Or maybe, deep down I’m hoping he won’t show. Because, yeah, that’ll solve everything. And he’ll just quit his tidy little side income, pack it in and go home.
I’m definitely not that lucky.
So I’m not sure whether it’s good luck or bad coming due when the teal Nissan pulls up and pauses at the curb. Show time.
I should call that in to — oh. I don’t have any backup to radio, no one to signal that we’ve got the RABBIT in our sights and the FOX is on the hunt. Cold needles stab into my stomach, regret and fear fighting for position. I’m taking him on alone.
Brand rolls out. Those ice needles spread to my veins. We’re all trained never to pursue a high value target, an armed enemy, a real threat all by ourselves.
But considering how he made me feel those weeks at Langley — vulnerable, cut off, isolated — taking him on, taking Brand down one-on-one, is fitting. Right. Just.
And even more dangerous.
Brand’s out of sight now, and I’m safe enough to start my car. I won’t be safe for long.
Normally I can’t jog to the corner store without a surveillance detection run. Tonight it’s worth the risk. While Samir and Brand make sure nobody’s following them (or as much as Brand will fake it, anyway), I’m heading straight to what I hope is their final destination, that run-down warehouse across town. If they change en route, Samir will text the code to abort.
The trip to the warehouse feels too short, and I doubt it’s because of my years-long habit of making all those stops and doubling my travel time. I’m parked a safe distance away, barely able to watch the warehouse from my position behind the next building over. Without any idea how long Brand will take getting here, I need to move. I need to get in there. But I can’t.
Deadweight fills my lungs, growing heavier every second. If I don’t move soon, I’ll never make it in the building.
This situation could spin out of control faster than that little Iranian arms deal in the eighties. I’ve got nobody to back me up, no physical advantages except surprise, nothing.
If I’m honest with myself, I could be at the bottom of the Ottawa River in an hour. Chances are usually lower than this, though every day I confront that danger.
This time there’s one thing I can’t leave unfinished. I stare at my phone, but not for the clock. Not hoping Samir texts to cancel this op. Not calling in backup.
At least, not yet.
I can’t help it. Danny has been there for me, the one constant. The one thing that stayed true when every other part of my life turned sour and off-kilter. And all he’s asked . . .
All he’s asked is for me to stop being so selfish, though he’d never use those words. To let him in. To let myself trust him. To let him know all of me. Before I can rethink it, my fingers type the message. Alive. If I don’t check in within an hour, call the police. I finish with the address of the warehouse and hit send.
My better judgment kicks in right away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Leaving an electronic trail is bad enough, and worse when it leads straight to Danny, but if the guy has any sense —
The screen hasn’t even gone dark when my phone rings. Yep. He’s got sense. I shouldn’t answer. But I have to. “Hey.” Like I didn’t basically tell him I’m facing down death.
“Please tell me you’re not about to do something stupid. Again.”
The pain in his voice stops me short. I still have to play this cool, reassure him, though there’s no heart behind my hollow humor. “Not any stupider than normal.”
“Talia.”
“Danny.” I mimic his tone of reproach, but the joke fails. Because I can sense the things he can’t say, the hurt he can’t share, the concern he can’t speak.
“Am I supposed to sit around while you risk your life? Except maybe to call in backup?”
I guess he can speak it. “Please, Danny, this is my job. The Top Secret-y stuff.”
“I know.” He sighs. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“No. But you’ll have to learn to put up with it if we’re getting married.”
“I — what is this ‘if’ stuff? There’s an ‘if we’re getting married’?”
“No.” I let the smile steal onto my lips, though my eyes focus on the warehouse looming in the rearview. That’s the if.
“I love you,” I whisper at last. “And I’ll prove it.”
“You’d better.” He’s kidding. Mostly.
I’d like to sit here and flirt with him as if I’m not about to confront a man who shot Elliott, who tormented me. If I don’t get in there, I won’t be confronting him at all.
We repeat our I love yous, and Danny reminds me again to call him. Like I’ll forget.
We’re done, but I can’t end the call. I draw every ounce of strength I can from this connection. Anxiety sinks in my stomach, an uneasy beast ready to strike.
Courage isn’t running blindly into danger without fear. It’s acting in spite of fear.
Fear? Check. Now to get past inertia and check off the action.
“I love you,” I say one last time. “And I’m coming back.”
“I love you too.” He doesn’t add the “you’d better.” I try to ignore the foreboding sinking in my heart as I end the call.
Then I remember: I never backed up my USB drive. Stalling? Maybe. But if something happens to me —
I glance at my bag of supplies, though what I need is in the glove box: an adapter cord. A gift from Danny. (If gift = him having an extra and me asking for it.) I hook up my phone and the USB drive. Once the files are encrypted with the one-time key, I send them to Danny. Hold onto these for me. Until I come back.
He writes back before I’ve put the adapter away. You know that isn’t how digital files work, right?
You’re my backup. I type it meaning a literal, digital sense, but as I send that message, the other meanings that will come in handy tonight hit me.
I keep thinking I’m alone. How could I forget? You’re not better off alone. And it’s about time I put that lesson into action.
I grab my bag and climb out of the car, tossing my phone under the seat. If Danny emails, I’ll get it when I get back.
I’m coming back. I’m coming back. No matter what the anxiety in my gut tries to tell me, I. Am. Coming. Back.
I hope.
Picking the warehouse door lock is taking longer than it should, even for a secure lock. Not that great with manual picks, especially not with a Maglite in my mouth (never liked the taste of flashlights, and they hurt your teeth), but I’m using what I’ve got. Even with all my training, picking a lock is still a matter of persistence and luck. And also good lock maintenance. Dirty, crusty locks are sometimes the best defense. And on that front, this one is putting up a good fight.
I reset the tension wrench and once again attack with my favorite pick, but — yeah. Persistence and luck. Time is not on my side, and every minute I sit here scraping tiny little metal filings out of this lock is another minute Samir and Brand get closer.
Finally, the tension wrench moves. Relief sinks in, and I twist the wrench the rest of the way, then try the door.
Locked.
Oh. Great. I just locked the locked door. Again. They taught us a way to supposedly tell if you’re unlocking or locking it, but never — Not. Even. Once. — has it worked for me.
I turn the lock back to its vertical, locked position and start over. (Again.) But the dirty lock works in my favor: a couple pins must be stuck in place, because I only have to pick half of them before it rotates the other direction.
Once I’m in, I stake out their meeting spot: the empty area between the loading docks and the metal racks. A square of light shines on the cement floor from the only skylight. That makes the metal racks my best vantage point. I hunker down behind a low wire shelf, in the shadows.
Tension turns every little creak into a gunshot, every little animal scurry, an army’s march. Something skitters through the shadows. I shudder. Might as well be crawling u
p my back. But there’s no time for pedestrian panic triggers now. Mice, rats, freaking huge bugs — sorry. Tonight there’s a lot more to be afraid of.
No. I sit up straighter, grit my teeth, square my shoulders. Tonight’s the time for closure. Tonight’s the time for justice. Tonight’s the time for revenge.
Bring it, Brand.
I sit in the dark and the near-silence for a very long time. My internal clock reads fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours. Plenty of time to completely freak out.
Gotta keep sane. Gotta keep moving. Check my equipment bag. Night vision goggles. Superquiet camera. Classified version of a parabolic mic. Gun. Check, check, check. I tuck my holster in the back of my waistband for better access once they’re here.
If they’re coming. Is Samir okay? Could Brand suspect him of being the mystery texter?
I close my eyes to the dark and run through the reasons I can’t trust Brand, why I have to act now. I’m not getting cold feet — I’m not. I’m steeling myself for whatever might come when I call Langley as soon as this meet is over. I’ll take some heat until they prove Wasti’s working against the UN, Brand’s helping him, and Samir told him about it. I have to get this all on tape.
The metallic crack jolts my heart into overdrive. The door. They’re here.
Samir emerges from the shadows first, followed by Brand. They’re maybe twenty feet away from me, a great distance to see — and be seen.
Once again, not my objective tonight.
I check Brand’s hip, his shoulder below the casual blazer (ugh), the back of his waistband. Not obviously printing, but he could still be carrying a gun.
I dig in my bag of tricks and pull out the superquiet camera. Yes, cameras aren’t known for being noisy, but when the shutter’s click can give me away, I’ll opt for the safer route. In the low light, the exposure time could make the pictures blurry, so I’ve got to steady it on something. I use the nearest wire shelf, still out of sight. Brand sets up a chair for Samir in that square of moonlight. Samir stays on his feet, pacing.
How nervous is he? Could he blow this whole operation?
No. I have to believe in him. Especially when he’s having trouble believing in himself. We don’t have an actual psychic connection (I’m sure that’s next on DS&T’s docket), but I’ve done all I can to show my support for him out loud. Now I’m the one who has to listen to what I’ve told him all along: believe he can be this part.
“Have you told . . . whoever it is?” Samir begins as soon as Brand sits in his own chair. The nerves in his voice actually fit, and I exhale the silent relief.
That letup is short-lived. “Walk me through this again.” Brand checks his watch.
Samir carefully details the phone call with Wasti. Brand doesn’t ask the right questions, but Samir adds the analysis we need anyway. Why they killed Ali Muhammad. A darn good guess at how. Details of the UN plan. He’s got so much intel that he’s either talked to his cousin again or got an amazing tactical imagination.
Brand barely plays a token role in the conversation, except to take a break from the weighty stuff with small talk. Samir indulges him for a minute, then directs the conversation back to the intelligence.
My internal clock ticks through the minutes. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. I’m getting anxious about that hour deadline I gave myself to contact Danny. Around forty minutes, Brand stands to stretch. Like he’s done.
My back turns cold. If Brand’s done, then my part is just beginning.
“But the UN,” Samir says. “You must do something. You must tell . . . whoever it is.”
I switch to video mode in time to catch Brand’s answer. “Yeah, yeah, it’s taken care of. You don’t need to worry.”
It’ll be obvious on Monday Brand isn’t keeping his word. Samir will know he’s lying about stopping Wasti. Which means Brand doesn’t care. Maybe he’s got nothing left to lose.
Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more dangerous. My palms start to sweat.
Brand begins wrapping up the conversation, shutting down Samir’s attempts to share more information, to show how important this is, to urge him to act.
That’s all I need. I hit the button to stop recording. And then it happens: my grip slips. I scramble to catch the camera, but I’m watching my hands via time-delay satellite feed. I’m too far away and too far behind to make them move in time.
The camera clatters onto the wire racking. Then the cement floor.
I can’t breathe; a cold shock of fear socks me in the chest.
Brand flinches, whirls around. He hasn’t seen me yet, but still — I’m dead.
Brand recovers from the surprise first. He seizes Samir’s arm. “What’s going on?”
Sure, now he’s interested in the guy’s intel.
Samir tries to backpedal, metaphorically and literally, but he can’t break Brand’s grasp. “Please, I know nothing —”
“Right,” Brand grinds out. He pulls Samir closer, whips him around to use him as a shield against the mysterious noise. Or use him as a hostage.
Samir twists, and the moonlight reflects off something metal in Brand’s hand. A gun.
My stomach plummets. Brand arriving armed to a meeting with someone threatening to expose him? Sure. Me coming here armed? Duh. But Brand showing up armed to a meeting with an asset? That goes beyond preparation. That’s backed into a corner. Threatened. Reckless.
He’s going to lash out at Samir, or at me.
Samir has done his part. I’ll step up to do mine. If I come out aiming at him, though, I’ll lose any chance of talking him down. I climb to my feet and slowly march out, my hands aloft. “Go ahead and let him go,” I say. “Nobody has to get hurt.”
Brand huffs out a half-laugh. “Let’s all go skipping home. What are you doing here?”
“I was in the market for some metal racking,” I snark. “Take a wild guess.”
“You’re taking this relationship with Samir to an unhealthy level.”
“I gave you more credit than I should’ve. Thought you’d figure this out by now.”
Brand’s eyes grow watchful. He still isn’t putting it together.
Maybe we can all go skipping out of here, and I can make the call and leave Brand to the authorities.
He tugs Samir closer. Samir cowers and tries to pull away. Brand tightens his white-knuckled grip.
“Brand.” I lower my hands in a calming gesture. “Let him go. We can work this out. Maybe at the office Monday.”
“Monday — when Wasti’s supposedly bombing the UN?” Brand glances at the ceiling. “Checking up on me after every meeting with Samir wasn’t enough? Now you’re manufacturing intelligence?”
Lying is so automatic to him now, he’s even lying to himself. I’ll go with it if it means getting out of here. “That’s right.” I try to keep my placating tone subtle. Patronizing him would set him off.
“And I passed, huh?”
Whatever. “I guess we’ll see come Monday, won’t we?”
Brand smiles like he’s getting away with murder. Because he is. And despite his rhetoric, he knows it.
He lets Samir go and shoves the gun in his waistband. I edge toward the door, signaling that the whole encounter is over, resolved, safe. Samir silently consults me, then Brand. Brand nods at him, and Samir heads out. When Brand falls in behind him, I can finally do the same. And take a deep breath. We’re in the home stretch.
Samir walks through the fire door. Brand pauses at the threshold. “Oh, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about,” he says, turning to me. I can just make out his hand, offering an object, though I can’t quite see what in the shadows. I squint and lean in.
A key. To his apartment. That I made.
A rushing sound fills my ears. I set it down — when? Working on his computer. On his table. Right before he showed up and I had to run.
My gaze flies to the fire door behind him. He’s there in an instant.
I run after him. Samir dives into action,
too. Brand’s moving twice as fast as us. He pulls his gun and whacks Samir on the head. Before Samir recovers, Brand pushes him, still moaning, out of the warehouse. I scramble to get at the door, but Brand shoves it shut.
I’ve got to pick my battles, and the biggest danger here is that Glock. Brand’s focused on the door, so I lunge for his weapon. He jerks it back, but only in time to wrench it free of both our grips and send the gun flying into the shadows.
I grab the door handle. Brand holds it fast and locks it with another key. I clutch at that, too. It plinks to the ground and skitters away.
When I turn to look after the sound, Brand reaches under my jacket to yank my gun free. I spin back to wrest it from him, but as soon as I touch the weapon, he hits the magazine release. The magazine drops and he kicks it into the dark after his own gun.
Still have one in the chamber. I try for the gun again. Brand shoves me off. Before I rush him, he deliberately pulls the slide to clear the last round. The bullet pings over the cement floor, and Brand. Just. Smiles.
I’m trapped.
I slink back, and Brand stalks me to the square of light. Even with the night vision goggles, I couldn’t see a way out of this safely.
At the Farm, I pictured Brand’s face on every opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Still, I never expected to battle him.
The basis of self-defense is being honest about yourself and your strengths — and your limitations. Much as I hate this fact, my biggest weakness is that I’m a woman. That has nothing to do with the crap Brand put me through. Simple facts of physics and physiology: an average-sized guy (or above average, if you’re Brand) has mechanical advantages over an average-sized woman (i.e., me). No training can fully overcome the advantages of limb proportions, bone density and basic weight.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you?” Brand sticks my gun in his pocket. “‘I’ll be wearing a blue jacket.’ ‘If the price is right.’”
I retreat two steps rather than let him get closer. I need to think this through, come up with a believable scenario that doesn’t end in my death.
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) Page 52
