Dial (8 page)

“We'll see what we can do,” Jo promised. “If it's at all possible, you'll be right by our sides.”

Diva nodded. “Good. I would be so honored to make the stand with you. All three of you.”

Theresa smiled in sisterhood, but deep inside she hoped Jo knew what she was doing.

•  •  •

“Greeting, O Doubtful One, we bring glad tidings.” Jo was practically bursting with adrenaline as the girls greeted Uncle Sam via speakerphone.

“Do I detect progress?” Uncle Sam asked in his usual calm manner.

“Diva thinks tomorrow is the big day,” Caylin told him.

As they had shopped, Diva had let all three of them in on some of the Big Boss's ways and means of doing business. Apparently having lunch with daffy old Chico was the final step a potential business associate needed to take before the deal with the Big Boss became final. It was some kind of tradition or something.

“Bravo!” Uncle Sam said. “Excellent work, Spy Girls.”

“We just have one question,” Jo said. “Can we bring Diva along on the sting?”

For several seconds Sam didn't respond. “I know this young woman is our informant, but we don't know whether or not she has ulterior motives. Allowing her in on the sting could prove hazardous.”

“But Diva is in just as much danger as we are!” Jo insisted. “As soon as things get funky, the bad dudes are going to suspect that she had something to do with the setup.”

“Good point, Jo.” There was another pause. “On second thought . . . maybe bringing your friend Diva along is a
good idea,” Uncle Sam said slowly. “Her intimate knowledge of the Big Boss and his underlings could prove helpful if the situation gets sticky.”

“And if it turns out that she's working for the other side, we can always use her as a human shield,” Theresa added.

“Come on, T., don't question Diva,” Jo said, sounding like a broken record. “She's totally on the up-and-up.”

“Quiet down,” Uncle Sam ordered. “Spy Girls, it's time to get serious. Now, here's the plan. . . .”

“Time to switch to decaf,” Jo muttered to herself the next morning. She had been up since six o'clock, and her hands were shaking—either from anticipation or the three cups of coffee she had downed while reading a daily newspaper.

She had eaten breakfast. She had updated herself on current events. She had showered and dressed in one of her supreme debutante outfits, a fresh little number courtesy of Dolce & Gabbana and, oh yes, The Tower. Still there was no word from the Big Boss. Jo didn't think she could wait much longer. Her nerves were
seriously
on the verge.

Jo heard the whir of a car engine and the slam of a door before she heard the knock at the door. Ta-da! This was the moment she had been waiting for—the moment they had
all
been waiting for. As Jo walked toward the front door, she marveled at the fact that Caylin and Theresa were
still asleep. For her, last night had been like ­Christmas Eve. Hopefully the emissary she was about to greet at the door was going to bring her the best present ever. A date with the Big Boss.

As Jo opened the door, her spirits rose even higher. The man had sent Armand, a sure sign that something major was about to go down. “Good morning, Armand.”

Thank goodness she had taken the time to do up her face. If there was anyone who appreciated a pretty girl, it was Armand.

“Jacinta, it is lovely to see you again.”

“Likewise.” Man, when would the chitchat end? She was veritably
drowning
in polite small talk. But she had to be patient.

“I am happy to inform you that it is time to make the exchange,” Armand stated formally. “There will be a car here to pick you up at five o'clock this evening.” He paused. “As long as that is convenient for you ladies, of course.”

Jo gave him one of her most dazzling smiles. “Well . . . we
are
expecting a shipment of new furniture this afternoon. But I'm sure we can arrange to be free by five o'clock.”

“Wonderful. It's a date.” Armand looked as if he would like to start the date—a
real
date—right that minute. He was looking at Jo as if she were a piece of pie on a dessert plate. “Your investment . . . is in American dollars, no?”

Jo nodded in understanding. Diva had already informed her that drug business was conducted with powerful American cash whenever possible. Speaking of which . . .

“Armand, may we bring Diva with us?” Jo asked sweetly. “She's been so instrumental in our business venture that we'd like to have her along for the celebration that will follow the . . . exchange.”

Armand gave her a knowing smile. “Why, Jacinta, but of course. Diva is always welcome during business dealings.” He paused. “She's practically one of the family.”

Huh. Getting the okay to bring Diva in on the exchange had been easy. A more suspicious person—such as Theresa—might have even said that getting permission had been
too
easy. But Jo
wasn't
suspicious, not where Diva was concerned.

“Then we'll see you at five,” Jo said.

She counted backward from ten to keep herself somewhere near a state of calm as she waited for Armand to get
into his BMW convertible and peel out of the driveway. As soon as the BMW disappeared down the street, Jo raced to the speakerphone.

She pressed the button that automatically dialed Uncle Sam's number and waited breathlessly for him to come on the line.

“Speak to me,” Uncle Sam greeted after only one ring.

“We're on!” Jo yelled. “Deploy the money, deploy the troops.” She was torn between jumping for joy and shaking with fright. “Your Spy Girls are going into battle at precisely five o'clock this afternoon.”

“Stand by,” Uncle Sam ordered her. “The Tower is on its way.”

Jo hung up the phone and collapsed on the sofa. Finally. The day she had been unconsciously anticipating for four years had arrived. At last Jo was going to claim justice for Judge Carreras. The man who actually pulled the trigger might remain free for the rest of his life, but thanks to Jo, a man just as bad was about to spend the rest of his life in lockdown.

Who ever said that revenge wasn't sweet?

•  •  •

By three o'clock in the afternoon Caylin had logged a good two hours in the window seat at the front of the mansion. The girls had paced nervously around the house all morning and afternoon, waiting, waiting, waiting for something to
happen.

Out of nowhere, a huge furniture truck pulled into the driveway. “Hark!” Caylin screamed to the Spy Girls.

“Who goes there?” Theresa yelled back. She and Jo were now sprinting from the kitchen to the front of the house.

“Our furniture has arrived,” Caylin announced excitedly. “And it looks like there's a lot of it.”

“Yee haw!” Jo yelled. “It's about time.” She paused. “I guess debutantes don't say ‘yee haw,' huh?”

“Who cares?” Caylin shouted. “The
furniture
is here. Finally!”

The girls rushed to the door and threw it open. “Welcome!” Theresa called. “The ergonomically correct desk chair goes in my room—right next to my laptop.”

A very tall, very familiar dark-haired woman stepped out of the cab of the truck. “Very funny, Theresa. I know
that you actually ordered the king-sized water bed.”

“Danielle!” The cry was delivered in chorus. Their guardian angel was dressed in navy blue coveralls and a baseball cap. She was definitely the prettiest furniture deliveryman that Caylin had ever seen.

Danielle Hall was a senior Tower agent who had been assigned to help the Spy Girls through the toughest parts of some of their missions. She was always just a phone call away, and Danielle's advice and support had been oh-so-valuable during the past few months. She also had the habit of showing up at precisely the moment when she was needed most—like now.

Danielle turned back toward the huge furniture truck. “Back her up to the door, Bernie!” she yelled.

The driver waved, then maneuvered the truck so that its back was as close to the front door of the mansion as possible. Caylin watched the proceedings, fascinated. This was The Tower at its most spy-licious.

Danielle handed Caylin the key to the back of the truck. “Will you do the honors, Miss Corinne?” she asked with a wink.

“But of course.” Caylin jogged to the back of the truck, inserted the key in its lock, and heaved the heavy metal door upward.

Instantly dozens of agents poured from the back of the truck into the front hall of the mansion. Many were obviously Tower agents, but others were Brazilian, shouting instructions at one another in rapid-fire Portuguese.

“Wow!” Jo exclaimed. “The commandos have arrived!”

As suddenly as it had come, the truck pulled away and disappeared down the street. Instead of furniture the Spy Girls had received a shipment of highly trained agents, a battery of high-tech surveillance equipment, and a metal briefcase stuffed with unmarked hundred-­dollar bills. Yeow . . . this really was the major leagues.

“Danielle, we had no idea you were coming to save the day,” Theresa exclaimed. “We would have prepared a special fairy godmother snack.”

Danielle laughed. “You girls are the ones who have to save the day. I'm just here for moral support.”

“Do we really need this many agents?” Caylin asked. She felt as if she were in a war bunker.

Danielle nodded. “We need extra men—and women—because of the international status of your mission. It's imperative that we have all safety, not to mention legal, potholes covered.”

“I think we could supply electricity to a small nation with the amount of stuff these guys are hauling around,” Jo commented. “I mean, really, who needs a laptop computer the size of a credit card?”

“I do!” Theresa yelled enthusiastically. “That way I could do my hacking even if I were locked into a small dark box.”

“If you're locked in a small dark box, there's going to be a lot more to worry about than checking your e-mail,” Caylin said.

Jo walked over to a gadget-filled trunk and peered inside. “Is any of this supercool spy paraphernalia for us?”

A tall, good-looking American Tower agent stepped up to the trunk. “We've got more toys than Santa at Christmastime,” he informed her.

Hmmm. Caylin had been digging the dudes in Rio, but there was nothing like an American guy who looked like
he had stepped off the cover of
Surfing Magazine
to get the blood flowing.

Each of the Spy Girls reached into the trunk and pulled out a new spy gadget. Theresa got a stun gun that from all outward appearances was a lipstick. Jo acquired a variation of the mascara cam—this camera was fitted into a breath mint.

“Just make sure you don't swallow,” the cute Tower dude advised.

“What's this?” Caylin asked, staring at what looked like an ordinary everyday ballpoint pen.

“That's a direct link to The Tower,” Cute Agent explained. “If you click the pen, an alarm will sound at The Tower headquarters in the United States. Once Uncle Sam hears that alarm, he'll place a person-to-person call to none other than the president of the US of A.”

Yikes. Caylin hoped she never had occasion to use the pen. She had no desire to create any kind of havoc in the White House.

“Listen up, Spy Chicks,” Danielle called. “It's wire time.”

The girls had been through this routine several times
before. Each Spy Girl lifted her arms and allowed a totally hot Tower agent to attach a tiny wire to her torso. They all knew the importance of the wires.

Inside the meeting with the Big Boss, the girls would be on their own. The agents would be waiting outside, ready to burst in and make their arrests once the girls had sufficient evidence on tape. They could also raid the place in the unfortunate event that the whole deal went sour and the Spy Girls were in imminent danger. If the agents lost their ability to hear what was going on inside the meeting—for whatever reason—the girls could kiss the mission good-bye.

“Do we know the meeting place?” Danielle asked, consulting her notes.

Caylin shook her head. “We don't even know the Big Boss's name, much less where the handover is going to occur.”

Danielle nodded. “That's too bad . . . but we'll manage. The second you get into that car, we'll be on your tail—from a distance, of course.”

“What happens if the driver figures out somebody is following us?” Theresa asked anxiously.

Danielle raised her eyebrows. “He won't.” Caylin shivered with anticipation. The sting was elaborate, but the agents seemed to know what they were doing. As long as she and her
compadres
upheld their end of the operation, all would go smoothly. She hoped.

Danielle glanced at her watch. “It's four forty-five,” she announced. “Showtime.”

•  •  •

Ding-dong. The doorbell rang at exactly five o'clock. ­Theresa touched the wire taped to her body one last time, her heart beating wildly.

“We'll be fine,” Caylin said.

“We'll be better than fine,” Jo corrected her. “We're going to kick some major drug-lord butt.”

Theresa nodded. They had been in tight situations before—and they had, indeed, kicked butt. “We look great, we feel great, and we have a metal briefcase filled with hundred-dollar bills.”

Jo laughed. “I couldn't have said it better myself.” She paused. “So why do I feel like I'm going to barf?”

Unfortunately for all of them, there was no time to run
to the nearest bathroom and throw up. As Danielle had put it so succinctly, this was showtime. Theresa opened the door and found herself face-to-face with the charming Armand.

“Good afternoon, lovely ladies. It is a glorious evening for business, no?” Armand walked into the foyer and bowed slightly from the waist.