Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ were. Both of them Army. Served in ’Nam. Grunts.

      “Then you’re not cherries when it comes to firearms or seeing dead bodies or pulling a trigger?”

      “That was a long time ago, Dog,” Frenchy said.

      “What are you gettin’ at, Dog?” Ready asked.

      “We’re in trouble, boys, if I’m correctly reading what happened tonight. Obviously, those guys who got away have our truck plates, some permit numbers, home base; enough to track us down. And the IRA doesn’t screw around, boys. Some of their own are dead. And they’ll be looking for revenge.”

      Neither man spoke as his words sank in.

      “If you want to cut out and try it on your own,” Barry suggested, “I certainly won’t blame you.”

      “The damn rumors are true.” Ready was the first to speak.

      “What rumors?” Frenchy asked.

      “The rumors that many drivers don’t talk about on the air. About that driver with some kind of government protection, or something like that. Runnin’ around like a modern-day Robin Hood. It just come to me. That guy’s handle is supposed to be Dog.”

      “I thought all that was just a bunch of crap somebody made up.”

      “How many truckers you know carry a machine gun around with them? And God only knows what else.”

      Both drivers turned to face Barry.

      “How about it, boys?”

      “Let’s get the hell out of here, Dog!” Frenchy said. “We’re right behind you.”

      They rolled on through the night, crossing into Colorado just at dawn. They pulled over at a truck stop and parked close. After breakfast, they crawled into their sleepers for a few hours’ rest.

      Barry was the first one up. He walked Dog and put him back into the truck, then went into the truck stop and put in a call to his Washington contact, Jackson.

      “You’re still hot, Dog,” Jackson told him. “So just keep on trucking.”

      “Shut up and listen,” Barry said.

      He brought the man up to date.

      Jackson was silent for a few heartbeats. Barry could hear his sigh over the phone. “Okay. I’ll get with the Department of Energy and tell them what you’ve told me. Frenchy and Ready. What are their last names?”

      “Hell, I don’t know. I never asked.”

      “Well, ask! You’re all three about to become SST men.”

      “Maybe they don’t want to do that.”

      “Use your persuasive charm, Dog. And think of three other drivers while you’re at it. And call me from Denver.”

      The line went dead.

      “I thought all the SSTs hauled was nuclear stuff,” Ready said. “Was when I did a bit of it.”

      “They’ve changed some,” Barry told him. “My Kenworth is armored with bulletproof glass. Steel-plated bottom.”

      “I know that’s one hell of a nice rig you got,” Frenchy told him.

      Barry’s Kenworth was all of that, and more. It was his home. His only home.

      He shook away the memories. But they would be back. They always came back.

      “You got a funny look on your face, Dog. What is your whole name, anyway?”

      “Barry Rivera.”

      The Dog.

      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. СКАЧАТЬ