License to Thrill by Elizabeth Cage Page A

spilled all over her white dress. Probably on purpose. She hardly noticed as she squeezed past him and searched frantically for the black leather outfit, the tall frame, the pouty lips. But all of the above were MIA at the moment.
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    â€œWait—there she is—over there!” Theresa screamed over the noise. She ran like mad after the glossy cap of brown hair and spotted a barefoot drink-stained apparition on her right. “Don’t just stand there!” she hollered, grabbing Jo by the arm and yanking her in the right direction.
    â€œExcuse me! Excuse me!” Theresa barreled into people left and right. Thank goodness I put aside my computer long enough to go to all those rock shows, she thoughtproudly as she slammed her way through the crowd like a pro linebacker. A supermodel-looking girlie practically bounced off her shoulder.
    â€œWhat in blazes are you doing?” she screeched.
    â€œEmergency situation,” Theresa yelled, pointing back to Jo. “This girl needs medical attention!”
    Jo nodded. “Appendicitis. Don’t drink the cranberry juice.”
    â€œUh, okay,” the girl said, stepping aside. Others around her followed suit, clearing a path for them.
    â€œI see her—that way!” Theresa called, pointing to the front door. She hauled tail with all her might. Short Hair was barely two yards away. Suddenly an immense shadow grew along the floor, followed by an enormous wave of excited chatter. Before Theresa could stop and change direction, a huge group of under-eighteens rushed in past the bouncer.
    â€œStop!” Theresa screamed. She knew the momentum she had built up was about to work against her in a dangerous way, but she was powerless to prevent it. She careened headfirst into the crowd and was bounced clear off her feetand onto the floor. A very sturdy Dr. Martens boot kicked her to add insult to injury. By the time she clambered to her feet, Short Hair was gone.
    Infuriated, Theresa threw herself back down on the floor. “I think I’ll just stay down here awhile, if you don’t mind,” she told Jo’s sorry-looking feet.
    A hand dangled in front of her face. Theresa looked up to see Caylin, scowling. Her blond hair was in an insane tangle, and her right stiletto heel was missing and presumed dead somewhere in the pit. She pulled Theresa to her feet with a slight stumble. Cursing, she lifted up her left foot and snapped off the heel of her shoe as if it were a twig. “This is pointless!” she hollered, throwing the heel to the ground.
    â€œWell . . . at least we know she’s onto us,” Jo said optimistically.
    â€œA whole lot of good that does us now,” Theresa muttered. If they couldn’t beat the mosh pit at Meltdown, how were they supposed to stop a gang of ruthless terrorists from destroying the world?

SEVEN
    â€œHello?” Caylin said briskly into the phone Monday afternoon, feeling refreshed and revived after a Sunday of doing nothing but sleeping and recharging. But since Jo and Theresa had called dibs on a holiday stroll, Caylin was forced to stay in and play secretary in case Uncle Sam called in with an emergency.
    â€œYes, Louise Browning, please,” said a woman who sounded an awful lot like her boss, Fiona.
    Caylin gulped, wondering what her next move should be. She had answered the phone in her normal voice, so she couldn’t just say, “Speaking.”
    â€œOne moment, please,” she said, adding a little bit of country twang to her own Maine accent. She rustled the phone a bit and waited about fifteen seconds for authenticity’s sake.
    â€œâ€™Allo,” she greeted Fiona in her Louise voice, adding a breathless element as if she had just rushed to the phone.
    â€œFiona here,” she chirped. “Hate to ring you on holiday, but the weekend girl’s come down with a bug. Could you possibly cover for her tonight?