Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone

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      Cutter winced as teeth bounced across the sand and Darin Grady screamed in pain.

      The other drivers had walked away at a wave of Barry’s hand.

      Barry had reached toward the folding knife encased in leather on his belt when the sound of helicopters stopped his hand.

      “They’re ours,” Cutter announced.

      The choppers settled down, kicking up dirt and sand. Jackson ran to the scene. He paused at the front of Barry’s truck, paling at the sight of blood and bits of bone and guts clinging to the grill and bumper.

      The Air Force Special Operations team quickly assessed the scene and stayed back, their faces impassive.

      Jackson knelt down beside the moaning Iranian and spoke with him briefly. He rose to his feet and faced Barry, anger in his eyes.

      “You fucked up, Dog! You realize that with what you’ve done, we can never take any of these people into an open court of law.”

      “So what?” Barry stood his ground. He pointed to the nearly unconscious Iranian. “That one spilled his guts. Cutter has it on tape.” He pointed to Darin. “And I was just about to get some information out of this one.”

      “I protest!” Darin cried. “I demand to see a doctor and be treated as a prisoner of war under the terms of the Geneva Convention.”

      Blood was leaking out of his ruined mouth.

      “Shut up, asshole!” Barry told him. “The Geneva Convention doesn’t apply to terrorists.”

      “That’s it, Dog!” Jackson’s voice was sharp. “I take it from this point.”

      Barry walked to him. “Jackson, you’re gonna screw it all up. I told you to keep the legal shit out of this operation.”

      “Damn it, Barry.” He pointed to the terrorist with the crushed and mangled ankle. “That’s an Iranian diplomat. I don’t know how in the hell we’re going to handle this situation.”

      “I do. Put him back in that car and burn it. He had an accident. End of report. Let the Iranians protest all they want. It won’t do them any good. And leave Darin Grady to me.”

      Jackson looked to Cutter for support. He didn’t get it. She met his eyes with a bleak stare.

      He looked at the Special Operations team. One of them was eating a candy bar.

      “I missed breakfast,” he explained.

      “Get these people loaded up in the helicopters,” Jackson ordered. “We’ve got to get them medical attention.”

      “You’re making a mistake, Jackson,” Barry told him.

      “I made a mistake by agreeing with the President to allow a person like you to even exist.”

      “Jackson?”

      “What, Dog?”

      “I always suspected you were a bleeding liberal at heart.”

      The Treasury man flushed. “No, Barry. I’m just a man who believes in operating within the boundaries of human decency and within the framework of the law.”

      “And that is exactly the reason why we are going to eventually lose the fight with terrorism.”

      “Deliver your load, Dog. I’ll be in touch.”

      “What do you figure the odds are of them hitting us again this trip?” Barry asked Cutter.

      “Personally, I don’t think they’ll risk it. But as I’ve said before, you never can figure a terrorist group. They’ll do the unexpected. But one thing is for sure: we’re on the top of their hit list now.”

      “Jackson is going to blow it,” Barry predicted.

      “I’m afraid you’re right. But you have to understand his position, Barry: he’s got to go the legal route. He had absolutely no choice in the matter.”

      “From now on, Jackson does not figure in anything we do, Cutter. He’s out of the picture.”

      They rode on for a few miles in silence, Barry at the wheel. Tucumcari was a few miles behind them, the Texas border just ahead.

      Cutter broke the silence of the road. “I am absolutely baffled as to how Jackson thinks he’s going to keep this out of the press.”

      “By making a deal with the Iranian government.”

      “With Khomeini? Jesus! You don’t make deals with that nut.”

      “He’s going to try. And fail.”

      “And the press is going to blow it wide open.”

      “Yep.”

      She shook her head. “I will never understand why this government ever allowed Khomeini to come to power.”

      “Because when Khomeini was living in Paris, we didn’t have enough guts to burn him. Certain officials in France were willing to turn their backs, allowing us to hit Khomeini. Other governments were willing to help us ease the Shah out and install a more moderate government 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.

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