Dial (5 page)

He laughed—a rarity. “Never, Jo. Never.”

“There's one thing,” Caylin said hesitantly. “We're going to need five hundred g's—in cash.”

“I expected as much. Consider it done.”

Theresa could practically hear the wheels turning in Uncle Sam's mind. Get cash. Transport cash to Rio. Contact backup agents. Et cetera. Et cetera.

“Thanks, Uncle Sam—we knew we could count on you.” Jo's voice caught in her throat. “We don't want anything to happen to screw up this mission.”

“Nor do I,” Uncle Sam responded. “Now get some sleep—and stay safe.”

Caylin hung up the phone and leaned into the plush cushions of one of the living room's three sofas. “That's that. We've got the green light.”

“So we proceed to the next stage,” Theresa announced. “Operation Bring Down the Big Boss.”

“Operation Revenge,” Jo commented. “When I see this
guy heading to the clinker, I'm going to look up to heaven and smile.”

“But this guy isn't the one who killed your father, Jo,” Caylin reminded her. “You can't make this mish only about personal vendettas. It's too dangerous.”

“Missions are
always
personal,” Jo corrected her. “If they weren't, the three of us wouldn't be willing to risk our lives over and over again.”

Theresa nodded. They all had their reasons for wanting to fight evil in the world. But this mission . . . this mission belonged to Jo.

“At the
Co
-pa! Copa-ca-baaa-naaa!” Caylin had sung the song a hundred times, but the lyrics had never been so appropriate. It was Saturday night, and the trio was safely stashed in the Alfa Romeo, driving toward the location of their all-important first meeting with Mr. X's business operatives.

“I'm psyched Diva is going to come along on this rendezvous. I love you two, but it's nice to have someone different around.” Theresa leaned forward from the backseat and looked from Jo to Caylin. “Know what I mean?”

“Yep.” Jo turned off the radio, causing Caylin's insistent humming to be the only sound in the car. “I sort of wish we could make Diva an honorary Spy Girl. The chick defines cool.”

“I couldn't believe those dances she was showing us,”
Caylin said. “I think I actually got the hang of that slow, slow, fast thing.” She paused. “Or is it fast, fast, slow?”

“Maybe we'll get to samba tonight,” Jo suggested. “I could use a little dancing to lighten my mood.”

“You'll find out soon enough.” Theresa pointed to the hand-drawn map Diva had given them that afternoon. “According to this, we take a left here. The place is down the street.”

“I hope it's crowded,” Caylin said, peering into the dark night. “I mean, these guys can't just
kill
us with hundreds of people around—can they?”

“They won't
want
to kill us,” Theresa assured her. “There's no way they'll figure out who we really are.”

“I just wish we knew the Big Boss's name,” Jo said. “If Diva would give us a positive ID, we could have Uncle Sam do a background check.”

“You heard her,” Caylin responded. “She's dead set against telling us the guy's name until we meet him face-to-face. According to her, we'll be safer that way.”

Jo swung the Alfa Romeo to the left, then slowed to a stop. “I can't believe the restaurant is actually called
La Americana,” she commented. “Who knew we'd find such a home away from home?”

“Personally, I hope the
food
isn't American. I'm not in the mood for sunlamp burgers or cardboard pizza,” Theresa commented as they got out of the sports car. “But I have to say, this place looks pretty darn empty of
americanas
—”

“As well as everyone of every
other
nationality, for that matter,” Caylin finished. “Hey, look—there's a sign on the door.”

“What's it say?” Theresa asked.

Jo led her
compadres
up to La Americana's front door and squinted through the darkness at the sign. “Uh-oh,” Jo said. “The sign says the place is closed for a private party.”

“Maybe we're at the wrong place,” Caylin suggested.

“Or we have the wrong day,” Theresa said. She took a few steps away from the door and glanced around the near empty parking lot.

“Great!” Jo kicked the door in frustration. “This isn't exactly the auspicious start I was hoping for.”

The door opened. Standing on the other side of it was
one of the hottest guys Caylin had ever seen. Jet-black hair, coal-black eyes, deeply tanned skin. Yum, yum.

“Ah, you ladies are right on time,” the guy said with just about the sexiest accent Caylin had ever heard.

“W-we are?” Theresa asked. “I mean, yes, of
course
we are.”

“Diva arrived a few minutes ago,” Señor Hottie continued. “She has assured us that we will all have a marvelous time this evening.”

“I guess we're the private party,” Theresa whispered as Jo introduced herself to their host in Portuguese.

Señor Hottie was bent over Jo's hand. An actual, real-live, old-school kiss on the hand took place right before Caylin's eyes.

“Jacinta, I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

It was incredibly hard to believe that this heartthrob was also a cold-blooded drug trader. If nothing else, his manners were exquisite.

“And who are you?” Jo asked flirtatiously.

“I am Juan.” He turned to Theresa. “And you must be Trixie.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Theresa said, extending her hand.

He looked into Caylin's eyes. “And you, my dear, are Corinne.” Yeow. If Juan's fellow operatives were half as cute as
he
was, the girls were going to have to work
mighty
hard to keep their minds on the mission.

“Shall we go inside?” Juan asked.

“Let the games begin,” Jo said.

The Spy Girls exchanged glances, then followed Juan into La Americana . . . where their fate awaited them.

•  •  •

Theresa shut her eyes in order to
truly
savor the succulent beef dish that had been served as the third course. Boy, the SG's dinner companions sure gave new meaning to the expression “wine and dine.” In addition to three different beef dishes, the table was laden with roast duck, stuffed lobster, and a melt-in-your-mouth cheese soufflé. Yummy! Theresa had never felt so pampered by a member of the male population—or by
any
member of the population, for that matter.

“You enjoy your meal, yes?” inquired Carlos, Theresa's de facto date for the evening.

She nodded and popped another piece of the thinly sliced beef into her mouth. “It's delicious.”

“I'll never be able to look at a duck again . . . without wanting to eat it for dinner,” Caylin commented.

“I know what I would like for
dessert
.” That charming comment had come from Caylin's so-called date, Jorge.

Yeah, these guys were laying on the compliments so thick, Theresa could have cut them with a knife. And yes, they were largely relying on thousand-dollar suits and gourmet food to impress the girls. But Theresa had to admit that their tactics worked. She felt totally swept up in the glamour of the evening. Jeez, one of the best big bands in all of Rio—according to Diva, who
obviously
knew about such things—was playing just for the eight of them.

Life didn't get much sweeter than this—as long as ­Theresa didn't dwell too much on the fact that all of these guys were probably packing heat underneath their Prada suits. That notion had a really annoying way of bringing Theresa's giddiness meter down a few notches.

As two tuxedoed waiters circled the table, setting down
tiny cups of espresso in front of each of them, Armand cleared his throat.

“Let us talk for a moment, ladies,” he said. “Then we can delight in the rest of the evening.”

It had been clear from the start that Armand was the leader of this merry band. And Theresa's initial speculation had been confirmed earlier by Diva. While the two girls were reapplying lipstick in the bathroom, Diva had whispered to Theresa that Armand was
the
man to impress.

Theresa had passed along that tidbit of information to Jo, who had spent every minute since beguiling Armand. So far, Jo's performance had been a roaring success. No surprises there.

“Trixie, Corinne, and I are extremely anxious to explore the many opportunities that Rio has to offer,” Jo purred as she sat back from the table and ran the tip of her index finger around the rim of her espresso cup. Flawless. Even
Theresa
was having a difficult time remembering that she and her compatriots weren't actually three debs looking for action.

“Yes, Brazil is a country filled with possibilities,”
Armand responded. “Of course, one has to have money—and spend money—in order to
make
money.”

“So true,” Caylin said. “Equally, it's important that we know
where
to spend that money.”

“Which is why we're all here tonight,” Diva broke in. “These young women are serious about exploring the options you have to offer.”

“And what is the
extent
to which you three wish to explore?” Armand asked. He looked at each Spy Girl in turn, his eyebrows raised.

This was it. The Offer. Make-it-or-break-it time. Theresa held her breath as she waited for Jo to respond. She also offered silent thanks that Jo had become their designated spokeswoman. Theresa didn't think she would have been able to get the giant figure to roll off her tongue without gagging.

“On a scale of one to a million . . . we're at about five hundred thousand,” Jo said calmly. “I'm referring to our level of interest, naturally.”

Armand grinned, then bowed his head. “Naturally.” He paused. “Now tell me, Jacinta, what sort of benefits
are you all hoping to derive from . . . exploring your options?”

“At some point in the near future, we would like to see our money
grow.
We don't need to
see
the growth. . . . We just want to pick the fruit off the tree.”

Theresa was tempted to applaud. Who knew that Jo was a master of veiled language? She sounded so
professional.
It was almost eerie.

Armand raised his espresso cup. “I think that our boss will be very interested in assisting you ladies in your quest for opportunity. Cheers.”

There was an echo of cheers around the table. Glasses clinked, lips smiled, a couple of people giggled. As the hot, rich espresso warmed Theresa's stomach, she snuck a glance at Diva, who was seated next to Juan.

“You're in,” Diva mouthed silently.

“We are done with business, yes?” Armand asked the girls.

“Yes,” Caylin confirmed.

“Then let's party!” Armand stood up and turned toward the band. “Tonight—we samba!”

•  •  •

The evening had lulled Jo into a kind of satisfied stupor. As she listened to the big band's seductive tunes, Jo felt herself mentally slipping further and further away from the implications of this dangerous mission. For this moment, at least, she was nothing more than a young woman out for a good time. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of Armand's arms around her waist as they danced.

“I have always felt American ladies were . . . how do you say . . . beneath me. But you are very beautiful,” Armand said, his voice suggestive.

Talk about a backhanded compliment! Jo wanted to rebuke Armand for his rather outmoded attitude, but he was simply too gorgeous to resist. His dark eyes gave new meaning to the term
come hither.

“You're not so bad yourself,” Jo murmured. “I could dance all night.”

“Ah, yes, but I have other activities in mind.” Armand's voice was silky, his hands warm and insistent on her back.

“You do?” Jo knew she wasn't supposed to allow either romance or lust to cloud her objective. She'd made
that
mistake before—twice. But getting in good with the Big Boss's yes-men was a key aspect of their mission. She was practically
obligated
to flirt up a storm.

Armand pulled Jo even closer, then lowered his lips to hers. The kiss was sensual, soft, everything a kiss should be. At first. Then Armand pressed his body firmly against Jo's . . . and she felt cold, hard metal pressing against her ribs.

A gun. Reality came crashing down. This wasn't a romantic evening with a hot guy. This was the beginning of an elaborate sting operation designed to put these guys—and their boss—in jail. Armand had a gun, and Jo had no doubt that he would be willing to use it, no matter how polite his manners were over dinner and drinks.

Images flashed through Jo's mind. That steel gun pressed against her father's head. The vivid colors that had been spattered all over her white shirt—

Jo jerked out of Armand's arms. “No, no.” Her breathing was ragged as Armand's face seemed to metamorphose into the face of her father's killer. A face she'd never forgotten.

“Jacinta, what is the matter?” Armand sounded irritated,
as if he couldn't imagine why someone of the female gender would so willingly,
forcefully
step out of his embrace.

“I just, um, have to go,” Jo told him. Her stomach was churning, and she felt as if fainting were a distinct possibility.

Without a glance at Theresa or Caylin, Jo fled. Right now, she simply had to be alone.

•  •  •

Uh-oh. Jo had just freaked out—big time. Caylin tore her attention away from Jorge and watched Jo flee the dance floor.

“What is wrong with her?” Armand shouted. “She is like a crazy woman!”