18 Wheel Avenger

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  And one trussed-up terrorist that Barry hoped to God nobody would spot.

  Barry checked them in, renting four rooms, telling the desk clerk the others in his party would be along shortly. They were ceasing their travel due to the bad weather.

  The clerk thought that was a smart move.

  One by one, the others entered the lobby and picked up their room keys.

  Barry jerked the terrorist to his feet and helped him out of the cab of the Kenworth. On the blacktop, he pressed the muzzle of the 9mm against the man’s backbone. “If you yell, the slug will cut your spine, and I’ll leave you to rot on the parking lot. The choice is yours.”

  “Ruthless bastard!” the terrorist spat out of the words, standing in the wet, stormy, and cold night. “As you wish, Dog.”

  “Move!” Barry prodded him with the muzzle. They walked across the lot. “You got a lot of nerve calling me ruthless.”

  “You don’t understand what we are fighting for.”

  “Neither do you. None of you people do. You’ve all lost sight of decency. All you want to do is kill.”

  “Not true. We fight for a better world.”

  Barry unlocked the door and shoved the terrorist inside, closing the door behind him, making certain it was locked. “Better world, my ass,” he muttered.

  Cutter was arranging for a rental car and would travel to a nearby shopping mall to get clothes for the man; all that after she called her people.

  The terrorist watched as Barry opened a suitcase and took out a .22-caliber auto-loader, with a long silencer screwed into the barrel. He sneered at Barry. “And you have the nerve to call me a thug and a killer!”

  Barry smiled at him. “I also have the nerve to kill you where you sit unless you shut your damned mouth.”

  The terrorist locked eyes with the man known as the Dog. “I believe you,” he said softly. “I will say no more.”

  The minutes ticked by in silence, the stillness broken only by the still-driving rain hammering at the outside. A knock on the door.

  Barry walked to the door. “Yes?”

  “Cutter.”

  He opened the door and she slipped in, several packages in her hands. She dumped those on the bed and turned to face Barry. “I have people on the way. They’ll be here in a couple of hours, max. You take a shower and warm up. I’ll watch this creep.”

  Barry didn’t need a second invitation. He hit the shower and adjusted the water as hot as he could stand it. He dried off and walked back into the room in his underwear shorts.

  The terrorist’s eyes took in the numerous scars on Barry’s body. Bullet and shrapnel and knife souvenirs. “May I, too, be afforded the luxury of bathing?” he asked.

  Barry dressed before replying. “Go ahead.” He lifted the muzzle of the silenced auto-loader. “Just bear in mind that a body falling in a tub doesn’t make much noise. And the spray will wash away the blood. That would be so much easier than having to explain blood on the carpet.”

  “I get the message.”

  Cutter removed the tape from the man’s wrists and he carefully stretched, flexing his hands, restoring some lost circulation.

  “Strip,” she told him.

  The terrorist smiled. “Wanting a quick peek at what you are someday going to get, Captain?”

  Cutter hit him with a balled fist and knocked the man sprawling, surprise in his eyes at the power behind the punch.

  Cutter glared down at him. “The only thing I want from you, punk, is silence!”

  Blood leaked from the terrorist’s busted mouth. He slowly nodded his head in understanding.

  “Get up, strip, and take your bath,” Cutter told him.

  Barry stood by the open bathroom door, the silenced auto-loader in his right hand. He smiled back at Cutter. “Getting a bit testy, aren’t you, Cutter?”

  “I keep thinking about Jackson’s son, sitting in that cafe, minding his own business, and then the room exploding. All because of sorry bastards like that!” She jerked her thumb toward the bathroom.

  “It does make it a bit more personal, doesn’t it?”

  20

  They ordered food sent in, and because Barry’s room was a divided suite—it was the last room available at the motel—George and Bonnie joined them. The terrorist, bathed and dressed in new clean clothes, sat in the small powder room, adjoining the bathroom, eating his meal, someone always watching the small room with one way in and one way out.

  George clicked on the TV, to watch local and national news.

  “… and Kentucky authorities are puzzled over what they now believe was a staged accident on Interstate seventy-five earlier this afternoon,” the anchorperson said. “Kentucky State Police report finding numerous shell casings from what they believe to be automatic weapons. The shell casings were found several miles south of the accident site. In the median area, a wrecked four-wheel-drive vehicle was found. No license plates and the vehicle identification number had been shot out.

  “About thirty miles south of that scene, an eighteen-wheeler was found parked in a rest area, the driver shot to death, his wallet taken. Authorities are investigating!”

  The national and international news was just as boring and depressing and lopsided as it always was. But a self-styled poet did comment about the snow in New York City that covered the flowers in the park.

  In rhyme.

  “Well,” Cutter said sarcastically, “I guess that pretty well covers the important news of the day!”

  George and Bonnie said nothing.

  The terrorist could not stop his laughter.

  Barry looked at him.

  “You see?” the young man said with a philosophical shrug of his shoulders. “It is as we already know. Do not think us fools. We have studied and researched your news media. We know what news they’ll report and what they will not report—and much more importantly, how they will report it!”

  “Yeah,” Barry said, pushing his plate from him. “I’ll give you that much.”

  George looked at his watch. “They spent twelve minutes commenting on a Senate hearing that the majority of the American public really doesn’t give a damn about. We isolate ourselves—some of us, certainly not all. And we do all sorts of so-called comprehensive and exhaustive research that tells us what the average American wants to see on the news. Then when I speak with that so-called average American, he or she tells me they’ve stopped watching the news because we run practically the same stories night after night, over and over, and seldom report anything they care to watch because, at least in their minds, it does not pertain to them.”

  The terrorist was smiling. “The watchdog of the world,” he sneered. “The conscience of the nation!” He laughed aloud. “Keep up the good work!”

  George rose with a sigh and walked outside, to stand under the awning, breathing deeply, watching the rain as it slashed the earth.

  The special operations team came and went with the terrorist. It took less than thirty seconds from the time they pulled in to when they pulled out. One whispered briefly to Cutter and then they were gone.

  “What’d he say?” Barry asked, quickly adding, “If it’s any of my business, that is!”

  “He said for us not to worry about the Bronco. I should have told you; it just slipped my mind. Nothing about that Bronco is original equipment. When we get them, we switch everything around. The engine, the transmission—anything we can switch, we do, usually. That way, they can be abandoned and as long as the plates are off, we can just say it’s another government vehicle that somebody stole a time back.” She grinned.

  “Cute. But doesn’t that get expensive.”

  “No. They’re usually piles of junk when we get them anyway. You’re ex-special troop. You remember how a lot of the big brass feels about us. When it’s worn out, they give it to us. Screw ’em!”

  Barry laughed at her. He remembered only too well. “George and Bonnie?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think it�
��s just too dangerous for them to stay with us. I’m going to suggest they pack it in. And I’m going to suggest that they continue with their bodyguards. I really don’t think they fully understand—either of them—how much danger they’re in.”

  “I agree with you. And something else: George isn’t talking about it, but I think that combat situation back up the road is really bothering him. He’d never killed a man before today.”

  Barry nodded his head in understanding. “Yeah. He feels pretty bad about it. But he came through. He reached down inside himself and found a deep pool of courage. I don’t mean to imply that he’ll be a better man because he killed. But he’ll be a better person with the knowledge that when push came to shove, he stood his ground and refused to quit.”

  Barry looked outside. The rain had stopped. He turned back to Cutter. “I’ll tell George and Bonnie to stay here, and tomorrow, fly back to New York. Pack it up, Cutter. We’re pulling out.”

  Barry had made no attempt to conceal his pulling out or the direction taken. He caught up with Interstate 40 and pointed the big steel-reinforced, armor-plated nose of the Kenworth west.

  Cutter was asleep in the bunk, the blanket pulled up to her nose.

  Barry’s Uzi was on the seat beside him, the fire selector set on full rock and roll. His model 92S Beretta was snug in its shoulder holster. He turned on the radio and settled in for a long run.

  The highway sang to him as he rolled on; already the road was almost dry. He kept the CB turned down low, so it would not disturb Cutter. Occasionally, he would talk to a trucker; but since he was becoming so well known, he did not use his handle of Dog.

  He called himself, with a small smile on his lips: Loup. And the truckers, to a person, or so they said, thought he was referring to a loop as in rope. But he had known many truckers who spoke several languages, and felt sure a lot of them knew that loup meant wolf in French.

  He was fifty miles west of Nashville when Cutter crawled out of the bunk and slid into the seat beside him. She picked up the thermos and shook it. “Fresh?”

  “Was back in Knoxville,” he said with a grin.

  “Yukk!”

  “First stopping place we’ll pull over. For some reason, I’m hungry!”

  “I could use a bite myself. Seen anything suspicious?”

  “Nothing. I think the bully-boys have realized they’ve taken on a foe this time who doesn’t play by the rules. They’ve pulled back and are giving this some serious thought.”

  “You think they’ve given up on us?”

  “No. I think that we’ve become a direct challenge to them. And now that they know the news media is, or was, traveling with us, they might be thinking that the media will be coming out strong against terrorism around the world. And that’s got them worried. They know the military has special operations teams working. And”—he glanced at her in the glow of the dash lights—“you people have a leak.”

  “Yes. I told my people that on the phone. It’ll be plugged, you can bet on that.”

  “It better be, Cutter. It’s your life and the lives of your buddies that are on the line.”

  “And yours,” she gently reminded him.

  “When I took this job, I knew that up front. Truck stop up ahead. You go in and get us some coffee and sandwiches. I’ll stay with the rig until you get back, then I’ll go to the john.”

  Barry got a little antsy after fifteen minutes had passed with no sign of Cutter returning. After twenty minutes, he was pacing around the truck. When thirty minutes had gone by, he waved to an attendant at the pumps.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Barry held out a fifty-dollar bill. “Can you stay free of those pumps for thirty minutes and watch this rig?”

  “Man, yeah! Just let me holler at Dave.”

  “This is a government load. Anybody starts hanging around this rig, you start yelling for help, understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” The fifty-dollar bill vanished in the man’s pocket. “You take your time. Take all the time you need.”

  Barry walked swiftly across the asphalt and stepped into the brightness of the restaurant. His eyes swept the area. No Cutter. He stepped up to the cashier.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “A lady came in here about thirty minutes ago. Tall, very pretty. Had a thermos in her hand.” He hesitated, then took a chance. “We were supposed to meet some people in here. Have you seen her?”

  “Oh, sure! She went out the back way about ten minutes ago. With four guys and a lady. She’ll be back though.”

  “How do you know?”

  She pointed to a thermos sitting on a counter. “She forgot her coffee.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Barry did not go out the back way. Instead, he walked out the front and slipped around the east side of the huge building. He moved silently through the rumbling banks of 18-wheelers, their drivers either asleep in the bunks or inside the cafe, eating and drinking coffee and talking.

  Barry paused and reached down inside his right boot, extracting a knife from its clip-on sheath. The knife was more a dagger, double-edged, razor sharp. He moved out, staying close to the rigs, staying in the shadows, a hunter/killer on the stalk.

  Then he spotted the four-wheeler parked among the rigs. He could see two people inside the car. He recognized the profile on one of them as Cutter. She was sitting on the passenger side. A man sitting behind the wheel. Barry could not tell if anyone was in the backseat.

  His eyes roamed the darkness, picking out two men standing in the shadows of 18-wheelers. Very faint light gleamed off the honed blade of Barry’s dagger.

  A whisper came out of the darkness, from the cab of the rig he was standing by.

  “You lookin’ for your lady, buddy?”

  “Yeah,” Barry whispered. “Tall, dark-haired, beautiful.”

  “Figured you was. She was cussin’ up a storm when they passed here. Looked like to me she had a gun shoved in her back. You got a handle?”

  “Dog,” Barry growled.

  The driver caught his breath. “I heard of you. The government, ain’t you?”

  Barry said nothing; had not even looked up at the man.

  “Man and a tough-bookin’ broad prowlin’ the lot. They look like they know what they’re doin’. If you know what I mean. And they talk funny. Foreigners, I think.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What can I do to help?” the unknown and unseen driver asked.

  “Be just like those three monkeys, partner.”

  “You got it.” He paused. “Good luck. I’m goin’ to pull out now. I’ll just act like I’m havin’ a hard time gettin’ clear. Be backin’ up and so forth. I’ll back my rig right up to the bumper of that raggedy-assed Peterbilt by the car. I’ll stay there for a ten count. Time for you to roll under the trailer and do whatever in the hell you’re going to do. And I sure don’t want to know what it is. Okay?”

  Barry grinned.

  The driver dropped his rig into gear and began slowly backing up, Barry staying even with the rear wheels, walking slowly, the knife held by his leg.

  After several tries, the driver put his trailer bumper just about one inch from the front bumper of the Peterbilt. Barry stepped to the Peterbilt, darted past the tractor and slipped up between tractor and trailer.

  He saw the man and woman the driver had mentioned. They were standing near the front of the backed-up rig, looking at it. One of the guards he’d first spotted was looking toward the area where Barry’s rig was parked. The other guard had his back to Barry. Barry didn’t know what he was looking at.

  Whatever it was, it was his last look at anything on this earth.

  Barry sprang off the tractor, landed on silent feet, and jerked the man’s head back, slicing his throat.

  Blood flooded Barry’s gloved hand as the man jerked and trembled. Barry lowered the body to the blacktop and quickly fanned the body. A silenced .22 pistol. He checked it. One in the chamber. He clicke
d the weapon off safety and looked into the right-hand mirror of the truck: the driver was staring at him. Barry lifted the pistol. The driver grinned and revved his engine. The sound was enormous in the night.

  Barry lifted the silenced pistol and shot the man sitting in the car with Cutter. The little slug slapped through the rolled-up glass and struck the man in the head. He pitched forward and to one side. The sound of the truck’s engine covered the slight noise.

  Cutter bailed out of the car, a sack in one hand. She reached back into the car and came up with a club in her right hand. She stood up, took aim, and threw the club with every ounce of strength she had.

  The club struck the woman in the head and knocked her completely off her feet just as Barry pulled the trigger three times, aiming at the man with her. He joined his companion on the asphalt.

  The one remaining guard disappeared into the maze of 18-wheelers.

  Barry quickly piled the immediately accessible dead and wounded into the car and said to Cutter, “Go! I’ll catch up with you.”

  Cutter ran across the asphalt, pausing just long enough to give the woman a vicious kick to the head.

  Barry dumped her in the trunk of the car, slammed the lid shut, and pulled out. One side of the woman’s head was caved in.

  The friendly driver had pulled out and was gone, trucking eastward.

  There was a CB in the big automobile and when Barry had Cutter in sight, he blinked his lights three times and flipped the CB channel selector to 3.

  “Come on,” Cutter’s voice reached him.

  “Where’s the nearest place where some of your people might be?”

  “SAC base in Blytheville, Arkansas.”

  “Too far. Watch for a place where I can set this car in some timber!”

  “Ten-four!”

  Cutter spotted a place and Barry jumped the shoulder and drove the sedan into timber, floorboarding the pedal, working his way deeper into brush, the rear end howling and fishtailing.

  But it would be, with luck, midday before the car would be found.

  Barry waited until a string of cars had passed and then ran from the timber, climbing up into the cab. Cutter pulled out. Barry noticed there was a bruise on her face and her lips were swollen.