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

  I have work to do.

  I break my own personal paranoia rules and go straight from downtown to our office to pick up necessary supplies. Then I use my quickest surveillance detection route to the rendezvous. That was all the planning I was privy to last night. Now I’ll have to tail a trained operative across town without getting caught, and hope they’re not meeting in the moving car. Aiming a parabolic mic and steering is tough.

  A car turns down the quiet street and I don’t look or duck. I hold still, hoping this is Brand, hoping he doesn’t notice me here, watching, waiting. The gray sedan pulls to the curb, and in the still of a Saturday afternoon, I can hear the motor idling at this distance.

  Brand’s chilling in the driver’s seat. Now I can’t stop myself from sliding down an inch, like that’d hide me. I keep scanning the street. What would it mean if Samir didn’t show? What would change?

  Samir rounds a corner, emerging onto our street between me and Brand. For half a second, I think he’ll come to me instead, like he’s choosing me as his case officer. But he never sees me, heads straight for Brand, gets in.

  I don’t breathe till Brand passes. He doesn’t glance my direction. Caution to the wind, or Brand’s smarmy cockiness? Either way, it’s working in my favor. When they’re down the block, I dare to start my car.

  I find them two cars up on the first main street we reach. Automatically, I reach for my phone and its radio app to signal that I’ve got the “RABBIT” in my sights. But nobody’s there to hear. Wish I had backup. There’s always Elliott, but I’m supposed to protect his official cover, so I’m on my own unless it’s a true emergency.

  We have rules to protect us, though sometimes it seems they’re just protecting the CIA.

  Brand makes a quick right without signaling. Way to not draw attention to yourself there, dude. If I follow, there won’t be any cars between us. And that’s bad.

  Believe it or not, we practice memorizing the make, model and license plate of every car behind us. (Honda Accord, ♥M1LAB. Want to know the last three?)

  I roll past the corner, watching Brand, then hit the gas. Next street: one way, wrong direction. My heart rate kicks up a notch with each second ticking by — three — four — five.

  Finally, a cross street. I whip down the road. My shot of finding him drops with each passing meter. I hit the red light wrong and have to wait. A corset tightens around my rib cage again, just as effective as the one in the dress store.

  Until Brand passes in front of me. I laugh to myself and flip on my signal. Somebody’s luck is changing today, and it isn’t his.

  He doesn’t see me three cars back, I guess, because he only takes two more rights before he flips a U-turn. (There’s an off chance he let a disguised Samir out in the two-second blind spot created by a right turn, and is using one of our popup dummies to make it look like they’re still together, but I bet he didn’t.)

  Brand drives to a run-down warehouse complex. I let him take a longer lead, since I doubt there’s another escape. After a few minutes I find his empty car half-hidden behind one of the warehouses. I keep going and park out of sight from the building.

  This is a little more public than I’d like, though Brand always did have weird habits about these things. (And if someone who does SDRs to and from church considers your habits “weird,” that’s saying a lot.) Then again, between the echoes and the corrugated metal exterior, maybe he’s onto something, since this isn’t helping the top-secret version of a parabolic mic.

  I have to get closer. Probably close enough to see and be seen — more the goal of a socialite than a CIA operative.

  On a Saturday afternoon, there’s not much going on around here, which means I’ll be able to hear them better, but I won’t have the advantage of background noise to cover any sound I make. Double caution around the warehouse’s echoing cavern.

  I head across the street, walking with purpose, like I totally belong here, and I know exactly what I’ll do when I get there . My mind, however, can’t escape reality: not only do I not belong here, but I have no plan, no preparation, and no backup.

  How could anything go wrong?

  I reach the front — make that the back, complete with loading docks. Did they go in here? How does Brand have this place after a week in town, when I’m the one giving him the “tour”?

  I guess the Agency could’ve kept this place a secret from us lowly operations officers, but it might’ve come in handy a couple times over the last three years. (Once again, thanks a lot, Chief of Station Dixon, may you rest in peace.)

  Three large garage doors stretch across the back of the building, and a cement ramp leads up to a regular door. Even if these big rolling doors weren’t operated with electric openers, Brand would get me on the sheer noise. Plus he’s got to be watching these from inside, right? There could be a security camera on me now. And if so, the best thing is to keep walking, like I’m going somewhere else in this massive complex of metal buildings that are so quiet it’s eerie.

  Once I’m out of a reasonable range, I do a 180 and pull out my mini binocs. A camera is mounted under the roof corner, pointing across the loading docks and out to the street.

  Good thing I parked down the block.

  The other parts of the roof I can see from here are empty, so I round the building to a long side with a faded RoTech sign. I don’t know if that’s a real company. For all I know, we’re unofficially “borrowing” the place, but I doubt it. Not Brand’s style. Of course, the whole warehouse thing has less swagger than his style, so who knows?

  I take my time circling around to the glass doors at the warehouse entrance. In the dark interior beyond, I can make out a nondescript reception area. Gotta have alarms here, whether the place is real or covert.

  No doors on the fourth side. Time isn’t on my side anymore. I’m left with either breaking and entering the front, where they (probably?) won’t see me until I set off the alarm, or from the back, where they will see me, either on camera or once I’m in.

  Dress shopping might look easier, but I’d rather tackle this challenge than frills and froof any day. The parabolic mic picks up nothing from the office windows and glass doors, so they’ve got to be deeper in the building, in the warehouse itself.

  I double check my wardrobe: dark jeans, black sweater. It helps that I already dress to blend in with the shadows. A quick stop at my car finishes my disguise with large sunglasses and that long blond wig. Should be good enough to fool any passersby. Now to trick the camera.

  This problem calls for one of the odder spy supplies I keep in my car: bubble gum. Within a minute, I’m ready. Grateful my brothers taught me to shinny up a drainpipe quietly (something that may or may not have come in handy while rebelling against our stepmom), I haul myself within range of the camera and apply the gum to the lens. I’m invisible.

  On to the doors. No scrap metal around to act as a pry bar. If I can get my fingers under the rubber seal, I should have a line of sight good enough for my distance mic, the tool for this job. The strain’s not good for the sensitive equipment, but a spy has to have priorities.

  I crouch down by the microphone and pop in the portable earbud. Samir’s voice is muffled but distinguishable. “Bigger than the airplane attack,” he says. “Not just kill Americans. Embarrass the whole country. He wants to be the man in charge, who everyone can look to.”

  Where’s Wasti now? Who’s bankrolling this op? If I could join the conversation via telepathy, I would. Instead I wait, the silence screaming in my ears. Then a metallic clang.

  I need eyes. I work my fingers under the rubber seal again, making room next to the mic. In the tiny square centimeter of visibility, I see the open cement floor, metal racks twenty feet from me. In the empty area, Samir and Brand are packing up metal folding chairs.

  Yeah, good thing I didn’t go for the direct entry route.

  I’d better get out of here quick if I plan on keeping this eavesdropping exercise a secret. Samir and Brand are q
uiet a minute, and I dare to double check their position before I run away.

  In that tiny gap, I see Brand holding a stack of bills, his back to Samir. That’s the kind of payment we’d typically make for this information. (Sorry, your taxpayer dollars at work.)

  Brand thumbs through the bills. He peels off one and turns around, sliding the rest of the stack into his pocket.

  The skin on the back of my neck grows cold. We have broad discretion with funds for agents, but unless Brand got that money in thousand dollar bills, that whole pile should go to Samir. My grip slips, now clammy, and the little window of visibility disappears. Samir’s voice continues over my mic: “This is everything?”

  “Yep,” Brand says. Do they mean the money? The money Brand pocketed?

  Stole?

  Impossible. Why would he? He’s got to be a GS- . . . I don’t know what level he’d be on the government pay scale, but he shouldn’t be hurting for cash. There must be a reason, a legit reason he’d take it. I need to find out.

  I extract the mic, cringing at the amplified static hiss in my earbud from the rubber seal. I have to get out of here before they come out.

  Did I really see what I think I saw?

  A chill crawls down my back like a hundred arctic insects. Could this possibly be from my personal feelings? What, hating Brand for ruining my social life is making me see things?

  I have to find out if what I just saw is real. I have to follow Brand for their next meeting.

  I have to stop this.

  If there’s anything to stop.

  Though how could there not be? I replay the two seconds of mental footage: Brand flipping through the money. Putting it in his pocket.

  I have to see what he does next.

  Brand isn’t nearly as careful as I am. (But, then, who is?) Even taking time to retrieve my gum, it’s hardly a challenge to discreetly follow him back to the rendezvous point, where he leaves Samir.

  I’ll deal with Samir later. I have to stay on Brand. He doesn’t seem to catch me behind him all the way back to the office, where he only has to switch cars.

  The office is somewhere he might expect to see me. I circle around and park illegally next to the building, out of sight of Brand in the regular lot. (If this works, it’s worth the ticket.) Can I look like I’m just coming out of work?

  I grab an all-purpose kit disguised as a purse from my trunk and slip through the side door — Justin shorted the emergency alarm two weeks ago and apparently hasn’t reported it, the idiot. Brand’s been out of my sight for maybe ninety seconds, but that’s long enough to escape.

  I run to the doors and slow to a walk as I exit, catching my breath fast so I won’t look winded when I run into him. Brand’s strolling through the lot, away from the building. I jog to catch up.

  “Working through the weekend?” I call, still twenty feet behind him.

  He turns around slowly, mistrustful, even after he recognizes me. “Same as you, eh?”

  “Yep.” I hope he doesn’t mean tailing him. He could’ve seen me, but — duh, I’m leaving our building. Though if I say I was making a report and nothing shows up in my files? “Forgot my key card.”

  Blame the security swipe. Works every time, right?

  Maybe not. Brand contemplates me an extra long time. “Better not’ve lost it.”

  “Of course not. I’m sure it’s at home.” Only natural for me to ask about the agent I just handed over to him. And I do. “Seen our friend lately?”

  Brand cocks his favorite eyebrow. “Nope.”

  Yeah, okay, he wouldn’t tell me either way.

  He checks his watch. “Well, I’d better head out. Man, I hate errands.”

  That’s not an invitation, of course, but I don’t care. As soon as his teal Nissan’s doors unlock, I open the passenger side and hop in.

  I shoot him a totally innocuous, happy expression, like aren’t you glad to have company on those stinking errands? Personally, I love errands. When every drive requires three or four stops, it’s nice to feel like you’re accomplishing something in all that time.

  Brand settles in the driver’s seat and stares at me. Not a good stare. (Is there a good stare?) He could totally tell me to get out if he’s willing to seem like a jerk.

  Sounds like a safe bet. I push that thought away, buckle my seatbelt and cross my legs, blissfully oblivious by all appearances.

  Brand starts the car, and I fight down the fear. I do know how to escape a moving vehicle. Before that becomes necessary, I need to take advantage of this situation. What do I have in my kit? Got to be something useful. Flashlight. Mirror. Camera. Snack. Water bottle. UV trace set.

  Bingo. Where do you run an errand with a couple hundred (embezzled?) bucks burning a hole in your pocket? The bank. Or, on a Saturday, the ATM. The trace set’s perfect.

  Instead of a pad, the tracing ink’s on wipes you can get out without opening the rest of the kit. I yank a wipe free and swipe it over the water bottle and cap. Drawback to the wipe method: no way to avoid getting the ink on me. I’ll take one for the team. I uncap the water bottle and take a long draw, waiting until Brand glances my direction before I lower it.

  Once his gaze moves to me, I roll my eyes. “Fine.” I hold out the bottle.

  Obviously he didn’t ask, and again I’m pushing the boundaries of our nonexistent friendship — but as long as it looks like I’m shooting for camaraderie, I’m good. I hope.

  Wary, Brand doesn’t take the bottle until the next light. “Were you reporting on Morozov?”

  “Should be able to get to them next week. Different report.”

  Is it safe to tell him about my other cases? Or could I be overreacting?

  Brand caps the water bottle. I’ll pretend I didn’t notice he never took a sip. He touched the bottle and the cap. Good enough to coat both of his hands with that invisible UV ink.

  I keep the discussion of my other case carefully noncommittal, silently praying we’re close to his destination. Every ATM jumps out at me. How long until the UV ink rubs off?

  At last, he pulls around the corner from an ATM and parks.

  “Is that supposed to be an SDR?” I ask.

  Brand snorts. “Hardly worth it in Canada. Besides, I’m not hitting an active site now. Are you?” He leaves me in the idling car without another word.

  I only have a minute, but I have to wait until he’s out of sight. The second he’s around the corner, I get out the tiny black light and check the steering wheel, trying to block the setting sun with my fingers. Purple streaks at ten and two. At least I know he got it on his hands. Now to make sure I don’t give myself away.

  The kit comes with a cleaning wipe, too, and in seconds I’ve got myself, the bottle, the wheel and the light wiped down and all the paraphernalia put away. Just in time — Brand plops into the seat, crumpling the deposit slip.

  I want that.

  “So what are you really here for? A free meal?” Brand asks. “Because I’m not buying.”

  “Kinda have a standing date.” I’ll let that sound like I mean work, though it’s a total lie.

  He drops the slip in the cup holder and whips around in a U-turn. “Does anyone know you’re with me?”

  Not a threat. Not a threat. Not a threat. Because if I think it hard enough, it’s true, right?

  “You know me, blowing up the Twittersphere with my every move.” I need to give him a reason I’m here — and what works better than the truth? “I know you were supposed to meet with Samir. I just want to know how it went.”

  Silence. He shifts on the steering wheel, rubbing his fingers against his thumb. Can he feel the soap? Ink residue?

  Keep him distracted. “At least tell me he asks about me.”

  “Constantly. Feel better?”

  “Much. Did they have you behind a desk in Tajikistan too?”

  “Are you kidding? Everybody’s on the street in Dushanbe.” Brand launches into a long story about a recruitment. If this is a joke, the punch line cann
ot be worth this setup.

  I almost don’t find out, but after this much of the story, I have to keep up the cover a little longer to hear the end once we’re at our building. Instead of a one-liner, the story ends with, “Except the whole op was pointless because Rastin lied about his access.”

  Sad and all too often true. I reach across the center console to commiserate, but stop short of actually patting his arm. I let my hand hang there awkwardly for another second, blocking his view of my other hand snatching the deposit slip. Finally I give him a thumbs up. “We’ve all been there.”

  I make my exit clean, and within twenty minutes, I’m back at that ATM with the black light. A remote jammer distracts the security camera, and I memorize the numbers that pop under the black light: 2, 3, 7, 8, 9. With the last four digits on the deposit slip to narrow it down, I can come up with a few thousand possibilities for the account number.

  The least efficient way to handle this? Maybe. They’d love it at Langley.

  Monday morning, I know the odds exactly: three thousand. Using those five numbers from the keypad, and given the last four numbers of a nine-digit account number from the deposit slip, there are over three thousand possible combinations. And now I’m staring at three thousand names of people and companies that bank alongside Brand.

  No idea what name he’d use at the bank: his current identity, his real one, another alias he has handy? I can’t even be sure anything’s wrong, but I have to find out. I have to sift through sixty pages of names and pray something pops out — without Brand seeing what I’m doing.

  On cue, the guy strolls by my desk. My heart gets a shock, but I squint at a computer file on one of Morozov’s roomies. “Good or bad?” he asks.

  That is the question. “Not sure yet,” I murmur. Once he’s gone, I slide my list onto my lap. I can only take a page at a time — too many and my eyes glaze over — so I alternate with researching my Russians and stewing over Samir to stay sharp. Sharp enough to catch any little hint that might jog a memory: old covers, ID cards I might have seen, anything.