Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone

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      4

      “I-7,” Jackson told Barry and Lieutenant Cutter over breakfast the next morning. “One man was killed when you slapped the car off the road. Two were, we guess, pretty badly injured. That’s based on the amount of blood in the car. The dead man was left. The two injured were probably taken to a doctor with IRA ties.”

      “Then this I-7 has a strong network in this country,” Barry said. Statement, not a question.

      “Oh, absolutely.” Jackson was emphatic on that point. “As does the Islamic Army, the Bader-Meinhof gang, the Red Brigade—you name some terrorist group, and you’ll find support for it somewhere in America. And a hell of a lot of support for the PLO.”

      “What’s the word on leaks from the SST drivers?” Cutter asked.

      “Nothing. A stone wall. But the SST drivers who were just about fifteen minutes behind you the other night”—he looked at Barry—“have all been reassigned. It was done quietly so as not to tip their hand. For the next few months, they’ll be hauling retired weapons, taking them to the scrap pile. It’s routine; all SST drivers do it at one time or another.”

      “Now what do we do?” Barry asked.

      “You’ll be hauling real weapons, M-16s, to the docks in New York City, for shipment overseas. We’ve deliberately let it leak about your cargo. So heads up, you’re going to be hit.”

      “I’m not going to play this by any legal rules,” Barry warned the government man. “Let’s get that settled right now. I’m carte blanche on anything I do. Those were the terms of my agreement.”

      Jackson looked pained. He shifted his eyes to Cutter, then back to Barry. “We’d like to get enough on some people for convictions, Dog.”

      “Screw convictions. I intend to give them convictions with a bullet right between the eyes. Tell your legal department to stay the hell out of our way.”

      Jackson dropped his eyes. He knew Barry called the shots. That was the deal that had been made. And the administration that had made the deal was going to be in charge for a long time. Presidents might change, but the policy would not.

      Jackson had been there. He recalled the conversation word for word: “Country has gone to hell, Barry,” the President had said. “We’re slowly bringing the nation back to dead center, but the liberals are fighting us tooth and claw all the way. We’re losing some ground, gaining in some other areas. You might be able to help. Are you interested?”

      “Do I have a choice?”

      “Yes,” the Man was quick to reply. “You hear me out. Then, if you’re not interested, you’re suddenly located in a hospital where you’ve been in a coma for months.”

      Barry listened. Smiled occasionally.

      When the President was finished, Barry said, “I call the shots. I don’t play by any rules. Person needs killing, I kill them. Courts turn loose a scumbag, if I’m close, he’s dead. I am on my own. I am judge, jury, and executioner. Sometimes I might be called on to assist the government. That’s fine. Just keep the social-moaners and weepers away from me.”

      The President had smiled. Made Jackson uncomfortable as hell.

      The Man had said, “You will never see me again. I never heard of you. Your contact is Weston or Jackson. I never want to hear from you.”

      “Fine with me.”

      “You get out of control, and you’re dead within twenty-four hours.”

      “I understand.”

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

      “I have a partner?”

      “Oh? Who?”

      “Dog.”

      He had shaken the President’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Barry.”

      “Call me Dog.”

      Jackson mentally СКАЧАТЬ