Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone

      2

      His name had been Barry Rivers. He had once been a very successful arms dealer and consultant, known worldwide.

      All that changed when a bomb meant to kill him instead killed his new wife, Kate. Little Kate. Blue-eyed Kate, with the corn-yellow hair.

      Barry spent months in a military hospital. There, the doctors reworked his face, reshaped his eyes, his nose. He spent more weeks rebuilding his hospital-atrophied muscles.

      He met with several government men, usually Jackson or Weston. He liked their plan, but he wanted to hear it from The Man himself.

      Then one day the President walked into Barry’s hospital room.

      “You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Rivera.”

      “I’m still Rivers until we can reach an agreement, Mr. President.”

      The President smiled. “The only SST rig on the road with only one driver. Dog and Dog. That’s not a very friendly dog, either. He bites.”

      “So do I.”

      “I hope so.”

      “I pick my targets.”

      “Most of the time. Agreed.”

      “Fine. Whatever I ask for, in the way of weapons or explosives—I get. Immediately.”

      “Agreed.”

      The Dog and the President talked for more than an hour, firming things up.

      The President shook Barry’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Barry.”

      “Call me Dog.”

      “Smooth and Mustard is lookin’ for work,” Frenchy suggested. “They can drive anything with wheels on it and they’re both ’Nam vets.”

      “Fine. Get in touch with them. Right now. I prefer to go it alone, anyway.”

      “Well,” Ready said, standing up and stretching. “It’s steady work.”

      “It’s also a good way to get killed,” Barry reminded them both.

      “What’s that they say about safety in numbers?” Frenchy smiled.

      “Get some sleep,” Barry told them. “I got a hunch we’ll be pulling out early in the morning.”

      The phone woke him up at four in the morning. Jackson.

      “Don’t you ever sleep, Jackson?”

      “Your other drivers are on their way to Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque. And I picked up a codriver for you. Meet you there. A Lieutenant Cutter, with the Air Force’s U.S. SOCOM.”

      “What the hell is that?”

      “Special Operations Command. They’re tough and the best in the business in dealing with terrorists. Cutter will be your codriver. Don’t argue. You need one and you know it.”

      “Fine. What’s the procedure for Frenchy and Ready to get to Kirtland?”

      “Plane. Get them out to Stapleton by eight o’clock. I know how you are about that truck of yours. Just get down there in twenty-four hours. They’ll use that time to familiarize themselves with the regular SST tractors. Orders will be forthcoming. See you.”

      The connection was broken.

      Frenchy and Barry had to get Ready drunk before he’d even discuss getting on a plane.

      “I hate planes. I don’t trust planes. I don’t like planes. And I ain’t gettin’ on no damn airplane!”

      Finally Barry put in a call to Jackson. Jackson was out, but Weston was in. Barry explained the situation.

      When Weston was through cussing, he said, “IIang on. I’ll get an Air Force plane. Get him drunk as a skunk and pour him in the plane.”

      Barry waved bye-bye and got a taxi back to his motel. He paid up, checked out, and hit the road. It was about four hundred and fifty miles to Kirtland.

      He looked over at Dog, sitting in the seat. “You ready, boy?”

      Dog growled.

      Dog and Dog hit the road.

      It wasn’t long before Barry realized he’d picked up a tail. And his followers weren’t trying to be secretive about it. They were on his donkey and wanted him to know it.

      He was running empty, and the big Kenworth could practically fly if Barry wanted to pedal the metal; but with a smile on his face, he decided to see just what his followers had in mind.

      Long before he got to Colorado Springs, Barry had picked up his pace car, and like the car following him, the car in front had three men in it.

      From the quick looks he’d gotten, none of the six looked real friendly. Barry decided he’d wait for a particularly desolate stretch of road, between Pueblo and Walsenburg, before making any moves. He wished his followers would open the dance. Then he could slap one off the road with a clear conscience.

      As it now stood, he was ten percent unsure the two cars held people who had unkind thoughts toward him. And unlike terrorists, he did not wish to be responsible for the deaths of innocents.

      Coming out of Pueblo, rolling south, Barry listened to his CB. No Bears in sight and none had been spotted on the fifty-mile stretch between Pueblo and Walsenburg.

      Barry decided to make his move.

      He swung over in the left lane and let the big Kenworth howl; the 350 NTC Cummins kicked in hard and Barry blew past the Ford car. Barry caught a quick glimpse of three startled faces.

      He also caught a glimpse of what looked to be an M-16 on the rear seat; the lone passenger in the back with a hand on the weapon.

      Barry stayed in the left lane and switched on his scanner. The red light danced left and right and back and forth before finally settling on channel 2.

      “What the hell’s he doing?” came the excited voice.

      “Don’t know. But I think he’s made us.”

      “What next?”

      “Do we take him out?” a third voice came in.

      “Yes. No more talk. Take him.”

      The red light again began its frantic racing. Barry clicked off the scanner and got ready.

      He didn’t have a long wait. He checked his mirrors. The two dark sedans were all that he could see behind him. Nothing in front of him.

      “Come on, assholes!” Barry muttered. “Let’s do it.”

      This was the very reason SSTs always carried a three-person crew. Always a codriver and a person in the sleeper. All heavily armed. And usually with a four-wheeler pacing or in the drag. Whether an SST is carrying 2 kilograms of plutonium or the business end of a Minuteman missile, the threat of sabotage or hijack is always there. With terrorism full-blown in America, the possibilities of an SST getting struck were growing daily.

      The lead sedan began closing as Barry stayed in the left lane. He could see the rear window, left side, lower. The M-16 was in plain view now.

      Now the intentions of his pursuers were known.

      Barry peeled back his lips in a snarl.

      Dog cut his eyes toward Barry and joined him in the snarling.

      “Bed, Dog!” Barry yelled over the high howling of the Cummins.

      Dog jumped from the seat to the custom bunk and lay down, out of harm’s way.

      The sedan was just about right to take out. Just a few more yards.

      Barry slowed a couple of mph and smiled as the driver in the car took the bait.

      Barry