Spy Another Day Box Set: Three full-length novels: I, Spy; Spy for a Spy; and Tomorrow We Spy (Spy Another Day clean romantic suspense trilogy)

by Jordan McCollum

  This. Must. Wait. But I look to Danny, and whatever’s haunting his eyes tells me Danny needs this now. I examine the Russian. The abbreviations and jargon don’t make any sense. “Something about no cooling? Coolant?”

  Danny sucks in a breath. He flips through more of the pages, ending with a low groan.

  My stomach huddles in a distant corner. “What?”

  “These are mine.”

  “Yours yours?” I’m not making sense, but I can’t — I don’t — “Are you sure?”

  He points to the box at the bottom of the page. Design lead: D. Fluker.

  “What are they doing here? Did you give them to him?”

  Danny turns to the table. He grabs the USB drive: his USB drive. “When I got back to my office, he was waiting there. But this was locked in my desk—”

  He stops short to give me a look, as if the fact I was picking a lock ten minutes ago makes me the guilty party here. “If it’s so important, why’d you put it on a USB drive?”

  “I had to. They made us back everything up after the security breach Saturday. It was encrypted.”

  Fyodor’s crack-and-hack program. I crane my neck to see the papers again. “What’s the damage?”

  “Only a joint project with DRDC. Just a hyperspectral imaging system for an unmanned airborne vehicle.” He’s downplaying it, but that’s sarcasm. Whatever that means, it’s bad.

  “A drone?”

  “That’s the idea.” He points to the first sheet. “This is a camera that takes pictures in multiple bands of the spectrum at the same time. You know, like, reds, blues, UV, this one even has infrared. And then it layers them all together.”

  I have no idea what that means. Weaponry more sophisticated than guns and C-4 is obviously not my specialty. I think he sees it in my face. “It can do underground imaging, see where things have been, distinguish between clouds of gasses — I mean, it practically gives you X-ray vision and time travel. And this one? It’s the best hyperspectral imaging hardware and software out there right now: no external light source necessary, no cooling system, and we’re supposed to be taking it to the next-next level.”

  He flips to a drone schematic. “This is the UAV we’re customizing for it. We’ve doubled the data storage capacity, upped the speed, altitude, self-guiding compensation features. I thought we were getting really close. But if they get this into production then we’re—” He scoffs at himself. “Like the race to market’s the biggest problem.”

  “Then what’s the biggest problem?”

  “Do you know DRDC?”

  Alphabet Soup Agencies was always my worst subject, even the American ones. I hedge my bets and turn over a dunno hand.

  “Defense Research and Development Canada. This is military.”

  The finality in his tone is enough to chill me. “Your security clearance,” I breathe.

  Danny turns to me. “Wait, who did you say you work for?”

  “Focus. Military surveillance?”

  “We were working on it for defense, but they used hyperspectral imaging to make sure bin Laden was in his compound. This is the cutting edge of the technology. There are hundreds of ways the Russians could use it for offense. ”

  None of them pretty. And not just Russia. Shcherbakov would sell this weapon to the highest bidder: Libya, Afghanistan, Iran.

  My stomach staggers back into my belly to turn sour. Was this all part of the GRU’s plan, from getting Fyodor in at NRC Aerospace to now? (Well, I’m sure the plan didn’t include taking three prisoners.)

  This is it. This is what’s got Fyodor so excited, so secretive.

  And even if we take this, who knows how many more soft copies the guy could have around, on more USB drives, more computers? We definitely can’t swim for safety now.

  A sharp rap sounds against the sliding door and we both look up, ready to untie the door for our third.

  But it’s not Elliott. It’s Fyodor. Furious. Fuming.

  He’s seen everything.

  I freeze, the ice reaching right down to my heart. If Fyodor’s at the door, then Elliott —

  Oh no. No.

  Danny leaps into action before I can. Folding his schematics, he strides to the stove and the hot kettle. He slaps the blueprints onto the glass burner, slams the kettle down and cranks the knob to high. A lighter would be way more effective, but obviously our choices are limited.

  How long do we have to hold Fyodor off before those burst into flames?

  He pounds on the door for a second time. With the butt of a gun.

  My blood temperature drops into the Ottawa-in-October range. Now he’s got a gun. Yeah, if he wants in, all the ropes in the world aren’t going to stop him.

  My pulse kick starts again. “We have to stall him until those are burning.” Duh.

  Danny nods and starts back for the table. I jump up and grab him by the elbow, pulling him down to crouch behind the counter outcropping. “The guy has a gun.”

  As if on cue, the guy uses that gun. Though it doesn’t seem like he’s aiming at us, my heart skips a beat with each shot.

  When the firing stops, I dare to peek around the cabinets. Fyodor’s no longer in sight. Now one of the henchman, one I haven’t seen before, is wrapping his hand in a handkerchief. The bullet holes in the door are clustered by the handle. Decent grouping, but considering he had to be like four feet away max, it’s probably not enough to tell if he’s a trained operative.

  The lackey punches the weak spot in the safety glass. They’re coming.

  I brace myself against the tension tugging my back muscles taut. Yes, Danny’s in danger, but this isn’t the time to panic. This is my chance.

  I hand my knife to Danny. He grabs the handle in his fist. I move his thumb to rest on top of his index finger, locking in his grip, then haul myself onto the kitchen counter shielding us. Right behind the dining table where the rest of our supplies are. I hop on the bench to get at the knife stock again. I find my second choice and follow the curved bench around to the door just before the henchman breaks through the glass by the handle, spraying the cabin with a shower of shards.

  And I’m barefoot. Crap.

  I grab the nearest thing — the bed sheet — off the table, wad it up and toss it on the broken glass.

  The lackey is struggling with Danny’s knot by the time I reach him and drive my knife into his forearm. He screams in pain, but continues working at the rope. Unless I slice some tendons, he’s going to keep coming. I draw back to strike again, but he catches a break and the knot comes loose.

  He still has to undo the rope. I slash at his fingers and grab a fistful of the rope to hold it in place. But my next hack cuts the rope and it falls away. I seize the guy’s sleeve to pin him there. He slips out of his suit jacket and the hole in the glass.

  This does not bode well.

  I expect Fyodor to take the lead for the entry, but it’s not him at the door when it slides open. No, why would he get big and brave now?

  Grabbing the guy by the injured arm, I yank him into the room. He tries to take the invisible stairs, and falls from the doorway. I stomp on the side of his knee and there’s a nauseating pop under my foot. A mix of sickness and satisfaction surges in my stomach.

  Now, do I stay and defend Danny or go after the bigger fish? I glance back. The papers on the stove are just starting to send up a smoke plume, and Danny actually looks ready, standing firm, clutching the knife in a death grasp.

  “Ease up on the grip and stay loose!” I hope he hears the words I can’t say: Don’t get killed; I love you.

  I grab the door handle with one hand and vault through the door, leading with my knife.

  Fyodor isn’t waiting there. A kick to my thigh knocks me sideways, but I jump with the momentum and manage to keep my feet. I turn back in time to see a figure dash through the door, abandoning me on the rear deck with only the last henchman.

  Danny and Fyodor are in there together, and Fyodor’s got a gun. But I can’t turn my back on
this lackey to go in after them. I rush at the guy and he bares the teeth of a lifelong smoker, standing his ground.

  Until I’m one step away. Then Smokey Robinson scrambles around to cut off my route back to the cabin. Now he’s on the offensive, closing in. I only have one escape, backward up the molded stairs.

  I know that’s bad. I know zero about the layout of the flybridge and the helm. I know Kozyrev and the other gun have to be up there.

  I know it’s most likely a trap.

  Smokey swings at my head with a massive fist. I barely duck in time. My pulse roars in my ears like a jet engine and my mind tries to race through the options. Fyodor’s going after Danny and I need to be there, but this guy isn’t going to step aside because I ask nicely.

  And unless Elliott jumped overboard (we aren’t paid to run away), he’s upstairs and might need my help, especially with Smokey trying to come to Kozyrev’s rescue.

  The movies make group fights look effortless. All the bad guys take turns throwing a punch or a kick at the hero’s blocks. In real life, it’s never that clean or that easy. It’s dirty. It’s chaotic. It’s grappling with whatever comes closest or daring to wait for a better opportunity.

  And as a hundred stars on the memorial wall in Langley can attest, the hero doesn’t always win.

  I’ll take care of this guy and get back to Danny. I turn and dash up the stairs.

  On the third step, I jump to the top as a precaution. The swish of air behind me says I did right. The henchman charges up after me. I try to misdirect him and he follows my feint. I dash behind him and start back down the stairs.

  The tactic doesn’t work. On the second step, his arm slams across my back, pinning my chest against the edge of the sky lounge. The Sharpies on my dress dig between my ribs through the fabric. I squirm to turn around and I get a lungful of his stale cigarette breath.

  I have a split second to take in the upper level of the boat. Further down, I can see Elliott’s in the cockpit. He’s backing up. Retreat. Defensive. Bad.

  But I’m not in a position to help yet. I reevaluate my attacker. The frame of the boat is protecting his knees, and I can’t get a kick there. So I switch the knife to a stabbing grip in my left to jab him in the ribs, the best I can do from this angle.

  Smokey shouts and grabs a handful of my dress. He pulls, threads snapping, and flings me up the steps. I manage to catch myself, stumbling over the cool fiberglass floor until I can stand. If I run back down, he’ll chase or grab me again, and now I’ve made him mad.

  I have to end this. Though the guy probably has a hundred pounds on me, and obviously has a least a little skill in a fight, I tap into the adrenaline streaming through my veins and go for intimidation.

  I let out a single syllable of a cocky laugh and toss the knife to my better hand. Then I lower my chin to stare him down, allowing a slow smile to creep in. A smile of not only am I going to kick your butt, but I’m going to enjoy it.

  And, okay, a part of me will. As long as I don’t lose.

  I feign a lunge and Smokey stumbles back another step, buying me time to get the lay of the land. In front of me, on top of the cabin we were just in, there’s a little living room area, benches and the like. To my left, the pool and the sky lounge are half a level above us. To my right, I can see the captain’s chair and the wheel in the flybridge.

  And Elliott. And Kozyrev. And the other gun.

  Smokey comes at me again. I assume a defensive stance, weapon forward. I’m not about to go so far with my overconfidence as to taunt the guy again. I’m almost as likely as he is to get cut in a knife fight.

  He swipes at my head again and I duck, raising the knife to block.

  I pop up and lunge, but Smokey sidesteps. I sweep my arm back to try to catch him again, but he bends his body so my arm swings through the air.

  Smokey grabs the cushion off the bench to use as a shield. It’s so long he has to hold it with both hands to keep it from flopping everywhere.

  I love it when they defeat themselves. I drive at him, faking toward his shield, then trying jabs above and below.

  And he steps around the next thrust and uses the cushion to whap me on the head. Then he backhands me in the face.

  The insult and flash of pain just fuel the fire, the heat gathering behind my ribs. Like I need the extra motivation to thrash him. I advance until Smokey backs out of the little sitting area and onto the walkway by the opposite railing. Here are the stairs up to the sky lounge, and another way around to the bow. I can hear Elliott’s voice now. I spare him a glance. He’s got the radio handset, and he’s working the dial. If he can find the CSIS frequency, we can get help.

  Though it can’t come soon enough to help us out of these fights.

  A couple feet from Elliott, Kozyrev looks around with empty hands. Where’s his gun? But before I can start to help Elliott, Smokey forces me back into the sitting room. I act like I’m going to stab at him, and when he reroutes to avoid me, I throw myself at his ankles. He goes down. I recover first to shove my knife blade into the back of his knee.

  He screams so loudly, both Elliott and Kozyrev stop to look. I yank the blade out. Smokey screams again, his arms flailing at me. I shift around to pin him with a knee in his back, pull one wrist up to keep him down, and turn to Elliott again.

  He’s given up on the radio. Now he’s got something that looks like a fluorescent yellow walkie-talkie. An emergency radio? The gun is nowhere in sight. Kozyrev runs at him, grabbing for the walkie-talkie, but Elliott slaps him across the face.

  Kozyrev holds his eyes, screaming. Elliott pulls out a little blue bottle. The VapoRub. He scoops out more.

  Kozyrev charges blind, swinging for Elliott. He hops on the copilot’s chair to avoid him. Elliott’s foot slips, though, his shoe flying. His shoelaces — that’s my fault. An invisible fist seizes my heart and I find myself twisting Smokey’s arm harder.

  Elliott manages to jump onto the boat’s console, but Kozyrev’s still coming. Elliott backs up and his socked foot slips into a sink. Kozyrev vaults up on the dash, too. Elliott stands his ground though he’s obviously trying to regain his balance. The fist squeezes. And so do I.

  Kozyrev isn’t giving in, either. He charges Elliott, grabbing him by the shoulders. Their momentum flings them both backward. Time stops, and all I see is their legs disappearing over the boat’s windshield.

  “No!” (Stupid, but it’s what you really do.) I jump to my feet. Before I make it two steps, Smokey’s hand closes on my ankle. I fall, nearly clipping my forehead on the boat’s railing. I throw out my hands and catch myself on the lower bar. My knife flies over the side.

  I kick Smokey’s hand away and pull myself to stand. He’s struggled to his feet, too, and now limp-runs at me. I wait until he’s almost on me before I drop to one knee on the deck. I think he expects it, but I change up the technique this time. I’m ending this fight.

  Smokey starts to jump over me, but that only helps. I wrap my arms around his knees and stand, hoisting his weight up with my legs. He arcs in a flailing swan dive into the water.

  No time for relief. I turn for the bow again, but again I don’t take a single step before another sound registers over the river noise: a motor. A small one, maybe outboard?

  Could this be our rescuers? Coming in a boat like that — the Agency couldn’t scramble our paramilitaries that fast, could they? Hope sends up a flare in my chest.

  I dash up the three stairs to my left, to the sky lounge, the highest point of the boat. But there’s no one approaching. In the light from the rear deck, I can barely make out a little boat, an inflatable dinghy with an outboard motor, sailing away. With two figures aboard.

  Fyodor and Danny.

  My brain, my lungs, my heart — everything stops.

  I almost wish I could tell you my thought process goes through the complicated calculus of weighing out Elliott’s training and strength, Kozyrev’s experience, the position of weapons, and my country or Danny.

&
nbsp; But that would be a lie.

  My thought process goes exactly like this:

  Danny.

  I slap a hand on the sky lounge railing and vault into the blackness.

  I fly off a boat for the second time in five days. Once I’ve cleared the deck, of course, that’s when it fully hits me: even with the current, I have almost no chance of catching up with a motorboat. I am not Michael Phelps.

  The training I thought I’d never use kicks in. I pull my arms in tight to my sides, pinning my skirt to my legs. Press my ankles together. Point my toes. The impact delivers a swift, hard shock, but I don’t feel any specific injuries.

  I swim as far as I can underwater, then fight to the surface for a breath. I break through to the air, and the first sound that registers is the last thing I want to hear echoing across the water: an explosion.

  I swipe my bangs out of my eyes. I’m in a section of the river that doesn’t have buildings on either side, but there’s a pink light reflecting off the water. From behind me. I stroke forward and glance back — fireworks. Past the graceful swoop of the Macdonald-Cartier Bridge behind us. The Canal Festival. Not gunfire.

  But I don’t have time for relief, only a split second for gratitude that I can make out the low silhouette ahead. With the darkened parks flanking the wide river here, it feels like I’m leaving the last bastion of civilization for the wilderness.

  It’s not true: there’s lots more left of the National Capital Region on both sides, but it still feels isolated. Especially knowing help isn’t coming any time soon. If ever.

  I focus on pushing the water behind me with every kick and stroke. Scoop and push, scoop and push. If I get close enough, maybe I can distract Fyodor, and Danny can make a move.

  Scoop and push. Between the flashes of red and purple and green, I can’t tell if I’m getting any closer. My trained internal stopwatch ticks through the seconds, then minutes of my slow progress.

  My arms are starting to burn, but I try to power through. Danny. I have to get to Danny. I might be the difference between life and death for him. Scoop and push.