18 Wheel Avenger Read online

They walked toward a car. Stopped. The man unlocked the car and shoved George into the front seat. The woman got under the wheel, the man in the backseat.

  “Make one little bobble, Stanton, and you’re dead.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Then you won’t. Just do as you’re told and I’ll guarantee you a news story that will top anything you’ve ever done.”

  George, with a reporter’s intuition, began sensing that if he cooperated, he would not be harmed. And, also with a reporter’s intuition, he sensed he was sitting on top of a story that would put him right up there on top of the heap.

  He said nothing as Cutter slid easily into the traffic flow and turned toward Roosevelt Bride, heading into Virginia.

  They were in Virginia before Barry said, “We’ll get clear and then I’ll call.”

  “Should be interesting. Leave the car at the motel?”

  “Yes. It’s been arranged.”

  “Who are you going to call?” Stanton asked.

  “Santa Claus,” Cutter told him.

  Stanton folded his arms across his chest and stared out the windshield.

  “What size jeans and shirt and boots do you wear, reporter?” Barry spoke. “I already know your hat size. They don’t make a hat to fit your swelled head.”

  Stanton bit back a sharp retort and gave his clothing sizes.

  “We’ll get you outfitted along the way. Cutter, pull over into that service station and get Mr. Stanton a soft drink.”

  “I don’t believe I care for anything, thank you.”

  “Shut up.”

  Once more rolling, Stanton looked at the strawberry soda in disgust. “I would have preferred a diet drink.”

  Barry held out his hand, over the backseat. Several pills in his palm.

  Stanton looked at the pills. “I absolutely, positively refuse to take those things.”

  “It’ll take me a little while, but I can arrange to get a suppository,” Barry told him.

  “And a stick to shove them where the sun don’t shine,” Cutter added.

  Stanton took the pills without any further discussion. “I suppose you’ve drugged me?”

  “That is correct. You’ll be sound asleep in about thirty minutes.”

  “The network will not deal with kidnappers. You won’t get a penny out of them.”

  “I wouldn’t pay a penny for you either, Stanton,” Barry said. “Relax. We’re not after money.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Certainly not your body,” Cutter informed him.

  She pulled into a motel and parked by a truck. “You change,” Barry said. “I’ll watch him.”

  She was back in a few minutes, dressed in blue jeans, leather jacket, and boots. She got in the backseat, a pistol in her hand, and Barry went into the motel room.

  “That’s an automatic pistol, isn’t it?” Stanton asked.

  “It’s an auto-loader, Stanton. I wish you guardians of the truth would get things straight. I once listened to one of your kind moan about somebody getting shot with an automatic revolver. In all fairness, someone did invent one, about a hundred years ago. It didn’t catch on.”

  “I stand corrected. We can’t know everything, miss.”

  “What you people don’t know would fill volumes.”

  Stanton yawned. “Excuse me.”

  “Quite all right.”

  “What gauge weapon is that thing?”

  Cutter sighed and shook her head. “Shotguns have gauges, Stanton. Rifles and pistols have calibers. Some are even referred to in millimeters. This is a three-eighty.”

  “Who are you people?”

  “You’re going to find out, Stanton. Believe me.” She watched the motel room door open and Barry point toward the truck.

  “Out, Stanton. Walk toward the rig.”

  “The what?”

  “The truck. Move.”

  She prodded him quickly across the blacktop, the muzzle of the .380 quickening his step. Barry had opened the door.

  “Climb up and get in the sleeper.”

  It took him a couple of tries to make it, but he finally got into the truck. He banged his shin a couple of times and managed to fall into the bunk.

  “Take off your shoes and jacket,” Cutter told him. “Loosen your tie. You’re about to go beddy-bye.”

  “Your humor is grotesque!”

  “Just relax, Stanton. Like the proctologist said: you might enjoy it.”

  Barry laughed.

  Stanton did not see the humor in it. He lay back and could not stop a huge yawn.

  “Won’t be long now,” Barry’s voice came to him in a hollow fog. “You ready to roll?”

  “Anytime.”

  The last thing Stanton remembered was Cutter covering him with a blanket and the rumble of the truck as it rolled away from the city.

  “Where in the hell have you been? Goddammit, Dog!” Jackson yelled. “You’ve been out of contact for a day and a half.”

  Barry told him.

  Jackson was silent for a moment. Heavy breathing. Then he shrieked, “Kidnap George Stanton! Holy jumping Jesus Christ, Dog! You can’t kidnap a nationally known reporter!”

  “Oh, yeah! We just did. He’s in the truck. Sound asleep.”

  “You’ve lost your goddamn mind. Minds. Both of you!”

  “Settle down, Jackson. Call the networks. Anonymously. Advise them that Stanton is all right. No harm will come to him. Tell them it would be best if they make no mention of Stanton’s disappearance …”

  “Barry! …”

  “Shut up, Jackson. Tell them that when Stanton is released, he’ll have the biggest story of this decade. Tell them they’ll be receiving a tape of Stanton in about a day.”

  “Barry! …”

  “You got all that, Jackson?”

  “Goddammit, Barry. You …”

  Barry hung up.

  Back on the road, heading west, Cutter said, “How did Jackson take the news?”

  “Predictably. Now we’ll see how the network reacts. We’ll stop at the first truck stop and get some clothes for Stanton and pick up a tape recorder. I want Stanton to record a message and we’ll send it air express to the network. I’ll call them first thing in the morning and advise them it’s on the way. There’s an air mattress in the storage area. We can sleep on the floor. Got to keep our guest happy, you know?”

  Stanton slept for eight hours and Barry and Cutter each caught enough sleep to keep them going. Stanton woke about an hour before dawn. He was confused and totally disoriented. With a groan, he pushed back the blanket and sat up. He lay back down with a moan after banging his head on a shelf. It was cushion-leather padded and it was more a shock than painful.

  “Where in God’s name am I?” he croaked.

  “Charleston, West Virginia,” Cutter told him. She poured him coffee from a freshly filled thermos and he took it gratefully.

  “Thank you,” he said, after a sip. “I must say, for kidnappers, you’re treating me quite nicely.”

  “We’re not your ordinary kidnappers, George,” Barry told him. “We grabbed you for educational purposes, not for ransom.”

  “Educational purposes? Whose?”

  “Yours.” Cutter twisted in the seat, looking at him. She handed him a sack. “Bacon and egg sandwiches in there. We just got them so they’re still warm.”

  “Thank you. I am quite hungry.” His feet touched a large sack on the floor of the sleeper.

  “Your new clothes, George,” Barry said, without turning around. He had heard the sack rustle.

  “Where do I change?”

  “Just lower the leather flap for privacy,” Cutter told him. “And in case you’re thinking about the door to the sleeper … forget it.” She pointed to a bank of key-lock switches on the huge dash. “Electronically locked.”

  “This is no ordinary truck,” George accurately guessed. “This compartment I’m in was custom-built and really quite comfortable.”

  “T
hat’s correct, George. The taxpayer’s money was well-spent, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t understand. Taxpayers’ money?”

  “You’re in a one-of-a-kind truck, George. Technically, it’s called an SST. Safe Secure Transport. But most are not this fancy.”

  Cutter picked it up. “SSTs haul weapons and nuclear parts across the country. They are not pyrophoric, not primed, and not integral.”

  “In English, they won’t blow up.” George spoke around a mouthful of sandwich.

  “That is correct.”

  “That is so comforting to know,” George said drily.

  Both Barry and Cutter laughed. Cutter said, “George, you’d probably be a nice guy if you weren’t such a pompous jerk.”

  “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “In a way.”

  George left the bed and sat on the floor to better hear. His eyes found the Uzi lying on the floor by Cutter’s feet. “I know what that is. I did my bit in Lebanon.”

  “If you’re thinking of grabbing it,” Barry warned him, “I can assure you, you’ll be dead before your hand reaches it.”

  “I have never fired a weapon in my life. I have no intention of starting now.”

  “You were never in the Army?”

  “No. Thank God.”

  They rode in silence for a few miles. The sky was graying behind them, shooting up silver rays.

  Cutter and Barry had agreed to level as much as possible with the reporter. But he was going to have to ask the questions.

  George drank his coffee and held out the cup, Cutter refilling it. “You both work for the government, don’t you?”

  “That is correct, George. All SST drivers work for the government.”

  George smiled. “I have this suspicion that you both are much more than more truck drivers. Both of you have the bearing of military people.”

  “One of us is,” Cutter told him, leaving him to guess which one.

  He didn’t pick up on it. The lights of Charleston faded behind as they rolled on westward, at a steady 65 mph.

  “What do you people do, besides drive a truck?”

  “We fight terrorism, George,” Barry told him. He crossed the river, picking up Interstate 64, heading for Huntington.

  “I … see. Legally?”

  “Depends on your interpretation of legal.”

  “You’re being as honest as you think you can be with me. I appreciate that. But I still don’t know why you kidnapped me or what you want.”

  “We know that you had planned on meeting with Darin Grady,” Cutter told him.

  “Did you now?” George said softly, his voice just audible over the truck noise. “That is interesting.”

  “What is interesting to us is why you would even want to interview the son of a bitch,” Barry said. “Most of you people claim to hate guns, yet you’ll give a murderous terrorist a lot of air time. That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me.”

  “The man is fighting for a free Ireland.”

  “Horseshit!” Cutter spat it out. “Would you give the Bader-Meinhof gang as much time? How about the Aryan Nations? The Islamic Army? Did you know they are all connected? One helps the other and have been doing so for a couple of decades.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to see that proof.”

  “You will. I promise you that.”

  “You will forgive me if I don’t place a great deal of credence in your word.”

  “Perfectly understandable, George,” Barry said.

  “You need to go to the bathroom?” Cutter asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Rest area just up ahead.” Barry made up his mind.

  “George, we’re bait. Pure and simple. We lure terrorist out to strike at us, and then we neutralize them.”

  George laughed, and surprisingly enough to both of them, there was good humor in the laughter. Amazing how the man could be such a horse’s ass on the TV and fairly likeable in person.

  “By neutralize, you mean kill them.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then what Darin’s spokesperson said was not fantasy. I wondered about that.”

  “I don’t know. What was said?”

  “That the government of the United States had killers in its employ.”

  “George, until all government stop having killers on their payrolls, and all do, all other governments must do likewise.”

  “We can certainly argue that.”

  “And probably will.”

  “You’re offering me quite a story.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you just come to me with it?” Then he paused and laughed. “Foolish question, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  George was silent for a moment. “Amazing. I’m in the presence of killers, yet I don’t feel even a touch of fear.”

  “We’re not going to hurt you, George.”

  “You’re taking me on a mission, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Barry swung into the rest area and parked. He twisted in the seat and looked at George.

  George scratched his chin. “We have an affiliate in Louisville. I’d like to stop and pick up a mini-cam. On the way, I’ll call my network and tell them I’m here voluntarily. I would assume some … spokesperson from the government has already called.”

  “That is correct. The mini-cam is all right. But you can’t take pictures of this truck, or of us.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Bathroom is that way, George,” Cutter said, pointing and opening the door.

  “You realize, of course, that I’m going to blow your operation clear out of the water?”

  “I don’t think you will.” Barry leveled with him. “I think when you see that terrorism must be fought on the same level as the terrorists, you’ll report it fairly.”

  “You’re taking a terrible chance.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Truthfully, did you consider killing me when you heard I was going to meet with Darin?”

  “Yes.”

  George blinked. Paled just a bit. “The news media is hated that much among certain people?”

  “Yes.”

  “But we report the truth!”

  “As you see it.”

  “Perhaps. The camera doesn’t lie.”

  Both Barry and Cutter laughed at that.

  George allowed himself a small smile. “I’m free to go to the restroom alone?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Suppose I run?”

  “I’ll find you,” Barry told him.

  George got the message. And the message reminded him how desperately he needed to pee.

  10

  Barry and Cutter hadn’t taken much of a chance letting George go to the restroom alone. There were no phones in the restroom and the outside pay phone was in plain view. Both Barry and Cutter felt they could outrun the reporter if he decided to bolt.

  They had taken his pens from his jacket as he slept, so he couldn’t leave a note.

  Any fears they might have felt, however slight, proved groundless. George Stanton was back in the truck within five minutes. He dropped the leather flap and changed clothes while the rig was being eased out of the parking lot and back onto the interstate.

  “First time I’ve had on jeans in years,” he was heard to mutter.

  He raised the flap and accepted another cup of coffee, sitting on the floor.

  “You said you were bait. When does the fishing start.”

  “Anytime,” Cutter told him, behind the wheel. “You’re sitting on enough firepower to start a small revolution.”

  Stanton looked confused.

  “Sit on the bunk,” Barry told him, sliding from his passenger seat. He pulled up the Velcro-held section of carpet and lifted the hinged door.

  Stanton sat and stared at the arsenal. He pointed to a small bag.

  “Grenades,” Barry said. He touched a box. “Filled clips f
or Uzis and M-16s.” He touched a padded section. “Two sawed-off pump riot guns and a Remington seven-millimeter magnum rifle with scope. For long-range work.”

  “Sniper rifle,” the reporter said.

  “That is correct.”

  Stanton pointed. “That?”

  “C-three and C-four. Plastic explosives. Detonators over here.”

  Barry closed the lid and smoothed down the carpet. The compartment was perfectly covered.

  “How many trucks like this does the government have on the road?”

  “Equipped like we are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just this one. I told you: it’s a one-of-a-kind truck.”

  “The paranoia over terrorism in the United States has reached this level then?” He sat back down on the floor and patted the hidden compartment.

  “It isn’t paranoia, George. Much of what’s happening in the U.S. just isn’t reported.”

  “Are you once again blaming the media for that?”

  “No. Many acts of terrorism, after or before the fact, aren’t made public.”

  “The government is deliberately withholding vital information from the public!” George sounded a tad huffy about that.

  “For a good reason, George,” Cutter told him.

  “There is never a good reason for that.”

  Barry and Cutter smiled at each other, Cutter saying, “We simply don’t want the press to piss and moan and distort the facts about how we deal with terrorists.”

  Stanton stared at her. “But we don’t do that!”

  “Do you really believe that?” Barry asked him.

  “Well, of course, I believe it!”

  “We’ll try to show you where you’re wrong,” Cutter said.

  “I know what you’re saying.” The reporter met the gaze of Barry. “You people, the hard right-wingers, want the national press to become your pawns. To report what you want us to report.”

  “That isn’t true,” Cutter said. “What we would like is for the press to report both sides of any chosen issue and to understand that many of the problems facing this nation cannot be dealt with in a strictly constitutional manner. When you fight terrorism, you first have to understand it, to begin to think like a terrorist, and then fight them on their own level … but do it better.”

  George had not taken his eyes from the woman. Which was no task at all. “You’re the military person here, aren’t you?”