Consequently, on the crowded San Bernardino Freeway heading east out of Los Angeles, some cars had their lights on, some didn’t, and every minute or so another set of lights popped on. Among the bumper-to-bumper cars sat a huge mobile home, the kind that affluent families who don’t know what else to do with their money take to the mountains for the weekend. Inside this particular mobile home, however, was not a family but a well-trained medical team of three. All three were nurses, one of them female. The driver, Steven King, besides being a male nurse, had a black belt in karate to his name; the girl, Barbara, exceptionally well put together, had been an all-American volleyball player in her college days at UCLA. The third member of the team, Billy Grant, was small, wiry, and no one to mess with. The back of the mobile home had been stripped of the usual luxurious accouterments, and in their place was a mobile operating room.
