“They slapped you around some.”
“The woman did. She also mentioned some other rather perverted acts she said she had in store for me. After I got through servicing the entire Islamic Army.”
“You won’t have to worry about her. Last time I looked, her brains were hanging out of her nose and ears.”
“Couldn’t do anything except improve her looks. Ugly bitch.” She held out a crashed and ratty-looking sack.
“What the hell is that?”
She smiled. “The sandwiches. You said you were hungry, dear.”
21
“You got everybody looking for you, Dog,” Jackson told him.
West Memphis, Arkansas. At a truck stop.
“The more the merrier. I sure don’t want to deprive anybody of their turn at me and Cutter.”
“You’re in the wringer now, Dog. From here to the coast, you’re going to be running the gauntlet. I-7 is looking for you. The Islamic Army is looking for you. The Red Brigade has people gunning for you. The Bader-Meinhof gang has terrorists out in the field for you and Cutter. It seemed that everybody wants a piece of the Dog.”
“Bring me up to date, Jackson. How is that guy with the busted ankle?”
“His foot had to be amputated. Crushed too badly to be saved.”
“What a shame!”
“I can just tell that you’re overcome with emotion.”
“The two terrorists that Barnett’s people recovered?”
“They’re alive. When they’ve been interrogated fully, we’ll probably try to swap them for some hostages in the Mid-East.”
“The guy from the motel in Knoxville?”
“Let’s say he’s still alive.” Jackson’s answer was given flatly.
Barry got the message.
“There might be some left alive in that car I drove into the bushes,” Barry suggested.
“The Tennessee Highway Patrol just found that car about two hours ago. The woman is alive, but she’s brain-dead.”
“I suppose that American taxpayers are picking up the tab for her hospitalization?”
“Of course.”
“So we keep on trucking?” Barry said.
“That’s it.”
“See you, Jackson.”
“Good luck, Dog.”
When Barry had climbed back into the truck and settled down behind the wheel, Cutter asked, “Well?”
“The terrorist community has pulled out all the stops, Cutter. Everybody wants a piece of the action. They’re all gunning for us.”
“What else is new. So? And? …”
“We’re going to take the goddamnest route to California in the history of trucking.”
“Bait, right?”
“Lethal bait, Cutter. Did you check the weather?”
“That early winter storm has blown out of the west; it all moved east. It’s cold but clear.”
Barry grinned and dropped the big rig into gear. “They tell me that Nebraska is lovely this time of year. Nice and flat and just right for a shoot-out.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
They pointed the nose of the Kenworth north, heading into the cold country, straight up Interstate 55. And before they had gone fifty miles, Barry’s eyes picked up a tail.
“Pickup truck behind us. Blue Chevy. Man and a woman. I think they’re going to try the friendly approach now. Everything else has failed.”
“This will, too,” Cutter told him.
“I forgot to ask: how’d those goons take you last night?”
“Right in the middle of the truck stop, with fifty drivers around us. After I got the thermos filled—which we forgot, by the way—the man and woman flanked me. She had a fragmentation grenade in her jacket pocket. Held the pocket open so I could see it. Asked me if I’d like to see a lot of truck drivers die. I learned several years ago, Barry: these people mean it. They’re not afraid to die. Not at all. I figured I could stall them long enough for you to get worried and come looking.”
“You know, Cutter, unless people like George and several of his colleagues come out openly and support a no-holds-barred type of war against terrorism, this country is just liable to lose this damn conflict.”
“That’s our consensus, too. So far we’ve taken a defensive posture. It won’t work. We’ve got to take the offensive and do it so aggressively, people of that ilk will be afraid to screw around with us.”
“Hey there, big truck!” the CB squawked.
Barry smiled and reached for the mike. “Which big truck are you talking to?”
“Northbound, just passing the Osceola exit. That’s a fine looking rig you’ve got.”
“Thanks. You drivin’ that blue pickup?”
“That’s a big ten-four, good buddy.”
Barry grunted. To Cutter: “Whatever books Comrade X supplied them on CB chatter were a bit outdated.”
“I heard that.”
“Where you heading, good buddy?”
Another trucker snickered over his CB, but otherwise kept his mouth shut.
“Up into Illinois. You?”
“Oh, me and the wife are retired. We’re just seeing the country.”
“In a pig’s ass,” Barry muttered. “But let’s play the game.” To the CB’ers: “Well, you just sit back there in the rocking chair and relax. We’ll take you with us.”
“Thanks! They call me the Old Farmer and my wife’s handle is Popcorn ’cause she likes popped corn. You?”
“Oh, Lord!” Cutter groaned at the handles.
Barry smiled. “I’m called Loup. My old lady is Poopsie.”
Cutter’s mouth dropped open. “Poopsie!”
“We’ll just tag along behind you and maybe when you stop, we can get acquainted and have some coffee.”
“Ten-four.”
“Kissy-kissy, good buddy!” an unknown trucker snickered into his mike.
Barry ignored it.
“Poopsie!” Cutter muttered, shaking her head.
“Keep your eyes open for the second team,” Barry said, laughing at the expression on her face. “I don’t know how long those two behind us are prepared to keep up this charade … Poopsie.”
Cutter told him what he could do with the handle he’d hung on her. If implemented, a very painful suggestion.
The pickup stayed behind them as they rolled on through the northeast corner of Arkansas and into the boot heel of Missouri. Old Farmer talked occasionally on the CB, and both Barry and Cutter picked up immediately on the absence of ‘good buddy’ from his chatter.
“Realized his mistake,” Barry said.
“I can’t spot any second team,” Cutter again adjusted the smaller mirror on the chrome mounts.
“I have a hunch they’re going to keep the other teams back until they know our destination for sure. We’ve got a lot of daylight left. There’s a truck stop up here on fifty-seven. We’ll pull in, get us a thermos and meet Old Farmer and Popcorn.”
The man and woman appeared to be exactly what they claimed to be: retired folks. Both of them were in their mid-fifties. Extremely healthy mid-fifties.
They had coffee and chatted for a few minutes, then were back on the road. Neither Barry nor Cutter had revealed their final destination, even though Farmer had asked them twice. To ask again would have really tipped their hand. But Barry had said they would cross the river at Moline.
“What’s your opinion, Cutter?”
She was behind the wheel.
“When I went to the restroom, I slipped out for a fast visual of their truck. I couldn’t see any long-range radio equipment, but I’d make a guess that CB is jacked up high. The camper shell is custom built: wood and metal. It’d take an axe to break that door in the back.”
“I couldn’t pick up any accent from either of them.”
“Nor could I. And I’ve been trained in that field. Their English is just too perfect. Right out of the textbook.”
“That’s the way I see it. They learned it by rote.”
> “Nationality?”
“Hard to say. I’ll guess and say Central Europe. I’ll also guess and say they’ve been deep cover, sleeping in this country for a long time. Ten years; maybe longer.”
“I couldn’t pick up any suspicious bulges.”
“Nor could I. If they’re carrying, they’ve got them stuck in their boots.”
“All right. Let’s see what they do when we pull over up here at the weight-watchers.”
The pickup rolled on by the co-op and disappeared from sight. When Cutter pulled back onto the slab, the pickup was waiting for them, idling on the shoulder.
Barry crawled back into the sleeper. “Stay on fifty-seven until you get to Salem. Then cut west and pick up fifty-one; that’s two lane. Stay on that to Bloomington. If I’m not awake by then, give me a shout.”
“That’s a big ten-four, Loopie.”
Barry laughed and lay down on the bunk. He was asleep within two minutes.
He crawled out of the bunk just south of Decatur and before he spoke, he checked the mirror. The pickup was still with them.
“How goddamn obvious can a tail get?” he pondered.
“I haven’t picked up any sign of a second team. Surely they’re not thinking of trying us alone?”
As if magically intercepting their conversation, the CB speaker rattled: “Sure hope you folks don’t mind us tagging along. Me and the Missus don’t have anyplace to go to in a hurry. Like we told you, we sold our place and bought us a trailer down in Florida. And to tell you a truth: we really admire and respect truck drivers. Kinda makes us feel important to be able to tag along with you. We do this all the time.”
Barry picked up the CB mike. Dusk was very gently settling over the land. “That’s all right, Farmer. Glad to have the company.” To Cutter: “You tired?”
She shook her head. “Not a bit. Bored is the word.”
“We’ll pick up seventy-four at Bloomington. Take that up to Moline and then eighty all the way across the state. Pull over up there, Cutter.” He pointed. “You lie down for a time. No goddamn pickup is going to take this rig alone. First sign of anything out of the ordinary, I’ll yell.”
Nothing happened. Except that Cutter was asleep five minutes after her head hit the pillow. The pickup stayed with them through Bloomington, took the loop with them around Peoria, and cut straight north with them at Galesburg. At Moline, Barry pulled over for food and fuel.
Cutter had been asleep for several hours, and appeared fresh and rested.
And Farmer and Popcorn also appeared fresh and alert.
Barry wondered about that. Both of them were years older than he was, yet neither appeared in the least tired. Cutter stayed with the truck while Barry went in to eat.
Then he noticed the hands of Old Farmer. Not the hands of a man pushing sixty. As he ate, Barry observed the hands of the woman. Young hands. He again shifted his eyes to Farmer. Fresh cologne. The man was fresh-shaven. Curious. Why would a man traveling, with no particular destination in mind, and no appointments to keep, go to the trouble of shaving several times a day, using an electric razor, bouncing along in a pickup truck?
Sure. A person can dye their hair, use lots of makeup to appear older; but you can’t dye whiskers.
“Well, folks,” Barry said with a smile. “I guess this is where we part company.”
Farmer jerked his head up, a startled look in his eyes. The woman also appeared suddenly nervous. “I … well, assumed you were going on west, Loup.”
“Well, you see, we haul for the government, Farmer. We really can’t tell you where we’re going. You can tag along until we get to Iowa City, if you like, but after that, it’d be best if you peeled off and went your way.” He stood up. “It’s been nice traveling with you two. Hope you have a nice trip. See you.”
Barry tossed money on the table, picked up the fresh thermos and sack of sandwiches he’d ordered for Cutter, and walked swiftly to the truck, climbing in on the passenger side.
“Roll, Cutter. There isn’t much between here and Iowa City, and that’s where they’ll hit us. Let’s go.”
22
“Cute,” Cutter said, after Barry explained. “I didn’t pick it up. You sure you wouldn’t like to come to work for us? We do hire civilians.”
“You’re just after my body.” Barry did his best to act coy.
She laughed. “There is truth in that.” She sobered, munching on a ham and egg sandwich. She had shifted up, gained speed, and was on the loop. She glanced in her mirrors. “Time for the second team to make an appearance, don’t you think?”
“I’ve been watching. Nothing yet.”
“There’s the pickup. That one dim headlight gives it away.”
“They won’t try anything just yet, I’m thinking. It’ll be between Davenport and Iowa City. There are some long stretches there.”
They rode in silence for several miles. Barry’s Uzi lay on the floorboards, two clips clipped together for faster work. His Beretta was full, resting in the leather of his shoulder holster. Cutter’s jacket was open, her .380 worn on the left side, butt-forward. The big .44 mag was tucked down between the armrest and her side.
Barry reached back and pulled a small bag to him. Unzipping it, he reached in and took out several grenades, laying them on the shallow dashboard.
When Cutter swung the rig westbound, on Interstate 80, Barry reached for the mike.
“Go to three, Farmer.” Barry switched over.
“On three, big buddy. What’s up?”
“Come and get us, motherfucker.” Barry switched back to 19. “Get over in the left lane, Cutter.”
She swung the rig over.
The pickup began closing fast.
“Here they come,” Cutter said.
A bullet pinged ineffectually off the trailer, the howl of the ricochet just audible over the roar.
Cutter jerked her gloved thumb backward. “From them,” she said. “I saw the flash.”
“Guess that lights the candles and blows them out, huh, Cutter?”
“I guess it does, Dog.”
“Cut off all lights.”
She plunged the rig into darkness.
“Count five and swing into the right lane.”
After a five count, she swung over.
About five seconds later, both felt the pickup impacting with the trailer. The night was torn with the howling of metal against concrete as the rig dragged the pickup along at 65 mph.
“Shake it loose, Cutter!”
She swerved over onto the shoulder, back and forth, from slab to shoulder, until the pickup, what was left of it, was slung free. It went crashing over the side, a shower of mangled metal and glass and blood.
She cut the lights back on.
“Two down,” Cutter said tersely. “And maybe a couple more who might have been hiding under that camper top.”
“I thought about that, too. Screw em.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Now where’s the second team?”
“I think they just pulled in behind us,” Barry said, looking at his mirror.
“Can you make out what it is?”
Barry smiled. “I think they’re finally getting smart, Cutter. A pair of matched Kenworths.”
“Do I kick in the afterburners and blow dust in their faces?”
“Naw. Let’s go to war,” he said calmly.
“Dog.” The voice popped out of his speaker. “You know what channel to go to.”
Barry clicked over to 3. “Come on, asshole!”
“No way out of this box, Killer-Dog. Now you die!”
“What group are you?” Barry radioed. “Camel-humpers? Bugger-Badhof? Or don’t beat me no more, Boss?”
“Racist honky.”
“Racist honky?” Cutter said with a laugh. “Talk about a contradiction in terms.”
“Well, I found out who the second team is, anyway. The American version of the Islamic Army. Let’s see if I can make him mad.” He keyed the mike
. “Hey, Leroy! You still there?”
“Swine! My name is Abboud. I tell you this only because you should know the man who is going to kill you.”
Barry keyed the mike. “Hey, Abu-Kubooboo! Are you going to fight or bore me to death with words?”
One rogue truck behind them suddenly surged forward.
“Stay in the left lane, Cutter.” He picked one grenade up from the dash, pulled the pin, counted and then tossed the lethal pineapple out the window.
Luck was with them that night. The grenade blew just as the truck passed over it. For just one instant, there was a flash and then headlighted darkness. Then the tractor seemed to tilt upward and lurch to one side. Flames began boiling out from under the rig as the fuel caught fire but did not explode. The rig righted itself for a moment, and then went out of control, spinning and jackknifing off the highway, rolling out into the darkness.
“Bye, crap-face.” Barry radioed to the others.
“Up ahead, Barry.” Cutter brought his eyes from the mirror and the rapidly vanishing pile of twisted metal that was once a truck and trailer.
“Where the hell did those bob trucks come from?”
“Right off that ramp.” She nodded her head as they passed the darkened on-ramp.
The bob trucks were running side by side, blocking both westbound lanes of the super slab.
Nothing happened until a ten-or-twelve-truck convoy passed them eastbound. When the slab was clear of any immediate traffic, Barry’s CB speaker crackled.
“Your interference has been troublesome, Man-called-Dog. But you may now number your life span in moments.”
“Which faction do you represent?” Barry radioed, staying on channel 3.
“Spare me your racist mumblings. We are all brothers in our fight for justice and freedom and equality.”
Barry laughed and Cutter smiled. Same old communist dogma. He radioed, “You wouldn’t know real justice or equality if it was shoved up your butt, Ahmed.”
“You are a crude and despicable person, Dog. Now go meet your maker!”
The doors to the bob trucks were flung open; the headlights revealing a half dozen men, all armed with automatic weapons, and all pointed at the Kenworth.
“Die!” the voice screamed over the speaker
18 Wheel Avenger Page 16