“I protest!” Darin cried. “I demand to see a doctor and be treated as a prisoner of war under the terms of the Geneva Convention.”
Blood was leaking out of his ruined mouth.
“Shut up, asshole!” Barry told him. “The Geneva Convention doesn’t apply to terrorists.”
“That’s it, Dog!” Jackson’s voice was sharp. “I take it from this point.”
Barry walked to him. “Jackson, you’re gonna screw it all up. I told you to keep the legal shit out of this operation.”
“Damn it, Barry.” He pointed to the terrorist with the crushed and mangled ankle. “That’s an Iranian diplomat. I don’t know how in the hell we’re going to handle this situation.”
“I do. Put him back in that car and burn it. He had an accident. End of report. Let the Iranians protest all they want. It won’t do them any good. And leave Darin Grady to me.”
Jackson looked to Cutter for support. He didn’t get it. She met his eyes with a bleak stare.
He looked at the Special Operations team. One of them was eating a candy bar.
“I missed breakfast,” he explained.
“Get these people loaded up in the helicopters,” Jackson ordered. “We’ve got to get them medical attention.”
“You’re making a mistake, Jackson,” Barry told him.
“I made a mistake by agreeing with the President to allow a person like you to even exist.”
“Jackson?”
“What, Dog?”
“I always suspected you were a bleeding liberal at heart.”
The Treasury man flushed. “No, Barry. I’m just a man who believes in operating within the boundaries of human decency and within the framework of the law.”
“And that is exactly the reason why we are going to eventually lose the fight with terrorism.”
“Deliver your load, Dog. I’ll be in touch.”
“What do you figure the odds are of them hitting us again this trip?” Barry asked Cutter.
“Personally, I don’t think they’ll risk it. But as I’ve said before, you never can figure a terrorist group. They’ll do the unexpected. But one thing is for sure: we’re on the top of their hit list now.”
“Jackson is going to blow it,” Barry predicted.
“I’m afraid you’re right. But you have to understand his position, Barry: he’s got to go the legal route. He had absolutely no choice in the matter.”
“From now on, Jackson does not figure in anything we do, Cutter. He’s out of the picture.”
They rode on for a few miles in silence, Barry at the wheel. Tucumcari was a few miles behind them, the Texas border just ahead.
Cutter broke the silence of the road. “I am absolutely baffled as to how Jackson thinks he’s going to keep this out of the press.”
“By making a deal with the Iranian government.”
“With Khomeini? Jesus! You don’t make deals with that nut.”
“He’s going to try. And fail.”
“And the press is going to blow it wide open.”
“Yep.”
She shook her head. “I will never understand why this government ever allowed Khomeini to come to power.”
“Because when Khomeini was living in Paris, we didn’t have enough guts to burn him. Certain officials in France were willing to turn their backs, allowing us to hit Khomeini. Other governments were willing to help us ease the Shah out and install a more moderate government in Iran, but we didn’t, and that’s a fact. I was an arms dealer and consultant back then, shuttling back and forth between Europe and America. The Europeans were so pissed-off about Khomeini many were practically livid.”
“Why didn’t they burn him?”
“Politics. Only two nations make decisions that will shape international politics, Cutter. You know that. Russia and the U.S Discounting Third World nations, of course. The other nations can make minor decisions. Anything else and we are almost always consulted.”
Barry pulled over at a co-op and weighed his load, then the convoy was once more on the road, rolling eastward at a steady 60 mph.
“A successful arms dealer. An arms consultant. And now you’re driving a truck and operating as a gun for the government.” She was stating fact, not asking questions.
“I fought the mob in New Orleans, Cutter. I fought traitors within our government. My wife was killed by a bomb that was meant for me. I was in a hospital for months. The man I used to be no longer exists. He’s dead. Buried. This Kenworth is my home.”
“A rolling court of law, the driver judge, jury, and executioner.”
“Your words, Cutter. Not mine.”
She slipped back into the sleeper. “I’m going to take a nap.”
“I’ll wake you in a couple of hours. We’ll stop then for lunch.”
Dog jumped up into the recently vacated seat and stared out the window at the passing landscape.
Barry missed Cutter’s company. And that was not a feeling he enjoyed.
When Cutter again slid back into the front seat, she was startled to see a Welcome to Oklahoma sign looming up on the right.
“You might have awakened me, Barry. You must be tired.”
“We have to weigh right up here. You can take the wheel then. It is just a short run across this part of Texas.”
“I didn’t think I was that tired,” Cutter remarked, glancing at her watch.
“It was a fairly interesting morning.” Barry said that with a smile.
She looked at him to see if he was kidding.
“It’s a good thing we hosed off all that gore from the front of the truck. Seeing that might have shook the weight watchers up some.”
“For a fact. Damn sure shook Jackson up.” The weight watcher behind the glass told him he was okay and Barry pulled ahead, to wait for the others.
“Have you heard anything on the news?”
“Not a peep. I imagine the President was the first to be informed. And knowing him, he’s probably contemplating nailing Jackson’s hide to the barn door.”
Cutter was curious about that ‘knowing him’ bit. But she did not pursue it. “Jackson’s between a rock and a hard place, Barry.”
They changed places and Cutter made herself comfortable behind the wheel, adjusting the seat to her liking.
“You hungry?” Barry asked.
“Ravenous.”
“Next place you see, pull over. I could do with a bite myself.”
“How do we work that? I mean, somebody has to stay with the trucks.”
“You and I will eat last. Rain, hail, snow, whatever, we’ve got to be outside guarding against somebody planting a bomb on us.”
“Then I’d better get some rain gear up ahead.”
“That would be a good idea.”
Ready and Frenchy and Smooth and Mustard went inside to eat, leaving Barry and Cutter to guard the trucks. Neither one of them anticipated any move against them this quickly after the shoot-out, and they were correct in that. They may as well have been guarding a tomb. No one came near the rigs.
Barry and Cutter ate and the convoy was back on the road in forty-five minutes.
They rolled on, taking the northerly route: Oklahoma City to St. Louis—they rolled through there just after dawn. St. Louis to Indianapolis. From Indy a grueling shot over to Philly and then a short hop to New York.
They met some bitching at the docks. But none of them paid any attention to it. There was always some bitching at New York City docks. Finally a man from the military showed up, with the right ID, and the shipment was signed over to be unloaded.
They had screwed off half a day at the docks.
And it was another half day before they got unloaded.
Barry had no orders, no idea where to catch up with Jackson, and no inclination to call him anyway.
Cutter did not like the smile on Barry’s face and said as much.
“What the hell have you got on your mind, Barry?” she asked.
“I know you gave that tape re
cording to Jackson, but how much of what that jerk told you do you remember?”
“All of it.”
“Remember the addresses he gave you in New York?”
“Certainly.” She looked at him. “Barry! …”
“Come on, Cutter. Let’s go raise a little hell!”
They had driven away from the city, over into New Jersey and found a motel that had the space to accept their rigs. Barry and a very reluctant Meri Cutter would go back into city after a bath and change of clothing. The others would stay at the motel, taking shifts guarding the rigs and watching after Dog.
Barry arranged for a rental car and it was delivered to the motel.
He changed into sport coat and slacks, low quarter shoes, all dark, with a dark turtleneck sweater.
He wore a Beretta 9mm, sixteen shot, in a shoulder holster, and a .25-caliber Beretta, loaded with custom-made hollow noses, in an ankle holster. He packed lots of other goodies into a large attaché case and waited for Cutter to make her appearance.
It was worth the wait.
She looked like a flat million bucks. The night was cool and she wore a custom-made leather jacket, waist length. Barry knew the name of the design. It came to him. Bolero. Like Barry, she had dressed in dark clothing. From her boots to her shirt.
“You carrying?” he asked.
“One here.” She patted the side of her jacket. “And one in my boot.”
“You ready?”
“What’s in the briefcase?”
“Things that go bump in the night.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, well. I’m still young enough to find another career.”
Barry opened the door and bowed. “Shall we be off, my dear?”
“One of us is, for a fact.”
“You drive.”
“The age of chivalry is dead.”
“Oh? Not really.”
“Explain.”
“I intend to let you cut the first throat tonight.”
“The man is so sensitive to a woman’s needs.”
“Thank you.”
“Get in the damn car, Dog!”
6
“What was the guy’s name who is ramrodding the operation?”
“Khaled.”
“You familiar with him?”
She laughed, unpleasantly. “Everybody in the intelligence community knows about Khaled. He’s on hit lists from half the countries in the world.”
“And he’s in New York? Is that what that jerk said?”
“That’s what he said. But Barry, if Khaled wasn’t notified within minutes after the strike went down the other day, he’s shifted locations. Bet on it.”
“All right, level with me. I’ve seen you making phone calls. Your people told you something.”
“We’re hot, Barry. There is a big diplomatic flap in the wind. I didn’t tell you because I was ordered not to tell you.”
“Well, hell, Cutter! I figured out there was going to be an explosion at State.”
“I learned about thirty minutes ago that there is a one hundred-thousand-dollar price tag on your head. And going up daily. The man called the Dog is so hot I could burn my finger just touching you.”
Barry grinned at her. “Work now, Cutter. Romance later.”
She called him a very ugly name. But she was smiling as she did.
She parked the car in a secured area and from that point they took taxis. They chatted lightly, like tourists, oohhing and aahhing at the crowds on this Saturday night, craning their necks to gawk at the tall, lighted buildings that stretched upward toward the sky.
Twice they changed cabs; then, sure they were not followed, they stepped into a subway entry and bought a pocketful of tokens; should they have to take a bus, the buses also take the subway tokens.
They surfaced in a quiet residential neighborhood.
“Nice neighborhood,” Barry remarked, his eyes taking in the lack of trash on the street and no roaming gangs of street punks.
“One would never think this would be the headquarters of a terrorist organization, right?”
“And you people knew all along where to find this Khaled?”
“He doesn’t stay here often. But to answer your question: yes. We knew. The agency knew. Several other intelligence organizations knew. As to why we didn’t give the authorities that information? We didn’t want him to be tried publicly. We didn’t want him extradited. We wanted him dead. Period. But we had to work carefully and never got a chance to burn him. We mustn’t violate his constitutional rights, you know?”
“Oh, quite.” Barry’s reply was dry. He glanced at her in the glow of the street lamps. “And you think he’s gone from here?”
“We know he’s gone. He’s somewhere in Chicago. But several of his top aides are still here.” She pointed to the second floor of the building. “Right up there.”
“Any children up there?”
“We don’t think so.”
“That’s not good enough for me.”
“Nor for us. People like Khaled are smart, Barry. Just like Darin Grady is smart. They know that Americans are not going to cold-bloodedly kill kids. Bombs falling out of the sky are one thing. The pilots never know. But people like Khaled and Darin know—for an absolute fact—that we won’t wire a car to blow if there is even the remotest chance a child will be caught up in it. That’s one of our many weak points—if you want to call that a weak point—and terrorists worldwide know it.”
“But they don’t mind killing kids?”
“That is correct.”
“So you feel there might be kids in that apartment?”
“Fifty-fifty chance, yes.”
“Would you know one of Khaled’s aides if he stepped out to the street?”
“Oh, yes. There are two living up there. A PLO member who calls himself Jabal—real name unknown—and a Lebanese terrorist who goes by the name of Gibran—real name unknown. Their girlfriends are also terrorists. A German girl with ties to the Bader-Meinhof gang, and an Irish girl who works closely with I-7.” She described the four of them.
“You know all this, yet can’t move against them?”
“Politics, Barry. They have committed no crimes in this country, and no crimes anywhere else under the names they are now using.”
“But you know their names are false?”
“Certainly. So does the State Department. So does the FBI. And certain members of the NYPD do, too. But they all have some immunity, being connecting with the U.N.”
Barry cursed.
Cutter smiled. “All right, we’re here. Now what?”
“Wonder what would happen if I threw a rock through that front window?”
“Oh, they’d call the police! After all, every one of them is a good, law-abiding visitor to this country.”
Barry studied the front door. “Electrically operated from each apartment?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Some sort of alarm on the basement door?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Let’s go in.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
They slipped into the darkness of the alley and made their way around to the back of the apartment building. Barry smiled. Somebody had wedged the spring-loaded fire escape ladder to the alley floor.
“Kids, probably,” Cutter said.
“Bless their little hearts. Come on.”
They slipped up the ladder, cautiously making their way past the second floor. At the third floor, Barry tried the window. Open. Smiling, he slipped inside, Cutter right behind him. They found the stairs and silently descended to the second floor. On the landing, Barry took out a .22-caliber auto-loader from his briefcase and screwed a silencer onto the tapped barrel.
Cutter held open one side of her leather jacket. Her .380 had already been fitted for silent operation.
She touched his arm. “We have no way of getting anyone out of here for questioning, Barry,” she said in a whisper.
A nice way of saying the ap
artment was about to be turned into a slaughterhouse.
He nodded and they moved silently up the carpeted hall. Cutter stopped him at an apartment door. She looked at him and formed a question mark in the air with one finger.
Barry smiled and then almost scared her out of her fashion jeans by simply reaching out and knocking on the door.
Footsteps from inside. “Who is it?” The voice was low and just audible coming through the thick door.
“I have the Dog,” Barry said.
Cutter rolled her eyes in utter disbelief at Barry’s audacity and pressed herself against the wall, to remain unseen when the door to the apartment opened.
Barry recognized the man as Gibran as he peeked out the small crack in the door. The chain remained in place, offering only a few inches of space between door and jamb.
“I know nothing about anything called a Dog,” Gibran said.
“Then where do I collect my money?”
The man hesitated. Made up his mind. What a coup this would be. He could rise high up in the organization if he could produce the faceless but deadly Dog. “Where do you have this person?”
Barry smiled. “Outside. In the car. He’s drugged.”
Gibran paled. He cut his eyes and said something in a language Barry could not understand. Reaching up, he slid the chain free and opened the door. “Quickly, inside.”
Barry stepped into the room, his eyes sweeping the area. One other man and two women. Cutter had described them all perfectly. He lifted his right hand and shot Gibran twice in the chest, the huffing hollow noses expanding and driving into the terrorist’s heart. He was conscious of Cutter coming in behind him, moving swiftly. Her .380 chugged softly and the women, both of them sitting on the couch slumped to one side, their faces and chests staining with blood.
Barry’s .22 coughed twice more, just as the second man in the room, Jabal, was coming up with a pistol. The slugs turned him around and he sank to the carpet. Barry finished the terrorist with a single shot to the side of his head.
“I’ll fan the bedrooms,” Cutter said. “You take this room. Anything with words on it, take it, no matter what the language.”
“Check for kids.”
She nodded.
Barry walked to the door and closed it, making sure the lock caught.
18 Wheel Avenger Page 5