Ignoring the bodies, he swiftly fanned the room finding several sheets of paper written in what he supposed was Arabic. Those went into his jacket pocket. He found a diary in the middle drawer of a small desk. Nothing more.
He turned as Cutter entered the room stuffing a wad of papers into an inside pocket of her jacket.
“Kids?” Barry asked.
She shook her head. “Kids’ clothing. But no sign that any child ever lived here for any length of time.”
“Let’s go.”
Cutter checked the hall. Clear. She looked back at Barry. “Out the front way?”
He nodded.
They walked out of the apartment building boldly and several blocks later stepped into a subway entry. They caught a cab that took them midtown and then another cab and finally a bus.
They had not been followed.
The convoy, running empty, rolled out at seven o’clock the next morning.
“Goddamn you!” Jackson yelled through the phone into Barry’s ear. “We were just about to move against those people. You’ve just thrown gasoline onto a fire, Dog!”
Barry had called Jackson from a pay phone at a truck stop in Pennsylvania.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jackson. We dropped our loads at the docks and waited for twenty-four hours for orders from you. Spent the night at a motel in New Jersey. You can check it out. Now what do you mean about my throwing gasoline on a fire?”
Jackson sputtered for a moment and then calmed himself. “Don’t you read the papers or listen to TV news, Barry?”
“Jackson, we’ve been on the road. Deadheading to nowhere. When the hell am I going to have time to read a newspaper or watch TV?”
“All right, all right! You did it. I can’t prove it. You won’t admit it. So to hell with it. Certain people in government say thank you for it. I don’t. But I don’t count.”
“You’re babbling, Jackson. Are you coming down with something?”
“Yeah. Rabies, probably. I have bad news, Dog.”
“What else is new?”
Jackson sighed. “Darin Grady escaped from federal custody.”
“You son of a bitch!”
“Look, Dog …”
“No, you look! Darin can describe me. The truck I’m driving. He saw Cutter and Smooth and Mustard and Ready and Frenchy. You’ve signed the death warrants for them all.”
“It couldn’t be helped.”
“Oh, yeah? Yeah, it could have been helped, Jackson. And you know it. So from now on, you don’t give me orders concerning my little war. You assign me loads, and that’s it. Is that clear?”
“Funny. I got the same message about five hours ago.”
“I don’t doubt that a bit. And I can guess where you got the message. Next load, Jackson?”
“Head to Randolph AFB. San Antonio. Cutter’s team is there. Captain Barnett wants to talk with her. Orders will be there for you.”
“Fine. Now how in the hell did Grady bust loose?”
“It appears that someone in government got to I-7 and tipped off Grady’s location. The Air Force lost four men, Dog. NCO’s. Good security men. Certain people within the Air Force are highly pissed.”
“No kidding! Do you blame them?”
No reply.
“Any idea who in government rolled over?”
“We have some names.”
“And… ?”
“We’re going to let them play out their string.”
“And… ?”
“Then you can take care of it, Dog.”
“Thank you.”
“I was wrong, Dog. I admit it. We don’t see eye to eye, but I won’t—or I’ll try very hard—not to interfere with you after this.”
“It would be appreciated. Why the change of heart?”
“You really haven’t read a newspaper or listened to the news, have you?”
“I told you I haven’t” That much was true.
“All right. There were multiple terrorist strikes all over Europe last night. Probably in retaliation for the failed attempt on your convoy out in New Mexico. It wasn’t for the murders of those… people in New York. We’ve put a lid on that. But when the terrorist community learns of it, watch out.” Jackson sighed. “A hundred and sixty people died, Dog. In one night. Ireland, England, France, Germany, Spain. So far, the count shows thirty children were murdered. And they haven’t finished the count, yet.”
Jackson hung up.
Barry walked slowly back to his crew and waved them around him. He told them about the escape of Darin Grady, and the news about the terrorist strikes. And about the kids.
Cutter’s face hardened. That was her only show of emotion.
The men shifted uncomfortably on the blacktop parking lot, Ready saying, “How about our kids, Barry?”
“I’d say they were in danger. Your wives more than your kids. And I probably don’t have to explain that.”
“Me and Sally got married right after I got out of the Army. I would not take kindly to anything happening to her. No matter how slight.”
Barry felt Cutter’s eyes on him, and knew she was thinking about what he’d said: ’My wife was killed by a bomb meant for me.’
He said, “If you want out, now is the time to say it. You get in any deeper, and it’ll be too late. To tell you the truth, it probably is too late now.”
“That is probably more like it,” Mustard remarked. “I figure we’re all marked men by now.”
“What the hell are these people fightin’ for?” Smooth asked. He tossed the question out to anyone who might want to pick it up.
“They claim they’re fighting for freedom,” Cutter told him. “Among other things.”
“They kill little innocent kids and they say they’re fighting for freedom?” Frenchy asked. “That’s dumber than Vietnam. I got shot twice over there and still ain’t figured out why.”
It was just too good to pass up. “Why?” Mustard looked at him. “Hell, you probably stuck your big ass up in the air is why!”
Frenchy looked pained. “That ain’t what I meant, you buzzard-lookin’ thing.”
“Buzzard-looking’! Was I you, I sure wouldn’t be callin’ nobody ugly. You so ugly I bet your momma had to tie a sweet potato around your neck to get the hogs to play with you!”
“Me, ugly? Compared to you I’m a regular Paul Newman. Only reason your wife stays with you is ’cause your face scares the kids so bad they don’t misbehave none. What do you do for a hobby, haunt graveyards?”
Barry and Cutter walked away from the group. Cutter asked, “I wonder if all that insulting means they’re staying.”
“That bunch? Sure, they’re sticking. You couldn’t pry them away from this now.”
“What else did Jackson say?”
“Your team leader wants to talk to you.”
“I just bet he does.”
“Could you make any sense out of those papers we got back at the apartment?”
“Yes, but they won’t do us much good. They were all outdated materials. It’ll give us a few more names with no locations.” She smiled. “You know I’ve already called most of it in.”
He nodded. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.”
“We worked pretty well together back there, Barry.”
He had to admit that they had. “I also got the impression that wasn’t your first cold kill.”
“They do things differently in Europe, Barry. They don’t believe that everything the government does in the national interest is the business of the people. I tend to agree with them.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” He looked at her and waggled his eyebrows. “Wanna go boogie-woogie tonight, Cutter?”
She laughed. “We’ll be boogie-woogieing all right. Bebopping down to Texas.”
“What a party-pooper!”
“Hey!” Ready hollered, confirming what Barry had guessed. “Let’s get this show on the road. We got a load to pick up.”
7
> Ten hours later they pulled into a truck stop outside of Nashville and climbed down from their rigs. Barry stayed with Cutter with the rigs while the others went in to shower and change into fresh clothing and get something to eat. The night was clear and cold and the heavens were pocked with stars. Diamonds set in black velvet. They did a walkaround of the rigs, one going one way, the other the opposite direction.
They met at the rear of the trailers and leaned up against them, talking.
“Ever married, Cutter?”
She shook her head, then realized that he could not see the gesture in the night. “No. Never even came close.”
He looked at her. “Beautiful woman like you? Damn, that’s hard to believe.”
“You may not have noticed, Barry, but I am not exactly a small lady.”
“Oh, I noticed. Believe that.”
“There have been men in my life.” She grimaced. “The wrong types of men, unfortunately. These hotshot macho boys give me a pain in the butt. The types who quote/unquote ‘want to make a real woman out of me.’ Then there is the real male chauvinist pig type. And, brother, don’t ever even think the woods aren’t filled with them. The types who think a woman’s place is in the home.”
“If you don’t mind me saying it, you would have liked Kate.”
“I don’t mind it at all. That was your wife’s name?”
“Yeah.” The word was soft. “She could drive a rig like this one just as good as any man ever thought about doing. Then go put on a dress and dance until I hollered uncle.”
“You miss her, don’t you, Barry?”
“Yes.”
“Have there been other women in your life since Kate?”
“One. For a very brief period. In Kentucky. Some months back.”
“Any plans of ever going back and seeing her?”
“No.”
“Any particular reason for that?”
“There is no point.” He patted the trailer. “I told you: this rig is my home. I made a decision, and it was solely mine to make.” He smiled in the night, his teeth flashing white against his tanned face. “What’s your excuse, Cutter?”
“I guess the right man just hasn’t come along.”
Barry said nothing. He had a hunch she had found—or thought she had found—that right man. And he felt vibes from her. Good vibes. Vibes that told him she would be the one to stand beside him, through the good times and the bad.
But he knew that could never be.
“Keep looking, Cutter.” He walked away, very conscious of her eyes on his back.
Barry’s eyes popped open. He did not know what had awakened him; he had always been able to sleep as soundly in a moving truck as in a stationary bed, having been raised in the cab of a truck.
He looked at his watch. Three o’clock. He’d been asleep just about six hours, which was about all he ever slept at one stretch.
He slipped out of the bunk and pulled on his boots and shirt. Dog bumped his head against Barry’s leg, letting the man know he was on the floor and to keep his big feet off him.
Barry patted the animal on the head and slipped up front, into the passenger seat. Looking at Cutter in the glow of instrument lights, he felt a stirring. He fought it back.
“You were tired,” Cutter said, not taking her eyes off the road.
“Yes. But I don’t know what caused me to wake up like I did. A feeling that something was wrong.”
“I’ve had that same feeling for the past fifteen minutes or so. I almost woke you up a couple of times.”
“You should have. You talked to any of the others?”
“No.”
Barry picked up the mike for the high-band military radio. “This is Dog. How’s it looking in the drag?”
“I don’t know.” Frenchy. “At times I think we’re being followed. Then the lights cut off. I can’t tell if it’s the same car that’s behind me. But I got a hunch it is.”
“I got a bad feelin’,” Ready broke in. “I think we’d better stay heads up.”
“Where the hell are we?” Barry asked Cutter.
“About halfway between Memphis and Little Rock. It’s a good stretch of highway for an ambush.”
He looked out the window and silently agreed with her. There was not a light to be seen. But how the hell would any terrorist group know the route they were taking? Not even Jackson knew that. But if someone placed just right in government knew where the convoy was when Barry contacted Jackson, and knew where they were heading, it would be relatively easy to figure out the route.
Had he told Jackson where he was when he talked with him? He thought back. Yeah, he had. That truck stop in Pennsylvania. And the logical route from there to San Antonio was the one they were taking.
Barry checked a highway mileage marker and then looked at a map of Arkansas. “We’ve got about fifteen miles of nothing looking at us, Cutter. If something is going to go down, this is where it’ll happen.” He picked up his mike. “Everybody over in the left lane. Guards, window down and weapons at the ready. Heads up.”
Barry picked up his Uzi and checked the clip. Full. Always set on full auto. Ready to rock and roll. He waited for someone to start the dance.
Barry looked up ahead, to an on-ramp, and smiled grimly. “They’re getting smart, Cutter.”
She had seen the big Peterbilt roaring off the ramp, its movement timed perfectly to intercept the convoy.
“Got a rig coming up behind fast!” Frenchy’s voice came through the speaker.
“He’s going to try to ram!” Cutter said.
Barry leaned out the window and gave the rogue 18-wheeler a full clip from the Uzi. The left-side mirror erupted in a shower of glass and metal, the sudden burst of fire startling the driver, giving Cutter time to pull up alongside of the rig. The man on the passenger side held what looked like a MAC-10 in his hands.
Barry slammed a fresh clip into the Uzi, jacked in a round, and emptied the weapon into the cab of the Peterbilt. In the glow of lights, Barry watched the driver’s face explode, splattering the interior of the truck with blood and bone.
“Shut it down!” Barry yelled.
Cutter stood on the brakes, tires smoking.
The maverick 18-wheeler veered off to the left, running wide open and out of control. It cut across the left lane and disappeared out of sight, rolling across the median and landing upside down.
“Hammer down!” Barry yelled.
Cutter threw the coals to the rig, twin chrome stacks smoking and the engine roaring.
“Over in the right lane, Cutter!” He jerked up his mike and keyed it. “Ready, Frenchy! Come on around us. You’re paid to haul freight, not be heroes. We’ll handle it.”
“Now you look here, Dog!” Ready’s voice yelled through the speaker.
“Do what I tell you, goddamnit. Come on, if those goddamn piles of junk you’re driving will make it.”
The SSTs were all almost identical, but no driver likes his rig insulted. In the mirror, Barry smiled as the drivers poured it on, coming up fast.
“Slow down, Cutter. Let them get around us and then we’ll take out this other bastard.”
Cutter eased off the pedal and Ready and Frenchy took the lead.
“It’s us they want,” Cutter said.
“I’m damn sure going to give them a chance to try their luck.” Barry’s words were formed around a grim smile.
Dog was lying on the floor of the sleeper, growling.
The terrorist 18-wheeler began closing with Barry’s Kenworth.
“Now we get to see how you drive, Cutter.” Barry told her. “Get in the center, straddle the line.”
She swung the big rig into the center of the Interstate.
The rig behind them closed, sitting on their donkey.
They were rolling at seventy. Barry knew his rig, empty, would better a hundred mph. But he also knew that at any second they might come up on some four-wheeler, and he did not want to see any innocent people hurt.
; A rig passed them on the other side of the Interstate, east-bound. “How’s it lookin’ over your shoulder, buddy?” the CB crackled.
“Haven’t seen a thing since River City,” Cutter answered calmly.
“You sound sweet.”
“That’s what my wife says.”
The driver thought about that for a few seconds. “Your wife?”
“Yeah. She’s in the bunk. We’re gonna pull over in a few and get down to business.”
“Well, the hell with you both! I’m gone! Good night!”
The radio went silent.
Barry’s right-side mirror shattered under the impacting of automatic weapons fire, momentarily filling the air with tiny images of highway and lights as the glass showered.
Barry reached into his war bag and pulled out several grenades.
Cutter gave him a sharp look. “How much armament do you carry in this rig?”
Barry just grinned. “Pull over into the left lane. Let’s see what he does.”
She swung over, leaving the right-hand lane clear. The rogue 18-wheeler took the bait and swung over, attempting to pull up even with Barry and Cutter.
Barry pulled the pin and tossed the grenade out the window. It bounced off the road and exploded harmlessly on the grass by the shoulder.
Muttering low curses, Barry grabbed up another grenade and jerked the pin, holding the spoon down.
“Have you got a firm grip on that thing?” Cutter yelled, over the roar of the engine and the sounds of the exhaust and the wind coming in through Barry’s open window.
“If I don’t, it’s sure gonna get messy in here!”
Either the driver of the rogue truck was traveling too fast to see the grenade as it exploded, or he was just plain stupid. Either way, he kept on trucking.
Barry released the spoon, counted, and tossed the pineapple out the window, tossing it as straight back as he could.
The grenade exploded just as it impacted with the front of the truck. He wasn’t sure how much damage he had done, but the truck slewed to one side and pulled over onto the shoulder. One headlight was gone and it looked like the blast had torn one fender off, but Barry couldn’t be sure.
“Do we go back and finish it?” Cutter asked.
Barry shook his head. “No. We need to get the hell gone from this area.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “When we get to a rest area, pull over for a minute. I want to take off what’s left of this shot-up mirror. We’ll replace it outside of Little Rock. You arrange for the mirror. I’ll call Jackson.”
18 Wheel Avenger Page 6
