Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ 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, you have justice and courts and laws and procedures one must follow.”

      “No,” Barry softly corrected him. “Not here.” He pointed to the ground. “Here, you got the Dog!”

      5

      All things taken into consideration, it was really quite unpleasant for the Iranian terrorist. But he talked. After one ankle was crushed under the tires of the big rig, and after he was brought back to consciousness, he began talking so fast it was difficult for Barry and Cutter to keep up. But Cutter’s cassette/recorder got it all. She also committed it to memory and jotted down telephone numbers, knowing she would have to turn the tape over to her team leader.

      While Cutter was taping the Iranian’s statements, Barry turned his attention to the red-haired, freckle-faced man, who had remained impassive during the Iranian’s painful incentive toward talking.

      Now he said, “Unconstitutional, illegal, barbaric, and quite un-American.”

      “You’re breaking my heart,” Barry told him. “I’m almost overcome with emotion. I want the location of your safe houses and the leaders of cells within the United States.”

      “You must be mad!”

      “Actually, no.”

      The face of the terrorist was sweat-shiny and his eyes were dulled from the pain of the wounds in his legs. “I demand to see a doctor. That is my constitutional right under American law.”

      “All right,” Barry told him. “Give me the name of the nearest doctor sympathetic to your so-called cause, and we’ll get you to him, or her, promptly.”

      “You are a rotten son of a bitch!” the terrorist cursed him.

      “You’re the one lying on the ground bleeding and hurting, not me,” Barry reminded him.

      The wounded terrorist again cursed Barry.

      “Drag that other one over here,” Barry told Mustard. He turned to Cutter. “You familiar with this kid-looking punk?”

      She nodded her head. “Darin Grady. He’s the one responsible for blowing up that department store in England. The blast that killed all those civilians.”

      Barry squatted down beside the young man. “O’Grady, is it now, my boy?”

      Darin spat at Barry, the spittle plopping in the sand by Barry’s boot.

      Barry cut his eyes to Smooth. “You check his wounds?”

      “He’s not bad hurt. Probably not as bad as he’s gonna be hurt,” he added.

      “I find your actions very reprehensible,” Darin said. “And I demand prompt medical attention and legal representation.”

      Barry laughed at him. “When a leprechaun appears on my shoulder, punk. I want information, and I want it quickly.”

      “Or you’ll torture me?”

      “If I have to.”

      “Then СКАЧАТЬ