Free Mr. Nice Spy by Jordan McCollum Page A

Talia wants. Despite what she says, she doesn’t want the truth.
    I tell her what she needs to hear. “It was nothing. Part of the cover.”
    She stares at me — stares me down — but this isn’t a challenge. Even in the streetlight, I can see her eyes are a lot closer to pleading.
    I’ll play the lie to the hilt if it’s what she needs. “Don’t tell me you’re developing a crush on me.”
    Talia groans. “When are you going to get over yourself?”
    “But there’s so much to love.” Despite the bravado, something in my brain clicks into place and I know. Her smile’s almost real, and I’d have to be blind not to see the relief there.
    She must know it’s a lie, but she wants it to be true. And I can do that for her. I can be that for her. I can make that lie true for her.
    I hope.
    The tension level in the van doesn’t change — for me, at least. Now we can either chat more about that — uh, no — or sit in the thick silence.
    I can’t leave it like this between us, but I don’t dare broach that subject. I go for my favorite distraction: humor. Right before I crack a joke about how this is like that one night in Spain, I realize Talia would have no idea what I’m talking about. That’s Shanna’s joke.
    Something else, then. “Seriously.” I lean across the front seat, grinning. “What’s his name?”
    Talia half-groans, half-sighs. “Danny, okay?”
    “Told you you’d have to tell me. Sounds like a geek.”
    “Shut up.” But there’s no hint of harshness in her voice.
    So I press on. “How’d you meet him? Work?”
    “Church.”
    “And you’re sure he’s not a geek?”
    She shoves me back into the driver’s seat. “Shut up.”
    “Come on, throw me a bone here. Your eyes locked across the crowded chapel? Your hands brushed when he passed you the plate?”
    “We don’t have collection plates.”
    I wait, but she doesn’t add anything. “Seriously? That’s all you’re going to tell me?”
    “I was sitting in the foyer during church, and he came out and talked to me.”
    “Coincidence? I think not.” I waggle my eyebrows, like a conversation in a church “foyer” is racy stuff.
    “I think so . He couldn’t have seen me from the chapel.”
    Something about that little tidbit triggers a memory — the first time I met Shanna back in law school. I nearly cracked her head open with a door. I apologized every day for two weeks until finally she pointed out that I couldn’t have seen her from inside the cinderblock classroom.
    And then it took me another two solid weeks of hard work to convince her to go on a date.
    How did I ever let Shanna go so easily?
    I glance over at Talia, who’s retreated behind that secret smile, staring out the windshield. She’s got her little boy toy, and somehow that seems right. And I can only hope I still have Shanna.
    Hope? Seriously? I can do a lot more than just hope. A fire lights in my chest. I need that last chance with Shanna more than air.
    And I will fight to get it.
    Talia’s phone chimes, and I have to switch back to action mode in an instant. I watch Talia for any tiny reaction as she reads the text. The tension ticks higher each second.
    A corner of her mouth quirks. “Voiceprint match. Marcus Lee.”
    One point for us. I start the van and we head out for his address. At least, we hope it’s the right Marcus Lee. With an address in Quebec, I have my doubts. Especially when we reach a small brick rambler in the Gatineau suburbs — until I see the little red sedan in the drive.
    That’s him.
    I park down the street, setting myself up so we have a good view of his house while staying well out of his way — and his sight.
    But a few minutes after we’ve parked, the flourish of victory begins to grow cold. What will we do, confront him with a tape of him returning a phone to Mrs. Deputy Ambassador and a bunch of Arabic? Yes, with that sort of overwhelming evidence, who wouldn’t confess, fall on his knees and beg for