freaked me out.”

  “Can I give you a ride anywhere?”

  I shake my head. “No, thanks — have to make sure he goes away. Could I call a friend to pick me up?”

  “Of course.”

  I give Rashad a ring. He takes his time, since we don’t want it to seem too obvious. I spend ten minutes parked in Mary Devereaux’s quaint living room, avoiding her benign interrogation. She’s only curious, and I deflect the questions back to her. (She’s divorced, mother of two teenagers who are still out for the evening, and she likes to paint. She decorated the living room herself. And her favorite flavor of coffee creamer is hazelnut.)

  The poor Samaritan’s reluctant to release me until Elliott comes to the door. Probably a good call — not sure how Mary would react to a big Black man here to save me.

  Rashad’s driving, and Elliott and I pile into the backseat. “Nicely done, FOX.”

  “Thanks, HAM.”

  He beams, and I roll my eyes. The nickname’s perfect.

  Once we’re out of the neighborhood, Rashad drops me and Elliott off to split up and execute our surveillance detection runs. No surprise that Rashad, behind the wheel instead of hoofing it half his SDR, beats us back to the office, already leaving as Elliott and I arrive.

  “I don’t think I told you the other day,” Elliott starts. “We tracked down that red flyer the American gave FEATHERSTONE. School thing for his kids. Looks legit, sent it in for analysis.”

  “Oh.” I’d kinda hoped something more important would come from our “adventure,” but it seldom does. Spycraft is a numbers game, a minimum level of time investment necessary to get the smallest intel return. Which I bet Vasily knows all about.