LITMIR.BIZ

      4

      “I-7,” Jackson told Barry and Lieutenant Cutter over breakfast the next morning. “One man was killed when you slapped the car off the road. Two were, we guess, pretty badly injured. That’s based on the amount of blood in the car. The dead man was left. The two injured were probably taken to a doctor with IRA ties.”

      “Then this I-7 has a strong network in this country,” Barry said. Statement, not a question.

      “Oh, absolutely.” Jackson was emphatic on that point. “As does the Islamic Army, the Bader-Meinhof gang, the Red Brigade—you name some terrorist group, and you’ll find support for it somewhere in America. And a hell of a lot of support for the PLO.”

      “What’s the word on leaks from the SST drivers?” Cutter asked.

      “Nothing. A stone wall. But the SST drivers who were just about fifteen minutes behind you the other night”—he looked at Barry—“have all been reassigned. It was done quietly so as not to tip their hand. For the next few months, they’ll be hauling retired weapons, taking them to the scrap pile. It’s routine; all SST drivers do it at one time or another.”

      “Now what do we do?” Barry asked.

      “You’ll be hauling real weapons, M-16s, to the docks in New York City, for shipment overseas. We’ve deliberately let it leak about your cargo. So heads up, you’re going to be hit.”

      “I’m not going to play this by any legal rules,” Barry warned the government man. “Let’s get that settled right now. I’m carte blanche on anything I do. Those were the terms of my agreement.”

      Jackson looked pained. He shifted his eyes to Cutter, then back to Barry. “We’d like to get enough on some people for convictions, Dog.”

      “Screw convictions. I intend to give them convictions with a bullet right between the eyes. Tell your legal department to stay the hell out of our way.”

      Jackson dropped his eyes. He knew Barry called the shots. That was the deal that had been made. And the administration that had made the deal was going to be in charge for a long time. Presidents might change, but the policy would not.

      Jackson had been there. He recalled the conversation word for word: “Country has gone to hell, Barry,” the President had said. “We’re slowly bringing the nation back to dead center, but the liberals are fighting us tooth and claw all the way. We’re losing some ground, gaining in some other areas. You might be able to help. Are you interested?”

      “Do I have a choice?”

      “Yes,” the Man was quick to reply. “You hear me out. Then, if you’re not interested, you’re suddenly located in a hospital where you’ve been in a coma for months.”

      Barry listened. Smiled occasionally.

      When the President was finished, Barry said, “I call the shots. I don’t play by any rules. Person needs killing, I kill them. Courts turn loose a scumbag, if I’m close, he’s dead. I am on my own. I am judge, jury, and executioner. Sometimes I might be called on to assist the government. That’s fine. Just keep the social-moaners and weepers away from me.”

      The President had smiled. Made Jackson uncomfortable as hell.

      The Man had said, “You will never see me again. I never heard of you. Your contact is Weston or Jackson. I never want to hear from you.”

      “Fine with me.”

      “You get out of control, and you’re dead within twenty-four hours.”

      “I understand.”

      “You won’t reconsider and have a partner?”

      “I have a partner?”

      “Oh? Who?”

      “Dog.”

      He had shaken the President’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Barry.”

      “Call me Dog.”

      Jackson mentally shook himself and looked into the cold hunter/stalker/killer eyes of Barry Rivera—The Dog. “It’s your show, Dog.”

      He stood up and walked out of the room.

      Cutter leaned back in her chair and looked at Barry. “Man … just who in the hell are you, anyway? You just spoke to one of the top Treasury people like he was dirt under your boots.”

      “Jackson and I have to clear the air every now and then. We get along. Although that’s hard to tell at times.” He pushed back his chair. “Let’s go to work, Cutter.”

      She smiled at him. “Yes, sir, boss!”

      The smile was not returned. Hers faded on her face when he said, “Call me Dog.”

      They rolled out on a crisp October morning. Barry and Cutter in the lead truck. Ready and Smooth in the rocking chair. Frenchy and Mustard in the drag. It had not taken the instructors long to hone down the drivers. They had just spent three of the most brutal weeks of their lives. They had been awakened at four in the morning; they didn’t see a bed until ten at night. For three weeks they did not walk anywhere. They ran all the time. Seemed to them they even ran in their sleep. And some of them did, legs jerking from exhaustion.

      The Air Commando instructors had not turned out trained killers, not in three weeks, but they had taught the men what they could of self-defense and combat situations.

      Barry and Cutter watched from the sidelines, but always ran with the other drivers, and stayed with them every waking hour.

      A team was being formed.

      Special radios had been installed in the trucks: military frequencies with scramblers.

      They rolled east, fully loaded with M-16s and M-60 machine guns.

      Cutter took the first trick at the wheel.

      Dog was on the floor of the big walk-in custom sleeper. He was happy to once more be on the road.

      “What did your people say about when we might be hit?” Barry asked.

      “They couldn’t get any intel on it. But it’s almost always at night. Since we’ll be out of the desert in a few hours, they’ll probably try to take us out between Oklahoma City and St.Louis. I’m guessing when we get in the Ozarks. That’s the way I’d do it.”

      “You’ve done this before?”

      “In Europe, working with various police and military units.”

      “They do it differently over there, huh?”

      “Much differently. The military and the police, in most of those countries, are not forbidden by law from working together. Spain and Germany are the best to work in.”

      “We picked up a tail,” Frenchy radioed. “It’s firm. Dark blue late-model Chevy. Four men in it.”

      The convoy was rolling at a steady 60 mph. It was odd that the car did not pass.

      Cutter picked

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