License to Thrill (3 page)

Jo shut her up with a little hug. “Hey, these things happen. I'm sorry I snapped at you like that. We made it and that's what counts.”

“Yeah—sometimes you just have to go with the flow,” Caylin said as she completed the zip-up job on Jo's bag with a fierce final tug. “When you get in a tense situation, your body
and
your mind work in mysterious ways. It's just that
yours
were acting a little
extra
mysteriously.”

“It'll never happen again, I swear!” Theresa crossed her heart and laughed. “Wow, you were so great, Jo. Your composure was so totally . . . composed.”

Grinning, Jo blew on her fingernails and buffed them on her shoulder with a flourish. “I don't know what came over me, but whatever it was, it worked.”

“You just used your womanly wiles on Ian,” Theresa joked. “Admit it.”

“Oh, I am
so
over him. ‘Miss Carreras.' ‘Thanks, luv.' ” Jo gagged. “He practically treated me like a
criminal
!
The only guy I'm concerned with at the moment is our limo driver.”

Theresa opened her bag and took out her DSLR camera; she often used the powerful telephoto lens as an impromptu, incognito telescope. She put the camera to her eye and scanned the crowd anxiously, her heart pounding when her lens lit on a sign reading Stevens. “I found him!” she exclaimed, pointing to a tiny, shadowy figure in the distance.

“Let's hear it for the girl with the bionic eyes,” Caylin cheered. “Come on!”

Her spirits back up and soaring, Theresa grabbed her bags and sprinted toward the limo driver. But an annoying voice in the back of her head kept reminding her of her little screwup in customs. When it comes time for us to really shine, she thought, am I going to be the one who spills the darn polish?

•  •  •

The second Jo sank down into the soft leather seat in the back of the limousine, the door shut, the engine roared to life, and the black privacy screen went up. “Privacy, anyone?” she quipped.

At the sound of Jo's voice the TV in the back of the limo flickered on.

“Whoa!” Theresa enthused, jumping to check out the setup. She pointed to a tiny patch on the speaker. “Voice recognition mike,” she explained. “Turns the whole shebang on.”

Uncle Sam's voice filled the back of the limo.

“You've made it past customs,” he intoned, as a surveillance tape of Caylin putting on her airhead act for Ian came on-screen. “Just barely, I might add.”

“How in the world did Uncle Sam manage that?” Caylin shrieked, her face flaming.

“No idea,” Theresa squeaked, clearly flabbergasted.

Jo's jaw dropped in disbelief. This spy stuff gets freakier every day, she realized. In fact, it's kinda creepy!

Caylin's image was replaced with a still of Buckingham Palace. “Welcome to London. Where you can shop till you drop at Harrods and Piccadilly Circus.”

Jo's eyes lit up with excitement as different shops were shown, rapid-fire, on-screen. “Oooh,” she breathed. “Maybe our mission is to masquerade as incurable shopaholics!”

That idea flew out the window as footage of a tall, ugly building began to roll. “This is the U.S. Embassy,” Uncle Sam went on. “You'll be infiltrating the embassy, ladies. The mission ahead is deadly serious. The fate of the world depends on you.”

Jo gulped. This was
not
quite what she had in mind for a maiden mission. She shot a glance at her partners, whose gazes were glued firmly to the thick limo carpet. We're all in this together, Jo thought, grabbing their hands in hers for strength. Theresa squeezed Jo's hand in response. Caylin met her gaze and nodded in agreement, as if she had read Jo's mind.

“Watch carefully,” Uncle Sam continued. “The next face you will see belongs to William Nicholson, the American ambassador to the U.K.”

The image of a ruggedly handsome man in his late fifties filled the screen. Caylin scooted up in her seat and narrowed her eyes as if she were drinking in every line on Nicholson's time-worn face.

“Nicholson is a former media mogul,” Uncle Sam told them. “Born in America, he graduated from Oxford and
soon gained ownership of several newspapers in the U.S. and U.K., as well as a British radio franchise and an American television network. He gave it all up for a life of politics—his countless media outlets and British education helped him earn an ambassadorship to the U.K. The next face you see belongs to his son, Jonathon.”

Theresa gulped.

Caylin gasped.

Jo grinned. The tall, dark, and handsome image that was now gracing the screen had cheekbones for years, shoulders for miles, and thick, dark eyelashes for days. Jonathon Nicholson's brown eyes seemed to gaze lovingly into Jo's right through the TV, and the glow coming off his Colgate smile was most certainly
not
provided by electricity. Jo rubbed her hands together in anticipation of having a superfox like Jonathon working on the Spy Girls' side—or better yet, right by her-and-
only
-her side.

“Jonathon Nicholson is nineteen years old,” Uncle Sam began, his tone ominous. “Born and raised in America, he, like his father, is being schooled at Oxford. However, last week Jonathon took leave from his studies with no
explanation, winding up in the service of his father at the embassy. The Tower has reason to believe this event is linked to the murder of Special Agent Frank Devaroux, who was found dead on the embassy grounds almost simultaneously.”

Jo's giddy excitement whooshed out of her like air out of a balloon. Her blood chilled instantly.

“Dead?” Theresa squealed.

“Jonathon is our primary suspect,” Uncle Sam announced.

“But look at that gorgeous face,” Caylin lamented. “How could Jonathon possibly be involved with icing an agent?”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Jo said flatly. The man who had killed her father might have looked like James Dean, but he had the heart of Charles Manson. Correction, Jo thought. He had no heart at all.

As Jonathon's picture was replaced by a hazy one of a smiling Special Agent Devaroux, Jo instantly wished she could take back all the hormonally hysterical thoughts she'd had about the creep who had more than likely killed him. I bet Agent Devaroux never knew what hit him, Jo
thought, an image of her father's face flashing in her mind. Well, once I set my sights on Jonathon Nicholson, he'll never know, either!

•  •  •

Caylin studied the face of Special Agent Devaroux, her heart pumping—with excitement or dread, she couldn't tell. But she ignored her heartbeat and perked up her ears when Uncle Sam continued his narration.

“After the Soviet Union broke up, a great number of nuclear warheads went unaccounted for,” he began. “A rumor has been floating around that a complete list of these purloined nuclear weapons—along with their exact locations—exists and has been hidden away somewhere in Europe. Special Agent Devaroux had narrowed the location down to the U.S. Embassy in London, but as far as we know, he got no further.”

“I'll say,” Theresa whispered.

“The Tower has reason to believe that Jonathon Nicholson is working with terrorist forces to acquire this list,” Uncle Sam went on. “The timing of Devaroux's death, so close to Jonathon's sudden arrival at the embassy, only
serves to bolster this belief. If Jonathon and his terrorist allies are successful, the list could be used to jeopardize world safety. That is why the three of you are assigned to gather information about Jonathon's daily activities, his partners in crime, and what you believe to be his motivations and report back with them on a daily basis.”

As Jonathon's picture reappeared on-screen, Caylin whistled. “For a bad guy he sure is looking
gooooood 
!”

“He's hotter than Arizona in July,” Theresa agreed, fanning herself. “You should have no problem tailing
him
, Jo,” she joked. To Caylin's utter surprise, Jo remained silent and tight-lipped. She was about to check Jo for a pulse when Uncle Sam's voice-over started again.

“From this moment forward,” he said gravely, “you will learn things on a need-to-know basis. You'll soon arrive at the Ritz hotel on Piccadilly. Once there, check in under the name Camilla Stevens. The desk staff has been prepped to receive you and take you immediately to your suite, which will serve as your base of operations for the duration of your mission. You'll find further information in the suite's safe, combination thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six.”

“Barbie's measurements!” Theresa joked as Jo scribbled the info on her hand.

The screen went black, sending Caylin into a total adrenaline rush. Now that she knew the scoop, she felt light-headed enough to float straight through the limo's sunroof. “This is it,” she whispered, her eyes shining with joy as she gazed at her two partners—and friends—for life. “It's finally happening. We're real Spy Girls now!”

“Whoa, this is heaven!” Jo exclaimed as she entered the busy lobby of the Ritz. Her jaw dropped as she took in the thick Turkish carpets, the ornate chandeliers, the bouquets of flowers that seemed to be everywhere.

Caylin twirled around gleefully. “I'll say.”

“It sure beats Motel Six,” joked Theresa, smirking. “Okay, so what's the name we're supposed to check in under?”

“I wrote it on my hand—hold on,” Jo said, dropping her luggage and bringing her palm to her face. “It's—oh no! My suitcase handle must have rubbed it off. I can't read
what
it says.”

Caylin moaned. “I remember the Stevens part, but that's it. Now what are we supposed to do?”

“Don't panic,” Theresa said calmly. “Let's just think for a second. Was it Clarissa?”

“The name definitely started with a
C
. And I think it had something to do with Prince Charles.” Caylin squinted. “What's his wife's name? Carlotta?”

“Camilla!” Jo said triumphantly.

“You rock,” Theresa cheered as she followed Jo to the front desk. “Let's hope our room does as well.”

While Jo told the front desk clerk their alias, Theresa held her breath and crossed her fingers behind her back for good luck.

It must have worked because they were all given card keys with no hassles despite the fact that they had no IDs whatsoever bearing the name of Camilla Stevens. Uncle Sam obviously has our back, Theresa thought thankfully, her heart rate slowing down to normal.

As the porter was called to fetch their bags Theresa gazed around the opulent lobby. She felt as if she were in one bigger-than-life dream. Here she was in London at the swankiest hotel in town, representing the U.S. government! It seemed too good to be true. So good that she floated all the way to the elevator, nearly ramming into a woman who was entering at the same time.

“Oops, sorry,” she said, giving the lady an apologetic grin.

The woman gave her a cold smile and a brisk nod. Something in her eyes sent shivers up Theresa's spine. The whole way up to the fourteenth floor the woman seemed to be watching her every move. Theresa didn't like that one bit. She took note of the woman's features just in case. Early thirties. Tall and thin. Short, dark hair. Porcelain skin. Full lips—probably collagen enhanced. Looked like she could have played the vixen on
Pretty Little Liars
or something.

The woman's cold, dead stare was giving Theresa the definite creeps. How can I wipe that look off her face? she wondered, suddenly getting an idea. Still holding her gaze, Theresa casually dropped her not-so-light backpack right on the woman's foot. Theresa's blood chilled instantly—the woman's gaze was unwavering and unchanged. She didn't blink; she didn't move. After a few unbearable seconds Theresa shamefacedly picked up her backpack and stared straight ahead. This woman was
definitely
bad news.

As they reached the fourteenth floor the woman gave them one last searching gaze as they exited the elevator. After the doors closed, Theresa waved Jo and Caylin back for a miniconference while the porter continued on toward 1423. “Did you guys notice that short-haired chick?” she whispered. “She was totally evil.”

“Well, I
did
like her hair,” Jo said lightly. “I wish I could pull off the short-hair look. It's so glam.”

“Hardly!” Theresa wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Anyway, her do is the least of my concerns. My gut tells me she's up to no good.”

•  •  •

Caylin's heart raced as she set foot in 1423, the
sweetest
suite she had ever seen. “Not too shabby,” she murmured with a satisfied nod. Growing up the child of wealthy, globe-trotting parents, Caylin was used to staying at five-star hotels. But staying in one without parental supervision felt way beyond supercool.

Jo shrieked with delight “Whoa, can we say
superglam
?” She ran over to the baby grand in the middle of the room and began bashing out “Chopsticks.”

“Check out the sound system!” Theresa cried, eyeing the speakers mounted discreetly in the ceiling.

“Glad it meets your approval,” the porter said as he began leading Caylin on a tour of the three-bedroom suite. He started with the three bedrooms, each door adorned with a sign displaying each of their names. The bedrooms were amazing—with huge, pillow-covered four-poster beds, beautiful oak dressers, candles everywhere, TVs, and antique desks complete with personal phones and laptop computers.

Theresa skipped merrily into her bedroom. “I could
definitely
call this place home,” she breathed.

“I'll say,” Caylin agreed. She'd secretly had nightmares of staying in some roach-infested dump of a hostel during their mission, so these surroundings were all the more welcome. Although Caylin was all for roughing it if necessary, part of her still loved the plush life.