Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone
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Ready radioed. “I seen it when we come out of that last curve. It’s back a good half mile. Dark blue or black. I couldn’t tell.”
“That’s probably the second team. What we call a throwaway team,” Cutter radioed. “The trick is they hope we’ll worry about that team and fail to pick up on it when that Chevy pulls off and another team takes it place. This time probably ahead of us.”
“Wrong,” Barry said bitterly. “They’re going to try us in broad open daylight.” He had been looking out his window, watching a dot in the sky become larger.
“That’s crazy!” Cutter said.
“Helicopter coming up fast from the south,” he told her, then grabbed up his mike. “Heads up. Watch that damn chopper coming from the south.”
The convoy was about sixty miles west of Tucumcari.
“Exit off!” Barry shouted. “Now. Let’s take the fight to them!” He repeated the orders to the others.
Cutter hit the exit ramp too fast and had to stand on the brakes to avoid rolling when the ramp merged with a secondary road. She cut south, on a beat-up country road.
“That move blew their minds, Dog!” Frenchy yelled into his mike. “Caught ’em completely by surprise.”
The helicopter had changed flight direction, the pilot confused by the sudden change in tactics of those on the ground. Barry could see a man sitting with a rifle in his hands.
Barry stuck his M-16 out the window and began letting the lead fly. The canopy of the chopper spiderwebbed and the pilot swerved away, content to let the ground personnel handle it from here on in.
Barry pointed to a broad intersection just ahead. “Turn it around there, Cutter. When you get it turned around, stay in the middle of the road and ram them.” He radioed back to the others what he intended to do and then jumped from the seat and fitted Dog into a special harness, securing one end to a chrome O-ring on the sleeper wall. Barry got back in his seat just as Cutter was taking a wide swing and heading back.
“I wondered what that ring was for,” Cutter shouted, over the roaring of the modified Cummins. “I thought you might be into leather and handcuffs!”
“That might be fun,” Barry yelled. “You bring it up again when we’re out of this!”
She smiled at him. “You might need handcuffs to handle me, Dog.”
“Anytime you feel up to it, Cutter.”
She laughed and shifted gears.
The driver of the Chevy had panic written all over his face as he realized what was coming at him and what was going to happen to him if he didn’t do something and do it right the first time.
He just didn’t act fast enough. The armor-plated and steel-reinforced front of the Kenworth caught the car just as the driver elected to turn. The massive reinforced bumper knocked the car off the road and flipped it rolling, just as the second car slid to a halt, the occupants spilling out, automatic weapons in their hands.
“Roll over them!” Barry shouted. “Goddamnit, do it!”
Cutter shifted and pedaled the metal. A terrorist was caught between the bumper of the Kenworth and the parked car. The bumper hit him stomach-high and crushed the life from him. The scream of metal against roadway was shrill in the autumn air combined with the roaring of the big Cummins, it drowned out the screaming of the other man who was caught under the wheels of the big rig and dragged to his death.
Barry grabbed for his mike. “Shut ’em down and come out firing!” he ordered.
He was out the door and on the ground before Cutter even brought the big rig to a complete halt.
Lining up one redheaded, freckle-faced man, Barry cut the legs out from under him and saw one kneecap shatter under the M-16 fire. Cutter was firing her weapon from the cab of the truck and the other drivers were rocking and rolling with automatic fire.
The helicopter was circling, but safely out of range.
The firefight was hot and intense, but the terrorists had been demoralized and thrown completely off guard by the actions of the drivers. In less than two minutes, the fight was over and the helicopter was a fading black dot in the sky. Hauling ass.
Barry glanced over at Cutter. Hell of a woman. She felt his eyes and met them.
“Those radios are repeaters, aren’t they, Cutter?”
“Yes. Reading your mind, I’ll contact Kirtland and get a team out here.”
“Fine. Have the state police seal off that exit we used. I don’t want anybody in here.”
She nodded her head and climbed back up into the cab.
“Report!” Barry called.
“We’re all okay!” Mustard yelled.
“Got a couple of live ones over here!” Ready called, standing over two moaning terrorists.
“And this one looks like an A-rab,” Smooth said. “He’s called me some dirty names, too.”
“He’ll be calling me more than that before I’m through with the son of a bitch,” Barry muttered. Raising his voice, he called, “Bring the live ones over here.”
Cutter was climbing down as the wounded terrorists were dragged to Barry’s rig.
“What are you going to do, Barry?” she asked.
“Question this bastard.”
She appeared nervous about that and Barry picked up on it. Asked her about it.
“I would rather you waited until my team got here.”
“Why?”
“We’re on U.S. soil, Barry.”
“Yes,” Barry told her. “And I intend to see that it remains U.S. soil.”
He turned to Frenchy. “Get his driver’s license for me, please.”
An international driver’s license and a passport. “The asshole thinks he has diplomatic immunity,” Barry said. “He’s some sort of Iranian attaché.”
Cutter looked at the visa. “Barry, he does have diplomatic immunity.”
“Not with me.” That made Cutter even more nervous. Barry knelt down beside the man. “Who tipped you that we were hauling this route?”
The Iranian, only slightly wounded, spat in Barry’s face. Barry stood up, wiped the spittle from his face, then kicked the terrorist between the legs.
The man screamed and rolled on the ground.
Cutter had regained her composure and was leaning up against the trailer, her arms folded under her breasts. This was the Dog’s show. She had been ordered not to interface.
Whatever Barry did to the man, she’d seen worse in Europe.
From terrorist’s bombs and bullets.
“I asked you a question, camel-humper. Who tipped you?”
The Iranian glared at Barry with eyes filled with both pain and hate.
Barry smiled at him. “All right, partner. If that’s the way you want to play the game, suits me just fine.” He looked at Frenchy. “Couple of you boys wedge his right ankle under the outside tire of the trailer and hold him there.”
The Iranian started screaming and kicking.
“What are you going to do?” the red-haired, freckle-faced man asked, a lilting brogue to his voice.
Barry looked at him. “I’m going to see how Abdullah here likes life with his ankles crushed.”
“This is America,” the Irishman said. “Here,