He rolled the man over onto his back. His stomach and chest were bloody from the 9mm slugs. He didn’t have a whole lot of time left him.
“You bastard!” the dying man spat at Barry. “The boss said you was with us. You goddamn traitors!”
“The boss?”
“Fuck you!”
“Funny name for a man,” Ready said. “How come y’all wanted chicken livers and diapers and tools?”
“What?” the grounded man gasped.
“You heard him,” Frenchy urged. “Are you guys crazy or something?”
“Either that, or they got a lot of kids and old cars to work on,” Ready suggested.
“You’re all dead meat,” the dying man told him. “We’ll get you. Somebody will. You goddamn SST haulers have made your last run.”
The highjacker was just seconds away from taking his last run.
“I ain’t never pulled no safe secure transport,” Frenchy said. He looked at Ready. “You?”
“Long time ago. But that was some years back.”
“All SST drivers are armed,” Barry said. “And usually run with armed escorts.”
The dying man spoke his last words. “All three of you are independents. We got your names and numbers. You’re dead meat.”
He closed his eyes and double-clutched his way across the dark river.
“Let’s find a common denominator,” Barry suggested, pulling out the dead man’s wallet. He checked the driver’s license. “O’Brian.”
Frenchy, with a grimace on his face, removed the wallet of another. “Kelly’s this guy’s last name.”
Ready said, “Kildare.”
The last driver’s license was in the name of Fitzgerald.
“All right.” Frenchy stood up, looking at Barry. “So what the hell does this prove?”
“Irish.” Barry pocketed the driver’s licenses. “They’re all Irish names.”
“I don’t make the connection,” Ready admitted.
“Maybe there isn’t one,” Barry thought aloud. “But I’d make a bet there is.”
“And that is…?” Frenchy asked.
“They got us confused with a three-truck SST convoy. One that was going to cooperate and hand over their cargoes. Weapons, more than likely.”
“Weapons!” Ready looked puzzled. “I don’t get it, Dog.”
“For the IRA.”
“Ahhh!” Ready got it then. “Those terrorists over in Ireland who’re always blowing things up and killin’ civilians?”
“To many people in Ireland, Ready, they’re not terrorists. They’re heroes. Fighting for a free Ireland.” He looked at his new friends. “Get yourselves armed. Plenty of weapons on the ground. Get a pistol and a shotgun. Take whatever ammo you can find. Go on, do it.”
Reluctantly, Ready and Frenchy obeyed, picking through the gore of the recently departed.
They faced Barry, Frenchy asking, “Now what?”
“Where are you boys heading?”
All three of them were heading for Denver.
“You heard the man.” Barry pointed to the hijacker who’d warned them they were dead meat. “We stick close together ’cause there’s gonna be people looking for us. We drop off our loads in Denver, we’ll sit down and talk this thing out.”
“We just leave the bodies?” Frenchy asked.
“What do you want to do with them?”
“Well, ah, hell! I don’t know.”
Ready looked at Barry in the moonlight. “Man, you’re a real hard-ass, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.” He looked at the men, one at a time. He judged them both to be around his age. “You boys veterans?”
They 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