Читать книгу Eighteen Wheel Avenger - William W. Johnstone - Страница 12

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 you’re no better than you claim us to be.”

“Wrong. I don’t plant bombs that kill indiscriminately.” Barry stood up and kicked the man in the mouth.

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.

When Cutter again slid back into the front seat, she was startled to see a Welcome to Oklahoma sign looming up on the right.

“You might have awakened me, Barry. You must be tired.”

“We have to weigh right up here. You can take the wheel then. It is just a short run across this part of Texas.”

“I didn’t think I was that tired,” Cutter remarked, glancing at her watch.

“It was a fairly interesting morning.” Barry said that with a smile.

She looked at him to see if he was kidding.

“It’s a good thing we hosed off all that gore from the front of the truck. Seeing that might have shook the weight watchers up some.”

“For a fact. Damn sure shook Jackson up.” The weight watcher behind the glass told him he was okay and Barry pulled ahead, to wait for the others.

“Have you heard anything on the news?”

“Not a peep. I imagine the President was the first to be informed. And knowing him, he’s probably contemplating nailing Jackson’s hide to the barn door.”

Cutter was curious about that ‘knowing him’ bit. But she did not pursue it. “Jackson’s between a rock and a hard place, Barry.”

They changed places and Cutter made herself comfortable behind the wheel, adjusting the seat to her liking.

“You hungry?” Barry asked.

“Ravenous.”

“Next place you see, pull over. I could do with a bite myself.”

“How do we work that? I mean, somebody has to stay with the trucks.”

“You and I will eat last. Rain, hail, snow, whatever, we’ve got to be outside guarding against somebody planting a bomb on us.”

“Then I’d better get some rain gear up ahead.”

“That would be a good idea.”

Ready and Frenchy and Smooth and Mustard went inside to eat, leaving Barry and Cutter to guard the trucks. Neither one of them anticipated any move against them this quickly after the shoot-out, and they were correct in that. They may as well have been guarding a tomb. No one came near the rigs.

Barry and Cutter ate and the convoy was back on the road in forty-five minutes.

They rolled on, taking the northerly route: Oklahoma City to St. Louis—they rolled through there just after dawn. St. Louis to Indianapolis. From Indy a grueling shot over to Philly and then a short hop to New York.

They met some bitching at the docks. But none of them paid any attention to it. There was always some bitching at New York City docks. Finally a man from the military showed up, with the right ID, and the shipment was signed over to be unloaded.

They had screwed off half a day at the docks.

And it was another half day before they got unloaded.

Barry had no orders, no idea where to catch up with Jackson, and no inclination to call him anyway.

Cutter did not like the smile on Barry’s face and said as much.

“What the hell have you got on your mind, Barry?” she asked.

“I know you gave that tape recording to Jackson, but how much of what that jerk told you do you remember?”

“All of it.”

“Remember the addresses he gave you in New York?”

“Certainly.” She looked at him. “Barry! …”

“Come on, Cutter. Let’s go raise a little hell!”

They had driven away from the city, over into New Jersey and found a motel that had the space to accept their rigs. Barry and a very reluctant Meri Cutter would go back into city after a bath and change of clothing. The others would stay at the motel, taking shifts guarding the rigs and watching after Dog.

Barry arranged for a rental car and it was delivered to the motel.

He changed into sport coat and slacks, low quarter shoes, all dark, with a dark turtleneck sweater.

He wore a Beretta 9mm, sixteen shot, in a shoulder holster, and a .25-caliber Beretta, loaded with custom-made hollow noses, in an ankle holster. He packed lots of other goodies into a large attaché case and waited for Cutter to make her appearance.

It was worth the wait.

She looked like a flat million bucks. The night was cool and she wore a custom-made leather jacket, waist length. Barry knew the name of the design. It came to him. Bolero. Like Barry, she had dressed in dark clothing. From her boots to her shirt.

“You carrying?” he asked.

“One here.” She patted the side of her jacket. “And one in my boot.”

“You ready?”

“What’s in the briefcase?”

“Things that go bump in the night.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, well. I’m still young enough to find another career.”

Barry opened the door and bowed. “Shall we be off, my dear?”

“One of us is, for a fact.”

“You drive.”

“The age of chivalry is dead.”

“Oh? Not really.”

“Explain.”

“I intend to let you cut the first throat tonight.”

“The man is so sensitive to a woman’s needs.”

“Thank you.”

“Get in the damn car, Dog!”