Rig Warrior

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  More money for those remaining.

  Paul’s brother? … That had been, at first, thorny. But as time went by, the upcoming pill had not been all that difficult to swallow.

  Especially after he learned his brother had actually married some woman truck driver. Some roadside whore, certainly. Everybody knew that truck drivers were trash, and the women even worse. For his brother to marry one of those repulsive creatures was beyond the comprehension of an intelligent person.

  The others? Well, what was done was done. The wheels were in motion, and Paul could not stop it at this late date. His brother’s ex-wife? … There would be no loss there. Paul had never really known her, and he supposed that made it easier.

  His sister? … He had not seen her in years. He had never felt himself a part of the family.

  Paul wondered, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, if he was insane.

  Or just callous and greedy.

  Perhaps a combination of all three.

  In his Maryland apartment, Jack Morris fondled himself and thought of the young Mexican girls coming across the border on this run. He had instructed his field people to make certain there were several of them this trip. He liked to listen to them scream.

  He suppressed a groan and fought back his growing erection.

  He thought of the future. Looked very bright for him. Very rosy indeed.

  He looked at his wife, sleeping beside him. He hated her. Goddamned drug addict. Well, when the next few days were past, he would think about disposing of her, too. An overdose would be the logical method, but that might draw too much heat on him. He could arrange an accident later on. Hell, he’d lived with her all these years, a few months more wouldn’t make that much difference.

  But first things must come first. And right this moment, Barry Rivers was at the top of the list.

  With Barry out of the picture, troubled waters would smooth into calm seas. If he could stay with the cocaine business just a year more, he’d be worth millions; then he could back out of the business of helping supply live bodies to those experiment stations. He’d found it repulsive at first, but that was before he’d seen those young girls, and seen the endless possibility of smooth, young female children … to do with as he wished.

  Barry’s brother would be no problem; Jack knew he could handle that one. The man was nothing more than a hypocritical, greedy fool. And quite possibly insane.

  Jack felt it would not take much to push him over the edge.

  Well, he thought, closing his eyes, it would all be over in two days. Kate would meet with a very unfortunate accident. In his grief, Barry Rivers would take his own life. Donna would have an accident driving to New Orleans for the funeral of her brother. What a pity. Terrible thing. The children of Barry, of course, would remain unscathed. It had taken some doing, but Jack had finally convinced Paul of the necessity of that. He, Jack, out of the goodness of his heart, would set aside a very large portion of the business, the profits going directly into a special account for the kids; a nice interest-bearing account. They, and the widow, would be well taken care of.

  And—Jack smiled in the gloom of his bedroom—that would take any suspicion off him.

  Yes, he thought, it looked good. Nothing was ever perfect, of course, but this was very close to perfection.

  He slipped into sleep, a smile on his lips.

  Barry watched as headlights topped the small rise from the east. He could see the closed van behind the tractor. Even with the vents open, it must be terribly hot inside, he thought.

  The rig pulled into the roadside park area and quickly cut its lights. Using the sudden darkness, and knowing the driver would have absolutely no night vision for several minutes, Barry slipped from his concealment and ran toward the new arrival. He slipped under the trailer and waited.

  “Utah Slim?” a man’s voice called.

  “Yeah,” Slim answered. “You got a word for me?”

  “Roundup.”

  “That’s good. Where’s your runnin’ buddies?”

  “Over that rise yonder. Lemme talk at ’em and tell ’em to come on.”

  “You do that.”

  The driver radioed in and stepped out of the cab. He stepped out just in time to catch the balled fist of Barry on the back of his neck. The man slumped to the still-hot ground and lay still.

  “Damn, Barry,” Slim said. “I think you killed him.”

  “Barry squatted down and jerked up the man’s cowboy hat, plopping it on his head. “You care?”

  “Not really.” Barry could feel the man’s eyes on him in the night. “You play rough, don’t you, Barry?”

  “I damn sure do, Slim. We don’t have much time, so get cracking.”

  Slim quickly backed his rig up to the back doors of the trailer. He got out and walked between the trailers, speaking in rough border Spanish.

  “Si” a man’s voice came weakly. “Bueno.”

  “They have to be in very bad shape,” Barry said.

  “I’ve seen half of them dead, partner,” Slim said gruffly.

  “Goddammit, you can’t blame the poor bastards for wanting to better themselves. You just can’t.”

  “Tell them to get out of there and into your rig. And to stay put when the shooting starts.”

  “I’ll tell ’em, but there ain’t no way they’re gonna do it,” Slim said.“They gonna fly like rabbits.”

  “Tell them anyway. We can always hope.”

  The message delivered, Slim opened the back of his trailer just as headlights came at them from several directions.

  “That ain’t Frank!” both men heard someone yell. “Goddammit, what’s going on?”

  “Here comes the troops!” Slim said.

  Both men heard the roaring of powerful engines. Barry lifted the Uzi and pulled the trigger, holding it back, spraying the nearest car with lead. Slugs pocked the windshield and sparked off metal as screams filled the Texas night.

  “Close your trailer!” Barry shouted, ejecting the empty clip and slamming home a fresh one.

  Slim slammed the doors, only slightly covering the screams of the panicked men and women and children inside.

  “Tell them to get on the floor and stay there,” Barry said.

  “Descolgar! Acostarse!” He looked at Barry. “I think I got that right.”

  A yell ripped the night just after a rig slewed to a sliding halt, blocking the highway from the west. “The Marines is here, boys!” Shiny Hiney jumped down, a shotgun in his hands.

  The yammering of a MAC-10 split the night, the slugs chopping up the ground in front of Shiny Hiney.

  “Fuck the Marines!” a hoarse voice shouted from beside a four-wheeler.

  Shiney lifted his shotgun and began squeezing and pumping, the magnun-pushed slugs ripping through the night, tearing great sparking holes in the car and sending two men flopping to the earth.

  “Fuck the Marines, huh, you son of a bitch!” Shiny yelled, reloading. “You’ll pay for that remark, damn you.”

  From the east, Horsefly’s rig roared to a rubber-burning halt, blocking the way out. Horsefly jumped out, a Mini-14 with a thirty-round clip in his hands.

  “Them sons of bitches is bad-mouthin’ the Marines, Horsefly!” Shiny yelled. “Charge!”

  “These sons of bitches are crazy!” a strange voice yelled. “Shit on this!” He tooked off running into the black vastness of Texas night, his heels kicking up little pockets of dust and sand as he galloped out of sight.

  “Come back here, Jerry!” a man screamed.

  “Screw you,” Jerry called.

  The man lifted a rifle and shot Jerry in the back. Jerry fell headfirst onto the ground and lay still.

  “Nice folks,” Barry said.

  “Yeah,” Slim said. He lifted a pistol and shot the man in the belly.

  “I never knowed you could shoot like that, Slim,” Shiny panted, nearly out of breath.

  Slim looked at him and grinned. “As usual, the Paratroopers was here first
.”

  “That’s low, Slim,” Shiny said. “That’s real low.”

  Then everybody hit the dirt as lead started flying from all directions.

  26

  “Fire!” Barry shouted, cutting loose with his Uzi, knocking two men sprawling to the ground.

  “Bossy bastard, ain’t he?” Shiny said.

  “I’d do what he says if I was you,” Slim told him.

  Hard gunfire cut the night as several of the peddlers of human flesh ran into the darkness, fleeing the firepower of the truck drivers.

  Many people, unfamiliar with combat situations, or from watching too much garbage on the tube, never really know how it ends. Most of the time it doesn’t taper off. It just stops.

  The night was very quiet, very still. A silent shooting star cut the heavens with a silver plume. Gracefully fading away.

  Slim looked up, following the star. “Maybe I done something right for a change,” he said.

  “ ’Bout damn time,” Dolittle called from beyond the western perimeter. “If you’d got any worse I’d been forced to shoot you myself.”

  “There is truth in what he says,” Slim admitted.

  Montana joined the crowd, half-dragging, half-leading a man. “This one just got a little burn on the head,” he said. “What do you wanna do with him?”

  “I want a lawyer!” the man said.

  “Hogtie him and put him in the trailer,” Barry said. “We gotta get out of here. I’m surprised a car hasn’t come along.”

  “I got my constitutional rights, man!” the flesh-peddler said. “I want my rights.”

  Barry turned and hit him flush on the side of the jaw, in front of his ear. The man dropped to the ground, out cold.

  “Good right cross,” Horsefly said.

  A wounded man moaned, his cry of pain drifting through the gunsmoke-filled night. “Help me, somebody.”

  Barry thought of the mangled heads of the veterans; the doped-up and sexually abused women the guard had bragged about; the young children raped; the bits and pieces of dogs and cats. “Anybody volunteer to help him?” he asked.

  No one did.

  The truckers rolled out, heading east. Barry did not know what to do with the Mexicans.

  “We gotta get rid of them, Barry.” Slim broke into his thoughts. “I ain’t tryin’ to be hard or nothin’, just practical.”

  “I know. But where?”

  “Border patrol. Maybe their own people scattered around here. Unless you wanna go to the cops, that is?”

  Both men knew, as Caesar did, that the die had been cast for them. There was no turning back.

  “Stop at the next town,” Barry said. “I’ll make a phone call.”

  It had to be one of the most frustrating phone conversations Barry had ever endured.

  “Barry,” John Weston patiently explained, for the second time, “you have no proof they were being trucked to any experiment station. The Mexicans themselves didn’t know where they were being taken, except across the border. Their testimony won’t be worth spit. I wish to God you had contacted me before you went off half-cocked.”

  “Sure, John.” Barry’s reply was acid-tinged. “Some federal judge on the take, probably involved up to his or her ass in this slime, signed a search warrant against me. Every agency in D.C. has maverick agents within their ranks. Could you have guaranteed this would remain quiet?”

  “No,” John said with a sigh. “Barry, if you continue with this … wild scheme of yours, I’ll probably be coming to arrest you. Can’t I get that through your head?”

  “How about the gunplay tonight?”

  “I didn’t hear that question, and don’t repeat it.”

  “All right. What about my partner?”

  “A paragon of virtue and straightforwardness. Nothing comes through his home or business phones. I’ve got them bugged. He does make some calls from various pay phones around town, but never the same one twice. He’s smart, Barry.”

  “My brother?”

  “Your brother is insane. Did you know he’s been seeking professional help for years?”

  “No, I didn’t. But it doesn’t surprise me. He’s weak, John; you could crack him.”

  “There again, we have this problem with warrants.”

  “Goddammit, John!” Barry flared. “What in the hell ever happened to the rights of law-abiding citizens?”

  “Many of them got flushed down the toilet, pal. Now, about the Mexicans … Turn them loose, Barry.”

  “What?”

  “Open the trailer doors and turn them loose. The local law will toss them in the clink, and within twenty-four hours, the Border Patrol will have them back in Mexico.”

  “Goddammit, John … there are kids here.”

  “I know, Barry. Far better than you do. It’s sad and sick and disgusting and … a lot of other things. They’ll be taken care of; fed, housed, and so forth. You can’t do that. And they’ll probably be back across the border into the U.S. within the week. If it takes them that long.”

  “Heading for another experiment station?” The question was bitter-sounding.

  “There is always that possibility, Barry. Of all the people in the world, pal, you should know it’s tough out there.”

  “Thanks, John. I needed that. What about the experiment stations? What have you found out?”

  “You’re not going to like this.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “Untouchable, buddy.”

  Barry was silent for a moment. “Would you mind explaining that?”

  “There is a little-known but very, very powerful office in D.C. It’s called the Center for Special Studies. CSS. Not to be confused with one that sounds similar. The CSS receives both government and private money. Believe it or not, and you probably won’t, they’ve done some good work in the research field.”

  “What kind of research?”

  The FBI man sighed. “I don’t know, Barry. And I can’t pry anymore. I’ve been ordered to back off and stand clear.”

  “By whom?”

  “You do not have a need to know.”

  There it was. That same old very familiar bullshit Barry had heard so often in government quarters. The need to know. It should be renamed CYA. Cover Your Ass.

  “John, those places are hellholes. They’re carving up human beings. Women are being raped. Men and women are being fed massive amounts of dope and left to die. Animals are being mutilated—alive. Pets, John. Domestic animals. Dogs and cats. Men and women are being tortured, mentally and physically. And you’re telling me you can’t do one fucking thing!” he shouted.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate this conversation, Barry.”

  “John, my partner is up to his ass in dope and murder. My brother had our father beaten. There are contracts out on my wife’s life, my father’s life, my sister’s life, the lives of my kids, and you’re sitting up there in D.C. on your officious ass and telling me you—”

  Barry stopped. He turned around, looking at Slim.

  “What’s wrong?” Slim asked.

  “The son of a bitch hung up on me!”

  Barry and Slim turned the Mexicans loose. It nearly broke Barry’s heart to see the sad eyes of the little children, looking up at him.

  Slim summed it up. “They can hang a guilt trip on you without even sayin’ a word. Belive me, I know.”

  Barry imagined the man did, too. But Slim would have to work out or live with his own personal demons. He dug in his jeans and handed the man he assumed to be the leader a wad of money.

  “Let’s go,” he told Slim.

  They were in Fort Stockton before dawn. There, Barry called his dad in New Orleans. “Rivers Trucking just hired four new drivers,” he informed his father.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes. They have their own rigs, too.”

  “Isn’t that nice? Something tells me the company is going to have to come up with some money for back payments on those rigs, too.”
>
  “Yep.”

  “You’re the boss,” Big Joe said. But Barry could tell by his father’s tone of voice the man was pleased with what he’d done.

  “Gotta go, Dad. You take care.”

  He hung up before his father could say anything. He turned to the Texas drivers. “You guys heard it. Deadhead it to New Orleans. You have jobs waiting for you.”

  “What about you and Slim?” Dolittle asked.

  “It would probably be better if you didn’t know anything about that.”

  “Mr. Rivers,” Horsefly said. “We’d rather stay with y’all.”

  “And get tossed in prison? Listen to me, right now, believe it, there are open warrants out on the people who left those dead and wounded by that roadside park. That’s us, people. Now you guys take off for New Orleans.”

  “Better give us the number of the terminal in case we need to call in,” Montana said, after sneaking a furtive look at Shiny. A look that Barry missed. He wrote down the number and the men all shook hands.

  “We’ll see y’all around,” Dolittle said innocently.

  “Yeah, take care, now,” Horsefly said.

  After Barry and Slim had pulled out, Montana said, “Now I call Big Joe Rivers. We got to look after them two crazies.”

  Jack Morris slowly replaced the phone into its cradle. He walked out of the office building and onto the busy streets of downtown Washington, D.C. His thoughts were as dark as a hidden cave.

  Somebody, and Jack damn sure knew who that somebody was, had intercepted the transport of greasers and ambushed his men, turning the greasers loose.

  God damn Barry Rivers.

  He walked into the park and sat down. The Green Beret bastard had somehow organized a bunch of redneck truck drivers and shot up the place. Most of Jack’s men, of the Texas contingent, were dead. Well, his spirits lifted a tad—that much was good. None of them would be talking. But two were still left alive, and that might present a problem. Not that he could be directly connected with anything; he was sure of that. He just didn’t like loose ends flapping about.

  He rose from the bench and walked to a pay phone. When his party came on the line, Jack said, “Kill the old man and anybody else who gets in your way.”