8. Hide and Seek Read online

  HIDE AND SEEK

  Also by Fern Michaels…

  Free Fall

  Up Close and Personal

  Lethal Justice

  Sweet Revenge

  Fool Me Once

  The Jury

  Vendetta

  Payback

  Picture Perfect

  Weekend Warriors

  About Face

  The Future Scrolls

  Kentucky Rich

  Kentucky Heat

  Kentucky Sunrise

  Plain Jane

  Charming Lily

  What You Wish For

  The Guest List

  Listen to Your Heart

  Celebration

  Yesterday

  Finders Keepers

  Annie’s Rainbow

  Sara’s Song

  Vegas Sunrise

  Vegas Heat

  Vegas Rich

  Whitefire

  Wish List

  Dear Emily

  FERN MICHAELS

  HIDE AND SEEK

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corporation

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Dear Readers,

  I thought when I typed the last word of Free Fall, the seventh book in the Sisterhood series, that I was done with my best friends, those seven wonderful, gutsy ladies of the Sisterhood. And of course, Charles, Jack and all the other great characters who had taken possession of my life for so long.

  I have to admit I indulged in a brief pity party when I mailed off the last book to my editor. What was I going to do without my seven new best friends?—and make no mistake, the ladies of the Sisterhood did become my best friends. They were with me 24/7 for three solid years. And four years before that when they were in their embryonic stage and I was just thinking about writing the series. Seven years in all. How could I just erase those years and those characters from my mind?

  I couldn’t, that was the bottom line.

  When I went to the market they were helping me choose my produce. I would think to myself, Charles is going to need this for his next gourmet dinner. When I went to the FedEx drop-off box I saw the sisters from Weekend Warriors mailing that mysterious package. I remember so clearly how I stood there and laughed like a lunatic knowing that at that moment in time, I was the only one in the world who knew what was in the FedEx shipment.

  I was so lost, I started talking to my make-believe characters. I wanted them to answer me back. And they did. Well, that’s not quite true. Being a writer, my overactive imagination kicked in and I started answering myself. I probably should have been locked up somewhere. Good thing I wasn’t because it suddenly hit me that the series didn’t have to end unless I wanted it to end.

  So I did what I think all writers do: I went into my “think mode” and I retired to my front porch (which by the way is glorious and where I do my best thinking) with a bag of M&Ms (large), a box of caramel pop corn (large), and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper (in a cooler), my trusty never-runs-out-of-ink pen, and a legal pad. I pushed a fifty pound box of e-mails from fans who had sent me ideas, punishments, just stuff to run with so the series wouldn’t end, next to my rocking chair hoping those e-mails would give me added insight. So, with my five dogs in attendance (who by the way are the best damn listeners and critics this side of the Mason-Dixon line) to spur me on, I sat down, closed my eyes and went to work.

  Guess what? Nothing happened.

  Nothing happened for the next three days either, except I packed on five pounds from eating all that junk. On the fourth day I switched to cashews, peanut butter cups and wine. That was the moment when all those friends of mine, whom I thought I had laid to rest, started to whisper in my ear.

  Myra said, “You can’t put me out to pasture just because I’m in my sixties. The Sisterhood was my idea in the first place. I’m the one who should say when it’s over.”

  Annie said, “You gave me life, you built my character, you gave me a purpose. Don’t take it away. Besides, you need my mountain retreat and my fortune to carry on.”

  Nikki said, “I want to marry Jack. If you don’t bring us back, that will never happen.”

  Alexis said, “My Red Bag of Tricks is filled to the brim with new technology. Give me a chance to use it.”

  Kathryn said, “I have a lot more ass to kick and I’m not quitting.”

  Isabelle said, “We make a difference in people’s lives. There’s so much left to do. There are too many wrongs that we have yet to make right.”

  Yoko said, “You’re my family, I need you.”

  Charles said, “I’m bored. We can rest on our laurels later. There’s work to be done. I have invitations from Scotland Yard, MI5, the Royal Mounties, the Sûreté—and the most deadly of all, the Mossad. Your services go to the highest bidder.”

  Could my beloved Sisterhood, the vigilantes known worldwide, become hired guns? Did they even want to take that role on? I could hear the chorus of seven excited voices ringing in my ears. Hell yes, Fern, we’re women! Bring it on!

  I looked down at that fifty-pound box of e-mails from my readers who didn’t want the series to end either. So I said to the dogs, “What’s a writer to do? You gotta go with the majority.” As one, they barked their approval.

  As my waistline increased and my hips jiggled, I finally came up with “The Rules of the Game.”

  The vigilantes are baaackkk and in top-notch form. Their first caper is Hide and Seek.

  Can you imagine the vigilantes taking on the awesome FBI and winning? I have to admit I was doubtful, but Myra and the others convinced me it could be done. She was right.

  So, dear readers, welcome to The Rules of the Game! I hope you all enjoy this new series as much as I’m enjoying writing it.

  Fern Michaels

  Chapter 1

  If you had known the seven American women of the Sisterhood of Revenge in their other life, the women sunning themselves might appear completely familiar. But upon a second look, you might turn to your companions and say, “No, it’s not the American Vigilantes; it’s not the Sisterhood. These women have a serenity, a certain jocularity about them. Would vigilantes on the run be painting their toenails and lathering each other with suntan lotion? No, no, these gals must be rich Americans on holiday. The American Vigilantes are somewhere else, playing hide and seek with the authorities, waiting to strike again…. Who knows where?”

  It was a glorious day with golden sunshine and balmy breezes. At first glance it looked like a luncheon party of chattering young women sitting poolside, sipping fruity drinks with little umbrellas. From time to time the women stopped talking just long enough to rub more suntan lotion on as they waited for a lunch none of them would eat.

  From their perch high on the mountain, their eyes were on the sparkling Mediterranean where District Attorney Jack Emery and martial arts guru Harry Wong, mere dots on the water, were tus
sling with a catamaran.

  Kathryn Lucas, former long-distance truck driver, sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I still can’t believe there’s a price on our heads. We’re wanted fugitives back home. Every bounty hunter in the world will be coming after us one of these days, and here we sit relaxing at the pool.”

  “Aha! But first they have to find us. What do you think the odds of that are?” Alexis Thorn adjusted the wide-brimmed straw hat over her dark hair. “Even if one of them gets lucky, we have sanctuary here on this mountaintop.”

  Nikki Quinn squirted coconut-scented lotion into her hand. “We’re only granted sanctuary as long as we stay on top of this mountain. The moment we go down the mountain, we’re fair game for anyone who thinks they’re smart enough to take us down. Padre Messina will do his best to make sure that never happens, but mistakes happen from time to time. As we all know.”

  “It’s such a small village, not even a thousand people,” Isabelle Flanders said. “Any stranger will stand out like the proverbial sore thumb. According to Charles, most of the villagers are related to the padre. Annie, and her husband before her, have always taken care of them. She sends the older children off to university, she keeps the church going, buys new fishing boats for the residents. She makes sure all the houses are maintained, she sees to their health, pays the schoolteachers to teach the little ones. She even hired a constable, a third cousin of the padre. The people love her. They won’t let anyone up this mountain. That fact you can take to the bank. Plus, the padre will ring the bell if a stranger appears in the village. There’s no way a stranger or anyone can get up this mountain without help. I think we’re as safe as we can be.” Her voice turned ominous sounding when she said, “At least for now.”

  Former flower shop owner Yoko Akia looked around at her sisters. She was brown as a berry and almost as tiny. The others referred to her as a 90-pound stick of dynamite because of her martial arts expertise. “There are hundreds of electronic monitoring devices scattered around the mountain. I feel very safe here, safer than I felt back in the States. I have enjoyed being here so much, and so has Harry, my love. I think paradise must be like this,” she said, waving her arms at the profusion of sweet-smelling flowers, the meadows of green grass, the umbrella-like trees and the pungent scent of pine from the forest that carried on the breeze from time to time. “We have everything here…a tennis court, this pool, gardens, excellent food from those gardens and from the villagers. We will be learning new survival methods starting tomorrow. And”—she wagged one of her tiny fingers—“we will be expanding our minds, although I know I will never be able to speak German. It is too guttural sounding and my tongue will not work for the words.”

  The others laughed.

  “Guess you aren’t going to sleep, then,” Kathryn said. “Charles is going to crack the whip.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do any of you think there’s a change in Charles?”

  Isabelle whispered in return. “Of course there’s a change in him. He’s blaming himself because we got caught. Thank God he had the presence of mind to prepare this place for us ahead of time or we’d all be sitting in the slammer. Let’s just say Yoko’s mission was a bit out of the ordinary and let it go at that. We’re here and we have to make the best of it. By the way, Annie has me designing a new schoolhouse for the village. When I’m finished, I’m going to design a small library.”

  Annie de Silva—who owned the monastery as well as the actual mountain—and her longtime friend Myra Rutledge climbed out of the pool. Both donned terry robes as they made their way across the terra-cotta patio that surrounded the Olympicsized pool.

  “Did I hear my name mentioned?” Annie asked as she towel-dried her hair.

  “You did. We were talking about the villagers and all you do for them,” Alexis said.

  “I love helping them. They’re like my family. I want you to believe me when I tell you those villagers will protect us with their lives. Are you girls homesick?”

  As one, the young women said, “No!”

  Myra sat down next to Nikki and reached for her lotion. “I’m so glad. Charles, Annie and I have been worried that you might want to go back and…and face the music.”

  Always the most verbal of the group, Kathryn said, “Not in this lifetime. I do miss my truck at times. On the other hand, think about it, what’s to miss? You’re all here. I have Murphy,” she said, patting the German Shepherd that was always at her side. “Plus, the eats are great!” Kathryn was a lover of all food; fine food, bad food, any kind of food.

  “Where are the boys?” Myra asked.

  “Playing with the catamaran,” Nikki answered. “They wanted to check out the speedboats and the Jet Skis. Jack volunteered to keep everything in shape. He likes Fernando, the young guy in charge of the upkeep of all the watercraft. He’ll be going off to university in Madrid in the fall, so Jack asked him to teach him about boats. He’s loving the experience. Harry is…what he’s doing is outfitting the boats with a few special devices. They can hardly wait for those cigarette boats to be delivered.” Nikki beamed as she peered over the top of her sunglasses.

  Annie leaned back in her patio chair. “That was Charles’s idea. He said a cigarette boat can outrun any boat except another cigarette boat. Drug runners use them all the time and the authorities never seem to catch them. Fernando is going to teach all of you how to operate the boats. He’s a wonderful young man and he grew up on the water.”

  “So, girls, what’s on your agenda for the rest of the day?” Myra asked.

  Myra Rutledge, heiress to a Fortune 500 candy company, had formed the Sisterhood a few years ago, back in the States, with the help of her adopted daughter, Nikki Quinn, after her own daughter, Barbara, was killed by a drunken driver with diplomatic immunity.

  Myra had thrown caution to the wind and enlisted Charles Martin’s help in finding ways to help women who had fallen through the cracks of the justice system. Charles, an ex-MI6 operative in service to Her Majesty, the Queen of England, had gone to the United States to head up security for Myra’s company many years ago.

  In their youth, Myra, on a trip to England with her family, met and fell in love with Charles. But duty called and Charles went on assignment, and so Myra returned to the States…carrying a baby in her womb. What with the world as uncertain as it was at the time, the lovers lost contact. Decades later Charles showed up at Myra’s corporate offices in Virginia and they fell in love all over again.

  Given his vast covert knowledge, his many contacts in the spy arena throughout the world and his political savvy, Charles was able to make the underground organization of the Sisterhood run like clockwork. Long ago, the sisters had ceased to question his methods, knowing only that if they followed his orders to the letter, things would work out the way he planned. Among themselves they continually said, “Charles can do anything.” And they believed it.

  Myra had once told them, in secrecy, that Charles often called a friend—in the middle of the night, stateside time, early-morning time in England—and referred to the person on the other end of the line as Lizzie. As in Queen Lizzie. That alone had been enough to convince the sisters that Charles was invincible.

  They knew they were breaking the law but they didn’t look at it that way. If justice wasn’t served the first time around, then the second time around they served up the justice, Sisterhood-style. They’d done that seven times—seven missions, one for each of them, before the authorities closed in on them. Now they were fugitives from justice with a bounty on their heads. But, in the proverbial nick of time and with exquisite planning, Charles had whisked them away to this mountain hideaway in Spain where they were afforded sanctuary.

  Now, Charles had a plan.

  Tomorrow that plan would go into effect.

  With two new additions to the Sisterhood: Jack Emery and Harry Wong.

  Each man would bring his field of expertise to the table.

  At least that’s what everyone thought.

>   Chapter 2

  Washington, DC

  Two days later

  While the American Vigilantes of Pinewood, Virginia, began their new life in Spain, the assistant director of the FBI, who headed up an elite task force, called a special meeting to order.

  The meeting was held in a room only a little bigger than a broom closet. It held an ugly metal table, one chair and the task force along with the AD, a tall man who dwarfed the room from the git-go. The five-member task force stood at attention, shoulder to shoulder. They all looked wary and jittery, even AD Mitch Riley. Riley was the personification of Hollywood’s version of an FBI agent who had climbed the ranks to assistant director. He was muscular, extremely good-looking with summer blue eyes, and he was his dentist’s poster boy. When he smiled, which was rare, deep dimples showed in his cheeks. It was a well-known fact that most of the employees at the Hoover Building referred to him behind his back as Dimples. No one was sure if he knew about the nickname or not. The consensus was that he did not. He was not loved, nor was he even liked by the people who worked with him. No one in his personal life liked him much, either. AD Mitch Riley was all about Mitch Riley and his desire to become the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.