Live and Let Spy (13 page)

Just in case.

“He's descending to fourteen thousand feet for the jump now,” Ewan announced. “Let's get into our gear, shall we?”

“Sure,” Jo said, trying to sound brave. But she strapped herself in with shaking hands.

When Ewan studied his pack before putting it on, Jo panicked. Did he realize she made the switch?

“You know how you're always saying you love how Anka dances?” Ewan asked in an overly nonchalant tone as he adjusted the pack on his back.

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering why you mention her so much.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. She secured her buckles, not meeting his gaze.

“Look, I
know
, okay?” he spat, his voice getting lower.

“You know what?” Jo asked, her mind spinning. That I'm a Spy Girl, she mused, or that I know he's dating Anka, or that I know Anka's an impostor, or that I know he plans to kill Karkovic?

“That you're living with someone who's been trailing Anka,” he said accusingly.

“What?”

“And I know you copied the trade-pact memo,” he grumbled. “Whatever it is you're after . . . you won't get it!”

The low, angry note in his voice triggered a memory—the taped phone conversation with von Strauss! It was
Ewan's
voice all along! He really was in on it!

Jo gasped. “You're the guy who—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Ewan lunged for her. Putting her self-defense training into play, she tried to use Ewan's momentum to roll backward and throw him over her. But the fat parachute on her back prevented the move.

They both hit the floor with a thud.

“Let me go!” she screamed, rolling to the side.

“Not on your life,” he growled. He pulled her back and pinned her to the ground. “Prague is beautiful from this height. We'll jump together, Selma. You'll just love it . . . until I let you drop without a parachute.”

“You mean
this
parachute?” Jo replied, yanking the cord that dangled from his pack.

Bellowing and cursing, Ewan disappeared under a sea of white nylon.

Jo struggled to her feet and lunged for the side door.

She fought to unlatch it. Growling, she yanked on the handle as hard as she could. It barely budged. Adrenaline coursed through her veins like hot lava, making every movement seem as if it were in slow motion.

Ewan's hands clamped around her ankles. He jerked his arms back, trying to bring her down.

“You're not going anywhere!” he cried.

“Is that what you told Anka Perdova?” she yelled back. She kicked his head as hard as she could, feeling a gratifying impact.

He groaned and loosened his grip.

With her last ounces of desperate strength Jo wrenched the door handle one final time and slammed all her weight against it.

It gave way.

The handle was torn from her grasp as a rock-solid wall of wind slammed her face. The air was sucked from her lungs. Her body was lifted in the air. Her stomach rolled.

Jo hurtled toward the earth at 125 miles per hour. Only one question screamed through her brain.

If the parachute in Ewan's pack opened . . .

. . . did that mean the one in hers
wouldn't
?

There was only one way to find out.

She pulled the cord.

And screamed.

•  •  •

Standing a safe distance from the carousel, Theresa fought a yawn as she watched Anka go around and around and around.

It was her third ride on the thing! How much longer can she take it? Theresa wondered in exasperation.

But a few minutes later Theresa's doldrums gave way to dismay. The hairs on her neck prickled—just like they had the other night when she was being followed.

She casually turned her head, scanning the crowd suspiciously, as the carousel continued on its circular path.

She froze.

There, behind a beat-up food stand, lurked the same burly guy who had trailed her the other night. She was sure of it. Even more sure when their eyes locked.

And he shot her a leering, vicious smile.

“Un-oh!”

Theresa hightailed it to the nearest tent. She threw some money at the attendant and plunged inside, hoping she would make it out alive.

Theresa dashed down a long hall, but she stumbled as her stomach heaved. Wha—?

The floor bubbled up and down like waves. Twisted reflections sprang up all around her, and she had to fight to keep on her feet.

Where was she?

Everywhere she looked, someone stared back at her. Tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones, deformed ones. But they all had wild brown hair and wore a long black coat. They were all
her
.

Of course! She was in the House of Mirrors!

Theresa glanced over her shoulder and gasped.

The burly guy! He was coming after her!

Theresa darted to the right and tripped over her clunky shoes. She quickly regained her balance.

After going through a few nauseating mirror rooms and hallways she was completely disoriented. She dodged other patrons, whirling at every movement she saw from the corner of her eye.

Was that him? she wondered, gasping. Her heart caught in her throat when she glimpsed a bald, portly reflection to her immediate left.

No—just a guy with his kid.

She had to keep moving.

She slipped into the next room. Rotating mirrors spun all around her. Her face appeared, disappeared, was fat, was thin, was monstrously distorted.

“I think I'm going to puke,” she mumbled.

But her nausea left immediately when she spotted her burly stalker—over her shoulder in a mirror! He was only a few feet away!

His gaze locked with hers once again.

He stepped forward, smiling demoniacally. Theresa noticed with a turn of her stomach that one of his front teeth was gold.

Move it!
She slipped between two spinning mirrors and through a black curtain.

Bad move. The room was pitch black!

Theresa cringed as someone grabbed her hand and forced it into what felt like a bowl of warm, wet grapes. A deep, menacing voice barked at her in Czech.

Of course, even without knowing a word of the language, Theresa knew
exactly
what the voice was saying:
“Feel the eyeballs!” She'd played that game in about a hundred haunted houses back in Arizona.

How refreshing to know some cultural trends were the same all over the world.

Theresa yanked her hand away and lunged forward, bumping the table and spilling the bowl of grapes.

The voice barked angrily. A complaint, she was sure.

“Sorry,” Theresa cried out to the dark. She tossed a few bills in the air. “Here. Buy yourself some fresh eyeballs.”

She kept on moving forward, not sure where she was going.

A flash of light came from behind her. She turned to see the burly guy's silhouette entering through the curtain. Then all was dark again.

Time to go!

Theresa fumbled into another curtain wall on the far side of the room. But there was no seam to slip through.

A scuffle erupted behind her. Her stalker and that feisty eyeball guy—she was sure of it. Theresa heard someone land hard on the ground with an “Oof!”

She had to find a way out fast.

Well, if she didn't have a seam, she'd have to make one!

She slipped her tiny penknife out of her pocket and slipped it into the black curtain material, sawing downward.

A beam of light sliced through.

She ripped the thick cloth apart and stuck her leg out.

Eyeball Man began shouting up a storm. At some point she was sure she heard a word that sounded like
police
.

“Yeah! Call 'em!” Theresa replied as she dove through the hole. “I could use some backup here!”

She landed with a thud outside the eyeball chamber, flat on the ground. She tried to get up, but her left foot was snagged in the black fabric. No—a hand! A massive hand had clamped down on her ankle with an iron grip!

She knew her stalker was hiding behind that black curtain. And she instantly knew he was as low to the ground as she since he had ahold of her ankle.

Instinctively she coiled up her body and drew her right knee toward her chest. With all her might she kicked out toward the moving bump in the black curtain—the stalker's head.

She felt a chunky impact through her boot.

She heard a grunt.

Her ankle was free! Theresa yanked her foot back, stood up, and sprinted around another corner, seeing more mirrors, more mirrors . . . and a sign for the exit!

She bolted for it full tilt. But as she rounded the corner just before the exit flap a huge, burly man blocked her way!

Her heart skipped a beat. How could he have gotten in front of her? Impossible!

The big man slowly turned around. Theresa took a step backward—then paused.

She saw a red nose. Huge painted lips. A white face. Frizzy hair.

A clown!

Theresa shuddered.

The clown leaned forward and offered the purple carnation pinned to the lapel of his green leisure suit.

She smiled. “Oh no. I'm not gonna fall for—”

Before she could finish, the carnation squirted her in the face with sugar water.

“Har-de-har-har-har!” the clown bellowed. He wasn't
laughing, though. He was actually
saying
“Har, de, har, har, har!”

Theresa licked her lips, lifted her boot, and slammed it down hard on the clown's oversize right shoe.

“Ow-ooo-ow-ow-ow!” the clown cried. He jumped up and down in a circle.

“Later, Bozo.” Theresa dodged the clown, pushed the exit flap aside, and ran for her life toward the nearest tram.

•  •  •

Jo screamed at the top of her lungs. Something yanked her whole body, hard.

Her free fall was broken.

A loud flapping sound filled the air. She looked up in fear.

Her parachute had opened.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou,” she chanted frantically.

Jo felt herself soaring high in the sky. Her stomach lurched, and she felt as if she were choking on her heart.

What a rush!

Then she was dangling in the air, three thousand feet above the ground. She was frozen, with nothing to do but
float. Another look up and around confirmed that InterCorp's jet was out of sight.

For a moment she felt completely free and at peace, as if she were a bird in flight.

Then Jo looked down.

All she saw were trees. A huge, endless sea of trees.

Her stomach instantly did somersaults. A hundred things could happen when a person parachuted into a tree. Deep cuts. Broken limbs—and not the ones with leaves. Brutal, unsanitary body piercings. Anything. Jo felt physically sick.

Stay calm. Just breathe, she told herself.

Once she had descended enough to see the trees for the forest, her panic subsided a bit. There were a few clearings down there. All she needed to do was steer her way over to one. As she tugged at her directional cords Jo gritted her teeth and crossed her fingers.

As she got closer and closer to the ground she realized with dread that hitting a tree was virtually unavoidable. She also realized that floating in the air was an illusion. As she neared the ground she knew she was
falling
, and parachute or not, it was still going to hurt. There was
nothing to do but brace herself and hope for the best.

Suddenly leaves were whipping her face. Branches snapped all around her. Something tore into her left arm. Her body slammed into a tree trunk. Her body scraped against its ragged bark. The ground rocketed toward her.

But then she just stopped. She dangled.

Wha—?

Jo opened her eyes. The chute had snagged in the branches above her. She was stuck. The ground was about twelve feet below.

“Great,” she muttered, wincing as she touched her torn left sleeve. She was bleeding, but not badly. She shook the straps of the chute, trying to dislodge herself. But no dice. There was only one way down: the hard way.

Jo slowly reached up to the chute clamps and prepared to unhook them. She took a deep breath. Maybe if she was careful—

Snap!

“Whoooaaa!”

Thud!

“Ow!”

Jo rolled to her side and coughed. The ground was frozen, and she felt as if her insides had been pureed. She lay there, her cheek pressed to the ground.

“Earth to Jo,” she whispered.

She shakily attempted to move her appendages. Everything seemed to work.

“I'm going to feel this in the morning,” she groaned. She stared at the gash on her left arm and grimaced. “So much for that little sleeveless number I was going to wear to the pact signing.”

She scanned her surroundings. Nothing but woods.

“If I even
make
it to the signing,” she added.

She looked at her watch. It was 2:30 p.m. The winter sun was beginning to descend toward the horizon. That was west. Jo remembered Ewan mentioning something about the pilot heading north of the airport.

That meant she wanted to go south. If she walked long enough, she had to hit
something
 . . . right?

All she could do was brush herself off, take a deep breath, and walk.

The sun was getting ready to set when Jo began to
worry. She'd walked for over two hours and still saw nothing but trees. She had to have gone at least six miles. She was exhausted. And she knew if she got stuck out all night in this cold weather, she might not make it.

But just when she was about to give up hope, she heard something. A low rumble, getting louder. She took a few tentative steps forward, listening.

The rumble grew louder. Became a roar—as if something huge was coming.

Suddenly a tractor-trailer roared by, not twenty feet in front of her!

Jo gasped. A road! She plunged forward and broke through the trees. Indeed, two lanes of blacktop stretched to the left and the right as far as she could see.