Dial (2 page)

Pop. Pop.

She whirled around and screamed.

A man had placed a gun to her father's head and pulled the trigger. Two terrible shots that changed Josefina's life
forever. As she rushed to her dying father's side, his last words echoed through her mind. Someday she would make a difference. Someday.

•  •  •

“Jo? Are you okay?” Theresa's soft voice broke through Jo's tortured memories, and her eyes fluttered open.

“Yeah, I was just . . . remembering.” She was surprised to see that tears were falling onto the legs of her jeans. Jo hadn't even realized that she was crying.

“We know this is going to be tough for you,” Caylin said.

Jo dried the tears from her cheeks as sadness was replaced with anger. “I still can't believe that the man who shot my father never went to jail.”

Theresa shook her head in sympathy. “I don't understand how the defense claimed there was a lack of evidence. Somebody must have paid off an official.”

Jo shrugged. “Who knows?” She tried not to dwell on the details of the investigation surrounding her father's murder. In fact, she had blocked out most of the time immediately following that horrible morning. She simply
couldn't deal with the injustice that had allowed her father's killer to go free.

“But the police were positive that your father's murder was connected to the trial of a drug lord,” Theresa said. “Which probably means this mission is going to be extra hard on you.”

Jo nodded. She knew firsthand how ruthless the drug trade was. The people who got rich selling white powder didn't care how many lives they destroyed. As long as they had their fancy cars and mansions, they were happy.

“I just have a bad feeling about going to Rio,” Jo admitted to her friends. “We've been in over our heads before . . . but this is different.”

“Theresa and I won't leave your side for a moment,” Caylin said reassuringly. “Besides, we may fly to Brazil and discover that the informant's information is no good.”

Theresa nodded. “Yeah, we could be on a plane heading back to The Tower two days from now.”

“I have to confess that there's a part of me that hopes this trip
doesn't
pan out,” Jo said softly. “As much as I despise everything having anything to do with drugs, I
also have a feeling that this whole mission is going to be an emotional roller coaster.”

“That's not the Jo I know,” Caylin answered. “You're usually the first one of us who's ready to risk anything to fight the bad guys.”

Caylin was right. Jo remembered the steely resolve she had felt in Uncle Sam's office. This was an important mission. Jo couldn't allow her personal history to get in the way.

“We'll be with you every step of the way,” Theresa reminded her. “The three of us will get through this mission together.”

Jo smiled. Bonding with Theresa and Caylin had been the best part of her new life as a spy for The Tower. They filled a place in her life that had been emptied when her father was killed. They made her feel safe and secure—no matter how dire any given situation seemed on the surface.

“You guys are right on,” Jo said. “If it turns out that the gray-haired guy is for real, then I'll fight with everything I've got to put this drug lord where he belongs—in memory of my dad.”

“He would have been so proud of you, Jo.” Theresa plopped down next to Jo and threw an arm around her shoulders. “I'm sure he'll be watching over us while we're in Brazil.”

Jo took a deep, calming breath. From this moment forward, she was going to put her all into this mission. For her father. For justice.

“Enough gloom and doom,” Jo announced suddenly, bouncing up from the bed. “Life is for the living!”

Caylin shoved her suitcase into the corner. “You said it, Spy Girl. Let's do something fun—preferably an activity that doesn't involve packing.”

Jo hooked up her iPod to the stereo and scrolled through her playlists. “All right,
chiquitas.
It's time you learned how to samba!”

Theresa stood up, kicking aside a pile of clothes to make room. “Me, dancing?” She laughed. “Now
this
is going to be dangerous!”

“I think I'm going to like this mission more than I expected,” Jo commented the next afternoon. “The guys in Rio simply define the word
hot
.”

Theresa surveyed the crowded airport over the rims of her large black sunglasses—part of the glam-girl disguise she had been assigned back at The Tower. “I don't like to encourage obsession over testosterone, but you're right.”

Caylin pulled a tube of lipstick out of her leopard-print handbag. “Anyone else care for a touch-up? You never know when Mr. Wonderful is going to appear.”

“There will be plenty of time to give each other makeovers later,” Theresa said. “Right now, let's concentrate on finding our headquarters.”

“I know
Theresa
is uptight, but does ‘Trixie' ever let
her hair down?” Jo asked, wiggling her eyebrows underneath the wide brim of an orange straw hat.

Theresa groaned. She wasn't thrilled with her latest alias. Who was going to take a girl named Trixie seriously? “Listen,
Jacinta,
I'm still Theresa underneath this thousand-­dollar outfit.”

“Personally, I
like
being Corinne, wealthy New York debutante,” Caylin chirped. “It's a trip. And yet not too far from the truth.”

“Ha ha.” Theresa adjusted the rhinestone-studded collar of her jacket. During the past few months she had gotten used to doing the changing-skins thang. The Tower insisted the three Spy Girls use different disguises for each mission—still, she missed her old khakis and T-shirts. “Can't I be a poor, badly dressed deb?” Theresa lamented.

Caylin shook her head. “Poor debutantes aren't interested in pouring tens of thousands of dollars into drugs to take back to the United States.”

“Oh. Right.” Faking an interest in “getting into the
business” was going to be tough, but she had to do what she had to do. “So, are we going to figure out where we're going, or are we going to stand around here and talk fashion all day?”

Jo glanced at the electronic organizer that held the girls' immediate instructions. “Our wheels should be right outside this door.” She pointed left.

The girls walked out of the airport and into the fading Brazilian sunlight. The air was warm and moist, tropical. Theresa had heard about Rio's famous Carnival season, and she could see that this was the perfect place for extended celebration. People streamed across the airport sidewalks dressed in bright clothes, laughing and greeting one another with hugs and kisses.

“Hello, babe mobile!” Jo shouted. “I think
that
pretty little thing is our ride for the next few days.”

“Nice!” Caylin yelled, running toward the black Alfa Romeo that Jo had discovered. “I think I'm
really
going to like being a wealthy New York debutante.”

“Give me a black Alfa Romeo and a fabulous new wardrobe, and I'll curtsy for as many stuffed shirts as you want
me to,” Jo agreed. She slid the key she had been handed at their final Tower briefing into the driver's-side door of the Alfa Romeo. “Score. It's ours.”

Theresa placed her laptop in the tiny backseat of the Alfa Romeo and climbed inside. “It's a good thing Uncle Sam called our room and said we didn't need to worry about packing much. I don't think we could fit more than one small garment bag in this thing.”

Caylin got into the car and slammed the door shut. “I've never really pictured myself as a Euro-flash kind of chick before, but I think I could get used to this.”

“Do we have the address?” Theresa asked.

Jo pushed a red flashing button on the dashboard of the Alfa Romeo. Instantly an electronic map of Rio appeared on a miniature screen. “Check.”

“Then let's hit it,” Caylin said. “If this is our car, I can't wait to get a look at our pad.”

Jo twisted her black hair up into a topknot and revved the engine. “Home, James!” She put the Alfa Romeo in gear and peeled out of the Rio airport with her usual dramatic flair.

For the next half hour Theresa relaxed against the Alfa Romeo's black leather seats as Jo navigated the car through the streets of Rio. Despite her semi-nervous breakdown the night before, Jo seemed to have rallied. Thank goodness for that. Since Jo was the only one of the three teens who could speak Portuguese, it was imperative that she be in top form. Not that Theresa had entertained doubts about Jo's ability to rise to the occasion. The girl had guts coming out of her nose.

“Okay, girls,” Jo announced finally, slamming on the brakes of the Alfa Romeo. “Four-fourteen Hacienda Drive. Home sweet home.”

Theresa opened her eyes and looked out the window. “I thought we were staying at a house! This place is a hotel.”

Caylin laughed. “Wrong, my friend.
This
is the kind of place three footloose and oh-so-fancy-free debs rent for a stint in South America.”

Theresa whistled softly. The house wasn't a house. It was a bona fide mansion. And it was pink. In front of the place was a huge circular drive and a large fountain. “I feel like Cinderella at the big ball. What happens at midnight?”

Jo switched off the engine.
Vámonos,
Spy Girls. Our mansion awaits.”

“We can look at our new clothes and practice acting vapid,” Caylin said as she opened the passenger-side door. “Like, hi, I'm, like, Corinne, and I, like, love to shop and go sailing on my million-dollar yacht.”

“Hey, this is going to be a piece of cake,” Jo said. “All we have to do is leave our brains in the walk-in closet.”

Theresa climbed out of the Alfa Romeo and followed her friends toward the ten-foot-high front doors. Whether their personas were vapid or not, this was going to be one mission to put in the record book.

“Rio, here we come,” she murmured. “Ready or not.”

•  •  •

Remember the mission. Remember the mission. Jo repeated the mantra to herself again and again as she applied yet one more layer of black mascara to her long eyelashes. She was in a white marble bathroom, wearing a five-­thousand-dollar beaded designer dress. A week ago those two facts would have added up to heaven on earth in her mind.

But Jo couldn't shake the foreboding that had descended upon her as she, Caylin, and Theresa had explored their decked-out deb den. Yes, their over-the-top house had been outfitted by The Tower in order to provide them with an airtight cover story. But Jo knew that there were many other mansions in Rio that were even more elaborately decorated. And each piece of avant-garde furniture had been paid for in cash—cash earned from selling drugs. The notion made her nauseous.

A tap on the door interrupted Jo's gloomy interior monologue. “Hey,
Jacinta,
can we invade your private space?” Caylin called.

Jo set down her mascara wand and pasted a fake smile on her face. “Yeah,
entre.”

The door opened, and Theresa tottered into the bathroom, wearing a pair of five-inch stiletto heels. “I don't know how much help I'm going to be tracking down our mystery informant if I trip and break my ankle on these things,” she moaned. “Don't debs ever wear, like, high-tops?”

Caylin perched on the edge of the sunken marble
bathtub and regarded her own rhinestone-covered high heels. “I've worn some tootsie tighteners in my day, but these are ridiculous. Is Uncle Sam trying to torture us or something?”

Jo turned from the mirror. “Hey, you guys are supposed to be wearing happy faces to prevent me from sinking into some kind of posttraumatic stress syndrome attack. Remember?”

“Oh yeah,” Theresa said, readjusting the strap of her shoe. “I guess I'm just feeling a little bit nervous about pulling this whole thing off.”

“If anyone guesses that we're not who we claim to be, we'll end up with our throats slashed faster than you can say ‘Spy Girl to the rescue,' ” Caylin agreed.

“Gee, thanks for the news flash.” Jo headed out of the bathroom, Theresa and Caylin trailing behind.

“Seriously, Jo, how are you holding up?” Theresa asked as they entered the large master bedroom, where Jo had set up camp. “You look a little . . .”

“Pale,” Caylin finished. “Do you feel all right?”

“Physically, I'm fine. Mentally . . . I've had better
moments.” Jo pulled a tiny sequined handbag out of her enormous closet.

She was usually totally pumped at times like this. The adrenaline would flow through her veins as she prepared for a mission, always expecting the unexpected. But tonight she was aware only of a vague sense of dread and the fact that a clump of mascara had wedged itself in the corner of her left eyelid.

Theresa paced back and forth across the lush green wall-to-wall carpeting that covered Jo's bedroom. “It's imperative that we all put aside our doubts,” she said, stopping midstride. “We have to face tonight like it's any other night.”

“Right,” Caylin agreed. “If we don't force ourselves to rev up, this night is going to be a disaster.”

There was no arguing the wisdom of Theresa and ­Caylin's words. Jo knew that her job allowed little room for excess emotional baggage. “I'll come through, Spy Chicks,” she promised.

“We know you will,” Caylin said. “You never have to doubt our faith in you.”

“On that note, I think we need to get in a bit more
dance practice before we descend upon El Centro,” ­Theresa exclaimed. “Let's get ready to sambaaaa!”

Theresa turned on the stereo and tuned the radio in to a Brazilian salsa station. As the fast-paced music played, Jo demonstrated the groove for Theresa and Caylin. The heaviness she had felt earlier evaporated as Jo watched her friends struggling with the new dance steps.