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

  Nadia rounds the table to advance on him, still clutching the tablet. “Yes, Borya.” The emphasis suggests she normally uses a much more familiar nickname with him. “Tell me about this al-Ansari.”

  “None of your concern, Dinyushen′ka.” Borya turns his tone somewhere between don’t worry your poor little head, Naddiekins, and do not interfere in my affairs. “A business meeting.”

  Whether it’s the tone or the situation, Nadia bristles, the lines around her mouth tightening. “I’m your secretary,” she says. “I schedule your business meetings.”

  “You’re my secretary,” Borya repeats, his own jaw almost too tight to squeeze out the words. “Not my mother.”

  “And what would Yelena Petrovna say about her son secretly meeting an arms dealer?”

  Borya does a double take. “How do you know that?”

  This would be a great time to make our escape, but there’s one little obstacle in our way — the entire reason we came here. Borya still has those drone plans, and unless al-Ansari is driving off into the sunset now, we still have a shot at stealing it back before it goes up for auction. Kinda of crucial, you know, for the safety of Americans and the security of Canadian drone technology (which I understand is important to Danny).

  “Leave,” Nadia insists to Borya. My pulse counts the seconds of a tension-filled minute before her intense stare becomes more earnest — more pleading. “Leave while you can.”

  And that’s enough to (finally) tip Borya off something more’s going on. He surveys me and Danny, Eager Igor, and then Nadia until, at last, his gaze drifts down to the tablet and red USB drive in her hand. “What’s this?” he asks, his tone hushed. Like he suddenly realizes all this time he’s been a fool.

  Even the golden child of Shcherbakov doesn’t have enough info to put together the pieces. Nadia won’t clue him in, either. Her tone turns imploring. “It’s not about you. Please.”

  He scoffs. “You’re upset I’m meeting al-Ansari, while you’re with my business contact?” With that expression, he doesn’t have to speak to add a final you’re unbelievable.

  Borya nods at the USB drive and tablet and switches to English for Danny’s benefit, since this is something Danny should hear (and verify). “It’s his, isn’t it? That’s what all the shouting is about?”

  “Of course it’s mine,” Danny interjects before Nadia responds. I realize he’s been maneuvering closer to me.

  “You need to give it back,” I insist to Borya. I pivot to Nadia. “If that’s not the list, it’s none of your business.”

  Borya ignores her, contemplating the tablet. While he’s distracted, Danny moves the last couple feet to take my arm, taking my weight off my hurt ankle.

  I glance up at him with a head jerk/eye point to say aren’t you going after them? Once again, he gives me the slightest are-you-really-really-really-sure? expression. “Go,” I mouth, extracting my arm from his grasp.

  Danny crosses the distance to Borya. He yanks the USB drive from the adapter. Borya’s too stunned to move, but Eager Igor lunges for Danny — until Borya shoots a look at Nadia, who ricochets the kill signal to Eager Igor. Spared, Danny falls back to stand by me again.

  Borya snaps around to meet Danny’s gaze. “What is that?”

  “Nothing. A stupid project.”

  Borya looks back at the tablet, like he can keep the plan on the screen from slipping away. Golden Child of Shcherbakov, meet Golden Child of NRC Aerospace. “This is the one,” Borya breathes. Now he’s the awed one. “The ‘pet project’ you were telling me about.”

  Something twists in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know what’s on this USB drive. Danny told me he had a plan, something that would work — bait. I didn’t think I needed to press my own husband for details.

  But could this be worse than letting the original drone slip out of our grasp?

  Hello? Is my husband stupid? Of course not. (Rocket scientist.) And I trust him. I have to.

  “The one you speak about with . . .” Borya searches for the right word, but gives up after a minute. “You speak about this like a beautiful woman who somehow said yes to you.”

  I dig my nails into Danny’s arm (not the best way to remind him not to turn to me, if that’s where his mind was going in the first place). “I guess, yeah.”

  “I’ve seen your work,” Borya finishes, “but this is . . . isklyuchitel′no.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  I don’t know if Danny’s asking me, but I interpret. “Exceptional.”

  “So when did you see my work?” he asks Borya.

  He raises his gaze to Danny’s again, and the hunted, haunted look there is exactly what none of us wants to see. He’s psychologically backing into a corner. “You showed it to me. That drone is nothing compared to this, but—”

  “I never said whether I worked on drones.”

  I fight back the smile. Even that statement’s carefully calculated: he doesn’t actually indicate he worked on drones, eluding some clever elicitation.

  “‘That drone is nothing’?” Another voice carries from behind Borya. Our final principal, the wild card: al-Ansari. He emerges from the shadows. Curly black hair cut short, well-trimmed, well-tanned, well-tailored, the image of the refined, Westernized Arab businessman. He strolls over, hands in his pockets (rude in Russia), surveying our little tableau. “Am I interrupting?”

  Yes, of course, everybody speaks English. (Why do I bother?)

  Al-Ansari turns to Nadia, then me, but he’s still speaking to Borya. “I see you’ve already invited the guests. We should hurry to conclude our business and continue this party.”

  Borya doesn’t hesitate: he moves to block al-Ansari’s view of Nadia. “Let’s finish our business, and we’ll have something to celebrate. But not with these people. They’re no one.”

  Al-Ansari’s lip twitches. “These ladies must join. Then it will be a celebration.”

  “They have no reason to join us,” Borya repeats. “They’re not important.”

  Under other circumstances, I might be insulted, but I’ll let the man defend us.

  “I know Fyodor took the plans,” Danny says. Even from behind, Borya’s flinch is obvious. He slowly swivels to regard Danny.

  “What are you talking about?” Apparently he’s burned through his bluff budget, because the lie lurks too close to the surface.

  “Fyodor stole plans from my office. I came to get them back.”

  Nadia barks with laughter. “You bargain for them now? In your position—”

  Borya interrupts her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re not good at pretending. You’re selling my plans, my drone, to—” Danny jerks his chin in al-Ansari’s direction—“this guy.”

  Al-Ansari turns his attention away from me and Nadia to narrow his eyes at Danny. “And who are you?”

  Borya steps up first. “No one.” He looks to Danny. “Leave, Danny. Go.”

  “Give me my plans and I will.” There’s no messing with the mettle in his tone. Danny shakes off my clutching fingers and holds out his hand, ordering Borya to surrender his drives.

  “I . . . I can’t.”

  Then — did he already give it to al-Ansari? You can almost feel the attention in the room shift to al-Ansari.

  “Nyet,” Nadia murmurs, gaping at Borya in utter horror. “Tell me you haven’t.”

  Al-Ansari ignores their personal drama and ambles past Borya to talk to Danny. “So, you are the designer?”

  “And I came here to get what’s mine.”

  Al-Ansari pulls out a USB drive. Not one of ours. “I think you are too late. Unless—” He hesitates, then eyes the tablet Borya’s still holding. “What is this ‘exceptional’ prize?”

  “It’s nothing,” Danny insists again. “My nothing.”

  Al-Ansari snorts in Borya’s general direction. “‘Nothing’? Funny, that’s what Zverev said about this.�
�� He holds up the drive. “Compared to what you have there. A beautiful woman who is outside your grasp.”

  Danny doesn’t respond, just slides his USB drive into his pocket. I hope al-Ansari wants to play hard to get. He heads for Danny. “I propose an even trade.”

  Borya, still in a daze, turns away from Nadia “What about my money?”

  Al-Ansari give him a condescending smirk. “Don’t you mean his money?”

  “Letting you hold that drive was a show of good faith,” Borya says. “It’s still—”

  “His,” al-Ansari cuts him off. “Because if you want to argue that simply holding the drive made it yours, it would appear that I am holding it now. You have no ownership.”

  Logic steals the final gust from Borya’s sails (and sales). He looks from al-Ansari’s drive to Danny’s. Al-Ansari dismisses Borya, deflated and defeated, and focuses on Danny. “You want what’s yours?”

  I realize Danny’s not only taken my arm with his free hand, but his grip grows tighter every second. “I want all of it,” he says.

  A muscle in Al-Ansari’s temple twitches. “Do not take advantage of my generosity.” He casts me a pointed glance, silently adding that threat: I could take this woman, too. (At least he’s dismissed the “nothing” plans.) “Did you think a man like me travels without security?”

  At the signal, three bulky guards in suits materialize from the shadows. Even Nadia and Eager Igor are outgunned now. (And you’d think an arms dealer would be armed.)

  “So,” al-Ansari concludes his argument, “your drive for mine, or—”

  “Fine.” Danny holds out the red USB drive. I hold on to my faith in him, that this “exceptional” aerospace plan is somehow okay to give to an arms dealer.

  They exchange drives, but Danny’s grip on my arm doesn’t loosen, and I don’t think it’s just because he’s supporting me.

  “Pleasure.” Al-Ansari bows from the shoulders. His guards evaporate into the shadows again, and al-Ansari backs away. He simpers at Borya one last time and turns for the door. Borya stands there, too stunned to do anything but let him go.

  “Impossible.” He takes two paces after al-Ansari, but Nadia catches his elbow.

  “Don’t.” Nadia’s gaze is as desperate as her voice and her grasp. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  He wrenches his arm free. “This money is supposed to save the company.”

  “Shcherbakov isn’t the only thing that matters.” Nadia drops to a whisper. For a split second, I’m not watching two enemies self-destruct: I’m watching me and Danny, the fight we have over and over, the same expressions, the same exasperation, the same extremes.

  Their team’s cracking, and all the fractures feel too familiar.

  We need to go. I tug Danny backwards, but we have to creep along unless we want to attract their attention (and injure me worse).

  “Don’t I matter?” Nadia asks.

  “Certainly.” But Borya’s eyebrows knit together, like he has no idea what she’s asking.

  If they keep fighting, we can escape. “Don’t you get it?” I call. “Can’t you see who she is? Why she’s here?”

  Nadia turns to us, dread and hatred practically shooting from her eyes. Borya looks to us, too, slow and hesitant. “My plans for Shcherbakov?”

  “Your plans?” Danny challenges, but I cut him off.

  “All this time, I thought you were the one with the FSB.” I shake my head.

  Borya blinks in slow motion, the lies she told him dawning. (Who’s the durochka now?) He wheels on Nadia. “What?” His voice doubles in volume.

  My work here is done. “Let’s go,” I murmur. I edge toward the door again, ignoring the pain ripping through my ankle with every step, clamping down on each gasp. I make it five feet before I’m clutching Danny’s jacket tighter than when I dragged him around.

  “Don’t listen to them.” Nadia dismisses our claims with a wave. “They’re CIA.”

  “How would you know?” Borya closes his eyes, pain passing over his features as each wave of implications crashes over him. “It’s true then.”

  “Boryasha.” She pleads again, a more intimate nickname, reaching to bridge the rift. “Please. What you’re doing, you’re breaking the law. Al-Ansari’s a wanted criminal.”

  I have to pause before I can take another shuffling step.

  “Are you—” Borya backs two steps from Nadia, as if his words can’t chisel a chasm between them fast enough. “You’re spying on me.”

  “That’s not how—”

  “It ends now. All of it.” His tone leaves no room to argue.

  Danny glances at me for a Russian translation, but I’m off the interpreter clock. I keep moving. (When did this door get so far away?!)

  Nadia tries for Borya’s hand. “Boryasha, for me. I won’t report anything, just stop now.”

  Maybe it’s my experience talking, but if that’s what she’s willing to sacrifice for Borya, she’s giving up everything for him to make it right. She’s still trying to span the space between them, if Borya will just choose her, choose them, reach back.

  He snorts. “Yes, you excel at withholding the truth. But guess what? I don’t.”

  “Boryashka—”

  “You’re fired.”

  The realization rocks Nadia, and her strong façade shatters, sending her reeling back a few feet. “What about us?”

  “Us?” Borya laughs. “Finished.” He backs up farther. Fifteen feet till we’re clear.

  Nadia reaches after him, and Danny doesn’t need translation. Her hand hangs in midair, and Borya glares back, colder than permafrost.

  Finally, her hand drifts down.

  “I can’t believe I’ll have to tell the company this.” Borya wheels away and marches into the shadows.

  Ten more feet to the door. We’re almost free.

  “Nadezhda Vasilyevna?” Eager Igor comes to stand by her side. “Should we let him go?”

  “He could do this with Russian files, controlled exports.” Every word falls on her shoulders like deadweight. “He broke the law. He’ll ruin my cover.”

  “We don’t know that.” Eager Igor’s reassurance holds more sympathy than I thought him capable of (but I didn’t think the guy had much in the way of feelings when I was evading and escaping him).

  “You don’t know him.” Her rasping echoes in the warehouse. The door to the front offices latches behind him at last. Nadia flinches with each reverberation in this metallic cavern like it’s a slap.

  She cowers there, hunched against the reality until slowly, she raises her face. The look there makes Siberia sound like a vacation paradise.

  Suddenly this is really, really, really the wrong place to be. We’re almost to the door. “Run,” I whisper to Danny. I tug him along, but I can’t move faster with this stupid limp.

  “What?”

  “Run. I’ll catch up.”

  He meets my eyes and even in the shadows, I can see he recognizes the lie I told him in the bunker an hour ago, when I had no intention of surviving that long.

  “We have no choice.” Nadia’s tone is flat. Eager Igor stares in the direction Borya went.

  “Hurry,” I breathe.

  Danny doesn’t hesitate: he scoops me into his arms and runs the last yard to the open door. I don’t have time to protest before we’re in the parking lot, and Danny’s still running. He pauses long enough to check the building.

  “I didn’t knwo you could run like that carrying me,” I say.

  “Adrenaline,” he says between catching his breath.

  Ah, the romance of an engineer. “You’re supposed to say your love gives you the strength of thousands.”

  “Uh . . . sure. What just happened?”

  A gunshot answers. For an eternity, we stand there, gaping at the low white warehouse.

  “She killed Borya.” Danny’s voice rings hollow. “She killed him.”

  I shouldn’t be su
rprised, but I am. Another gunshot rings out, and Danny isn’t dillydallying for the details. He takes off at a run again. I do what I can to not interfere, clinging to him like the rescuer he is.

  Not a fringe benefit I expected from marrying him, but I’ll definitely take it.

  He reaches the SUV and sets me down (leading with my good foot) to open the passenger door. I hope he isn’t planning on sticking me there. Only one of us knows where we’re going. I hop-limp-hop around to the driver’s side.

  “No, no, no,” he says. “Let me drive.”

  “I can’t navigate from memory.” I hold up the keys.

  Danny frowns, but I cut off his objection. “Unless you want Nadia coming after the witnesses, we need to get moving.”

  He says no more. I unlock the driver’s side and hop in, unlocking his door. He climbs in, his face still slack from shock. “She killed him.”

  We can’t know what happened, but I try to reassure him anyway. “Nah. You can survive that. Get my phone.”

  Danny grabs my cell from its hiding place under the seat and gives it to me. I toss the phone back at him. “Dial 112. Russian 911.”

  I don’t wait for him to call before I start the car and pull out. He hands the ringing phone to me, and I report the crime and end the call. But help’s only on the way for one of us.

  We’re not down the block when Danny adjusts his mirror. “What did you say about coming after witnesses?”

  I consult the rearview. Company. A black sedan, and a white van.

  Precisely what we need.

  I gun the engine, gritting my teeth to get through the gears. When I have a second, I thrust the phone at Danny. “Call the last number before 112.”

  He obeys and gives me the phone again.

  It rings once, twice — “Lori,” Semyon answers. “Thanks for the heads up—”

  “We’re leaving ulitsa Novatorov, and—”

  “Tell me that gunfire wasn’t you.”

  He must be nearby. “Not us, but we made some new friends who are eager to catch up.” I have to lower the phone and use both hands to turn onto the main road without slowing. Consult the rearview. The black sedan makes the right, too. And the van.

  Back to Semyon. “Sorry. We’ve got Nadia . . .” I rack my brain for her surname. “Obolenskaya on our tail. She’s the real FSB officer. Got a henchman with her.”