Eighteen Wheel Avenger. William W. Johnstone

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СКАЧАТЬ office in Belfast since the early 1970s. Many NORAID associates have been arrested and convicted; but still the group claims they are a charity working to provide aid for the victims of British terrorism in Northern Ireland. And of course, any thinking person knows that is nothing more than pure bullshit.”

      “How many Americans contribute to the I-7?” Frenchy asked.

      “We don’t know, although it’s believed that some Americans do make substantial contributions, and they know perfectly well their money is going to kill people. But they have been brainwashed into believing their money is going to a fine and noble cause. Fighting for freedom.”

      “Well, I’m dumb,” Smooth said, “but I ain’t that dumb!”

      “Neither are those who contribute,” Cutter replied, disgust thickening her voice. “That’s what I mean about the contributors knowing they are buying guns and bombs to kill people.”

      “I wonder how high up in our government this thing goes?” Barry asked, the question not directed at anyone in particular.

      “Meaning…?” Cutter looked at him.

      He met her gaze. “Elected, appointed, or civil service employees.”

      She shrugged. “We have reason to believe that some in our government may support I-7 but no proof that they ever directly gave aid to I-7 or any other terrorist group.”

      They sat for a time in the New Mexico night, Cutter sipping at her beer, Barry and the others silently absorbing all that she had told them.

      Ready said, “I seen a lot of old people and babies killed in ’Nam. Well, not a lot, but a hell of a lot more than I wanted to see. I don’t believe in terrorism. No matter what the cause. It’s just wrong.” He stood up and walked into the building, the other drivers following him one by one.

      Cutter stood up. “Going to be a long day tomorrow, Barry. Good night.”

      Barry sat for a time, holding his empty can. He felt the past slipping up on him, as it sometimes did when a particular mood struck him, touching him with gentle hands of remembrance.

      He had taken a leave of absence from his Maryland firm; Barry hadn’t had a vacation in years. He had tossed some gear into his pickup truck and headed south, to New Orleans, to see his father, Big Joe Rivers, who ran a large trucking company. His CB had conked out on him just outside of Biloxi, on Interstate 10, and he had pulled into a truck stop. After a sandwich, he bought a new Midland and installed it.

      “You gonna test that thing out, Citizen?” a female voice spoke from behind him.

      Barry turned, and looked into the face of an angel.

      “Uh … yeah. Just as soon as I get on the road.”

      “Which way you headin’?”

      She was perhaps five-three. Blonde. Hair the color of corn. A traffic-stopping figure. Blue eyes.

      “West. Into New Orleans.”

      “Yeah? Me, too. You watch them motherfuckin’ cops just this side of Slidell. They’ll nail your ass to the wall.”

      An angel with a garbage can for a mouth.

      Barry stared at her.

      “You ever drive a truck, boy?”

      “Long time ago. Why, does it show?”

      “Yeah. Kind of, I guess. You lookin’ for a job?”

      “Could be. Who do you drive for?”

      “Big Joe Rivers.”

      Barry had to hide his smile. He’d make a bet this little waif-looking blonde watched her gutter mouth around his dad. Big Joe could and did cuss … but not around women, and he didn’t like women using bad language.

      “Yeah? I’ve heard talk about Rivers Trucking. About them having mob troubles. Maybe I’d prefer to eat less and go on living.”

      She put both hands on shapely hips and hung a cussin’ on Barry. “Goddamnchickenshityankeebastard!”

      Barry laughed at this mighty mite. “Whoa! I didn’t say I wasn’t interested. I’m just telling you what I heard, that’s all.”

      “This dude givin’ you trouble, Kate?” a man’s voice came from behind Barry.

      Barry cut his eyes. A driver holding a wooden tire knocker stood just behind them.

      “Goddamn coward is all!” She spat the words.

      “Maybe he’s just got good sense,” another voice was added.

      Kate whirled around. “What the hell do you mean, Cotton-mouth?”

      “I heard it all. Just gettin’ out of my bunk. This guy didn’t do nothin’ to deserve that cussin’ you hung on him. You can’t blame a man for wantin’ to stay alive.”

      “Why don’t you take that boot you’re holdin’ and stuff it in your mouth?” Kate yelled at him. “And stay the hell out of my business.”

      “Whoa!” Barry said, holding up a hand. Cottonmouth was hopping around, trying unsuccessfully to tug on his boot. “This thing is getting out of hand.”

      “Well, you just apologize to Kate and we’ll forget it,” the East Texas Motor Freight man said.

      Barry looked at him. “Apologize? For what?”

      “ ’Cause I said so, buddy,”

      Barry’s Cajun temper was rapidly coming to the boiling point. “Partner,” he said to the ETMF driver, “you better get off my back before I kick your butt so hard you’re gonna feel like you been ridin’ that camel all day instead of your rig.” He pointed to the logo painted on the trailer of the ETMF man.

      “He probably feels that way now,” a third man spoke. “I drove something that raggedly-assed lookin’, I’d be ashamed to call myself a trucker.”

      Truck drivers insult each other on the average of about ten thousand times a day—per state. The ETMF man just grinned. But his grin was not directed toward Barry.

      “You gonna apologize, boy?”

      “Hell, no!” Barry told him.

      “Then I think I’ll just whip your ass.”

      “With or without your club, hotshot?”

      The tire knocker was tossed to the man who’d insulted him. “Hold that. And don’t steal it, you hound-dog-lookin’ thing.”

      “Hell, who’d want it!”

      The driver grinned at Barry and swung. But Barry had anticipated the punch and sidestepped it. The ETMF man slipped on a grease spot and fell down.

      “Them are brand-new jeans!” he bitched.

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