Rig Warrior

Genres: Action & Adventure

Synopsis

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JOHNSTONE COUNTRY. WHERE THE WILL DEFIES FEAR.  
They call him “The Rig Warrior.” Name: Barry Rivers. Occupation: Long haul trucker. Special skills: Defender of freedom.  Patriot. Government sanctioned killer.
 
A NATION OFF THE RAILS
No one saw the first attack coming. A perfectly orchestrated assault on a mass-transit railroad line that left countless Americans dead. Then came more attacks. More rail systems sabotaged. More civilian lives lost. Intelligence experts are convinced this is no ordinary terrorist attack. To pull off something like this, it would take a deep-state traitor with dark foreign connections. And to stop them, it will take someone who isn’t afraid to shed blood.  
 
A HERO OFF THE GRID
Enter Barry Rivers, the Rig Warrior. An urban legend in the intelligence community, Rivers has been living off the radar for years. But when he sees his country under attack, he reaches out to his son in the FBI to track down the enemies in our own government. To these high-ranking traitors, Rivers is a threat to their global agenda. But when Rivers revs up his tricked-out 18-wheeler—and goes after a runaway train on a collision course with disaster—all bets are off. The war is on. And with  Barry Rivers at the wheel, it’s going to be the ultimate knockdown, drag-out fight for America’s future . . .
 
Live Free. Read Hard.

Release date: March 31, 2020

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 232

Sample

He didn’t think of his dad every time he saw an eighteen-wheeler; if he did that, he’d be thinking of his dad all the time and would never get any work done.

It was when he was tired from battling the bureaucrats, or looking at figures all day, or trying to convince some general who never should have risen above the rank of private that whatever idea the general had come up with sucked … that’s when Barry would lean back in his chair in his Washington office and look out the window. More than likely there’d be an eighteen-wheeler on the not-too-distant interstate, twin chrome stacks gleaming in the sun as it hurtled along the road. Sometimes he’d hear the lonesome sounds of air horns drifting to him, through the glass and steel and concrete of his office.

And he’d think of his dad.

Then he’d have to shake himself like a big shaggy dog, drag himself out of his daydreaming, and come back to reality.

Sometimes he’d make it back and sometimes he wouldn’t.

And sometimes he’d feel guilty.

He had to make plans to go back to New Orleans and spend some time with his dad. He hadn’t seen him in over two years. He’d just been so damn busy. Oh, he talked with his dad every two or three weeks. But that wasn’t the same as seeing him.

And, come to think of it, the last four or five talks they’d had … well, he thought he’d detected something odd-sounding in his father’s voice. Maybe a touch of strain. Fear? Yeah, maybe. First time he’d thought of that word. But maybe fear was it.

Barry Rivers’s father afraid of something?

Barry chuckled at that. He couldn’t imagine Big Joe Rivers being afraid of the devil himself.

But the old man was sixty now; and age does funny things to a person.

Ah, hell! Come on, Barry. You’re imagining things. Reading something into the old man’s voice that isn’t really there.

Or was he?

“Barry?” his secretary’s voice brought him out of his musings.

He looked at the woman. Maggie. His secretary, his Mom-figure. Sixty years old and looking fifty. Barry could not imagine his office running without her. His own mother had died when Barry was ten. He could just remember her.

For sure, Barry clung to his musings, his father had to be lonesome.

“Maggie. What’d I forget?”

“Nothing that I know of. You need a vacation, Barry. More and more I look in here and see you a thousand miles away.”

Barry waved at the neat piles of paper on his desk. “Tell me how I take a vacation?”

Air horns sounded on the interstate. Barry looked out the window. A Peterbilt pulling a flatbed. Right behind the Peterbilt, a White Tall Sleeper pulling a dry van.

“Barry!” Maggie said.

Barry looked back at her, a sheepish grin on his face. He was forty and didn’t look it. Five feet ten inches. One hundred and seventy-five hard pounds. Barry kept himself hard by working out one hour each day in his home gym, and several hours a day on the weekends—when time permitted it. And he usually made time permit it. He’d kicked cigarettes several years back, and still marveled at how good food tasted since he’d quit smoking. Black hair still mostly free of gray, except around the temple area, and deep blue eyes. Handsome in a rugged sort of way. He had never been called a pretty boy. His chin was square and solid.

“Damn gypsy,” Maggie fussed at him.

“Cajun,” Barry corrected, although he knew she was referring to his truck-driving youth and not his heritage.

His heritage had given him a volatile temper: Irish on his mother’s side, Cajun French on his father’s side.

He had learned over the years to control his ragin’ Cajun temper, but he could still fly off the handle and do it so fast the person it was directed toward usually had the hell scared out of them.

“Barry,” Marrie gently chided him. “Your work is caught up. Go home for a while.”

“Is that an order, General?”

“Damn sure is, Colonel,” she popped back.

He was kidding her about the General bit, but she wasn’t about the Colonel bit.

He’d graduated from high school in New Orleans at sixteen, top of his class. Two years in college at Lafayette, working during the summers driving for his dad. And then, bored, he’d left school and joined the Army. Jump school, Ranger school, and then into OCS. From OCS he’d headed for the Special Warfare schools at Fort Bragg. Seventh Special Forces. Eighteen months later, he was a captain, CO of an A-Team in Southeast Asia. He spent four years in Vietnam, and the promotions hit him as fast as the lead his body soaked up during that time. Three times wounded, three times promoted. But the events were in no way related.

When he got out, he stayed in the Reserves while finishing his education, driving a rig for his father on the weekends and during college breaks.

The driving had been fun; college had not been. He was a decorated war hero out of an unpopular war. And while the antiwar sentiment had never been strong in Louisiana—Southern boys have a tendency to be very patriotic—there was enough antiwar sentiment to make him uncomfortable.

It was in Lafayette he’d met Julie.

She was definitely antiwar. From New Hampshire. Old family with lots of money. Bluenoses. Bluebellies, Barry liked to kid her, until he discovered she had practically no sense of humor when it came to the War Between the States, as he called it. The Civil War, as she referred to it.

Opposites attract, and they got married. Very large mistake. The marriage lasted through the sometimes-stormy, oftentimes-silent, cold years. Julie left him in ’76. Happy bicentennial, Barry. She’d taken the two kids that weekend he’d been doing his Reserve bit and hauled ass back to New Hampshire. Lawyers handled the rest of it.

By the time the breakup came, Barry had moved the family to Washington and was working as a civilian consultant to the U.S. Army. Weapons expert. He’d traveled a lot. Julie had bitched a lot—and had turned the kids against him. Barry Junior and Missy were coming out of that now, but it had taken years.

Maybe he did need a vacation. Hell, he knew he did.

As if reading his mind, Maggie said, “But not this week, Barry. Tie up all the loose ends, and by Friday, you’ll be clear for a month. Nothing on the agenda the rest of the guys can’t handle.”

He smiled at her. “What would I do without you, Maggie?”

“Get to work, Barry. We’ve got a lot to do this week.”

Maggie stuck her head into his office. “It’s five-thirty, Barry.”

He couldn’t believe it. He glanced at his wristwatch. Sure was five-thirty. “Rest of the people gone?”

“About thirty minutes ago. I’m leaving now, unless there’s anything else.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll just finish up these reports and then lock everything up. See you in the morning.”

He listened to her footsteps fade, then the sounds of the door closing, the dead-bolt lock engaging. There’d been a lot of break-ins around here recently, and people were becoming more security-conscious than ever.

Barry’s consultant firm was located in Maryland, about a block and a half from the Beltway. At first he had located in D.C. proper, but after two years of fighting the congestion of that myriad of screwed-up streets, he tossed in the towel and moved to Maryland.

It had been a good move.

He looked at the stacks of paper on his huge desk and sighed. He had made a dent in them, but it was going to be tough to get away Friday afternoon.

He checked his day’s appointments to be certain he had not scheduled anything for that evening. Good. Nothing. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone. And didn’t feel like going to his apartment for dinner. He’d call for something. Maybe a pizza; have it delivered and work ’til about ten or so. By that time he’d be tired enough to hit the sheets and get a good night’s sleep.

Then he decided to call his dad. It had been several weeks since he’d spoken with him. He punched the speedcaller and listened to the phone ring at his father’s house. No answer. He redialed, calling his dad’s office at the terminal. Somebody was there twenty-four hours a day.

Rivers Trucking employed thirty-five full-time drivers, in addition to the office workers, dispatchers, mechanics, and other workers.

But there was no answer.

Now, that was weird.

Well, the office workers would have gone home by now, and maybe the dispatcher was taking a leak. He’d try again later.

He leaned back in his padded leather chair and smiled. Hell, Big Joe was probably out on the road. He knew his dad had just bought a couple million dollars’ worth of new equipment; Kenworth conventionals. The W900Bs. And he knew his dad disliked office work vehemently; and he’d have his own tractor, which no one would dare touch except Big Joe. He’d have it outfitted to his liking; the interior of the cab probably done in red leather or vinyl, hand-sewn, with a soft, full headliner. Air Cushion seat, orthopedically shaped and padded to best support, properly, the human body at work. Big Joe was worth a lot of money, but he was a driver at heart, and he would have the best for his people. Big Joe paid his people well, and demanded the max from them.

Barry wondered how many women he had working for him. Big Joe had gritted his teeth and done a lot of bitching when women first went to work driving, and not all of them made it with Rivers Trucking. Those that did were top-of-the-line truckers, and they wouldn’t take any shit from male drivers, either.

Barry shook his head free of memories and musings and went back to work.

Odd, though, that no one answered the telephone.

Barry finished the first stack of reports before he thought he would. He stood up, stretching until his muscles protested and his joints popped, then turned out the desk lamp and got ready to close up.

He’d tried three more times to call his dad in New Orleans. Never gotten anyone to answer. And that was beginning to worry him.

He flipped the desk lamp back on and picked up an address book. Crap! He’d never get to sleep unless he found out something about his dad. He looked up the home number of Jim Carson, a man who’d been with Big Joe for over twenty years, and punched out the number.

His wife, Ginny, answered the phone.

“Barry!” she said, her affection for him evident over the distance. “It’s so good to hear from you. You still baching it?”

“Oh, yeah. Ginny, is Jim there?”

“No. He just called from Memphis. He picked up a load there; taking it to Chicago.”

“Ginny, I’m trying to get in touch with Dad. I called the plant, but couldn’t get an answer.”

“Well …” she hesitated.

“Come on, Ginny. What’s wrong down there?”

“Big Joe had to cut back on personnel, Barry. It’s just the bad times; you know. The terminal is dark at night.”

Barry didn’t believe that for a second. Rivers Trucking had been in the good black on anybody’s books for years. But let Ginny play it her way.

“So where’s Dad?”

“Barry, now don’t get excited; it’s nothing serious. But he’s in the hospital.”

“The hospital?”

“Barry, calm down. Joe will be back home tomorrow. I’m going to pick him up personally. He just had … an accident, that’s all.”

That’s all? “What kind of accident, Ginny?”

“Wrench slipped. Broke, I think. Busted some ribs.”

Should I tell her I’m coming down? No, he made up his mind. No, and I won’t tell Pop, either. ’Cause Ginny is holding back from me. Or flat-out lying. “OK, Ginny. I’ll call him at home tomorrow. You’ll tell him?”

“Sure, Barry. You take care now.”

She hung up.

Strange, Barry thought, replacing the receiver. Something is wrong down there. Very wrong.

He checked the offices and small kitchen/lounge, turning out the lights, slipped into his sport coat, and set the alarm system. He stepped out into the coolness of early spring and walked to the parking area of Rivers Consulting. He was deep in thought and not expecting trouble. It jarred him when two men stepped out of the darkness, one facing him, the other behind him.

“No trouble, now, buddy,” the man facing him said. “Just hand over your money and watch and money clip. You rich bastards carry them, I know.”

It took Barry about two seconds to get over his surprise. Then he got mad as hell.

Barry Rivers had worked hard all his life. He had no patience with those who chose the so-called “easy way.” And Barry was no cherry when it came to hand-to-hand fighting. He’d grown up rough-and-tumble, around wildcat drivers; he had worked the oil fields, both actively and hauling equipment to them.

And he hated punks. He knew the definition of that word had changed over the years, at least in certain quarters, but to him a punk was still a punk: a low-down, worthless, thieving son of a bitch.

He had no way of knowing whether the men were armed. He could see no weapons; neither man was carrying a visible knife or gun. His Cajun temper boiled to the surface, then his hard training took precedence, softening his sudden rage, chilling him, honing him back into what Uncle Sammy had made him: a killing machine.

He suddenly whirled, his right foot kicking up as high as a ballet dancer’s, the side of his shoe catching the man who had faced him on the side of his jaw. The man stumbled backward, blood leaking from the side of his mouth. Barry completed his full-circle whirl and came face to face with the other man, crouching, his hands open, moving in the classic unarmed combat stance.

“Hey, man!” the punk said just before Barry popped him on the side of the face with his left hand and broke his collarbone with the knife edge of his right hand.

The would-be mugger screamed in pain as his right arm dangled, useless.

Whirling, Barry kicked the first punk in the balls, doubling him over, puking, on the asphalt. Barry then calmly, and with much malice aforethought, deliberately kicked the punk in the face, just as hard as he could. Without turning around, smelling the other craphead close behind him, Barry drove his elbow into the guy’s stomach, just at the junction of the ribcage spread. The air whooshed out of the punk and Barry turned, bringing his balled fist down on the back of the man’s neck. The man dropped to the parking lot. His neck looked like it was broken.

The old Fats Domino song came to Barry’s mind: “Ain’t That A Shame?”

Barry straightened and looked around him. No witnesses. Good. The dimly lit parking area was void of human life, not counting the shitheads on the asphalt. And Barry didn’t count them as human.

He had no intention of calling the police. He knew that very little, or nothing, would come of that, except he’d be tied up in court, watching some asshole judge turn the men loose. And then Barry would probably be sued by the very crapheads who’d tried to mug him. For violating their constitutional rights, of course.

One of the punks moaned. Barry kicked him in the head, dropping him back into unconsciousness. As he did, a gun slipped from the man’s belt, clattering on the asphalt.

“Cute,” Barry muttered. He picked the gun up and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Looked like a nice .380 automatic.

He waited until a car passed by, then dragged the men to the alley behind his office and stuffed them into a dumpster, none too gently. He patted each of them on the head and walked away, toward his car. He had worked up an appetite.

Barry went to his apartment and fixed a salad and sandwich and a large glass of milk, taking the tray into the spacious den. He kicked off his shoes and sat down in a lounger. He tried the TV while he was eating, but there was nothing on the tube that seemed to hold his interest.

He finished his late meal, rinsed the dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher, along with the other dirty dishes. A typical bachelor, Barry detested washing dishes. When the dishwasher got full, he turned it on. A maid came in once a week to handle the other housekeeping chores.

He showered and hit the sack. He slept better than he had in months, due in no small part to the fact that he turned off the phone before he went to bed.

The police were waiting at his office when he arrived the next morning.

They weren’t totally unexpected. Barry had felt that when the would-be muggers were discovered—if they were discovered before they could wander off—the cops would run a check on who owned the building and who leased the offices.

The county cops knew who Barry was and what he did for a living. And this wasn’t the first time he had hammered on thieves.

The first time, when he had just moved to his present location, Barry had played it the straight and legal way—calling the police, making his statement, going to the police station, enduring all the annoying bullshit. Finally his case had come to court. The judge gave the crapheads three years’ probation. They turned around and sued Barry. They moaned and whined and sobbed and told the jury how the big bad ol’ man had beat them up, breaking some of their bones in the process. It just hadn’t been necessary to use all that force, man. All they’d been doing, they explained to the jury, was breaking into the guy’s office, trashing it, tearing up some old stuff, and stealin’ some other stuff.

Barry settled out of court for five thousand bucks apiece. It cost him weeks of lost work, thousands of dollars in legal fees, untold aggravation, plus the settlement.

“Gentlemen,” Barry greeted the cops. “Something I can do for you?”

“Perhaps,” the older of the cops said, his streetwise eyes inspecting Barry. “Two young men were found in the dumpster behind this office complex last night. They had been badly beaten. They’re both at the hospital.”

“At taxpayer’s expense, I’m sure,” Barry said dryly. The cop had not said “in” the hospital, but “at.”

The cop’s eyes narrowed at that crack.

But this time Barry had done his best to foil any legal work on behalf of the street-slime. He had carefully washed his shoes after going to his apartment. He had then spitshined them, in high-gloss military fashion. He had dumped his shirt, underwear, and socks into the was. . .