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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.”
    â€œDo 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.”
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œOkay, 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.”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œHey, 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.
    â€œRio, here we come,” she murmured. “Ready or not.”
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    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