Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone
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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 recording 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!”
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