Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone

I believe. We’ve run a good check on them, considering the minimal amount of time we had to do it in, and they all checked out clean. They all have good service records.”

      “I’m ashamed to say that I don’t even know if any of them are married.”

      “All of them are married. Are you?”

      “Not anymore.”

      “Divorced?”

      “Once. My second wife was killed.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “So am I.”

      She dropped the subject.

      Meri met Dog and the two of them hit it off from the outset. She sat down behind the wheel of Barry’s custom Kenworth and smiled.

      “I feel like I’m back home,” she said.

      A Kenworth conventional with a lot of modification and custom work. Smoked windows. The best sound system available. Twin airhorns and twin spots, remote controlled. A built-in bank of radios, CB and police band, whose crystals could be easily changed. Steer Safe stabilizers. Quartz halogen driving lights. The front of the tractor was beefed up with heavy steel mesh, protecting lights and grill in case Barry was forced to ram. Which he had done several times. Airglide 100 suspension. All glass was bulletproof. The cab had reinforced armor plate all around, insulated and fireproof. If they were ever ambushed, a button could be pushed that would lock the axles so that only a cutting torch could free them, unless the driver reset the button.

      Alcoa aluminum ten-hole Budd wheels. Fuller Roadranger thirteen-speed transmission. The differentials were 3.73 Rock-wells SQHP. Fontaine fifth wheel. Michelin steelbelt tires, 1100×24.5 tubeless. Air dryer for air brake. Jake brake. The sleeper was full customized. Walk-in. Electrowarmth mattress with mirrors and twelve-volt TV.

      “What are we going to be hauling, if anything?” she asked.

      “I don’t know. But I would imagine, since none of the others in your team drive eighteen-wheelers, they’ll be pacing us in four-wheelers. That’s just a guess.”

      “I doubt it. They’ll be out in the field, more than likely. Working on information we feed them. And that’s just a guess.”

      Barry nodded. Something about this woman caught and held his attention. He did not think there was much, if any, sexual harassment within her team. Meri looked like she could handle any situation that might confront her. Her hands were carefully kept feminine-looking, but the calluses on the inside of her palms were real. Barry suspected she was an expert in several forms of martial arts.

      “This is a unique operation you have going, Barry. Dealing out justice from the cab of an eighteen-wheeler. If that’s what you do,” she quickly added.

      “Yeah.” He smiled at her. “It’s sort of like an elephant trying to tiptoe through a china shop.”

      3

      Ready and Frenchy introduced Barry to Smooth and Mustard.

      “I like mustard greens,” the man said with a grin.

      “I ain’t tellin’ nobody how my handle got hung on me,” Smooth announced. “Ain’t done it before, don’t intend to start now.”

      All the drivers in Barry’s new team—with the exception of Cutter—were about forty, give or take a year or two, with many, many years of experience behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler. Their dossiers that the AF team had complied on them showed no drug use. They all enjoyed their beer, but not on the job. They all had wives, kids, mortgages, hopes, dreams.

      Good, solid, steady men. Blue jeans and cowboy boots and country music.

      “Let’s get you checked out with weapons,” Cutter said.

      “Yes, ma’am!” Mustard said.

      It didn’t take long for all of them to bring back to the fore their expertise with the M-16. The newer model, which when set on auto, fired in short bursts. They were checked out with pistols: the Beretta 9mm. The men were all adequate-to-good pistol shots. They were given sawed-off pump shotguns. 12 gauge. Loaded with double-ought buckshot.

      The remainder of the AF special operations team appeared at the range, all of them dressed in civilian clothing.

      “We’re heading up to Colorado,” Barnett told Cutter and Barry. “To the scene of your, ah, accident, Barry. You and your people will be here for a couple more days, and then orders will be cut and you’ll pick up a shipment of weapons. It’s going to be a deliberate long run for you. All the way across country. You and your people will be the bait.”

      “I understand.”

      “Hang in, Cutter.”

      When the AF special team had left, Barry turned to look at Cutter, who was certainly pleasing to the eyes. “Get changed into civilian clothes, Meri; out of those field clothes. We’re going to take a run in my rig. I want to see how you operate.”

      She operated very well, Barry thought, after deliberately putting her in a couple of tight situations—right in the middle of downtown Albuquerque. They headed south on Interstate 25, cut east on highway 60, back north on 285, and then back to the base on Interstate 40.

      He put her through the paces and she handled herself well. Rusty at first, for it had been several years since she’d sat behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler, but as the miles rolled by, her confidence returned. Barry made no effort to hide his smile as they pulled into the compound at Kirtland and Cutter deliberately backed between the rigs of Ready and Frenchy—with just about two inches to spare on either side of the mirrors.

      Meri shut the rig down and looked at Barry. “Did I pass, teacher?”

      “With flying colors, Cutter. Now the hard part begins.”

      “And that is?”

      “We start getting shot at.”

      It came as no surprise to Barry when Jackson informed them they would be confined to the base for the duration. Barry had already warned his drivers to expect that.

      And he also warned them that they had best get some rest, for he had a hunch that tomorrow they would start undergoing some hard-assed training.

      They were shown the building where they would live during their time at Kirtland; it was comfortable, with a pool table, TVs, and separate living quarters. Their meals would be brought to them.

      “I feel like I’m back in the goddamn Army!” Mustard bitched.

      “You are,” Barry told him. “In a manner of speaking. And,” he warned them, “this is going to be just as dangerous and deadly as ’Nam. So pay attention to what your instructors tell you. They’re trying not only to teach you all something about terrorists and how they act, but also to possibly save your lives. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

      He left them with that. He had subdued them considerably.

      Barry stepped outside just as dusk was gently pushing aside the day. Cutter was sitting on the steps in front of the building.

      Barry sat down beside her.

      Without looking at him, she said, “All our intelligence is showing the various terrorist groups around the world are linking up. Some more than others, of course. But it is coming together.”

      “Bottom line?”

      “America is going to get a hard jolt back into reality, very soon, we believe. If it isn’t too late for us.”

      “You believe it is?”

      “Borderlining.”

      “Well, at last something is coming along that I can sink my teeth into.”

      She met his eyes. Ten thousand questions in them. Questions he knew she would never ask.

      “We’ll