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

Author:Jordan McCollum [McCollum, Jordan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Spy, Espionage
Publisher: Durham Crest Books
Published: 2014-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

My carefully constructed semblance of calm shatters. People crowd in behind me, bending over the canal, too. A cry builds in my lungs.

No. No. I can’t panic. I have to act. I swallow the shriek and retreat through the crowd. Run to the nearest ladder and half-climb/half-slide down. It’s a jump from the bottom rung to the cement-lined canal floor. The shock lances up my legs; pain hasn’t stopped me yet.

How far is the fall? How did he land? Is he okay?

I manage not to call his real name. I don’t know his cover, if he has one. When I hit my knees beside him and another quick-thinking guy, that’s the first question I ask, and then, “What happened?”

“Josh Lee.” Elliott grunts and gasps for air. The other guy attending to him tries to calm him down, applying direct pressure to the bloody wound below his collarbone.

Please don’t let that be his heart.

Elliott tries to knock him away. “Mugging,” he groans.

Ottawa’s really safe for an international capital — DC has eight times as many robberies per capita — but that may be a good enough cover. “Do you have somebody we need to call?”

“How about 9-1-1?” He coughs and grimaces at his own attempt at humor.

The helpful guy rocks back on his heels to survey the growing crowd above us. “Somebody call 9-1-1!”

While the guy canvasses the onlookers for someone who isn’t too traumatized to dial, I lean over Elliott to block the crowd’s view. I snag his earpiece, then empty his jacket pockets. His wallet holds $20. I grab it and any ID with his real name on it. Next, his phone: the nuclear option app. Clears out everything but a couple designated contacts.

I stuff Elliott’s stuff in his pockets before the other guy turns back to him. “How’s his breathing?”

“Still breathing,” Elliott groans.

The guy relays that information to the crowd above, whoever dialed 9-1-1.

Elliott’s hand clamps onto my wrist. “You need to go.”

I know. I nod. I stay.

A couple other civilians crowd in, elevating his shoulders, making him more comfortable, edging me out. Elliott finds a break in the cloud of helpers to catch my eye. “Go,” he mouths.

I back away a few more steps, numb, stumbling, lost.

The last thing I hear before I leave the echoes of the canal is Elliott’s choking cough.

And I walk away.

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