Free Mr. Nice Spy by Jordan McCollum Page B

forgiveness?
    We need Angela.
    I pull out my cell. Nothing — no texts, no calls, no emails.
    “Got something?” Talia’s question hammers home the defeat weighing on my chest.
    “No.”
    “What are we supposed to do when we see him, then?”
    I check the time. If he’s home at nine thirty and already has a girlfriend, then is the guy going to go out at all tonight?
    I don’t have another choice. I have to give Angela another call. Because she has no life, either, I’m sure.
    She answers on the third ring, wary. “Hello?”
    “Angela, it’s Elliott. Did you get my email?”
    “Look, I don’t think now is a good—”
    “We don’t have much time. Short conversation, and one question.”
    Angela hesitates.
    “Like three minutes of Arabic. Tops.” I might be rounding down, but not much. “We just need to know if she says we’ll call or not.”
    “Fine,” she sighs, the resignation flattening her tone. “But I didn’t get your email.”
    I cover my phone’s mic and turn to Talia. “Cue up the recording, quick.”
    She clambers over to the laptop and gets to work. I switch back to Angela. “’Kay, we’ll play it for you.” Over our nonsecure line. Sure. That’s not asking for trouble.
    “One sec,” Angela says. The background noise on her end dies.
    Talia gives me a thumbs up and points to the play button on the laptop monitor. She moves out of the way, casting a quick glance out the windshield at our target.
    And then she does a double take.
    I barely hear Angela’s “Okay, go ahead.”
    I don’t have time to start the recording before Talia backhands my shoulder and nods at the windshield. After her reaction a second ago, I’m already looking.
    Marcus’s exterior lights are on. He’s walking out his front door.
    Every hair on my head stands on end. I turn to Talia. We didn’t finish that plan. We can let him go; we can always come back and catch him. Maybe. But how long until we do? And until then, how much damage will he do?
    There’s no time like the present, especially to a spy.
    Talia’s reading my mind. She snags an earpiece, a red wig from the stash — princess of paranoia and preparation — and her leather jacket, then bolts out the back doors of the van.
    “Elliott?” Angela asks. “You still there?”
    “Yeah, yeah. One more second.” I hurry to the recording, one eye on the screen and the other on the windshield. Now a redhead, Talia appears in my view, crosses the street, heads straight for Marcus.
    He hasn’t seen her yet, focused on organizing his keys.
    Things might not be 100% simpatico between me and Talia, but that’s my fault. And if she’s out there taking this risk —
    “Elliott?” Angela breaks in.
    I need to be there — for Angela and for Talia. But if we can confirm Marcus is the mole, we can tie this whole mess up — and I can get Talia out safe. “Here you go,” I tell Angela. I set the phone next to the speaker and hit play. The Arabic voice fills the van at the same time Talia reaches the sidewalk in front of Marcus’s house.
    I have to know what they’re saying. All of them.
    The Arabic ends and I grab my phone. “Got that?”
    “Run it by me one more time.”
    I tear my gaze away from Talia approaching trouble long enough to start the recording over.
    Talia slows to a stop, turning to Marcus. He pauses in the middle of opening his car door and smiles at her.
    Please tell me she’s not going to confront him. With what? She was the one who insisted on a preponderance of evidence to persuade the dude to confess.
    Just as the recording finishes the second time, it hits me — of course I can hear what Talia and Marcus are saying. I scramble for the parabolic.
    Talia points down the street and around the corner. “About three blocks,” she finishes.
    “Huh?” Angela asks.
    “Sorry, two different tapes.” I jam a headphone plug into the computer’s jack. “Did you need to hear it again?”
    “No, I think I’ve got it. Give me a minute