Under the Radar. Fern Michaels
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way too old for these shenanigans,” she mumbled. But, like Elias’s heart, hers always kicked up a couple of beats when word came through on the encrypted phone that her help was needed.
If she could just figure out what was awry with Charles and Myra to make them leave the mountain. In a British helicopter, no less.
Less than forty miles away, Jack Emery waited his turn to be called up to the front of Harry Wong’s dojo to receive his coveted black belt. He thought of all the years of training, all the bruises, the sore muscles—not to mention a few fractures—he’d endured since enrolling in Harry’s martial arts classes. He’d religiously followed every instruction and even managed to pick up a smattering of Harry’s language. The words always sounded ominous and deadly, so he thought he should memorize them. On occasion he’d utter one or the other of them, and Harry would laugh like hell, which probably meant Jack had said “manure” in six different ways.
Bert Navarro nudged Jack’s arm. “Bet you thought old Harry was never going to give you that belt, huh?”
Jack nodded. “He passed me over twice because I wasn’t ready. Even I knew I wasn’t ready, so it was okay. This time I just told him I’d beat the living shit out of him if he didn’t come through.”
Bert grinned. “What’d he say?”
Jack laughed out loud. “He told me to ‘sit on a pointy stick and spin.’ Then I told him I was going to tell Nikki to tell Yoko to tell him she’d beat the living shit out of him and, voilà, here comes my black belt. As we all know, our fearless leader, also known as Harry Wong, the second-best martial arts expert in the land, is only afraid of one thing: Yoko.” Jack laughed at his own wit, then sobered when Harry fixed his steely, slant-eyed gaze on him.
“This is a ceremony, gentlemen, even though it is only a ceremony of three. Rituals and rules apply. That means no laughter, no jokes, and no cell phones ringing. Since you think you can ignore my rules, Mr. Emery, drop and give me two hundred push-ups. Like now. Director Navarro, since I saw you instigate that little scene that just transpired, drop and do the same. Now!”
“Eat shit, Harry. I did a hundred when I got here,” Jack said. “Give me a break.”
“Yeah, eat shit, Harry,” Bert said.
Harry offered up what he called his Number 6 Evil Grin and dangled a brown belt that was to go to Bert, along with Jack’s black belt, back and forth. He reached behind him to pull out a pair of pink scissors that Yoko had given him for his ribbon-cutting ceremonies. He opened the scissors and prepared to slice at the two belts in his hand. “Last chance.”
Jack and Bert almost killed each other as they raced to the middle of the sweat-soaked mat in the center of the floor.
“Now, repeat after me, gentlemen. Harry Wong is the Master of his dojo. The Master of his dojo is to be respected and obeyed. Unconditionally. Say it in between each push-up.”
“Fuck you, Harry,” Jack huffed as he struggled to do the Master’s bidding.
“Yeah, Harry, fuck you,” Bert groaned.
“Count! Shout out loud so I can hear you. Do it in synch,” Harry said, the Number 6 Evil Grin still in place.
The black and brown belts hung just an inch from both men’s noses as they did their best to comply with Harry’s dire instructions.
Both men were on their eighty-seventh push-up when the door of the dojo burst open and Maggie Spitzer stormed into the room. She matched Harry’s evil grin with one of her own. “Get up!” she commanded. “Harry, sit down and listen to me. Stop with this…macho bullshit and listen up. And turn your cell phones on.” She turned to face Harry, who was sitting docilely. “If you ever make them turn off their cell phones again, I will cut off your advertising allowance and sic Yoko on you. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” the trio said solemnly as they primly folded their hands in their laps.
“Good. We are now involved in a major problem. This is what I know as of the moment…”
While the members of the second string were scrambling and scurrying, the Sisters were gathering around the circular table in the War Room on Big Pine Mountain to plot their strategy.
Chapter 3
Pearl Barnes looked like anything but what she was: a retired Supreme Court justice. She was dressed in baggy cargo pants, a sweat-stained oversized T-shirt, and combat boots laced up to her ankles. Her iron-gray hair was cut short and slicked back. These days her skin was bronzed, dry, and wrinkled. And she could smell her own body odor. A far cry from the way she looked when she was in court: immaculate, coiffed, and perfumed in her judicial robes.
She’d been driving for hours in a special bus with a special engine that promised never to give out on her. It looked like her, old and decrepit, but that was what she wanted, part of her MO so that she didn’t draw attention to her illegal activities.
The people she worked with—“volunteered” was a better word, and more to her liking—didn’t call her judge because they didn’t know about that other life. They called her many names, like Savior, Angel, and Mama. The name that stuck more than any other was Missy. Not Missy something or other, just Missy. But for the most part she answered to just about anything including, Hey Lady!
Pearl looked at the passengers in her bus and winced. She had thirteen pregnant young girls, and if she was any judge, none was older than fourteen. An unlucky number no matter how you looked at it. Then she looked at her two novice volunteers, who looked scared out of their wits, the same way the three other women and their seven children looked scared out of theirs.
They were all looking at her expectantly, wondering what magic she was going to unleash. Her destination was a small rural town called Sienna, where she planned to drop off the women and children, where they would wait in a very special barn until the next relay team surfaced. Now she had fourteen girls and one dead bus driver. The driver she had to forget about for now because when you were dead you were dead, and there was nothing one could do about that. Sooner or later, the Highway Patrol would come along and take the man to the county morgue.
Before Pearl climbed into the driver’s seat of the bus, she took one last look at the dead driver and blessed herself. She hated leaving a body alone and unattended, but she had no other choice. She took another few minutes to think back over what she’d done when she’d rescued the young girls. What had she touched? Had she wiped everything clean? She thought she had. Well, she couldn’t worry about that. She had to get all her passengers safely to the welcoming barn, a mere twenty-two miles due east.
Pearl turned on the ignition and listened to the engine purr to life. She loved the big old bus. Really and truly loved it. It had carried hundreds of women and children to safety.
As the bus lumbered down the road, Pearl’s thoughts were all over the map. She knew very little about the polygamous sect that these children belonged to. She should have known. She was a judge, for God’s sake. She defended her lack of knowledge by trying to convince herself she’d never had to deal with polygamy. Men with a dozen wives were too obscene even to think about under normal conditions.
What she’d found really strange was how quiet the young girls were. Even though they were scared out of their wits, they didn’t part with any information. With the exception of the one named Emily, a truly chatty youngster, who had told Pearl about the polygamous sect and indicated that she’d miscarried in her fourth month. Mentally, Pearl agreed with her earlier assessment, she had fourteen young girls but only thirteen pregnant ones. It had taken only three minutes for her to come to the conclusion that the youngster named Emily was the talkative one of the group. And even she had not really given up much other than that they were all being moved from a compound in Nevada to Utah. If Emily knew or understood why, she hadn’t divulged that information.
Pearl risked a glance in the rearview mirror. Everyone was either dozing or sound asleep. She wanted to cry for all of them.
Such