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’d like to think if Brand knew me better, he’d know not to turn traitor.

  Samir tilts his head, silently asking if he’s doing his job all right.

  “That’s great. You’ll get him.” I slide into interrogation mode. “Why are you calling?”

  “It could not wait. It is urgent.” A little stilted, maybe, though the earnestness shows in his eyes. Maybe a hint of worry in his tone, though that adds to the effect.

  Of course, it is true. Like I told Samir, I’m not asking him to do anything but what he was supposed to do all along: report to Brand. It’s what Brand does next that I’m interested in.

  Even now, I’m willing to give the guy one last chance. If he does a 180, runs out and calls Langley — if he files a report — heck, if he updates Intellipedia, I’ll ease up a little. I can’t unsee what I’ve seen, I can’t unshoot Elliott, but as long as Brand’s willing to protect the US by delivering that intel, I can take things more slowly. Cautiously. Deliberately.

  Yeah, a big part of me wants to do that. I think it’s the paranoid side.

  Another part of me is already relishing taking Brand down.

  It’s not personal. It’s not personal. I won’t let this get personal. This is about doing our job, defending our country, keeping our vows.

  Not vengeance.

  Before I can psychoanalyze myself any more, Samir holds up the phone. “And then I just tell him what my cousin said?”

  “Yep. Just leave out the parts about me, and you initiating contact with Hassam-ud-Din.”

  Samir contemplates his screen. His dark skin grows pale, and his cheeks look hollower.

  I give him the go-ahead-you-got-this nod. Let’s be honest: does Samir understand American gesture nuance? Unlikely. He gets the message, though, and he hits send.

  “Hello?” Brand answers on speakerphone. (That Samir. Sharp.)

  “Vince,” Samir says on a hiss.

  “Why are you calling?” Brand demands. He’s going for harsh, and he’s definitely that, but underneath that façade I hear the fear.

  Hear it? I relish it like the first taste of dessert. Just deserts. This is what he deserves.

  I resist the urge to tell Samir to draw this out as long as possible. Plus I doubt he knows that hand signal.

  “Tara gave it to me, in case of an emergency. Before we met the first time.”

  Now I’m resisting the urge to slap my forehead. (Or Samir’s.) His answer isn’t what we rehearsed. Avoiding Brand’s question and answering one he didn’t ask both look suspicious.

  “Why are you calling?” Brand asks again. This time, the fear has frosted over, as cold and hard as ice.

  “Hassam-ud-Din has called. You must hear this.”

  Way too long of a pause. “What’s going on?” Mistrust rings through Brand’s every syllable. It only makes sense for him to be wary but, yeah, it’s feeding my paranoia.

  My neuroses don’t need the Miracle-Gro.

  Samir relates the real, true story of the phone call — this time, following instructions and omitting the little fact he initiated the call — right down to how he’s supposed to get to Hassam-ud-Din. Every last detail.

  Everything Brand should run and report.

  I don’t hear any jogging. “Hm,” Brand says. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Something in his tone isn’t even close to sure.

  I brace myself against the sinking feeling. All isn’t lost, though. Brand should report this despite any doubts.

  “Hm.” The little syllable is incredulous. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  No. The right choice is to keep asking questions, trying to trip Samir up if Brand doesn’t believe him. If he does believe him, he should squeeze out every ounce of information, interpretation and intelligence.

  No further questions.

  “Can we meet?” Samir asks.

  My fingernails dig into my palm. That’s too much to hope — and freaking brilliant.

  “Sure. Let me know when.” And he ends the call.

  Not ideal, but enough. Now I have to figure out whether Brand is reporting it. I should be able to waltz into work tomorrow and . . . break into his office to check.

  Great.

  The next morning, I’m ready to take him on. Almost.

  I stop at our heavy wooden doors, staring at the gold-lettered Keeler Tate & Associates. Ten steps and I’ll be in the bullpen. Ten steps and I’ll be in the same room as Brand (probably). Ten steps and I’ll begin the grand finale of the charade.

  One final deep breath before I grab the handle. Once I’m inside, there’ll be no second for hesitation, no second-guessing, no second chance. In the next instant my equilibrium will tip. I’ll commit to the dive, commending my future to the hands of gravity and momentum.

  Danny would probably remind me of the definition of inertia. Paraphrasing: something to do with a failure to move.

  Yeah, that would be me now.

  Let’s do this. I suit up in my mental Kevlar — pray, adjust my ring, take hold of my cover with both hands — before I sweep into the reception area. Linda barely looks up from whatever occupies her time before I swipe my card into the secured area.

  I’m on.

  I take in the bullpen in an instant: Robby and César on their phones, and Justin and Brand doing their favorite little buddy-buddy thing, laughing like obnoxious frat boys. (I know, are there any other kind?) (Okay, I’m going off Hollywood here; there are no fraternities at BYU–I.)

  The two of them swap stories and jokes nearly every day. Brand’s even taking this, my coworkers, my guys, like he did in DC. My resolve drains away so fast I’m almost dizzy. I sink behind my desk stacked with files. Before this happened, these other cases and agents seemed important. Now my work, my life — Brand’s taking over everything. Nothing on my docket is more urgent than trapping a mole.

  Especially when that mole is Brand. I watch him and Justin. My hand instinctively moves to my pocket where the USB drive waits, the only copy of my real reports, my real observations, my real case. It’s not leaving my person until after Brand’s in jail.

  At this rate, that’ll be a while. I need more evidence. If he’s written his own report telling Langley where Hassam-ud-Din is and what he’s targeting, I may never be able to pin this on him. He can still come back from what he’s done, turn in the money, do things properly with Samir, and generally straighten up and fly the metaphorical spy drone right.

  Would that be a bad thing?

  I don’t know. And I won’t know whether he’ll correct the drone’s course unless Brand wants to CC me on his reports. It ain’t just his door and passwords standing in my way. I’ve got to get Brand out of his office and me in without drawing anyone’s suspicions.

  I need to play to Brand’s weaknesses. I would say that I am, or used to be, one of those weaknesses. But let’s be honest: little about our relationship, now or then, has anything to do with me. It has everything to do with him, my reactions to him, making him feel powerful.

  I’ve spent the last few weeks (last few years) fighting that dominance, keeping him from lording it over me. But to work him like any other asset, I need to play to his need for power.

  If I make a U-turn, he’ll know something is up, so I can’t go traipsing in to fawn over him. I still have to bide my time, and I spend my morning covertly surveilling that closed door.

  “Case going well?” That voice next to my desk makes me jump, a shock landing in my gut. Hours of trying to hide my neck swiveling like I’m watching a ping pong match, and he manages a sneak attack.

  I shove the annoyance aside and spin my chair to simper at Brand. “Could be the biggest of my career.”

  His eyebrows make a little that’s-impressive jump, then he checks the office. “That one assignment after all?”

  “Yep.” Perfect. Let him think I mean Will.

  “We should touch base.” Another check of the office. If anyone is paying attention, he’s alrea
dy acting suspicious. “Are you free for lunch?”

  The emotional side of my brain screeches, “NO!!!!” on an endless loop. The logical side sees this as an opportunity. I glance at my desk, my ring, all the things that should make me say no. Then I turn back to Brand, biting my lip, like he’s the temptation I can’t refuse, even against my better judgment. “I guess.”

  A slow, satisfied smile spreads across his face. He must think he’s finally got me where he wants me. But that was always going to be the easy part. The tough part is next: getting myself back in here with leeway to snoop. Snag his phone and pretend to go fetch it for him? Too likely he’ll want to come along. And what do you want to bet his office is locked?

  I have to get his keys — without him picking up on it. (Yes, keys. You think we have the budget for biometric locks in Canada?) I check my desk one more time before I stand to try the first and only lame tactic that comes to mind. “I’ll drive.”

  “I got it.” He dangles his keys from his fingers.

  Bingo. Now to get those away from him. I’d better be better than him at sleight of hand. I open my desk drawer and hold out two more sets of keys. “Company car. Black or red?”

  Aldrich Ames famously bought a red sports car with the proceeds from his betrayal. I almost want Brand to choose the red sedan, like that’s enough evidence to convict.

  “Black, I guess.” He shrugs like this is all sooo immaterial. Of course it is. The point isn’t what car we drive. The point is that I’m giving him the choice. The power.

  And, of course, to get his keys. I snag a prestocked brown leather purse from my desk before I toss Brand the keys to the red sedan. He slides them into his pocket. Step one: get him out of the office. Check. Now to get those keys. I go through the motions of small talk until we’re in the elevator. The second those silver doors slide shut, foreboding clenches my throat.

  I have no time to deal with this stuff today. I force myself to swallow the fear, the memories. “Oh, wait,” I say, injecting a note of obviously fake apology into my voice. “You said black?” This time, I’m the one dangling keys to the black sedan from my fingers, taunting him.

  Brand pulls out the chain I gave him to the red sedan, and his regular keys. He offers the red car set.

  I yank the black car’s key ring out of reach. “I said I’d drive.”

  He smirks, like he’s enjoying this game enough to humor me, and holds out his free hand.

  I want to draw this out a more, make it more convincing, but we’ll be on the ground floor any second. “Fine,” I sigh. I toss the black car keys at him, in front of the hand holding the other keys. Brand has to scramble to go for my set with his empty hand. That plan fails faster than one at a certain porcine bay and Brand dives sideways, dropping all the sets.

  I’m there in half a second, gathering up all three fallen keys.

  “You throw like a girl,” Brand grumbles.

  Not even close to true, and any one of my brothers would gladly beat him up for saying so (and other reasons), especially since they beat me up to make sure I did no such thing. The elevator chimes for the ground floor, cutting off the clever retort that I haven’t come up with yet. Brand strides out first, like I’ve damaged his pride.

  I stay on the elevator until he turns around with impatient arms folded. But I’m already busily pretending to dig through my bag. “Dang, left my phone on my desk.” I silently pray it doesn’t ring before I can get the doors closed. “Better grab it.”

  Brand joins me on the elevator again. Time to make my move. I release his keys, letting them slide inside my bag, then toss both sets of company car keys at Brand. “Bring the car around, would you, Jeeves?”

  He catches one chain; the other deflects off his chest and clatters to the lobby floor. I hit the button to close the door before Brand recovers. The silver doors slide between us, changing his face into my dull reflection. “You catch like a drunk sloth,” I murmur.

  It’s not a perfect plan. He could easily race up the stairs if he wants his keys back. But I can just as easily pretend it was an accident.

  My phone rings. Good thing that wasn’t ten seconds earlier. I glance at the display. Could always be Brand checking my story. (Not too hard to backstop the cover now: don’t answer.)

  Danny smiles up at me from the screen. I want to answer, but if Brand’s waiting for me at our floor and I’m chatting on the phone I “forgot,” it’s a lot harder to pretend nothing’s up. I pick the icon to ignore the call, and send one of the preset apologies as a text. The elevator dings at our floor, and I drop my phone in my bag. At the last second, I glimpse the message I sent to Danny: I am in meeting. Who wrote that message? Right, like he won’t text back to that halfway-human response.

  My reflection disappears as the doors slide open, and I hold my breath. No Brand on the other side. I step off, my lungs still trapping that air like it’s my last. But Brand doesn’t jump out from the shadows.

  Okay. He bought it so far. He might know I have his keys, but it looks like an accident. Checking my desk should only take a minute or two, so I don’t have long. Linda hardly notices my return so soon, and I swipe my access card to get into the bullpen again, my other hand clenched around his keys.

  Justin’s the last one working — lunches are a prime time for a spy. Contact you’re trying to recruit? Take him out. Pay for a nice meal. Butter him up. Move in for the kill.

  And speaking of moving in for the kill, I beeline for Brand’s office. I have to hurry; I don’t have long before Brand gets impatient. And suspicious. Plus, when you act like you know where you’re going, people trust you do.

  People who aren’t spies.

  “Didn’t you just leave?” Justin asks when I pass his desk. I stop short and turn back to him. His grin says he’s sort of flirting. My paranoia says he’s sort of digging.

  I almost call Brand by his real name before I tighten my grip on both our covers. “Vince forgot his phone.”

  Odds are low that they’ve been chitchatting in the last thirty seconds, but the tingle at the back of my neck makes me think Justin will call my bluff.

  He sits there, staring at me, watching me. Do I seem suspicious? Or is it just him?

  I give him a business-nod goodbye and resume my straight course for Brand’s office. Behind me, Justin’s chair squeaks. Again, I stop short, and that tingle at the base of my neck becomes antennae for my Justin radar.

  Crap. He’s following me. I pull out Brand’s keys and jam them in the door.

  Justin’s hand lands on mine and the tingle zings down my spine.

  “Let me help you look,” he says.

  Crap. Crap crap crap. The last thing I want is “help,” when I need to be hacking into Brand’s computer. “Thanks, but I’m sure you’re busy. I got it.”

  “C’mon.” He twists the knob and pushes the door open. “We’ll find it faster together.”

  No, no we won’t. I press on a smile to convey my thanks until I turn away.

  Justin starts around me, going for Brand’s desk. No way am I letting him back there first. He’ll check the desktop and desk drawers and dismiss the whole area — meaning I have no excuse to get back there and at the computer.

  I can’t maneuver around Justin without being really, really obvious, and he beats me back there. I try to appear busy moving around the files — Brand’s personal bills, actually — on his cabinet while Justin tries the drawers (locked) and scours the desktop, shuffling around papers we’re probably not supposed to see.

  Justin’s searching slows to a stop. “He sent you up here with his keys?”

  Play it off, play it off, play — I heave a sigh. “I know, right?”

  He doesn’t take my meaning, narrowing his eyes. That’s bad. He rounds the desk, strolling up to me. Like a wolf on the hunt. Like Brand would. Bad, bad, bad.

  I steel my shoulders, don’t let my feet slip back in the step I’m dying to take. I can play this bluff. This is Justin. No matter how tight he is w
ith Brand, Justin wouldn’t turn on me.

  Would he?

  Justin reaches conversational distance, but doesn’t stop there, closing in on me, stealing a page from Brand’s predatory playbook. His gaze drills into me, intense and serious. One of my feet does slide back, but my heel hits the filing cabinet. My throat tightens.

  Cornered.

  Oblivious to my rising panic, Justin bows closer. “Is something going on?”

  I shake my head, then realize I should’ve spoken. Less suspicious.

  Justin frowns. He knows, he knows — oh, no, he knows. “Look,” he says. “I’m not blind. I can see what you’re doing.”

  And then the indignation hits, hard and hot. Unbelievable. I’m up here trying to catch Brand red-handed, and Justin — Justin — thinks he’s catching me?

  I sidestep him and march back to the desk. “I don’t know what you think you’re seeing, but whatever it is, you’re imagining things.”

  I pretend to focus on pulling out Brand’s keys and finding the one for this drawer, like I can’t see Justin still frowning. He approaches again. This time I have the desk between us.

  And no escape.

  “Talia.”

  I expect his voice to be made of steel, not silk. That alone makes me pause and meet his eyes.

  “I know why he’s treating you this way.”

  I highly doubt that. “What do you mean?”

  Justin licks his lips. “Calling you into his office all the time? Sending you on these little errands? Hovering over your desk?”

  Now I really don’t know what he’s talking about. No way does Justin know our history, and this has absolutely nothing to do with what Brand’s actually up to.

  Unless Justin does suspect something. Maybe I’m not facing Brand alone after all.

  My expression must betray my ignorance or indecision, because Justin’s frown gets deeper. “Not exactly a secret that you’re the only woman allowed past reception. Doesn’t make you his personal slave.”

  “Oh, yeah, that.” I try to ignore a needle of disappointment and check the drawers again.