Rig Warrior

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “There is still your partner to think about,” she reminded him.

  “I’m not worried about Jack. It was too easy, Kate. Weston, Jackson, Borman, Stemke, Jennings, the whole bunch of them. They knew what I was doing; why do I get this feeling they wanted me to get caught?”

  “I seen a movie like that one time. Something about a double-cross.”

  “How about a double-setup, Kate?”

  “But why would the government want to set you up?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. But I’ve got a bad feeling in my guts, honey.”

  “Maybe it’s all them greasy hamburgers you been eatin’?” she said, then laughed.

  Barry laughed with her.

  But he laughed only to conceal his doubts from her.

  The trip back to New Orleans was uneventful. And they paid absolutely no attention to driving time, making the run straight through. Back in his office, he dialed Fabrello’s residence. The man had just returned from overseas, after learning there were no warrants out for him.

  But he was very cool.

  “What’s wrong, Ted?” Barry asked. “Hell, it’s over, finally.”

  “This will be our last communication, Barry,” the capo said. “From now on all bets are off. I ain’t planin’ no moves against your company—for as long as you have it, that is—but we ain’t friends no more, understood?”

  “No, I don’t. Would you like to explain that, Ted?”

  “I can’t,” the capo admitted. “Both our phones is bugged. Today, I’m changin’ my number. You don’t get the new number.” He sighed deeply. “Goddamn, I don’t want you for my enemy. You’re one of them high-principled people, and you might get it into your head to come after me. I wouldn’t like that.”

  “Ted, will you please tell me what in the hell you’re talking about?”

  But he was speaking into a dead phone.

  He slowly replaced the receiver. “Curious,” he muttered. “Very, very odd.”

  He told his father about the odd conversation with Fabrello.

  “That is odd,” Big Joe said. “What do you make of it, boy?”

  ”Nothing. I don’t know. Hell!” he said, waving a hand.

  “Maybe I’m just becoming paranoid. Let’s change the subject: get back to the trucking business.”

  “Fine with me.” But the elder Rivers could see his son was still upset.

  Barry handed back control of the company to his father, formally resigning his posts.

  “How’s it feel to be unemployed, boy?” Big Joe kidded him.

  Kate was busy packing her things and making arrangements to sell her trailer, preparing to move to Maryland and settle down.

  Dog was with her, watching her.

  Kate had insisted that Barry buy a camper shell for his pickup, so Dog would be more comfortable on the trip.

  “Jesus!” Barry said. “You treat him better than you would one of our kids.”

  “We’re gonna have to get to work on that, too,” she said, smiling.

  “Now that’s the kind of work I like!”

  They pulled out on the third morning back in New Orleans, heading north.

  They had just crossed the line into Virginia, on the interstate, when Barry felt the first hint of suspicion overtake him. He checked his mirrors. Had that car been following them? He thought so. He thought that was the car that followed them out of New Orleans. Yesterday the car had been green. All day. Now there was that blue car. Again.

  It came up fast. Barry tensed. The car passed them and rolled out of sight.

  Barry relaxed.

  He pulled into a motel a few minutes later, just at dusk, checking in for the night.

  The next morning, after breakfast, they packed up, tossing the luggage in the back, under the camper shell. Kate got behind the wheel.

  Dog barked.

  “Maybe he wants to go for a walk,” Kate said. “You take him. I’ll warm up the truck.”

  “Come on, Dog,” Barry said. “Time for you to do your business.”

  Barry and Dog walked across the concrete to the grassy area. While Dog ran and sniffed, looking for just the right spot to mark, Barry heard the pickup’s engine turn over, the motor firing. White-hot heat struck him hard, just as a tremendous sound wave knocked him sprawling to the ground. Out of shocked eyes, he saw Dog rolling over and over on the ground. He could just hear the sounds of falling debris; chunks of metal and brick and glass hitting the earth.

  He felt a warm stickiness running down his face. Blood.

  He was burning; his shirt was on fire.

  But where was the pain?

  He tried to roll over. Could not. None of his extremities would obey commands from his brain. Red tinged with a strange blackness began enveloping him as the pain reached him.

  Dog was barking.

  “Kate!” he yelled, but her name was only a whisper coming out of his mouth.

  And then he knew nothing as a cold hand touched him lightly with bony fingers.

  “He’s dead!” Jack Morris almost screamed the words over the phone. “The Green Beret bastard is finally dead.”

  Paul Rivers sighed as a great weight was lifted from him. “You’re sure he’s dead?”

  “Everyone is dead. Barry, Kate, even that stupid dog they found.”

  “Now we can move against the old man.”

  “All in time, Paul. First we grieve; put on a very convincing sackcloth-and-ashes bit.”

  “Yes. You’re right, of course. I’ll see you at the funeral.”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly.”

  Both men were laughing as they hung up.

  33

  Barry opened his eyes, but he could not make them focus. He blinked several times. His throat felt raw; like something was stuck there. He finally realized it was a tube. One in his nose, too. His arms … he couldn’t move them.

  He almost panicked, then steeled his emotions.

  His eyes began to focus. A hospital room. His arms were strapped down because he had needles in both arms.

  But he was alive.

  Big deal. Shit! he couldn’t move.

  Worse than that, he could not remember anything. Why was he here? What happened?

  He knew he was not in the hospital in Saigon. He’d been there; this wasn’t it.

  A barking dog. He remembered that. But why would he remember that?

  Dog!

  Kate!

  He strained against his bonds. But he was very weak. He tried to yell. He managed a croaking sound.

  Goddamn tube.

  He cut his eyes as the door opened. A nurse looked at him looking at her. Her eyes widened. She spoke sharply to someone in the hall. She was a military nurse, Barry noted. Captain. Air Force or Army, he wasn’t sure.

  Two men quickly entered the room.

  “Whathsiginon?” Barry mumbled, knowing the words made no sense.

  “Don’t try to talk,” one of the men said. He turned to the nurse. “Get the tube out of his throat.”

  And that was unpleasant.

  His arms were freed from the restraints. The needles were removed. The tube in his nose was removed.

  “How do you feel, Mr. Rivers?” the second man asked. “And I understand that is a very foolish question.”

  “Like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet.” Barry managed to push the words out of a very parched throat.

  “Have a sip of water.”

  Barry sipped the water. Felt good. Eased the dryness in his throat. “I’m hungry as hell.”

  “Soup,” the doctor ordered.

  The doctors poked him, prodded him, checked his blood pressure and heart, and grunted several times.

  “Kate?” Barry asked several times.

  A third man entered the room. Barry looked at him and knew him for what he was. A shrink. He’d seen too many of them during his years in Special Forces.

  “Somebody better fucking tell me something!” Barry said.

  “Take it easy, Barry,” t
he shrink said. “Don’t get yourself agitated. What day is it?”

  Barry told him the day, month, and year.

  “You’ve got the year right,” a doctor said. “You’re a bit off on the others.”

  Barry cut his eyes to the draped windows. “Let me see outside.”

  The leaves on the trees were changing; bushes and shrubs were beginning to take on a dry, brittle look. Barry glanced back at the doctors.

  “Fall,” he said.

  “Yes. You’ve been in a coma for several months, Barry.”

  Barry sighed. “I have a headache.”

  Aspirin was ordered.

  “Kate?” Barry asked.

  “She’s dead, Barry,” the shrink told him.

  It came as no surprise. Then everything came rushing back, his memory banks emptying. Barry was silent for several moments, digesting and reviewing the events of months past. “Where am I?”

  “Fort Drum.”

  New York State. “Where is Kate … buried?” He stumbled over the word.

  “New Orleans.”

  Barry drank his soup, took his aspirin, and asked for more soup. It was brought to him. But surprisingly, he could not finish the bowl of soup.

  “Your stomach has shrunk. It won’t take long for you to get back to normal.”

  “Your dog is outside playing,” one of the doctors informed him. “He bites,” he added. “What is his name?”

  “Dog.” He thought for a moment.“He’s due for his shots.” He remembered the note; Kate reading it.

  “We’ll take care of it.”

  “My truck blew up?”

  “Yes.”

  “No way anyone could have put a bomb under the hood. It would have set off an alarm.”

  “It was a vibration bomb, Barry. You’re familiar with the type.”

  “Yes.”

  “You rest for a while, Barry. We’ll be back to see you.”

  With the room darkened, Barry turned his head away from the door and wept. Silently. When he had no more tears to cry, he wiped his eyes and let waves of revenge feelings sweep over him. He looked up at the ceiling.

  “I’ll find you,” he whispered. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, I’ll track you down and I’ll kill you.”

  Fall melted into winter and snow blanketed the hospital grounds. Barry underwent intensive therapy, both mentally and physically. He had been badly burned, and was forced to undergo several operations. Once more on his feet, he began exercising, slowly at first, then picking up the pace. He regained his weight, and, working out in the gym, regained his strength and timing.

  One side of his face had been completely reworked, altering his appearance. His nose had been smashed. It was rebuilt and reshaped.

  He was staying in a guest cottage on the base, living quietly alone, with Dog.

  And his memories.

  His days were filled with exercise and sessions with the shrinks. The nights were haunted with dreams of Kate.

  And Barry Rivers learned he was dead and buried. Buried beside Kate in New Orleans.

  He had stared at the shrink. “What?” he’d blurted.

  “You’re dead, Mr. Rivers. Your package has been pulled at Central Records; your Social Security number retired. Your life insurance paid off. Your company was purchased by Jack Morris. You no longer exist.”

  34

  Barry left the hospital grounds for the first time in April. He looked much older than his years; sometime during his coma, gray had crept into his hair, salt-and-peppering it. The operations had changed his looks forever. Even Dog looked older. He was no longer the playful mutt he and Kate had found in the parking lot.

  Kate.

  Barry tried to keep her face out of the light of inner vision as much as possible. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

  Barry walked toward a midnight-blue Kenworth parked across from the hospital grounds. He opened the door, and Dog jumped up and down and ran around in circles, ready to go. Barry helped him into the rig and climbed in after him, settling down behind the wheel. He picked up the package lying on the console.

  His new life was contained within the thick envelope.

  New York State driver’s license. Barry Rivera. The address was real, but Barry had never seen the place.

  The Kenworth was his home. From now on. Forever.

  He checked his credit cards. Several dozen of them. Visa, MasterCard, American Express, all sorts of gas cards.

  Dog spoke to him in that funny Husky way. Kate had called it doggy talk.

  “You ready to roll, Dog?”

  Dog was ready.

  Barry pulled out and away from the military reservation, picked up Interstate 81 at Watertown, and pointed the big snout of the Kenworth south. He would be running empty down to Andrews AFB, just outside Washington. There he was to pick up a load. He didn’t know what it was or where he was talking it.

  Just that he would be traveling alone. The only SST rig on the road with only one driver. Dog and Dog.

  It had taken some doing. But Barry had remained firm with the government men he’d met at the hospital cottage. That was the only way he’d play their game.

  They had finally, reluctantly, agreed.

  He had plenty of time before he picked up his load. There was someone he wanted to see in the Washington area.

  As he drove the interstate system, he firmed up his plans and thought about his new life.

  He had met the President. He had been impressed with the man. And he liked the man’s bluntness.

  “Country has gone to shit, Barry,” the man had said. “We’re slowly bringing the country back to dead center, but that won’t be fully accomplished in my lifetime. But you might be able to help. You interested?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes.” The man was honest. “At first I was going to hold criminal charges over your head. But I soon rejected that. I was not comfortable with it. You hear me out. Then, if you’re not interested, we suddenly locate you in a hospital, where you’ve been in a coma for months. You’re back to life once more.”

  “Either way it goes, Mr. President, I’m going to kill Jack Morris.”

  The President’s smile was thin. “Then you’d better saddle up and ride with us, Barry.”

  “Call me Dog.”

  The President had left an hour later.

  Barry left his truck at Andrews AFB, Dog with it lying under the trailer, growling menacingly when anyone got too close.

  The APs said they’d keep him fed and watered.

  “He bites,” Barry warned the APs.

  “No shit?” one of them said, eyeballing Dog.

  Barry stood outside the Justice building, arriving there just before noon. Linda was in the crowd leaving for lunch, buying it or brown-bagging it, to eat in the nearby park. She looked right at him, this rough-looking man dressed in boots and jeans and western denim shirt.

  Not one trace of recognition passed over her face.

  Barry turned away and walked to a rent-a-car place. He rented a small car and drove to his old offices, driving past them to a service station about a half-mile away. He used the pay phone to call his old office, asking for Maggie.

  She was no longer employed there, he was informed.

  I’m sorry to hear that. I’m an old friend. Is she ill?

  No. She quit.

  The person hung up.

  He drove back past the office, just in time to see lardassed Jack leaving. He had not changed his habits. He still left for lunch at one-thirty. Barry followed him. Driving with one hand, he opened a brown paper sack on the seat beside him, taking out a .22 caliber semiautomatic pistol, tapped for silencer, the stubby noise suppressor screwed on. Jack was in the far right lane, Barry in the lane next to him. Both drivers’ side windows were lowered.

  “You’re on your own, Dog.” The President’s words returned to him as they approached a traffic light. “You are judge, jury, and executioner. You could very easily get out of contr
ol. If that happens, you won’t live twenty-four more hours. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You will never see me again,” the President told him. “Your contact is Jackson or Weston. I do not know you. I never heard of you. I never want to hear from you.”

  “Fine with me.”

  The light changed to red. Barry pulled up beside Jack. Jack looked up. His face looked dissipated. Barry smiled as he checked the mirrors. No other vehicle was close.

  “Hello, fat-ass!” Barry said.

  “What!” Jack said, his eyes widening as Barry lifted the silenced pistol.

  “Goddamned scum-suckin’ motherfucker!” Barry said, then pulled the trigger.

  The pistol huffed four times, all four slugs taking Jack in the face. One slug entered his left eye and exited out the back of his head.

  The light changed to green. Barry drove away. Jack’s blood was soaking into the seat of his car.

  Barry drove back into D.C. and had a quiet lunch. He turned the car back in and returned to Andrews. He picked up his orders and boosted Dog up into the cab. He was rolling through Virginia at dusk.

  “Anywhere there is trouble is where you’ll go, Dog.” The President’s words rang in his head. “You might be sent there, you might decide to go on your own. Most of the time, it will be up to you.”

  “Fine.”

  “You won’t reconsider and have a partner?”

  “I have a partner.”

  “Who?”

  “Dog.”

  He pulled into Baton Rouge and made a phone call.

  “I am sorry,” the woman’s voice said. “But Paul is very ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Barry said. “Tell him an old … friend called, will you?”

  “You don’t know about Paul?”

  “I don’t understand. What about Paul?”

  “He’s in Glenlake.” Paul’s wife hung up.

  Barry drove to the private mental hospital. He met with the director and identified himself as an old family friend of Paul Rivers.

  “Very tragic case, Mister … ah? …”

  “Rivera. Paul was my attorney some time back. Really helped me out of a bad jam I was in.”

  “Of course. Paul was truly a fine, fine man.”

  “Was? Is he dead?”