If Looks Could Kill (11 page)

“That's like winning the lame half of
The Price Is Right
showcase. But it'll have to do.” Theresa rubbed her chin. “Still, something doesn't add up.”

“What's that?”

“Let's get out of here and I'll tell you. We're sitting ducks up here.” Theresa turned to the secret door, but it was just a blank wall. “Oh no.”

Panic gripped Jo as the two of them ran their hands over the rough surface, trying to slip into the cracks where the door met the wall.

It was no use.

There was no latch on this side.

They were trapped!

•  •  •

Finishing her Tower training was easy. The triathlon in Greece, that was easy, too. And Caylin's final test for her black belt? The moves were so natural to her that that had been the easiest challenge of all.

So was slipping out of the dorm. All she'd needed was a little speed, a little stealth maneuvering, and the ability to hide around corners as baldies patrolled the hallways.

Now came the hard part.

Caylin couldn't get an exact time (they took her watch), but it had to be around one or two in the morning. Everyone was asleep. From what she could see, there were no guards roaming the compound.

But there were plenty of cameras.

She had spent most of the afternoon in the compound with Jenny and her cronies. Plenty of time to note the location of each camera. And how long it took to make its mechanical sweep.

Now all she had to do was run it like an obstacle course. She would wait for the camera to turn away, then dart to the next bit of cover.

Simple, right?

Caylin hoped so.

She fixed on the first camera, and after a moment sprinted across the grass to a pair of trees. There she waited.

She wished she had something other than her bright whites to wear. But maybe that was the point. They were easy for the baldies to spot. There was never any question who wore them. Oh, well, it wasn't like she had a choice.

Caylin had grown quite sick of sitting around in her room. No books. No music. No gym. It was prison for her—and she'd only been there for twenty-four hours! She tried to imagine what it would be like to actually
live
there. Breakdown time!

Now that she had lost her phone, she figured it was time to get a little more aggressive. She had to do some serious snooping. She'd never find anything out during the light of day. There were too many peace-and-love activities, and she'd had more than enough of that.

The next camera turned away.

Caylin bolted, covering the distance to the next group of trees in seconds.

The next camera was high above her, attached to the main temple. That would be the tricky one—it didn't move. It was aimed along the side of the building, toward the rear. Which was exactly where Caylin was going. She would
have to take the chance that no one was looking at that monitor at that moment. Because she really didn't have an excuse if she got caught this time.

No boyfriend. No searching for the bathroom. No taking a midnight stroll. She'd be as busted as busted can be.

Oh, well, better busted than bored, she figured.

She took a deep breath. Willed whoever was watching to look away.

And she ran.

The moon cast a long shadow on that side of the temple, helping her hide. Would it be enough? It had to be.

Her legs pumped hard. The grass passed beneath her, and her hair whipped back from her face. She felt like she was going a hundred miles an hour. But she was still so slow, so slow.

They had to see her.

A guard dozing on a bench. The security guy checking the cameras. Lucien gazing out his beautiful windows. Someone.

Finally Caylin reached the spot where she'd seen the Range Rovers that day. She slipped around the corner of
the temple and plastered herself against the wall. Her breathing was controlled, steady. The adrenaline was exhilarating.

Now
this
is what I call inner peace! she thought.

She held her breath for a few seconds, listening.

Nothing.

Looks like I pulled it off. For now . . .

She padded across the gravel to the steel double doors at the back of the temple and pulled on the large handle. Locked, naturally.

Caylin reached up and produced the last piece of hardware she had. The only thing she could hide from Jenny and the vulture who took all her stuff—a bobby pin.

She hoped she could do it. Jo had done it once, in a wine cellar in Prague, of all places. Over time, it became a kind of competition between the Spy Girls. Jo was the master. Even Theresa could do it if her life depended on it.

But Caylin had never been able to pull it off.

Now it counted. Now it was for real.

“Here goes nothing,” she whispered.

Caylin bent the pin like she was supposed to. She slid
it into the lock. Jiggled it. Pushed it. Jiggled it. Tried to turn it but couldn't. She jiggled it some more.

Something clicked.

A wave of hope swept through her. She tried to turn the pin like a key.

It didn't budge.

Caylin sighed. Wiped her hands on her pants. Told herself to take her time, even though she knew that was the one thing she
couldn't
do. How long until a guard strolled by?

She jiggled it again. Wiggled, jiggled, squiggled—nothing worked.

Finally she took a deep breath. Held it. Closed her eyes. And slid the pin into the lock again. Gave it a gentle tug. Then twisted.

The pin turned!

The lock clicked aside, and the door opened!

Caylin beamed in triumph. Wait until the others heard about that! Picked a lock on a field mission! She was a true spy now!

She slipped through the door and quietly closed it
behind her, then slid the lucky bobby pin back into her hair, vowing never to go anywhere without it.

Caylin took a quick look around. She was in a brick hallway. A short flight of concrete stairs ran down in front of her. Fluorescent lights were mounted in the walls every ten feet. Very plain, compared to the Taj upstairs.

Caylin snuck down the stairs and made her way along a corridor. Turned right. Turned left. She passed a series of doorways. The chambers were mostly empty and dim, save for some tables and folding chairs. The air smelled like a bad frat house cigar.

She paused before one doorway. A light shone out into the hall. Someone hummed inside.

Uh-oh, Caylin thought nervously. We've made contact. Intelligent life exists in the basement.

Slowly, carefully, she dared a peek around the corner.

A shaved head sat with his back to her, puffing a cigar. But he wasn't wearing his robes. He wore a tank top and boxer shorts with big red hearts on them. A bunch of empty beer cans were stacked in a pyramid in front of him. Well-worn playing cards covered the table—a half-finished game
of solitaire. A rack of poker chips sat to his left. The song he hummed was “What Makes You Beautiful,” of all things.

He was cleaning a nine-millimeter pistol with a soiled rag. Two full magazines were within reach.

Some holy man, Caylin thought. Just as she suspected. They packed heat. She hadn't exactly expected the valentine undies, though.

Caylin tiptoed across the doorway and moved on.

She took a left and headed down another corridor. Actually, Caylin had no idea where she was going. All she knew was that she was somewhere underneath the main temple. Getting lost didn't really worry her—this maze had to open up
somewhere.
Getting caught, however, did worry her.

That's the real trick, isn't it? she thought as her slippered feet slid along the tile floor.

This particular hallway dead-ended at a steel door. When Caylin put her ear to it and listened, she heard nothing. The metal of the knob was cold and smooth on her palm—and turned easily.

She opened the door and peeked in.

Pitch-black.

She felt the wall inside and found a light switch. But she slipped in and shut the door before flipping it on.

Caylin turned, and when she did, her mouth dropped open.

Holy college tuition, Batman, she thought.

The room was full of cash. Large bills, small bills, stacked, piled, bagged, and more. The far wall was literally a wall of money. The bundles were held together by bank bands and rubber bands. The stacks in turn were held together by plastic wrap. These cash “cubes” were about a foot square. Caylin figured there had to be at least fifty of them against the far wall alone. That didn't include the unwrapped millions all around her. A table held a counting machine and an adding machine big enough for Donald Trump's accountant. And in the corner to her left?

A big box filled with brand-new duffel bags—not even out of the wrapper yet.

“Whoa,” she whispered.

There was enough cash here to finance a three-week Spy Girl shopping spree across London, Paris, and Milan!

So that's what was in the duffel bags. These cash cubes. It looked like they could fit about three cubes per bag. Which meant that they threw twelve cubes of cash in the back of those Range Rovers that afternoon.

Where was it going? And where did it come from?

Caylin knew that there was no way that much pure American currency could come from the cult members, as rich as they were. The short stack she handed over to Lucien was a cool ten grand of Tower money, and that was just a drop in the bucket compared to what was here.

This was huge. She had to find a way to contact the Spy Girls. Somehow. There must be some kind of communication device in Lucien's penthouse. If she could con her way up there again . . . Lucien seemed to take a shine to her. . . . Maybe she could sneak a call—

Something pressed against the back of her neck. The tiny hairs stood up around it.

Caylin gulped, knowing immediately what the object was from her training.

A gun barrel.

“Hiya, toots,” came a gruff, shaved-headed voice.

“Don't tell me.” Jo moaned, trying to block out the wails of the sewing machines below them.

“Okay, I won't,” Theresa promised, running her hand along the door. “But we're trapped.”

“I told you not to tell me!” Jo hissed.

“Since when do I listen to you?” Theresa said. “We have to get off this platform before one of the guards sees us.”

“Or someone else comes through the secret door,” Jo added, scanning the sweatshop below for a miracle. “What are the options?”

“Only one, Jo, and you know it,” Theresa said, all business. “You see that dark archway at the far end of the shop?”

Jo squinted through the smoky air. There it was—a dark doorway in the very far wall. Jo gulped. They would have to sneak the length of the entire place to get there. It
might as well have been a hundred miles across whoopie cushions.

Great, Jo thought. Just great.

“Yeah, I see it,” she replied glumly. “But I don't believe it. Not for a second.”

“We can do it,” Theresa assured her.

“No, we can't.”

“Jo, take a listen,” Theresa ordered, nudging her. “We don't have to be quiet. They'll never hear us with all this racket. All we have to do is sneak around those carts with the clothes piled high. Invincible, invulnerable, invisible, remember?”

“You forgot inconceivable,” Jo said, her eyes wide.

“Well, I'm going for it,” Theresa said, reclipping her hair at the back of her head in preparation. “If we stay up here, we're definitely busted. By my count, there's six guards. They're lazy and scummy, and the last thing they'll expect to see is a couple of hot little spies running through their sweatshop. Let's go. On three.”

“I hate this,” Jo said angrily, checking the laces on her shoes. “And by osmosis I have come to hate you.”

“Hate me later, Jo,” Theresa said with a reassuring smile. “When we're sipping Earl Gray back at the flat.”

Jo rolled her eyes. “On three,” she replied, resigned.

Theresa nodded. “Three.”

Then she started down the stairs.

“Hey!” Jo exclaimed. “Where's one and two?”

She moved quickly after Theresa, heart pounding, trying desperately to keep below the level of the railing. She figured their black forms would blend with the rusty black steel of the stairwell. Well, she
hoped
they did.

Suddenly Jo stumbled. Her stomach lurched into her throat as the long flight of steps rushed up to her.

She clawed for the railing, but it was too late.

Her arms pinwheeled helplessly and she pitched forward!

•  •  •

Caylin took a long, deep breath as Luscious Lucien West entered the cash room with two more shaved heads. He was dressed in full robes and looked relaxed and refreshed. His hair was perfect.

Does the man sleep? Caylin wondered.

He took one look at the guard who had found Caylin—the soiled-tank-top-and-valentine-boxers guy. “Good work, Lou. Go get some clothes on, will you?”

“Sure ting, boss,” Lou replied. “Too much beauty'll burn yer eyes, right?”

“You're a charming man, Lou,” Lucien said, his eyes boring into Caylin.

“Tanks, boss.” He left.

“Well, well, well.” Lucien shook his head. “Beautiful Caylin. You have no idea how disappointed I am to find you here.”

“You have no idea how happy I am to disappoint you,” Caylin replied, relieved to finally drop the simpering student act.

“A sharp wit to go with your charm,” he replied with a smile. “What a waste. I thought we were becoming good friends.” He raised her chin with his finger and looked into her eyes. “
Very
good friends.”

Caylin yanked her chin out of his grip. “Once again, happy to disappoint you, Lucien. Or should I call you Carruthers?”

Caylin caught a glimpse of alarm on Lucien's face. But that's all it was—a glimpse. He ignored her accusation. “I suppose it's useless to ask what exactly you are doing down here?”