If Looks Could Kill (5 page)

Jo planted her feet and took her best A-Rod batting stance—but instead of a pitcher, she faced another hitter. One with a real bat.

“C'mon, meat, show me the cheese!” Jo called.

The biker gunned the engine. The cycle lurched forward, gaining more speed. Jo held the club high. The rider held the bat higher. There was no way Jo could survive it. This was it. This Spy Girl had gone too far.

Jo wanted to close her eyes. But she couldn't.

It happened: impact.

But at the last second Jo crouched. The bat whizzed over her head, hitting nothing. Jo's club, however, hit home. She slammed it upward as the guy passed, catching him under the jaw. He flew off the back of the bike, his helmet spinning twenty feet in the air. He landed hard. The bat clattered. The helmet clunked down a second later. And the guy, bald head and all, lay there unconscious in front of them.

“Whoa,” whispered Theresa. “Home run.”

“Come on,” Jo urged, tugging Theresa's sleeve.

“Where?”

Jo pointed at the guy's bike, which had continued on for a few yards, then pitched over on its side. Theresa's eyes widened. “No way!”

“You want to stay with them?” Jo said, pointing to the now advancing bikers. “Be my guest.”

Such a scummy individual doesn't deserve such a fine motorcycle, anyway, she thought excitedly. I'm riding this beautiful machine all the way home.

Jo grabbed the handlebars and mounted the bike, muttering machine specs as she went: “The MRZ 669, German made, top street speed 188, equipped with the Floydian Model 2 motor cross tires. . . . T, get the lead out!”

Theresa stared at the bike revving beneath Jo, shaking her head. “I can't do this, Jo. I
can't
.”

Behind them the other bikes swooped in.

“Theresa.”

She reluctantly met Jo's stare.

“Trust me.”

Theresa glanced back at the approaching riders and hopped on behind Jo. “You're just lucky I don't have any other choice.”

“I hope there's enough luck for both of us,” Jo shouted above the revving engines. “Hang on!”

Jo peeled out, Theresa lurched, and the chase was on!

Lucien West stepped forward from the doorway and strode toward Caylin. He walked with total confidence: slowly, deliberately. As if to let whoever was there know that no matter what room he entered, it immediately became
his
room.

He wore an intricate mass of white robes, with a tan top robe that would have seemed silly on anyone else. But Lucien pulled it off. He looked almost regal: black hair cut close, coming to a pronounced widow's peak over a strong brow . . . blue eyes, deep-set but piercing, focused at all times on Caylin . . . smooth, close shave. His smile widened as he approached.

“Caylin,” he greeted her, enveloping her hand in both of his. His handshake was firm and warm. “Welcome to our sanctuary. I've heard so much about you that I feel we've already met.”

“Hello, Mr. West,” Caylin said breathlessly. “It's so nice to finally meet you. I've come such a long way.”

“Yes, we all have. But you're home now, Caylin.” Lucien's voice was deep, soothing. “I want you to feel as welcome here as you ever have anywhere.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You don't know how happy it makes me to hear that. I've been so . . . I dunno . . . lost, I guess.”

Lucien's expression turned to concern. He put a hand on Caylin's shoulder and guided her. “Walk with me, Caylin,” he said earnestly, slowly strolling around the perimeter of the temple. “I know how lost you must feel. I was, too. So lost. Every day faded into the next. I had no purpose. Everyone around me seemed determined to hold me back or bring me down to their level. It hardly seemed fair. Is that what you're feeling?”

Caylin nodded. “It's like a twenty-ton weight on my shoulders. It took all the courage I had just to find my way here.”

“Jenny says you're from Nebraska,” Lucien said, sounding sincerely interested.

“Yeah, Omaha.” She chuckled. “There's not a lot going on in Omaha.”

“I can imagine.”

Caylin gazed up into Lucien's face. His eyes locked on to hers and held them. Beautiful blue eyes. Crystal clear. Honest. Understanding. It was as if he truly wanted to know what was going on in her heart and soul. Caylin thought she was putting on a pretty good act. But if Lucien was acting . . . well, he deserved to be right up there with De Niro.

What if Lucien was exactly what he said he was? What if this whole Carruthers thing was just a case of mistaken identity?

“You see, Caylin,” Lucien said, holding her gaze, “it takes a long time to realize that where you stand on the planet really has nothing to do with where you are emotionally and spiritually.”

“I'm not sure I understand,” Caylin said.

“Well, someone who lives in Omaha who is perfectly happy with who they are probably thinks that it's the most
wonderful place on the planet.” He placed his hand against his chest. “Inside affects outside, you see?”

Caylin nodded. “I think so.”

Lucien smiled and placed his hands on Caylin's shoulders. His ice blue eyes were clearer than ever. Enveloping her.

“That's mostly what we do here, Caylin. The people who come to me are lost like you. But that doesn't mean they're worthless, or useless, or cast aside. It just means they're lost. And when you find yourself, you'll come to think of this place as home. You belong here, Caylin. I can tell. You definitely belong here with us. . . .”

Caylin stared into Lucien's eyes. She saw nothing there that hinted at ill will or evil or whatever Uncle Sam was accusing him of. Lucien did this because he cared. Caylin, at that moment, was sure of it.

His eyes were so beautiful. . . .

She couldn't help staring into them. Couldn't help listening to the calmness of his voice as he made everything seem so much better. The grounds were peaceful, the surrounding countryside beautiful and calming.

This place really is a utopia, Caylin thought.

And Lucien was the perfect guide to its spiritual treasures.

But that's why he's so good at what he does, she thought, suddenly feeling very tired. The jet lag and the bike ride were catching up with her. . . .

So good . . . so very, very good . . .

•  •  •

The alleys zipped by at a speed too terrifying to consider. Jo was too busy driving to look. And Theresa was too busy cringing to care.

“Are they still there?” Jo called.

“What?” Theresa shouted.

“Are they still there? I don't have mirrors!”

“I'm not looking!” Theresa's eyes were squeezed shut.

“You have to look!” Jo demanded.

Theresa shook her head. “No way!”

“Way! Just look, for crying out loud!”

Theresa was frozen, but she forced herself to glance behind them. She was convinced that any movement on her part would send the bike into a violent spin and kill the both of them. But nothing happened.

Until the samurai sword sliced down into the taillight of their bike!

The red plastic shattered, spilling out behind them. The swordsman—mere inches off their back end—raised the blade for another strike.

“Are they still there?” Jo called.

“Yeah, they're still there! Gun it!” Theresa screamed.

Jo hammered the throttle, and the samurai sword swished open air.

Theresa's panic suddenly turned to red-hot anger. She pulled closer to Jo and yelled, “I've had it with these animals! Get us out of here!”

“Just lean into the turns more,” Jo ordered. “This could get ugly.”

Theresa nodded and tried to concentrate on the road. But it wasn't a road. It was a back alley in the seediest part of a foreign city. Filled with crates, Dumpster containers, and cargo trucks hauling fish.

In other words, lots to hit.

The bike swerved between debris. Theresa's stomach churned. Jo must have been hoping to catch one of the
other riders in a mistake. But it didn't happen. They stayed a few feet off their tail, trying to maneuver into position for the killing strike.

“Time for something different,” Jo said.

She swerved suddenly. Theresa thought her heart would come up her throat. She clamped her arms around Jo and tried to lean with her. The back tire of the bike kicked out with the swerve, slamming into a large stack of crates. The whole thing came down with a crash.

Theresa glanced behind them just in time to see the biker with the steel baton go flying over his handlebars and into a mass of rusty trash cans.

“Got one!” Theresa cheered.

The other two bikers seemed to take it personally. They revved and closed the distance between them in seconds. Jo wove in and out of more garbage and obstacles, trying desperately to stay in front of the men in black. But this was their town. They knew the alleys.

The biker with the nunchaku closed in. His front tire brushed Theresa's right foot, flinging it out in an involuntary kick. Panic gripped her and she screamed. In a
terrifying instant she turned, saw the blur coming at her head, and lashed out in self-defense.

She screamed again. Blinding pain shot up her arm. Did the nunchaku hit her?

Then she saw it.

They hadn't hit her.
She'd caught them in mid-strike!

Her hand gripped the business end of the weapon without her even knowing it. Now she and Jo were towing the other biker. He yanked back, but Theresa held on, playing a vicious tug-of-war.

“What's happening?” Jo called out.

The alley widened, allowing the biker to move up alongside Jo and Theresa. Now the nunchaku were pulled tight between the two bikes. Theresa refused to let go, yanking back harder every time the bad guy tried to pull her off the bike. They wobbled dangerously on each tug.

“Are you crazy, T.—let go!” Jo ordered.

But Theresa couldn't. Her hand was locked on, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Suddenly Jo saw something up ahead. She immediately swerved into the other biker. He instinctively swerved
away, still holding the nunchaku tight between them like some unbreakable bridge.

Then he screamed, seeing what Jo had seen—a loading dock ramp.

Jo swerved away and the biker rolled up the ramp, letting go of the nunchaku just as he took to the air.

He flew off his bike, screaming, arms pin-wheeling, until the whole mess came down in a massive bin of dead fish.

The Spy Girls roared on, Jo laughing, Theresa holding the dangling nunchaku in her aching hand.

Before they could relax, the last biker—sword in hand—closed in.

“Lean!” Jo hollered, taking a wicked left turn. The bike skidded beneath them, nearly spilling them all over the pavement. But they held their balance and rolled on. Up ahead Theresa could see the harbor and water.

The sword slammed down into Theresa's seat—less than an inch from her back!

That was too close! A fresh surge of adrenaline went through her, and she lashed out with the nunchaku. They
clattered against the steel of the sword, causing no damage. Theresa got a good look at the rider, the folds of his leather, the sheen of his mirrored visor. Faceless. Evil.

He raised the sword again, prepared to cut the head right off her shoulders.

Fear gripped her.

She actually caught sight of the razor edge, the line of surgical steel that would cut right through her body.

It was almost like a strange hypnosis. . . . Theresa could see the blow coming but could do nothing to stop it.

Suddenly the bike lurched again, making yet another left, away from the swordsman.

But he kept going straight.

Right into the harbor.

The bike slammed into a thick cement pylon, sending the biker and his sword spinning out over the water. The bike exploded in a spray of flames and steel chunks. The guy flipped over and over again and finally splashed down.

“He's gone!” Theresa blurted out. “We got them all!”

“Yeeeeeehaaaaa!” Jo cried at the top of her lungs. She gunned the engine in exultation.

Warehouses whizzed by on one side, the harbor on the other. The exhilaration of victory gripped Theresa as they cheered and laughed . . .

. . . until a large panel truck pulled out in front of them!

The Spy Girls screamed.

There was no way to stop!

•  •  •

Caylin shook her head suddenly. Blinked. What just happened?

Lucien still stared at her. “Are you okay, Caylin?”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding, trying to clear her head. “It's just been a very long trip.”

“Yes, of course. You must be exhausted,” Lucien said in a kind voice.

Caylin smiled wanly. She couldn't believe what just happened to her. Lucien had tried to use some kind of hypnosis! Powerful stuff, too. Caylin Pike swooned for no man, no matter how (literally) hypnotic they were. She wasn't about to start now.

But still, she had to keep up a good front. She had to look like she was buying into his spiel—without truly
falling under his spell. She had to keep focused, no matter what.

“Now, Caylin,” Lucien said gently. “I understand you have something for me.”

Caylin smiled and nodded. “Yes, I do.” She went to her pack and pulled out five thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills. She handed them over to him—the first time that Lucien's eyes didn't lock on to hers.

Guess he sees something more interesting, she thought sarcastically.

“Sorry it's not wrapped or anything,” she said lamely. “It seems . . . I dunno, kind of tacky just handing you a pile of cash.”

“Nonsense,” Lucien assured her. “Donations can come in all forms, Caylin. And this particular donation is quite generous. Thank you.”

He somehow slid all five stacks of cash into his robe. Caylin wondered just how many inside pockets he had.