18 Wheel Avenger

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Barry just looked at him. He reserved comment.

  “Rods that big Kenworth up and down the highways better than most men. Been with Rivers Trucking ever since she was a kid. One hundred and ten percent loyal to Big Joe. She likes you, too, Dog.”

  “Likes me!” Barry almost shouted the words. “What the hell would she do if she disliked me—shoot me?”

  “Probably,” Cottonmouth drawled. “She does carry a gun in her boot.”

  4

  “I-7,” Jackson told Barry and Lieutenant Cutter over breakfast the next morning. “One man was killed when you slapped the car off the road. Two were, we guess, pretty badly injured. That’s based on the amount of blood in the car. The dead man was left. The two injured were probably taken to a doctor with IRA ties.”

  “Then this I-7 has a strong network in this country,” Barry said. Statement, not a question.

  “Oh, absolutely.” Jackson was emphatic on that point. “As does the Islamic Army, the Bader-Meinhof gang, the Red Brigade—you name some terrorist group, and you’ll find support for it somewhere in America. And a hell of a lot of support for the PLO.”

  “What’s the word on leaks from the SST drivers?” Cutter asked.

  “Nothing. A stone wall. But the SST drivers who were just about fifteen minutes behind you the other night”—he looked at Barry—“have all been reassigned. It was done quietly so as not to tip their hand. For the next few months, they’ll be hauling retired weapons, taking them to the scrap pile. It’s routine; all SST drivers do it at one time or another.”

  “Now what do we do?” Barry asked.

  “You’ll be hauling real weapons, M-16s, to the docks in New York City, for shipment overseas. We’ve deliberately let it leak about your cargo. So heads up, you’re going to be hit.”

  “I’m not going to play this by any legal rules,” Barry warned the government man. “Let’s get that settled right now. I’m carte blanche on anything I do. Those were the terms of my agreement.”

  Jackson looked pained. He shifted his eyes to Cutter, then back to Barry. “We’d like to get enough on some people for convictions, Dog.”

  “Screw convictions. I intend to give them convictions with a bullet right between the eyes. Tell your legal department to stay the hell out of our way.”

  Jackson dropped his eyes. He knew Barry called the shots. That was the deal that had been made. And the administration that had made the deal was going to be in charge for a long time. Presidents might change, but the policy would not.

  Jackson had been there. He recalled the conversation word for word: “Country has gone to hell, Barry,” the President had said. “We’re slowly bringing the nation back to dead center, but the liberals are fighting us tooth and claw all the way. We’re losing some ground, gaining in some other areas. You might be able to help. Are you interested?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes,” the Man was quick to reply. “You hear me out. Then, if you’re not interested, you’re suddenly located in a hospital where you’ve been in a coma for months.”

  Barry listened. Smiled occasionally.

  When the President was finished, Barry said, “I call the shots. I don’t play by any rules. Person needs killing, I kill them. Courts turn loose a scumbag, if I’m close, he’s dead. I am on my own. I am judge, jury, and executioner. Sometimes I might be called on to assist the government. That’s fine. Just keep the social-moaners and weepers away from me.”

  The President had smiled. Made Jackson uncomfortable as hell.

  The Man had said, “You will never see me again. I never heard of you. Your contact is Weston or Jackson. I never want to hear from you.”

  “Fine with me.”

  “You get out of control, and you’re dead within twenty-four hours.”

  “I understand.”

  “You won’t reconsider and have a partner?”

  “I have a partner?”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Dog.”

  He had shaken the President’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Barry.”

  “Call me Dog.”

  Jackson mentally shook himself and looked into the cold hunter/stalker/killer eyes of Barry Rivera—The Dog. “It’s your show, Dog.”

  He stood up and walked out of the room.

  Cutter leaned back in her chair and looked at Barry. “Man … just who in the hell are you, anyway? You just spoke to one of the top Treasury people like he was dirt under your boots.”

  “Jackson and I have to clear the air every now and then. We get along. Although that’s hard to tell at times.” He pushed back his chair. “Let’s go to work, Cutter.”

  She smiled at him. “Yes, sir, boss!”

  The smile was not returned. Hers faded on her face when he said, “Call me Dog.”

  They rolled out on a crisp October morning. Barry and Cutter in the lead truck. Ready and Smooth in the rocking chair. Frenchy and Mustard in the drag. It had not taken the instructors long to hone down the drivers. They had just spent three of the most brutal weeks of their lives. They had been awakened at four in the morning; they didn’t see a bed until ten at night. For three weeks they did not walk anywhere. They ran all the time. Seemed to them they even ran in their sleep. And some of them did, legs jerking from exhaustion.

  The Air Commando instructors had not turned out trained killers, not in three weeks, but they had taught the men what they could of self-defense and combat situations.

  Barry and Cutter watched from the sidelines, but always ran with the other drivers, and stayed with them every waking hour.

  A team was being formed.

  Special radios had been installed in the trucks: military frequencies with scramblers.

  They rolled east, fully loaded with M-16s and M-60 machine guns.

  Cutter took the first trick at the wheel.

  Dog was on the floor of the big walk-in custom sleeper. He was happy to once more be on the road.

  “What did your people say about when we might be hit?” Barry asked.

  “They couldn’t get any intel on it. But it’s almost always at night. Since we’ll be out of the desert in a few hours, they’ll probably try to take us out between Oklahoma City and St.Louis. I’m guessing when we get in the Ozarks. That’s the way I’d do it.”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “In Europe, working with various police and military units.”

  “They do it differently over there, huh?”

  “Much differently. The military and the police, in most of those countries, are not forbidden by law from working together. Spain and Germany are the best to work in.”

  “We picked up a tail,” Frenchy radioed. “It’s firm. Dark blue late-model Chevy. Four men in it.”

  The convoy was rolling at a steady 60 mph. It was odd that the car did not pass.

  Cutter picked up the mike. “That’ll be just one of several teams. I doubt they’ll try anything in daylight, but you never know about these people.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “A second car is laying back,” Ready radioed. “I seen it when we come out of that last curve. It’s back a good half mile. Dark blue or black. I couldn’t tell.”

  “That’s probably the second team. What we call a throwaway team,” Cutter radioed. “The trick is they hope we’ll worry about that team and fail to pick up on it when that Chevy pulls off and another team takes it place. This time probably ahead of us.”

  “Wrong,” Barry said bitterly. “They’re going to try us in broad open daylight.” He had been looking out his window, watching a dot in the sky become larger.

  “That’s crazy!” Cutter said.

  “Helicopter coming up fast from the south,” he told her, then grabbed up his mike. “Heads up. Watch that damn chopper coming from the south.”

  The convoy was about sixty miles west of Tucumcari.

  “Exit off!” Barry shouted. “Now. Let’s take the fight to them!” He repeated the orders to the oth
ers.

  Cutter hit the exit ramp too fast and had to stand on the brakes to avoid rolling when the ramp merged with a secondary road. She cut south, on a beat-up country road.

  “That move blew their minds, Dog!” Frenchy yelled into his mike. “Caught ’em completely by surprise.”

  The helicopter had changed flight direction, the pilot confused by the sudden change in tactics of those on the ground. Barry could see a man sitting with a rifle in his hands.

  Barry stuck his M-16 out the window and began letting the lead fly. The canopy of the chopper spiderwebbed and the pilot swerved away, content to let the ground personnel handle it from here on in.

  Barry pointed to a broad intersection just ahead. “Turn it around there, Cutter. When you get it turned around, stay in the middle of the road and ram them.” He radioed back to the others what he intended to do and then jumped from the seat and fitted Dog into a special harness, securing one end to a chrome O-ring on the sleeper wall. Barry got back in his seat just as Cutter was taking a wide swing and heading back.

  “I wondered what that ring was for,” Cutter shouted, over the roaring of the modified Cummins. “I thought you might be into leather and handcuffs!”

  “That might be fun,” Barry yelled. “You bring it up again when we’re out of this!”

  She smiled at him. “You might need handcuffs to handle me, Dog.”

  “Anytime you feel up to it, Cutter.”

  She laughed and shifted gears.

  The driver of the Chevy had panic written all over his face as he realized what was coming at him and what was going to happen to him if he didn’t do something and do it right the first time.

  He just didn’t act fast enough. The armor-plated and steel-reinforced front of the Kenworth caught the car just as the driver elected to turn. The massive reinforced bumper knocked the car off the road and flipped it rolling, just as the second car slid to a halt, the occupants spilling out, automatic weapons in their hands.

  “Roll over them!” Barry shouted. “Goddamnit, do it!”

  Cutter shifted and pedaled the metal. A terrorist was caught between the bumper of the Kenworth and the parked car. The bumper hit him stomach-high and crushed the life from him. The scream of metal against roadway was shrill in the autumn air combined with the roaring of the big Cummins, it drowned out the screaming of the other man who was caught under the wheels of the big rig and dragged to his death.

  Barry grabbed for his mike. “Shut ’em down and come out firing!” he ordered.

  He was out the door and on the ground before Cutter even brought the big rig to a complete halt.

  Lining up one redheaded, freckle-faced man, Barry cut the legs out from under him and saw one kneecap shatter under the M-16 fire. Cutter was firing her weapon from the cab of the truck and the other drivers were rocking and rolling with automatic fire.

  The helicopter was circling, but safely out of range.

  The firefight was hot and intense, but the terrorists had been demoralized and thrown completely off guard by the actions of the drivers. In less than two minutes, the fight was over and the helicopter was a fading black dot in the sky. Hauling ass.

  Barry glanced over at Cutter. Hell of a woman. She felt his eyes and met them.

  “Those radios are repeaters, aren’t they, Cutter?”

  “Yes. Reading your mind, I’ll contact Kirtland and get a team out here.”

  “Fine. Have the state police seal off that exit we used. I don’t want anybody in here.”

  She nodded her head and climbed back up into the cab.

  “Report!” Barry called.

  “We’re all okay!” Mustard yelled.

  “Got a couple of live ones over here!” Ready called, standing over two moaning terrorists.

  “And this one looks like an A-rab,” Smooth said. “He’s called me some dirty names, too.”

  “He’ll be calling me more than that before I’m through with the son of a bitch,” Barry muttered. Raising his voice, he called, “Bring the live ones over here.”

  Cutter was climbing down as the wounded terrorists were dragged to Barry’s rig.

  “What are you going to do, Barry?” she asked.

  “Question this bastard.”

  She appeared nervous about that and Barry picked up on it. Asked her about it.

  “I would rather you waited until my team got here.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re on U.S. soil, Barry.”

  “Yes,” Barry told her. “And I intend to see that it remains U.S. soil.”

  He turned to Frenchy. “Get his driver’s license for me, please.”

  An international driver’s license and a passport. “The asshole thinks he has diplomatic immunity,” Barry said. “He’s some sort of Iranian attaché.”

  Cutter looked at the visa. “Barry, he does have diplomatic immunity.”

  “Not with me.” That made Cutter even more nervous. Barry knelt down beside the man. “Who tipped you that we were hauling this route?”

  The Iranian, only slightly wounded, spat in Barry’s face. Barry stood up, wiped the spittle from his face, then kicked the terrorist between the legs.

  The man screamed and rolled on the ground.

  Cutter had regained her composure and was leaning up against the trailer, her arms folded under her breasts. This was the Dog’s show. She had been ordered not to interface.

  Whatever Barry did to the man, she’d seen worse in Europe.

  From terrorist’s bombs and bullets.

  “I asked you a question, camel-humper. Who tipped you?”

  The Iranian glared at Barry with eyes filled with both pain and hate.

  Barry smiled at him. “All right, partner. If that’s the way you want to play the game, suits me just fine.” He looked at Frenchy. “Couple of you boys wedge his right ankle under the outside tire of the trailer and hold him there.”

  The Iranian started screaming and kicking.

  “What are you going to do?” the red-haired, freckle-faced man asked, a lilting brogue to his voice.

  Barry looked at him. “I’m going to see how Abdullah here likes life with his ankles crushed.”

  “This is America,” the Irishman said. “Here, you have justice and courts and laws and procedures one must follow.”

  “No,” Barry softly corrected him. “Not here.” He pointed to the ground. “Here, you got the Dog!”

  5

  All things taken into consideration, it was really quite unpleasant for the Iranian terrorist. But he talked. After one ankle was crushed under the tires of the big rig, and after he was brought back to consciousness, he began talking so fast it was difficult for Barry and Cutter to keep up. But Cutter’s cassette/recorder got it all. She also committed it to memory and jotted down telephone numbers, knowing she would have to turn the tape over to her team leader.

  While Cutter was taping the Iranian’s statements, Barry turned his attention to the red-haired, freckle-faced man, who had remained impassive during the Iranian’s painful incentive toward talking.

  Now he said, “Unconstitutional, illegal, barbaric, and quite un-American.”

  “You’re breaking my heart,” Barry told him. “I’m almost overcome with emotion. I want the location of your safe houses and the leaders of cells within the United States.”

  “You must be mad!”

  “Actually, no.”

  The face of the terrorist was sweat-shiny and his eyes were dulled from the pain of the wounds in his legs. “I demand to see a doctor. That is my constitutional right under American law.”

  “All right,” Barry told him. “Give me the name of the nearest doctor sympathetic to your so-called cause, and we’ll get you to him, or her, promptly.”

  “You are a rotten son of a bitch!” the terrorist cursed him.

  “You’re the one lying on the ground bleeding and hurting, not me,” Barry reminded him.

  The wounded terrorist again cursed Barry.

  “
Drag that other one over here,” Barry told Mustard. He turned to Cutter. “You familiar with this kid-looking punk?”

  She nodded her head. “Darin Grady. He’s the one responsible for blowing up that department store in England. The blast that killed all those civilians.”

  Barry squatted down beside the young man. “O’Grady, is it now, my boy?”

  Darin spat at Barry, the spittle plopping in the sand by Barry’s boot.

  Barry cut his eyes to Smooth. “You check his wounds?”

  “He’s not bad hurt. Probably not as bad as he’s gonna be hurt,” he added.

  “I find your actions very reprehensible,” Darin said. “And I demand prompt medical attention and legal representation.”

  Barry laughed at him. “When a leprechaun appears on my shoulder, punk. I want information, and I want it quickly.”

  “Or you’ll torture me?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Then you’re no better than you claim us to be.”

  “Wrong. I don’t plant bombs that kill indiscriminately.” Barry stood up and kicked the man in the mouth.

  Cutter winced as teeth bounced across the sand and Darin Grady screamed in pain.

  The other drivers had walked away at a wave of Barry’s hand.

  Barry had reached toward the folding knife encased in leather on his belt when the sound of helicopters stopped his hand.

  “They’re ours,” Cutter announced.

  The choppers settled down, kicking up dirt and sand. Jackson ran to the scene. He paused at the front of Barry’s truck, paling at the sight of blood and bits of bone and guts clinging to the grill and bumper.

  The Air Force Special Operations team quickly assessed the scene and stayed back, their faces impassive.

  Jackson knelt down beside the moaning Iranian and spoke with him briefly. He rose to his feet and faced Barry, anger in his eyes.

  “You fucked up, Dog! You realize that with what you’ve done, we can never take any of these people into an open court of law.”

  “So what?” Barry stood his ground. He pointed to the nearly unconscious Iranian. “That one spilled his guts. Cutter has it on tape.” He pointed to Darin. “And I was just about to get some information out of this one.”