Under the Radar

By J. Reed Rich

Fia Colibri, a former Cirque du Soleil aerialist and ex-con, travels the back roads of the US to evade her con artist father. He forced her to steal for him, then left her to face the consequences from a botched robbery. After her car breaks down in a small North Dakota town, she meets Aiden, a charming lawyer who's searching for his missing sister. Intrigued with his filial loyalty, Fia agrees to help him in his search. But when they follow his sister's trail to an abandoned radar station, they encounter duplicitous town folk, belligerent thugs, and a corrupt police force. As they plumb the secrets of the radar station, they uncover a ring of human traffickers and a group of kidnapped children. Fia's new fear isn't that her father will find her, it's that she won't survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Sep 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509225903

J. Reed Rich

J. Reed Rich worked in nonfiction publishing for twenty years as an editor, book designer, production coordinator, and website manager. When she's not writing, she's hiking with her dogs or gallivanting with her husband in their teardrop trailer.

Book preview

encouragement.

Chapter One

I’ll take a look at ’er, he said, wiping his hands on a stained red rag that smelled of gasoline. Might be awhile. When he shrugged, his bony shoulders almost met his earlobes.

I nodded, more from habit than agreement. There was really nothing I could do except wait. It was mid-August, and I’d broken down just outside a blip of a town called East Ridge, North Dakota. Canada lay twenty miles to the north. The nearest town to the south was twice that distance. There was no one to call—and even if there was, I didn’t own a phone. I was on the road to get away from people, not stay in touch.

A few miles back, my Honda Element had begun keening, like a cross between a whale and a lovesick hyena. Luckily, I had been able to nurse it to Al’s Automotive. But it was George, not Al, who promised to look at my baby.

George was short, with a chicken neck, dust-colored hair, and large black-rimmed glasses. He wiped his hands on that rag like it was a compulsion. Yah, miss, whyn’t you wait over at the Prairie Rose Café? Tasty grub—not to mention the only place to eat here’n East Ridge. I might be able to tell you more in a couple hours or thereabouts.

Thanks, I said. I’ll be back in an hour.

Oh, no. Don’t you worry, now. I’ll come find you when I’ve checked ’er out. He smiled, revealing yellow, surprisingly even, teeth.

Shit. Might as well get some coffee.

****

The café was charming in a road-stop kind of way. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows brightened the exposed brick walls. Red Formica tables sat in the middle of the floor, and five wooden booths with high backs lined the far wall. An elderly couple in one of the booths stared at me when I entered; my little nod of greeting wasn’t returned. It didn’t bother me. I was used to the staring. For one reason or another, I had been stared at all my life.

I turned and gazed through the windows, with my back to the occupants of the café. Outside, the sidewalks were bare. Occasional foot-tall clumps of weeds had pushed through cracks in the asphalt: little green islands in a roiling sea of gray.

I didn’t want to be here. I had planned on driving to Spearfish, South Dakota, by nightfall. I thought Spearfish might be a good place to hide out. Not too small and not too large, with a university that meant a population in flux.

The sound of footsteps behind me brought me back to the present, and I shut my eyes, trying to picture their owner. A habit of mine, imagining people based only on sounds. A fiftyish woman, slightly plump, with heavy corrective shoes. Wearing too much Chanel No. 5, so maybe a bit older.

Before I could check my guess, I heard, Can I help you, son?

Damn. I knew I looked androgynous. Short choppy hair, T-shirt, boots, and loose cargo pants. No hips or butt to speak of. I’d been mistaken for a boy before, but it still rankled.

Running a hand through my hair, I turned and assessed the woman greeting me. Late fifties, chubby, with eyeglasses on a chain and brown oxford shoes. Except for the glasses, I had nailed it.

She studied me for a long second. Oh, I’m so sorry. Two spots of pink formed on her pale cheeks. Thought you were, well, never mind. Can I get you a table?

She led me to the row of booths that looked like old-time deacon’s benches, built to keep sinners uncomfortable. I threw my backpack into the corner booth. Its back was straight and tall, with side wings at least a foot deep. The tabletop was high; I had to sit on my ankle to boost myself up.

The hostess-now-waitress hovered, pad ready, and muttered as she jotted something down.

Coffee, please, I said quickly, before she could ask.

I’ll have to put on a fresh pot. Sure you don’t want milk or lemonade instead, miss?

No, I’m pretty sure I’d like some coffee. I checked her name tag. Strong and in a barrel if you have it, Marlene.

She narrowed her eyes.

Actually, that’s how I like my whiskey. She didn’t react to my attempt at humor. I tried again. Sorry—a cup of coffee would be great.

It’ll take awhile. Her voice was scratchy, with a slight nasal quality to it, and her thinning gray hair was raked into a tight ponytail. She examined me over her glasses, and I felt even smaller than usual.

I can wait. No problem. I resisted the urge to tell another joke and shifted to a more comfortable position, sitting on my other ankle. I’d like a menu, too, please. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I hoped the kitchen was still open.

She looked back over her shoulder once as she walked away. She was curious. It was to be expected in a small town like this. East Ridge was definitely not a tourist destination.

And I wasn’t your typical tourist.

A few minutes later she returned with a mug of coffee and handed me a sticky laminated menu. The chicken-fried steak’s good, and so’s the pork chops. I wouldn’t try the meat loaf or hamburger, if I was you.

I’ll have the chicken-fried steak, then, and two large orders of fries. Oh, and a side salad, if you have one. With Ranch dressing.

She dutifully wrote out the order on her pad. That’s a lot of food, honey. All for you? Or is someone else coming?

No, I’m by myself. Some ketchup, too, please. My stomach noisily protested the wait, and I gulped down some coffee. Not bad.

Just passing through?

Yup. Anthony Bourdain has nothing on me.

This time she just stared.

Uh, my car’s being fixed, I said, so I’m staying till it’s done. George is working on it. I’m hoping Al will help him.

She laughed outright, then, finished with a hacking cough. Ain’t no Al, she said, when she could breathe normally. Just George. He thought it would sound fancier if he called it Al’s. Where you headed?

I was on my way south to see the Badlands. I smiled, punctuating the lie. It would pay to get on the good side of the staff at the only restaurant in town. Have you been there?

Yup. They’re a sight, for sure. One of the Dakotas’ best features, if you don’t count Mount Rushmore. And I don’t, she added, grinning.

I downed the last of my coffee and held the mug out. I’m Fia, by the way. Fia Colibri.

Nice to meet ya, Fia. Never heard a name like that before. Nickname or something?

Kind of. It’s short for Serafina.

Serafina? That’s a strange one.

Yeah, I know. It’s Russian.

Huh, she replied. She started to say something but stopped.

I didn’t help her out. I shouldn’t have volunteered that much information, anyway.

****

Thirty minutes later, I retrieved one of the books loaded on my tablet. I was reading The New York Times Top 100 Classics and had finished five in the past eight years. I’m nothing if not tenacious when it comes to completing meaningless lists.

Hey, there.

A rhinoceros of a man stood before me. With a gut hanging over his belt, shaved head and scruffy chin, I took him for about forty, although it was difficult to tell—his skin was creased like used brown wrapping paper.

Man, if it weren’t for those baby blues and eyelashes, I’d a been sure you was a boy. Guess they’re not really blue. More like ice. Like they got no color a’tall.

Uh, can I help you?

Nah, just wanted to talk. He squeezed into the seat opposite me. You don’t mind if we gab a bit, do you? He smiled, revealing uneven, gray teeth.

Actually, I do. You see, I’m at the exciting part of my book.

Oh. He leaned forward. You reading on that thing?

The tang of garlic and fried onions was overwhelming. My stomach flip-flopped; I had to look away to hide my disgust.

Whatcha reading?

Don Quixote.

Don Coyote? That don’t ring a bell.

"No, Qui-xo-te." I used my kindergarten-teacher voice. Look, it was nice of you to come over. Almost friendly. But I want to read.

Well, maybe you oughta stop, sweetheart. Let me show you how friendly I can be, if you know what I mean. He licked his lips. I’m Rolf.

Suddenly, I was irritated. It was automatic now, this flash-shift from normal to angry—something I supposed I would have to deal with the rest of my life. Eight years in prison had altered me in ways that were sometimes good, sometimes bad. Throat tight with anxiety, I forced the anger down. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.

I exhaled. Thanks. I’m sure you’re a great friend. But right now I’d really like to read. You understand.

You betcha. What’s your name, little girl? An undercurrent of menace in his voice raised the hair on my arms.

He was at least six-foot-four, two hundred and fifty pounds, with beefy shoulders and ragged, dirty nails. And he obviously wasn’t going away.

I shut my tablet case. Listen, I’m here to get my car fixed. I don’t want any trouble.

His eyes traveled from my eyes to my mouth, and lingered at chest level. Oh, there won’t be no trouble. I can guaran-fuckin-tee you there won’t be no trouble.

I felt my ears turning red. I clenched my fists under the table and looked around. The café patrons were gone. When had everyone left?

He stared at me. I couldn’t understand his aggression. I had been here for maybe an hour. Why me? What kind of town was this?

How old are you, anyways? Traveling by yourself, are you?

I didn’t respond.

Shouldn’t you be with your folks or somethin’? Seems to me you’re too young to be on the road by yourself. Could get you into some trouble. I think you need some, uh, protecting.

I wiped my palms on my thighs and moved my tablet to the bench seat next to me. He was locked onto me like a brainless guided missile.

Marlene appeared, coffee pot in hand. She shook her head. Rolf, what’re you doing?

If you don’t know what I’m doing, Marl, you’re older’n I thought.

She backed up a step. Leave her be, won’t ya? She’s just passing through.

Maybe she is, and maybe she ain’t. I’m thinkin’ she might want to stay a bit.

I felt myself clicking into a higher state of awareness. Time expanded as my thoughts sped up. I mapped out a strategy. Okay, he was right-handed—I could tell by the way he played with the spoon in front of him. His size and bulk might mean he was used to winning by threatening, not fighting. His irregular breathing could indicate allergies, smoking, or a cold. Maybe a deviated septum. It was obvious he was attracted to me, judging not only by his words but by his dilated pupils and slack jaw. I tried to think of anything I could use as a weapon.

Rolf, you’re making a mistake, Marlene said, voice low and tight. She held the coffee pot in front of her chest like a shield.

Whyn’t you take a walk, eh? This ain’t no concern of yours. I’m working here.

Working? This was his job?

This got nothing to do with your work and you know it.

Keep your panties on, Marl. There won’t be no trouble. Now, get going.

Let the fear go, I told myself. Detach and stay focused. Phrases I had learned years ago came back like mantras. It didn’t matter what this goon wanted or why he wanted it. All that mattered were his actions.

And my response.

I kept my focus on him. I wouldn’t do this if I were you.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah. I’m warning you. You should go.

Ain’t you funny. A tiny thing like you thinkin’ to scare me.

I’m tiny, I agreed, but I can whip your ugly ass and hand it back to you. Make you cry like a squealing pig. Wouldn’t take more than a minute. If trash-talk were a sport, I’d be an Olympian. I’d learned that in prison, too.

He laughed, a deep rumbling sound that ended with a snort. Like that’ll happen. You know, I’m feeling a tad hungry. I want some dessert.

He looked at me like I was some kind of parfait.

Marlene backed up slowly, bumping into a table. She turned and walked quickly toward the kitchen.

I’m thinking there’s someone who’d like to get to know you, Rolf said. I’m thinkin’ he’d want you real bad. O’course, it’d have to be after me.

Shit. I mean it, Rolf, I said. This won’t end well for you.

Huh. I think it’ll end just dandy. I’m gonna get me something choice, and then I’m gonna make me some good money. Don’t you worry.

Make some money? How was he was going to make money off me?

I didn’t respond. I willed my muscles to relax. It would be okay. I had an edge; I was already ahead of the game. Rolf, like most people, had misjudged me. My diminutive size, ironically, was always my best asset.

He pushed his sleeves up, showing off bowling-pin forearms. He would try to overpower me for sure. But I knew something he didn’t.

I never fought fair.

Before he moved, I stood on the seat. Surprise dulled his reaction time. In one movement, I leaped to the table and kicked him—my heel landing squarely on his forehead. His head smacked into the back of the booth behind him, and he grunted. I regained my balance, narrowly avoiding my coffee cup. I swept it to the floor with my foot. The resulting crash sounded like a gunshot in the still room.

He shook his head, then grinned. Feisty, eh? Well, I’m ready for you now, darlin’. Can’t sucker-punch me again.

Sucker-punch? Sucker-kick, you mean.

In my peripheral vision, I was aware of Marlene and a man in a white apron standing by the kitchen door. I wanted to bolt, but I had to stand my ground and stay on the offensive. I faked left, then leaned right.

He glanced for a split-second in the direction I feinted, his chin raised slightly. It was all I needed. I kicked him again, toe first, aiming for his larynx.

He was quicker than he looked. He grabbed my foot with one hand and turned it, attempting to fling me to the floor. Instead of resisting, I gave in to it and rotated into an aerial cartwheel, breaking his grip. I landed a few feet beyond the shards of the coffee cup.

For a moment I thought I’d lost my advantage and considered running. But where would I go? No, I had to finish it—while he was still in the booth, partially confined. Sitting, he wasn’t much taller than me. I had to take him there.

I grabbed the top edge of the side of the booth across from him. With a hop, I swung around, allowing my momentum to carry me. He was in the seat, twisting to get out. My timing had to be perfect. Time slowed and muscle memory kicked in.

I felt, rather than heard, the sound of bone cracking.

His head snapped back and he slumped back, unconscious. I had broken his jaw.

Falling backward, I landed hard on my hip on the tile floor and scrambled up to a crouch. I was still in attack mode, but my legs shook and my heart pummeled in my chest. I wanted to vomit, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off him.

The entire confrontation had lasted maybe thirty seconds.

If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it, a voice boomed out.

Confused, I spun to face the door. A paunchy man in a dull khaki uniform leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. His face was expressionless, his eyes puffy.

I didn’t know what to do. My adrenaline spiked again, burning through me. What could I say? The local bully had attacked me so I’d broken his jaw? It sounded unbelievable, even to me. And, I was facing a cop—the last thing I wanted.

He pushed his bulk away from the door. He was at least sixty, with grizzled salt-and-pepper hair and a mustache that he lifted in a lopsided grin. Well, well. So what do we have here?

I eyed Marlene. She would back me up. But she remained stupefied, staring at the cop.

He cocked his head at me. You the one broke down?

I nodded.

Thought so.

I opened my mouth, hoping to explain.

He cut me off with a chopping motion of one beefy hand. ’Bout time somebody handed it to Rolf. Lord knows he’s needed it. Bigger men than you’ve tried and failed.

His eyes slid over me, taking a little too long, and I felt a jolt of disgust.

I guess everybody’s bigger than you. Right, Slick? He chuckled at his own joke. And, obviously, you ain’t no man. We’ll see to him. Don’t you worry. I’m Sheriff Henry Rhineholt, in case you’re wondering. He hooked his thumbs in his belt. Good thing I saw it for myself. He raised his eyebrows and gestured toward the back of the café without taking his eyes off me. Thanks for calling, Marlene.

I tried not to look surprised. My last run-in with the police, back when I was still with my father, hadn’t ended so well. My view of law enforcement was negative at best.

I’ll be needing to take a statement from you, missy. Tomorrow morning. Think you can do that?

Uh, I guess so. Sure. My head throbbed, and I still felt nauseous, but my composure had returned. My car’s over at Al’s, and it might be ready tonight. If it is, can I give it to you then?

Well, I’d bet dollars to donuts George won’t finish tonight. And tomorrow’d be better for me. Can’t get far without a car ’round here, so I know where you’ll be. He winked at me. Only one place to stay in town. Ingvar’s B&B—The Ridgetop.

Right. One restaurant. One auto shop. One bed and breakfast. At least you didn’t have to worry about choices in East Ridge, North Dakota.

Chapter Two

I watched from a distance while two paramedics struggled to load the now-conscious Rolf onto a gurney. He glowered at me with bloodshot eyes above his bandaged and braced jaw. Good thing he couldn’t talk.

After they rolled him out, I looked around. The café was empty except for Marlene. She approached me slowly. Whyn’t you sit awhile. You look peak-ed.

Sure. I walked to the end booth. The headache and nausea were gone, but my legs still wobbled. I was spent. I’d like some more coffee, please.

She turned without comment to get the coffee pot.

I closed my eyes and pressed my eyelids with the heels of my hands. Damn it, I should’ve been able to keep Rolf at bay without breaking his jaw. And the sheriff should have stopped me.

Why hadn’t he stepped in? His response puzzled me, and his leering brought back memories. I had seen his type before at the prison. Guards who ran things, arrogant thugs who had too much power, and fueled on too much testosterone.

Here you go, hon.

Thanks. I took the mug with both hands. The familiar fragrance braced me, and the mug’s warmth was soothing.

Marlene was now my best friend. She leaned against the booth, arms crossed. That were a good thing you done. Rolf’s a bad seed. That man shoulda been in prison years ago. Don’t know why the sheriff lets him be.

I flinched at the word, prison. Keeping my head down, I sipped the brew.

Where you from, anyways?

I considered my options. News of the fight would spread through the town like an oil spill. Get embellished and changed some more. The last thing I wanted. I said, Oh, here and there. All over, really.

Well, that was crazy what you done. A little bit o’ fluff like you. How’d you pull it off? Where’d you learn to fight like that?

Bit of fluff? I’d never been called that before. Obviously, she wasn’t going to let it go.

I was lucky. Fighting’s like dancing. It’s balance and anticipation, and timing, and—

Dancing? You were a dancer?

Shit. I must be tired. I hadn’t wanted the conversation to veer that way. Uh, yes and no.

So, which is it? Marlene, the pit bull waitress.

I slugged down some coffee. I could lie. I should lie. But I wasn’t up to it. Maybe it would be okay; giving her some of the truth might be better than letting her imagination run wild. I didn’t have to tell her everything.

Um, not the kind of dancer you’re thinking of. I held up a crossing-guard palm when she threatened to interrupt. No, let me finish. It was nothing like that. I grew up performing in Cirque du Soleil. I was an aerialist—an aerial dancer.

She stared down at me behind her glasses. I heard o’ that. It’s a circus, right?

Yeah. It’s French.

Marlene gave up all pretense of working and sat down across from me, groaning like she’d been needing to get off her feet for some time. Still don’t explain how you learned to fight. Did you fight in your act?

No. It didn’t teach me exactly, but it prepared me. Trained me in skills that are useful in fighting. There it was: the half-truth.

If you say so. You kicked like you’ve studied some kind of kung fu or something.

Nope. But you have to be strong and agile to be an aerial dancer. Time to change the subject. Hey, the sheriff mentioned something about a B&B. The smell of onions