18 Wheel Avenger Read online

  Now she lay sleeping in his arms, both of them sexually satisfied. Barry had waited until her breathing had evened out into that sleep-rhythm that cannot be totally faked, and then he had silently fanned her luggage. A snub-nosed .38 and a half box of ammo. An address book. He memorized several of the names and numbers.

  He replaced everything and slipped back into bed, gathering her into his arms.

  Now he gently awakened her.

  “Ummm.”

  “I’ve got to get back to my room and shower and change, Bonnie. Half hour to go before pullout.”

  “Let’s don’t talk about pullout. I haven’t had one of those much talked about multiple things in a long, long time. For an old dude, you’re pretty good.”

  “It’s all the clean living I’ve done.”

  She called him a few uncomplimentary names and lay naked on the bed, watching him gather up his clothes.

  “Anybody ever tell you you have nice buns?” Bonnie asked him.

  “I can’t say that they have.”

  Barry dressed as quickly as possible and got the hell back to his room.

  “How was it?” Cutter asked.

  “Cutter!… ”

  “Nice and tight?”

  Barry sighed and decided to ride it out.

  “She moved her ass a lot?”

  Barry checked the gauges.

  “She go down on you, Barry? Give you a good head-job?”

  “When you are quite through, Cutter, we’ll go over what I found in her room.”

  “That she isn’t a natural blonde?”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s a natural blonde.”

  Cutter cussed him.

  “Are you through?”

  She wasn’t.

  When she wound down, Barry handed her a slip of paper. “Names and numbers I found in her address book. Have your people run them. I also found a thirty-eight and a half box of hollow-nosed ammo.”

  Cutter settled down to business. “A thirty-eight? That’s odd for a network cameraperson, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. They do go into some pretty hairy spots at times.”

  “Your choice of words, not mine.”

  “Cutter! …”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t resist one last stroke.”

  “Your choice of words, not mine.”

  She was still cussing him when they pulled out of the parking lot.

  12

  Cutter drove to near the state line, turning over the wheel to Barry at Goodland. Before taking the wheel, Barry walked back to the Bronco.

  “Heads up, people.” He looked at Bonnie, staring at him. “You tell George what I told you about the suspected ambush?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Got your camera all ready?”

  Bonnie jerked a thumb toward the back. “Ready to go.”

  “Lay back a good mile. That ought to give you time to get out of the field of fire. See you.”

  Barry walked back to his rig and pulled out.

  They rolled into Colorado and smoked past Burlington, heading west through the night. When they were halfway between the state line and Limon, Barry’s speaker began talking to him.

  “Looks like your hunch didn’t prove out,” Bonnie said.

  “Bitch!” Cutter muttered.

  Grinning, Barry picked up his mike. “Looks like it. Next stop is Denver.”

  “Ten-four.”

  “I hope Jackson managed to pick up some trash on that bitch,” Cutter said darkly. She shook her head and smiled at Barry. “I really don’t, Barry. I’m just trying to keep up the game you started. But it did irritate me at first.”

  “Well, it was interesting for a time. Check the map and see if I’m right. If so, we should pick up a tail at one of four locations: forty and two-eighty-seven should be the first one. Then at seventy-one. Next one will be twenty-four, and the last one highway eighty-six.”

  “That’s right. I’ll opt for twenty-four. If so, they’ll strike just past this last cutoff.”

  “That’s the way I’ve got it figured. Check out the weapons, Cutter. Set them on full rock and roll and get ready to dance.”

  “Wish I knew who was driving back there,” she pondered.

  “Yeah. I’ll keep my eyes open for some kind of signal. But even if she is up to her butt in slime, I don’t think she’d tip her hand this early. If, and that’s a big if, she’s involved, she’ll probably have been ordered to surface only as a last resort.”

  Cutter poured them coffee, handing Barry a cup. “I honestly hope Bonnie is level, Barry. Tell you the truth, I admire her brass in coming on to you.”

  “You’re a professional, Cutter. You know why I haven’t come on to you.”

  She smiled. “I can dream, can’t I?”

  “I guess that never hurts, Captain Cutter.”

  That had the desired effect: bringing to the fore why she was riding along in the middle of the night in a fortress of an 18-wheeler.

  To fight terrorism.

  She picked up her M-16, actually a shortened version of the weapon, called a CAR, and stared out the window into the darkness.

  “I understand.” Her words were softly offered, just audible over the rumbling.

  “About ten miles to the first point,” Barry said. “And I’ve been thinking about something: if there are terrorists lying in wait for us, they might try to take George. Have you considered that?”

  “Are you a mind-reader, Barry? Yes. That’s what I was thinking.”

  Barry picked up the mike. “George? Close up some.” He watched the headlights close to about a half mile. “Stay alert, George. If anything goes down, take evasive action immediately and don’t either of you try to be heroes. You understand?”

  “Why are you telling us this now?” George radioed. “I thought the danger was past.”

  “The danger is always near, George. Call it a feeling in my guts.”

  “The camera won’t pick up your stomach problems, Barry,” Bonnie’s voice came through the speaker. “You lied to us, didn’t you?”

  Cutter was watching him.

  “Now why would I do that, Miss O’Neal.”

  “Because you don’t trust me.” Her words were flat.

  “You got that right, honey,” he muttered. He keyed the mike. “Now who’s paranoid, Bonnie?”

  No reply came through the speakers.

  They rolled past the on-ramp of 40/287 with no one pulling in behind them.

  “One down, three to go,” Cutter said.

  They passed 71 with the same results. The night was filled with gloom, the air smelling of rain. Traffic was practically non-existent. The lights of a big rig suddenly filled Barry’s mirrors.

  “Now where the hell did he come from?”

  “He’s closing fast, Dog!” Cutter spoke.

  At the on-ramp of 24, two 18-wheelers suddenly pulled out of the darkness in front of them.

  The rigs slowed to 50 mph.

  “Get some armor-piercing ammo in that weapon, Cutter. I think you’re going to have to shoot out some tires. Load up that big forty-four mag with Teflon-coat; the tires might throw off a two-twenty-three.”

  She quickly loaded up a smith & Wesson model 29, six-inch barrel, and hooked two speed-loaders onto her belt.

  “What’s going on?” George asked.

  “You’re about to see some action, George. Heads up, people.”

  The 18-wheeler behind him roared around the Bronco and pulled in behind Barry. The 18-wheelers in front now controlled both lanes.

  Barry and Cutter had been placed into a box.

  “What the hell are those trucks doing?” George called.

  “Trying to put us in a coffin, George,” Cutter radioed back. “Stay off the radio unless you’ve got an emergency. We’re going to be busy.”

  “Super-broad goes into action, huh?” Bonnie’s voice filled the truck.

  Barry smiled.

  “I take back everything nice I might have thought about you, cunt!” Cutte
r muttered.

  Barry laughed aloud.

  The exit ramp of the last hole for many miles slid past. “Now the fun begins,” Barry said.

  He picked up his CB mike. “Get out of the way, you bastard!”

  The 18-wheeler in the left lane flickered his running lights.

  But he made no attempt to speed up or fall back.

  The rig behind Barry and Cutter was sitting smack on Barry’s donkey.

  Barry touched his brakes.

  The driver behind him automatically did the same, but without losing any distance.

  “He’s a pro,” Barry muttered, keying his CB mike. “Get off my tail, Driver!”

  The rig behind him blinked his lights and stayed right on Barry’s donkey.

  Barry lowered his window and with his right hand, picked up his 9mm. “Hang on, Cutter.”

  He abruptly swung into the right lane, an instant later, standing on his brakes, driving one-handed, fighting to keep from losing the rig.

  The driver behind him had no choice but to stay in the left lane. His tires were smoking, but still he passed Barry.

  The man on the passenger side held what looked to Barry to be an MP5.

  Barry’s 9mm barked as fast as he could pull the trigger, the custom loads blowing fist-sized holes in the man’s face, throat, and chest, the force of the exploding slugs slamming the man over and into the driver.

  Barry stood on his brakes and watched as the rig slewed and then went over the side.

  The two rigs in front of him roared on into the night, their lights fading and then vanishing into the darkness.

  George pulled over on the shoulder, behind Barry, just as Barry and Cutter were climbing down.

  Bonnie had her mini-cam on her shoulder, recording.

  “They were trying to hijack you!” George shouted, his voice filled with excitement. “We saw it all and heard you ask them to let you past. How did the driver lose control, do you imagine?”

  Barry looked at the reporter. Sighed. “Because I shot the hell out of them.”

  George blinked. “Gunfire?”

  “Yeah, George. Gunfire. From one of those horrible handguns you’re always moaning about. Come on. I want you to get this on film. And we don’t have much time.”

  Barry led the way to the wrecked rig. The trailer had broken off and had gone rolling several hundred yards away. The tractor had rolled a couple of times and then landed on its wheels.

  Nine-millimeter in hand, Barry jerked open the door on the passenger side and the body of the codriver fell out, half his face missing from the impacting of the exploding bullets.

  Bonnie gasped and George got sick.

  Barry climbed up and looked inside. Place was a mess. He handed Cutter two MP5 submachine guns. She showed them to Bonnie and George. Bonnie was filming.

  “Standard trucker equipment, right?” Cutter stuck the needle to George.

  Bonnie’s smile was tight, but she kept her mouth shut. George opened his mouth to speak, then realized anything he might say in defense of the dead men would be more than neutralized by the presence of the submachine guns.

  Barry tossed a bag to the ground. “Open it and film it,” he ordered.

  The bag was filled with grenades. Bonnie filmed the deadly contents.

  Barry climbed down after inspecting and jotting down the names and addresses of the dead men. “Gather up all this crap,” he ordered. “We don’t want this to look like anything other than an accident.”

  “But the men have bullet holes in them!” George protested.

  Barry smiled and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out an object.

  Cutter laughed.

  “What’s that?” George demanded.

  “Incendiary,” Cutter told him. “Come on, you two. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Barry backed up, pulled the pin, and tossed the grenade into the cab of the truck.

  A ball of flame enveloped the tractor as Barry was running up the slope and crossing the highway. Cutter was already behind the wheel and slowly rolling as Barry climbed on board.

  The flames from the burning tractor filled the night.

  They faded from view as the two-vehicle convoy rounded a curve.

  “They won’t try again tonight, will they?” George radioed.

  “They’ll try,” Barry told him. “So stay loose and be ready for anything.”

  “I bet they’re not ten miles up the road,” Cutter said.

  “No bets, Cutter. We’ve tweaked the tail of the terrorists and they’ve declared war on us. They’re going to pull out all the stops now.”

  She noticed he was smiling. “The Dog is on the prowl, huh?”

  “You bet your sweet ass, Cutter.”

  “How would you know anything about my ass!”

  13

  If it’s the last thing I ever do, Barry was thinking, I’m going to bed this woman down or she’s never going to let up on me.

  But his eyes had picked up on the familiar running lights of two 18-wheelers just ahead of him.

  “I see them,” he said, before Cutter could speak.

  “There they are!” George’s excited voice came through the speaker. “Let’s call the police! I’ll testify in any court of law about those two trucks.”

  Cutter cut her eyes to Barry. “How do people get so naive? You ever thought about that, Barry?”

  “I think they have to work on it. Real hard.”

  “Are you going to answer me!” George yelled.

  Barry lifted the mike to his lips. “George, we’re not here to see that these people get their constitutional due. They’re terrorists. You see how they’re stopping to call the cops, don’t you? They’re so overcome with respect for our judicial system they just can’t wait to get to the nearest phone.”

  “All right, Barry. All right. You don’t have to beat me over the head with it. I get your point.” He must have handed the mike to Bonnie. “What do you want us to do?” she asked.

  Cutter reached for the mike. “I’ll be more than happy to tell her what to do!”

  Laughing, Barry said, “Just hang back and get ready for some more action pics, folks.”

  A convoy of eighteen-wheelers rolled by on the south side of the divided highway.

  “Hey, northbound! How’s it lookin’ over your shoulder?”

  “Haven’t seen a thing,” Barry radioed. “I been runnin’ with an ol’ boy since Kansas. I must have run off and left him ’bout ten miles back. Called himself Machine Gun…”

  Cutter rolled her eyes at that handle.

  “… You hear from him, tell him I’ll hook up with him up in Cheyenne.”

  “Will do. You’re clean for another seventy-five miles. I’m the Goatherder.”

  “They call me the Dog.”

  A moment of silence. “I heard of you. Goatherder is bye-bye!”

  Several miles went by. Barry followed the lights of the lead trucks, both of them leaving the left lane clear.

  The drag truck blinked his running lights three times.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Barry muttered.

  The running lights flickered three more times.

  “Maybe he’s telling you to go to three,” Cutter suggested.

  Barry flipped the CB to channel 3 and lifted his mike. “If you got something to say, say it.”

  “Barry Rivera,” the speaker crackled. “The Dog. You’re Latino, Dog. You should be on our side, fighting for your oppressed people.”

  “Pure garbage!” Barry told him.

  “You don’t believe in helping to lift the oppressed out of starvation and ignorance and easing the yoke of the slave masters.”

  Barry laughed into the mike. “You bastards have that drivel down pat, don’t you? I think you’ve had it drilled into your heads so much you actually believe part of it.”

  He turned to Cutter. “Get ready with that forty-four mag. Let’s see if we can’t put the one right in front of us out of action and then we’l
l take on number three.”

  “It isn’t drivel, Dog. The Zionists have taken over New York City. They’ve driven my brothers and sisters from their homeland and claimed it for their own. You can’t deny that.”

  Barry eased up a few yards, doing it very slowly. “God gave that land to them, you asshole.”

  Then he lifted the mike to the military radio. “George. Go to channel three on your CB. Do it. Right now.” He listened to his CB.

  “Are you there, Dog?”

  “Right behind you, baby killer.”

  The laughter was ugly and taunting. “You were in Vietnam, Dog?”

  “I was.”

  “And you call me a baby killer?”

  “I killed no babies, Ahmed, or Flannery, or Kurt, or camelshit, or whatever your name is.”

  The voice cursed him.

  Barry pulled up closer. A few more yards and Cutter could let the hammer down on the big .44 mag with the Teflon-coat ammo.

  “He’s from the Middle East,” Cutter told him. “That accent is unmistakable.”

  “The ones in the truck back there”—he jerked his head—“were not.”

  “I know. They’re all linked up. And getting worse.”

  “If I don’t kill you, Dog, there are hundreds more just waiting for their chance. The price on your head keeps going up and up. And we keep growing and growing, thanks to the actions of your pig president.”

  “George and Bonnie are probably eating that up,” Barry said tightly.

  “Loving it for sure,” Cutter agreed.

  “Who are you?” George’s voice cut in.

  “Oh, hell!” Cutter groaned.

  “He’s marking himself.” Barry shook his head in disgust.

  “Ah! Another voice heard. And who are you?”

  “George Stanton …”

  “That dumb son of a bitch!” Barry shouted.

  “… I’m doing a series on terrorism in the United States. I’d like to talk with you. What is your name?”

  “My name is not important. George Stanton. Certainly. I have heard of you, of course. A fair man in your reporting, to be sure.”

  “Oh, butter him up!” Barry spat the words. “Stroke that monumental ego.”

  “Thank you. I was on my way to have an interview with Darin Grady.”