He climbed down to the asphalt and walked around his rig, making a visual check, inspecting the seals and the locks in his trailer doors. The locks themselves were very expensive; they could not be cut or sawed open, even if the alarm system was not working.
The coming of dusk had dropped the temperature sharply, but the weather people had said there was no chance of any snow. Just clear and cold.
Leather scraped on the asphalt behind him and Barry instantly dropped to the parking lot, rolling under his trailer.
“Take the son of a bitch alive.” The voice was gruff and accented. “Darin wants him alive for some fun.”
28
Barry rolled and came up on the other side of his trailer, swinging his metal suitcase at the head of a dusk-darkened man. The suitcase caught the man on the side of his head and dropped him like a brick. Shifting the suitcase to his left hand, Barry filled his right hand with the silenced .22 auto-loader and put two huffing rounds into a short stocky man who suddenly appeared before him.
Barry was rolling under the trailer even before the man had dropped to the cold asphalt, two slugs in his heart.
Barry was very careful not to touch any part of the trailer, for only a few pounds of pressure would activate the alarms, and the cops were the last thing Barry wanted right now.
He did not know how he sensed it, but he felt there had been three men. And two were down. One was dead or dying, and the second one surely had a busted skull or a very bad concussion.
That left one.
The lights from a car pulling into the motel filled the parking lot. Barry peeked around the tire he crouched behind and looked directly into the startled eyes of a man squatting on the other side of the big tire.
Barry jammed the .22 into the man’s face and pulled the trigger three times. The terrorist cried out once, and slumped to the asphalt, his blood staining the blacktop.
Barry cursed softly.
Now he had three bodies, right in the middle of a motel parking lot, and didn’t have any idea what car they might have come in, if any.
Barry crouched behind the tire for a moment longer, trying to come up with some plan for disposal of the bodies.
The man he’d bopped on the head with the metal suitcase groaned and moved.
Barry lifted the silenced .22 and pulled the trigger. The man jerked once and was still.
His headache had been cured.
Permanently.
He felt he had no choice in the matter. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he deactivated the rig’s alarm system and moved to the rear of the trailer, unlocking the doors.
He wondered why the motel seemed so quiet. And so little traffic coming in and out. Then it came to him.
It was Christmas day.
Moving swiftly and cautiously, he muscled the limp bodies into his trailer and relocked the doors. He leaned against the rig, catching his breath, trying to decide what next to do.
He was parked to the side of the motel, the office on the other side of the building, so it was doubtful anyone had seen him pull in.
A cop car drove slowly up the street, but neither cop even looked his way.
He climbed back into his rig and pulled out. He was tired, over his ten-hour limit behind the wheel, but felt he had no choice in the matter. He began to breathe a little easier when he hit the interstate and the lights of the town faded behind him.
On a deserted stretch of Interstate 15, Barry pulled over on the crest of a long hill, so he could see the lights of any traffic from either direction, and dumped the bodies of the terrorists, rolling them down into a deep ditch.
Working very fast, Barry wet a towel and wiped away the blood stains from the floor of his trailer. He would get rid of the towel up the road a piece. Fifty miles later, he found a nice-looking motel and pulled in and checked in. He showered and dressed and had a martini while waiting for dinner.
Why hadn’t he spotted his tail? Where had the terrorists come from?
Unanswered questions.
He was cautious walking back to his room, but nothing lethal came out of the night at him. Double-locking his motel room door, Barry laid the auto-loader on the nightstand beside his bed and dropped off into sleep, and surprisingly, he slept well.
He rolled out at dawn, after having alerted Jackson’s people about the events of the past night and where, approximately, he had dumped the bodies.
The voice told him to be careful.
Barry felt the suggestion to be more than a bit redundant.
“Thank you,” he said. “I certainly shall.”
On the loop around Salt Lake City, he picked up a tail.
A Datsun 280z, a man driving and a woman beside him. As they edged closer, Barry could see the man was wearing a suit or a sport coat and tie. The woman also appeared to be neatly and nicely dressed.
Just a couple out for a spin the day after Christmas.
He watched as the man lifted something to his lips. Barry began working the channel selector on his CB, pausing at channel 11 at the sound of a voice.
“… sure it’s him?”
“One ordinary truck driver does not take out three of our good people. It’s the Dog.”
All right, fine. He was getting tired of this damn beard, anyway.
“Go on around him and move on ahead. I’ll come up.”
Barry smiled and lifted his mike. “Why don’t you all come on up and let’s rock and roll, assholes?”
A few seconds of silence and then a very familiar voice came through the speaker. Darin Grady. “Pig!”
“No, no,” Barry corrected. “I’m the Dog. You be the pig.”
Darin cursed him while Barry laughed. That old familiar wildness began rearing up within him. This was where he belonged. On the open road. The Dog belonged to no one and no one belonged to him.
The Datsun accelerated and came up fast. The woman looked up at him. She was really quite pretty.
Barry smiled at her.
She smiled back.
He gave her the finger, then picked up his mike. “Which way do you like it, honey? Considering the company you’re keeping, you must like it Greek.”
The woman twisted in the seat and cursed him, her face turning mottled and ugly with hate.
Barry laughed at her.
A car behind them began tailgating, forcing them to get out of his way. They pulled up, then swung back over into the right lane. There was no point in any charades; everybody knew where the other stood. It was now all out in the open.
In his mirrors, Barry watched as a big fine luxury car moved up behind him and stayed. Two men in the front seat, two men in the back. And he’d make a bet that one of them was Darin Grady.
But one thing Barry was almost certain of: they wouldn’t try anything until they got outside of Salt Lake, and probably not until late afternoon, which would put them up in Idaho.
Barry lifted up the mobile phone and the mobile operator came on. He gave her Barnett’s mobile phone number. The phone in his car could not be reached. He tried Jackson and got him, bringing him up to date.
“You want to put an end to this crap, Jackson?”
“Name it.”
“I’m in Salt Lake City. Probably seven good hours of day-light left. I’m about two hundred miles from Pocatello. I’ll be on fifteen from there on into Butte. You suppose Barnett and his boys would like to get in on this?”
“I know they would. Hang tight. I’ll be back with you in about five.”
Jackson took a little longer than five minutes, but he did get back. The news was not good. “The security lid has clamped down tight, Barry. Some damn oversight committee chairman got wind of the Air Force’s special ops team and the Air Force sent them all to bull’s ass, Italy, or some damn place, until the heat cools down. But it doesn’t, by God, mean I can’t get in it.”
“Jackson! …”
“I’ll be on an Air Force jet within the hour. You pick me up at the airport in Pocatello. That’s the Municipal
Airport.”
“Jackson! Damn it, Jackson, listen to me. You’re the President’s man. You …”
But he was talking into a dead connection. Jackson was on his way, taking revenge for the brutal murder of his son uppermost on his mind.
And Barry didn’t blame him one damn bit.
Barry played cat and mouse with his tails for a couple of hours, taunting them and cursing them. Then, right in the middle of the Caribou National Forest, they vanished. Barry took that opportunity to pour the coals to his rig, the needle hanging right on ninety and to hell with the highway patrol.
When he was close enough, he called the airport in Pocatello and told them to page a Mr. Jackson and tell him to rent a car and meet his contact at the northbound rest area just south of Blackfoot.
Barry got there and waited; still plenty of daylight left.
He didn’t have a long wait. Jackson pulled up and climbed in, tossing a small bag in the sleeper compartment and placing a paper sack on the floorboards. He shook hands with Barry and said, “Where’s the company?”
“I lost them just south of Pocatello. You make arrangements for the rental car?”
“Yeah. They’re picking it up. Sandwiches and a full thermos of coffee in the bag. Jesus Christ, but it’s cold up here.”
Barry unwrapped a thick sandwich and poured a cup of coffee. He jerked his thumb toward the sleeper. “Take that Uzi back yonder. While I was sitting here I hooked some clips together for you.” He looked at Jackson’s heavy outer gear. “Looks like you’re familiar with this part of the nation, though.”
“Oh, back in my younger days I helped chase some god-damn felons all over this part of the state. A little bit east of here, over around Grays Lake.”
“You catch them?”
“I killed them,” Jackson said flatly. “They’d shot and killed a federal game warden. Goddamn poachers. I hate poachers.” He took a big bite out of a sandwich and both men chewed and sipped coffee in silence until their appetites had been appeased.
“Dog,” the low voice came out of the CB.
“Darin Grady,” Barry said, picking up the CB mike. “What do you want, prick? You’re interrupting a late lunch, or an early supper, one of the two.”
“Where are you, Dog? Or are you afraid to tell me?”
Barry laughed in the mike. “Afraid? Afraid of a baby killer like you? You have to be joking.”
Darin cursed him. There was a slight slurring to his words, as if he was speaking through an empty space in his teeth.
Barry pulled out onto the super slab before he answered the terrorist. “You want another taste of my boot in your mouth?”
Wild screaming cursing.
Jackson shook his head in disbelief.
Barry keyed the mike. “I’m on the interstate, potatohead. With the lights of Blackfoot in sight. Do you have enough sense to read a map and figure that out?”
“Tonight, you die, Dog!” A new voice was added. This voice was mush-mouthed.
“That’s Bakhita,” Jackson said. “I have his voiceprint on file.”
“Got your cute little turban on, Bakhitar?” Barry radioed.
The Chicago-born so-called religious leader cursed him.
“One on one, Darin,” Barry challenged him. “Just you and me. How about it?”
Silence. For a moment, Barry thought the man was going to pick up the glove. Then Darin’s chuckle came thought the speaker. “No way, Dog. I loathe and despite you, but I am not a fool. I will admit that I doubt that I could take you. One on one. But we will take you this night. You and your revenge-fevered Treasury man. Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson.”
Jackson cursed, loud and long. “That means we’ve got another leak. Damn it all to hell!”
Barry handed Jackson the mike. “Yeah, I’m here, you son of a bitch!”
“Make your peace with God, Treasury man. For tonight you will see your son in hell!”
Barry turned on all his lights and flickered them twice. He leaned on his air horn and let out a wild Rebel yell that nearly caused Jackson to mess his underwear.
Barry took the mike and shouted, “Come on, Darin and Bakhitar and all the rest of you malcontents. I’ve been squashing you bastards like bugs all over this nation, and I’ll do the same to you tonight. So come on if you’ve got the balls to do it!”
With a roar of laughter, Barry leaned on his horns.
Jackson reached behind him and picked up the Uzi, chambering a round.
Barry reached down into a bag and laid several grenades on the dash and then unzipped his jacket and wedged the big .44 mag under his right leg.
Several vehicles were coming up fast behind them.
“You ready to rock and roll, Jackson?”
“I’ve been ready, Dog. So let us get it on.”
29
“It makes no sense,” Jackson said. “They’re coming at us with cars. It would take a tank to stop this rig.”
“They’ve got something else in mind,” Barry agreed. “Maybe to knock out the tires with some sort of rocket. I’ve been expecting something like that for several weeks.”
“But if they do that while we’re rolling, there might be a wreck, and they couldn’t get their hands on the cargo.”
Barry thought back. “They’ve tried to stop me numerous times; it never worked.” He shook his head. “No. I don’t think it’s the cargo anymore, Jackson. I think it’s me.”
“I think you’re right. So we get ready for anything, right?”
“You got it, Jackson.” He swung over into the passing lane. “You get the first shot, pal. So get ready.”
Jackson’s face held a worried look. Barry studied it for a second and picked up on the concern.
“I know, Jackson. All they’ve done so far is talk, right? They haven’t fired a shot or made even one hostile move, right? They haven’t fired a shot or made even one hostile move, right?”
“Stupid of me to feel that way, isn’t it, Dog?”
“No,” Barry said flatly and firmly. “It isn’t stupid to be a good cop. And ninety-nine percent of the cops are just that: good cops. But don’t worry, Jackson—they’ll make a move. They always have.”
No sooner had the words ceased their echoing around the cab, when a late-model sedan roared around the car containing Darin, and slipped over into the right lane. The sounds of slugs banging off the right-side passenger window startled Jackson, even though he knew the thick glass would stop a .50-caliber slug. He flinched and cursed.
“Your move, Jackson,” Barry said calmly.
The sedan had roared on past the 18-wheeler.
Jackson rolled down his window and the interior was filled with icy night air. Barry picked up speed, staying in the left lane. Jackson leaned out of the window, the Uzi set on full rock and roll, and let it bang.
The slugs from the Uzi pocked and spiderwebbed the rear window of the car, the scene highlighted by the lights from Barry’s rig. One man’s head seemed to explode under the impact of the hot lead. He was flung forward, his blood reddening the back of the front seat.
Jackson changed clips just as Barry pulled up almost even with the car. The driver glanced up at the 18-wheeler, a startled look on his face. He had been counting on the speed of the car to outdistance the big rig. He now realized he had made a tragic error.
His last one.
Jackson lowered the muzzle of the Uzi and let the machine gun sing some death songs in the cold night, the 9mm slugs turning the interior of the sedan into a rolling, wildly out-of-control funeral parlor. The car went sliding off to the right, flipping over, and disappearing into the darkness.
The car behind the big rig slowed and then pulled over to the shoulder. The Datsun suddenly appeared, exiting off the super slab.
“Looks like they’ve had enough for the time being.” Jackson rolled up the window and popped in a fresh clip.
“They had to be sure we were armor plated and bulletproof. They sure as hell don’t mind sacrificing people.”
“Get ready for anything from Bakhitar and his nutty bunch,” Jackson cautioned. “He’s totally bananas.”
“They won’t do anything for another fifteen minutes or so.” The lights of Idaho Falls shone silver in front of them. A pool of light in the cold darkness. “So let’s have another cup of coffee and a sandwich.”
Coffee poured and sandwiches unwrapped, Jackson looked at a map. “I think we’re going to be in for it after Idaho Falls, Dog.”
“Yeah. That’s the way I see it, too. About a hundred and twenty-five miles of damn near nothing except interstate. We’ll fuel up here. Take turns going to the john.”
“You got a cigarette?”
“No. I put them down. I thought you quit a long time ago.”
“I just started back.”
They were back on the road in half an hour. Jackson had bought a carton of smokes and was puffing away.
“How come you’re so nervous, Jackson? You’re no cherry when it comes to killing people.”
“One thing I forgot to mention, Barry … The load you’re hauling?”
“Yeah?”
“It isn’t fake.”
Barry looked at him, disbelief in his eyes. “You mean… ?”
“Some deep thinker among the powers-that-be felt it would add authenticity to the run. You’re hauling rocket launchers and grenades.”
Barry sighed. “That’s just dandy, Jackson.”
“I just knew you’d be thrilled.”
The lights of Idaho Falls faded behind them and the super slab stretched before them. They rolled on in silence for a few miles.
“From this point,” Barry said, “we’ve got about twenty-five miles of nothing. And our friends popped up behind us a few minutes ago.” Barry studied his mirrors for a few seconds. “Way back. I don’t understand that.”
He reached for his CB mike. “What’s the matter, boys and girls, lose your nerve?”
No reply.
“Is that vehicle in our lane, or what?” Jackson asked, his eyes staring straight ahead.
Barry looked at the headlights and felt a slight chill form in his stomach. It rolled over and lay sluggish and damp.
18 Wheel Avenger Page 20
