At anytime over a million trucks are professionally driven on the highways and by-ways of America. Carrying everything from acid to yachts. Not all loads are so innocuous. Some are precious and some are out-right lethal. For loads that are deemed dangerous or valuable to be referred to as High-Security, special trucks are used. Trucks that look so normal, one would never guess it from any other. Trucks that run in secret, apart from their company, called Ghost Fleets. Others have no markings at all, and are specially modified. One such company that specializes in High-Security Loads; Phantom Lines....

 

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The SWAT commander shook his head. "No Sir. It ain't happening."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN IT AIN'T HAPPENING?" The District Attorney demanded.

The Captain pointed at the building in the distance. "Because your grandstand play backfired."

The D.A. swore at him. "What the FUCK does that mean Johnson?"

"It means they set off one of the canisters. The whole ground floor of that place is contaminated with the virus, Stupid. I got a couple guys that are ex-military, but they aren't trained to actually go into contamination." Captain Johnson explained. "We gotta call the Feds, Counselor Travis."

Bob Travis shook his head. "No! The Feds come in and its all over! They'll take the whole case and we get NOTHING!"

"You're more than welcome to go right in there and tell those fucks to surrender. Go ahead. Be my guest. I'm calling the Attorney General." Drake Johnson said then turned away pulling out his phone.

Thirty minutes later Haz-Mat trucks began to roll in. Twenty minutes after that three buses marked with the FBI pulled up. An assault team mustered in front of one. Quickly they poured over building diagrams and all other information.

Bob Travis looked around angrily then asked the FBI Agent in charge. "S.A.C. Waggener I thought you Bureau people were quick to strike. What's the hold up?"

The Bureau man looked over with a bored expression. "We're waiting for transport. There they are."

A tractor-trailer pulled up and came to a stop. It was a big black WesternStar. The driver climbed down, wearing a sweeping black duster and black Stetson.

"S.A.C. Waggener?" The driver called out.

Chris Waggener waved to him as he approached. "That's me."

"PeaceMaker. Have your assault team load up in my truck. I'll take 'em in." Colt said.

The assault team leader was standing close and called out to the team. They formed two columns at the back of the trailer.

Colt reached up into the truck and the seals of the trailer doors were released. He went back and swung them open. Inside there was a row of seats on each wall.

"Listen up. Take a seat and strap in. Do NOT unstrap and try to stand up until the green light comes on. The truck may need to move more and the doors will not open. When the GREEN light comes on just push and the doors will open. Get ready." Colt instructed then closed the doors.

"PeaceMaker. I'm going in too." Waggener stated.

Colt looked over the besuited Fed then hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "Up front with me."

Waggener nodded and followed him along the passenger side and climbed up into the cab when the door was opened. Colt closed it then walked around to the driver's side and climbed up. The door was closed and series of switches were flipped. He took off his hat and set it into a vertical holder behind him. The engine had been running the whole time so there was no need to start the truck. More switches were flipped and Waggener heard seals around the door. The interior then felt like it became pressurized. PeaceMaker grabbed a mic and keyed it twice then hung it back on the clip.

"Are we ready?" Waggener asked.

Colt nodded. "Yeah."

The truck didn't move. The Fed looked over at the driver then ahead and back.

Again he asked. "Are we ready?"

"Yeah." Colt answered.

The Bureau man asked. "What are we waiting for PeaceMaker?"

Colt was obviously watching in the side-mirror. "The other truck. We're going to follow it in. It can do something we can't."

The radio inside registered two clicks. Someone had keyed their mic twice.

"Here we go. We'll jump in behind Trip9." Colt said then released the brakes.

Everyone stood clear as he pulled the cord for the horn twice and began to roll forward. By the time he took fourth gear another truck had come into view. Like a ghost, the big grey behemoth leapt from the evening gloom with barely any lights on. It's horn sounded once as it roared past. Everyone could see black smoke pouring out in staggered streams. Those familiar with large trucks could tell the driver was up-shifting. Gaining speed. The big black truck fell in behind the grey, but the gap between the two wasn't narrowing.

Colt grabbed his mic. "DeathStar with a load of StormTroopers, right on your backdoor. Crash the gate and get us in Trip9."

The trailer's tail lights flickered twice and the gap between them began to widen more. Waggener looked over and saw the display. The speedometer read eighty-five miles per hour and increasing.

"WE'RE GOING EIGHTY-FIVE ALREADY?" Waggener asked.

Colt grabbed another gear. "Nope. We're closing on a buck. Pretty easy without a load."

Waggener stared ahead at the truck in front of them, practically walking away from them. "How fast is that truck going?"

"Can't tell you. That's 32 tons of Don't-Give-a-Fuck. Here we go." Colt said then grabbed a separate mic. "Hang on to your asses boys, we're making contact."

Ahead the big grey truck smashed through the gates and launched them to the sides. Two seconds later all its forward lights came on. The long-range spotters watched in confusion as the truck didn't aim for the service doors, instead it went through a section of wall under a window that had been floodlit by the bright lights of the lead truck.

One of the cops had been using the Radar/Laser gun from his squad car. "WHAT THE HELL?"

The SWAT Commander looked over. "What's the problem officer?"

"Captain I can't tell how fast either one of those two trucks are going. There's no return!" The officer stated.

'They must be coated with absorbing paint.' The SWAT Commander thought to himself but didn't say anything. He had once heard of a trucker called PeaceMaker years ago. He had also heard from some guys at a convention not long ago that there was some outfit of truckers. Trucks that mostly ran at night, sometimes at high-speed. Trucks with no markings and special license plates that came with a warning. The loads they carried were unknown, but there was plenty of speculation. They watched as the second truck punched through the same hole and slid to a stop inside. A minute later, shots could be heard inside and the grey truck had turned around inside to block the hole it had created, by parking halfway out of it. The bright lights dimmed.

Ten minutes later the call came over the radio. "Send in the Haz-Mat teams for De-Con!"

Six fire engine style trucks rolled down to the warehouse. They set up a series of pipes with a plastic liner underneath. Four men set up tall ladders and climbed to the top with spray hoses. Another group set up a series of plastic tent-like chambers in line. The first truck pulled out. When it was in position, water jets began spray it down then a solution was sprayed onto it and a foam developed. The foam was sprayed off from the top down slowly. Once clean the truck was waved forward and the other took its place and cleaned. The other Haz-Mat teams went into the building and were neutralizing the interior.

The two trucks rolled back down to the staging area and stopped.

"That was SOME ride!" Waggener said unbuckling the seatbelt.

Colt nodded and depressurized the cab. "Yeah. Ride's over now. We gotta go."

The Fed was about to say something but the driver turned on the radio and a song began to blare. The main line of it was 'Chicken Lights and Chrome'. He shook his head and climbed out then shut the door chuckling. The grey truck began to roll forward and the black one followed.

"Just who the hell were those guys? I heard the radar gun couldn't get a reading. THAT'S illegal! Those trucks need to be impounded!" A.D.A. Bob Travis spat.

S.A.C. Waggener looked over. "What trucks?"

The Assistant District Attorney pointed in the direction they had went in. "THOSE TRUCKS!"

"No idea what you're talking about. I didn't see any trucks." Waggener replied and went back over to the briefing area.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Jason zipped up his coveralls and snugged the cap, both were brand new and clean.

"Ready Kid?" A voice asked from the door.

Jason turned around and saw an older man in similar coveralls. "Are you Mister Kleco?"

"That's right. Dane Kleco, I'm the shop Foreman. Follow me." The gruff man said then waved him to follow.

Jason rushed to catch up and was a step behind him going down the hall.

"Just finished the advanced course at Detroit I heard." Dane remarked.

Jason nodded. "Yes Sir. PACCAR before that. I spent time in the R and D groups for Kenworth and Peterbilt. Mister Montaine said all the trucks run PACCAR, Detroit or CAT engines with Eaton Fuller transmissions. Uh."

Jason's eyes locked onto the pretty blonde woman ahead of them talking to a man in all black.

"Put your eyes back in your head. That's Lacey, the dispatcher. More importantly, she's Troy's niece." Dane growled.

"Uh, yes Sir. Who is she talking to?" Jason asked to change the subject.

Dane pointed with the clipboard he was carrying. "PeaceMaker. Truck 000045."

"Dane." PeaceMaker nodded. "New Mechanic?"

Jason answered quickly. "Yes Sir. Jason Coruthers."

PeaceMaker extended his gloved hand. "Colt Denton, PeaceMaker."

Jason felt the firm grip and held it. "Nice to meet you. What do you want me to call you?"

"PeaceMaker. You'll do fine." Colt said the released him.

"Jason Coruthers, Miss?" Jason asked Lacey offering a handshake.

Lacey looked at him as if he just appeared that second then answered flatly. "Branson."

Jason wasn't sure what to think, she'd only answered with her last name and ignored his hand then ignored him. He shook off the awkward moment and resumed following Dane down the hall.

"These are the drivers' offices. Don't go in without a reason." Dane gestured to the doors along the hall then pointed to another hallway. "Down there is Dispatch, where Lacey works. All business in there. She won't socialize, period."

"Yes Sir." Jason replied.

Finally they walked through a door into a shop bay.

"Bay 1. Truck 000038." Dane announced then pointed to a man in jeans and a t-shirt talking to another in coveralls. "That's Hobby and Dominic."

Both men waved.

"Hey new dude. I'm Dominic." The mechanic greeted. "The Frodo-looking fucker is Hobby."

"I DON'T look like that! Asshole." The driver snarled then shook hands with Jason. "Elijah Jameson."

Jason shook hands. "Jason Coruthers. Elijah? I guess Hobby is for Hobbit then?"

"It stuck." Hobby shrugged. "See ya."

Dane led through another door into the next bay. "Bay 2. Truck 000039. The guy over there HASSLING my mechanic is Dell Seavers. Stuntman, and he's about to get punched by Kadee."

Both had turned to wave and Dell called out. "What's your name, Guy?"

"Jason Coruthers." Jason answered and both waved again.

In the next bay Dane pointed out. "Bay 3, truck 000040. MiLo, the one on the right, is the driver. Under the truck, is Turk. Don't EVER call him anything but that."

Neither were paying attention to them so they went on.

"Bay 4, 000041. Where are they?" Dane asked then called out. "HEY!"

A woman leaned out of the cab. "WHAT?"

Dane pointed to her. "Rhonda Veerens, ARVEE. Danny's around here somewhere. ARVEE, WHERE'S DANNY?"

"Bleeding off blinker fluid. Who's that?" Rhonda asked.

Jason answered. "Jason Coruthers. New wrench."

She waved. "Cool."

Dane led him into the next bay. " Bay 5, 000042."

A tall African/American man was practically right in front of them. "Heard through the door. New hand, Jason Coruthers."

"Yes sir. Nice to meet you." Jason took the offered handshake.

He nodded back. "I'm Keeyo, Allan Quionnes. HEY ELLIE! MEET THE NEW MECHANIC!"

All Jason could see was the back of someone who was leaning into the raised hood of the dark purple Freightliner.

They waved and a woman's voice called out. "HI NEW MECHANIC!"

Keeyo groaned then yelled back. "HIS NAME'S JASON."

"HI JASON!" She echoed.

Keeyo shrugged. "She's working on two things; my truck and being a comedienne. I sure hope my truck works."

"I HEARD THAT!" Ellie yelled.

"We better go before she throws a wrench at him." Dane commented and led them to the next bay.

Jason walked through the door. Inside the bay was a red Peterbilt. A mechanic was talking to a man wearing dark red jeans and shirt with shoulder length black hair and eyes so dark, they too, were almost black. The look he gave them was intense.

"Bay 6, 000043. That's Faust." Dane said.

Jason felt like backing up as the man regarded him then said in a voice that was half growl, half purr. "Welcome."

"Yeah. Nice to meet you." Jason said uneasily.

The mechanic turned and offered his hand. "How you doing? I'm Montgomery, just call me Monkey."

"Jason." Jason replied and shook hands.

When Dane led on, Jason felt like he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

"Faust takes some getting used to." Dane sighed after they went into the next bay.

Jason asked. "Some?"

Dane finally chuckled. "Ok, he takes ALOT of getting used to. He's a cool guy though."

"Right." Jason said flatly.

"Bay 7, 000044. This is Fly-by's truck. You'll meet him some other time." Dane said of the white Kenworth.

Jason asked. "He just got off a load?"

Dane shook his head. "He's at a race. He races trucks. Fly-by'll be back in a couple of days."

"Oh." Jason said. "That's cool. Hope he wins."

"Second in points this year." Dane informed him then led to the next bay.

Inside Dane announced. "Bay 8, 000045. This is PeaceMaker's truck. I work on it."

Jason nodded and followed to the next. "Ok."

Dane gestured to the empty bay. "Bay 9, 000046. Charlene Forest, Check-point Charlie. She's on her way back from a load. You can meet her tomorrow."

Jason followed to the next. "That's cool."

"Bay 10, 000047." Dane said pointing to a blue Peterbilt.

Two men came over. The one in coveralls introduced himself first.

"Hey. I'm Danny. I work on ARVEE's truck and SuJa's." The mechanic greeted him.

The driver nodded. "I'm SuJa, Mike Tanner. 'S up?"

"Jason." Jason greeted both accepting their handshakes. "So what's SuJa mean."

Danny smiled. "Suicide Jockey."

When Jason looked for confirmation Suja shrugged. "Its a living."

"SuJa carries just about everything that goes boom. Always has." Dane informed him the steered him to the door. "Hang around him, and you're outlook will get skewed."

"That hurts." SuJa mocked.

The last door had to be unlocked and the lights inside turned on. There sat a grey Kenworth with black trim, instead of chrome like the others.

"Bay 11, 000999. This is the reason why you're here. Trip-9's truck." Dane said.

Jason guessed. "Trip-9 because the truck number is 999?"

"Yep. Pay attention. Trip-9's name is Jodi Tybeck. Don't EVER get on her bad side. She's got a temper and three things will set her off. Talking shit about the Army, especially the war. She was in it. Second, making a pass at her. Third, I'll warn you now; Trip-9 is transgender. Talk shit about that and its your funeral. She won't play. Got it?" Dane asked.

"I'm open-minded." Jason assured him.

Dane sighed. "You better be. Finding somebody that can work on THIS truck ain't easy. If Arnie hadn't had a stroke, he'd still be here. You work on Trip-9 and Fly-by's trucks."

Dane showed Jason a clipboard and went over it. Basically complete maintenance needed to be performed on the engine. After being shown how to unlock the hood Jason's eyes went wide.

"Is this what I think it is?" Jason asked.

"Yep. That's one of three prototypes. The XM-18 PACCAR. The fastest engine in a truck." Dane Kleco stated. "The reason you're here."

Jason looked around more and saw this was no ordinary truck. It was reinforced for the front end to be a battering ram. Blocks of armor-plating lined the hood and firewall. From what he could see, the whole tractor could be dropped off a cliff and not only survive, it would drive away.

Dane Kleco was over at the door and called back. "You got three days. Make 'em count."

Jason looked then began to pull tools. In ten minutes he had the hood removed and was already working on pulling the engine.

 

~*~*~*~
 

On the catwalk above the bays, a brunette woman stood alone looking down into the bay. Casually she ate. An older man with a cane walked up.

"You could have gone somewhere for real food." The man stated.

She didn't look away as she dug her fork into the macaroni and cheese MRE. "These are real Troy."

"Arnie didn't make it." Troy Montaine sighed. "They were letting him go home. Just as he stood up from the wheelchair to get in the car, he had a heart attack. I'm sorry Jodi. He's gone."

Jodi Tybeck continued to eat, but replied. "Brenda called me. Is my truck going to be ready Monday?"

Troy put his hand on her shoulder. "Its ok to be sad Jodi. He liked you. I know you liked him."

"Is that a 'no'?" Jodi asked then tucked the empty packet into the pouch and pulled another.

Troy watched as she tore open the packet and squeezed up what looked like some type of cake and bit into it. He also saw the slight shaking of her hands, flexing in place but not transferring it to what was in her fingers.

"You can cry. Its allowed you know." Troy said then saw she already had the 'thousand-yard stare' again. "The funeral's next weekend, on Saturday. Brenda wants you there."

Jodi said nothing, but continued to eat.

Troy sighed. "I'll be there. It'd be good if you were too."

As he walked away, her right hand absently went to the necklace. Suspended from the chain were three 7.62 slugs. Underneath the t-shirt were three circular scars along with one long straight one. One by one she felt the slugs. Each one, meant to end her life, had been pulled from her chest in a hospital in Kuwait. The previous life, back when she was in the Army. And male.

The Army had tried to discharge him for that, along with issuing a Purple Heart. Instead he refused both and demanded to return to duty. The hesitant and soft-spoken Specialist now spoke with a cold detachment and firmness. A month later, returned to Iraq and duty. The change was not immediately noticed. After two runs, they became aware. The Specialist that had once been cautious now drove with resolve. Also with anger. He was unafraid to take the lead position of the column. Even stating the position was his. He also laid claim to the most dangerous loads.

It was the ambush the revealed the truth. As the column started slowing down, preparing to fight their way through or retreat, he up-shifted and began to gain speed. Two trucks with Iraqi soldiers and medium machine guns came into view, to block the road and open fire. Black smoke poured from the stack and the engine roared as the truck barreled forward to slam through the roadblock without slowing down. The enemy soldiers were either killed or seriously injured enough to be unable to fight.

After the run was complete the Unit Commander ripped into the soldier, who stared back and said coldly 'nobody gets in my way. Nothing stops my truck. Ever.' Not long after came the Thunder Runs. Those were highly publicized. Unknown to the general public though were a similar set of supply runs to endangered units called Operation Bootlegger. A volunteer was asked for. He was the only one. For nine days straight he ran in and out of a section of Baghdad that became known as Damnation Alley.

Iraqi soldiers and insurgents used buildings to rain machine-gun fire down on the truck in hopes to stop or destroy it. Neither worked and after the third attempt he simply aimed for the building with most fire coming from it, and drove through it, dropping a satchel bomb with a ten-second fuse and twenty pounds of explosive. That's when they started calling Jodi, Road-Rage. Not that he cared, all that mattered was the next load. Where it needed to go and when it needed to be there. He even modified the front of the truck to withstand the abuse of driving through roadblocks and then buildings too. In fact, driving through buildings and dropping off a satchel bomb became a signature tactic.

The Iraqis issued a nickname as well; Dead-Run. They didn't know his real name, but the truck was beyond easy to identify and soon had a bounty on it. Many tried collecting that bounty, only to have their mangled bodies be left behind in the dust and rubble. The innocent civilians also grew to know the truck and reacted accordingly. They ran away. Warnings of the truck's approach were fast and entire blocks of civilians would empty in response. Despite the arguments of several low-ranking officers, the Specialist was eventually promoted to Sergeant. Even over the advice of a psychologist, stating the Sergeant was obviously suicidal, he was allowed to remain in the field. Simply put, no other driver could or would achieve the same results.

A year later; Jodi was sent back to the States, to be discharged. E.T.S.- Expiration of Term of Service. Honorable discharge. Purple Heart refused, no other citation recommended. Jodi was barely in the door of his parents' house when the phone rang. A man claiming to be with the Department of Energy asked Jodi to come to Washington, D.C. immediately. Jodi didn't even unpack, simply turned around, went out the door and didn't return for two years. He drove for D.O.E. the whole time, hauling all manner of classified material. ALL radioactive. That came to an end when some rednecks decided it would be fun to try annoying a truck driver.

Common sense dictates that when dealing with 38 tons of truck marked Radioactive, hauling weapons' grade Plutonium, one should stay very far away. Unfortunately, that's not the way things happened. The pick-up sped ahead to get in front then slowed down. When Jodi moved to pass, they drifted over to block. Twice Jodi moved to pass as they slowed even more. Believing they were trying to stop the truck to hijack the load, Jodi fell back on training after hitting the alert button. He up-shifted and pushed the truck. It sped up to recover then tried to slow him again by blocking the pass. Jodi was having none of it and shoved the truck forward. The driver slammed his brakes, but the light truck was no match for the big tractor-trailer and was pushed forward.

Jodi continued to pick up speed. The Chevy locked up its brakes, tires screeched and smoked in protest until they burst. The truck slung sideways then turned over several times before being thrown off to the side. It took a week for Jodi to be identified. Once again, luck was not on the rednecks' side. It was standard for such a truck to be equipped with cameras. Cameras that revealed the antics of the civilians. Also the digital log of distress being announced and Jodi's narration from inside the cab. The civilians lost their lawsuit, but Jodi didn't win either. A known D.O.E. driver was no good. Jodi was let go, as per contract. Paid, but still let go.

That was when Troy Montaine came calling. Phantom Lines, a small independent trucking company that hauled high security loads for various government agencies, was looking for a driver. Jodi had a surprise of his own. Or rather, her own. During evaluation, some questions turned out to have answers not expected. Answers that would be given by a woman. More evaluations revealed the reason, Jodi wasn't just dealing with combat stress. Gender Dysphoria had been lurking underneath the surface, now trying to break through. Troy Montaine was by no means a conventional man. He stated bluntly that he didn't care whether male, female or anywhere in-between. He had loads to move and required drivers with no fear. To quote him; he needed drivers skilled enough to drive through Hell and brave, or crazy, enough to do it with an ice cream truck.

Jodi fit that criteria and then some. Or so she thought. Then she met the other drivers. They ran the gamut, from angry to delusional and various other things. She was the only one with a gender issue. Though well paid by D.O.E. enough to not have to work for two years while transitioning, Phantom Lines offered a pay and benefits package that only the stupid would refuse. By choice, Jodi hauled loads that were deemed suicide runs. Two others ran similar runs. SuJa, which stood for Suicide Jockey, and Faust.

Faust drove the big red Peterbilt. So named because of all the drivers, he had the most attempted hijackings before coming to Phantom Lines. Attempted, but never successful. For some reason none of the hijackers ever survived and several trucks had been destroyed. Each and every time, Faust walked away without a mark on him. Many now said he had the Devil's luck and nobody could remember what he had been called before. In fact, he wouldn't answer to any other name and was rumored to have changed it to that. Even Troy had never called him by any name but Faust.

Michael Tanner, SuJa, had started out carrying explosives for mining companies. He was so good at it, he ended up moving up to working for manufacturers. Finally he left after topping out their pay scale. Troy Montaine had found him easily enough and two days later had him in a truck.

Only one ego stood above the rest. Dell Seavers, Stuntman. He actually had been one. Which was to be expected. His father had been a stuntman and his mother a costumer. They had met on the set of the TV crime show Chase. Dell grew up in Hollywood and when old enough, became a stuntman while still a child. He did that until his mid-twenties until an injury, not stunt related, prevented him from being insured to continue. Unhappy with being in Hollywood not able to perform, Dell started driving trucks and found new excitement. He began hauling high security loads. Eventually Troy Montaine appeared, offering the highest risk loads he'd ever hauled, with a pay-rate too good to pass up.

Elijah Jameson, Hobby, was brought in and seemed to be the most straight-laced of all. He wasn't. A power-lifter that almost made it to the professional ranks, he had a manner that was strange. He was so good-natured it was annoying. Until he got into a gym. That's when his demon took over. It wasn't people that had to worry, it was the equipment. He routinely broke things trying to go heavier or longer. In fact, he could no longer have a membership at any in two states or any of the national chain gyms. Hobby was short and built like a rhino.

Rhonda Vereen came from one of the national carriers and with her was a BIG chip on her shoulder. She had been on the receiving end of a stalker that was an owner-operator leased to the company. She was a regional driver until he began stalking her so she went back to cross-country. Where she went, so did he. The final straw came when he managed to get into her truck while she was in a truckstop taking a shower. She came back and he attacked, but didn't know she had grown up rather scrappy and could fight. In retaliation he called the police and alleged she was soliciting. It took two weeks, but the truth came out. However, the damage was done. Her stalker had contacted enough carriers with false stories, nobody would let her in. Troy checked out her story and offered her a job. ARVEE had stayed on ever since.

Fly-by was recruited due to his skill at high-speed driving. Brendan Williams was racing trucks on the amateur circuit and rumor had it he was about to go pro. Six months after Troy Montaine offered him a contract, a team signed him as well. Fly-by didn't care what he carried, just as long as he could go fast doing it. Getting paid for it eliminated any argument for him.

Allan Quionnes was bi-racial and caught crap from both sides. Due to discrimination he had caught loads for an independent that had high risk. Mostly toxic waste. Finally he caught a break on a load that was compromised. He called the authorities and soon a can of worms was opened that would never close. Fortunately for him, there was no real record of who actually tipped off the authorities so he was able to deny involvement. Troy had heard and admired his integrity. He hired him on a hand-shake, but gave him a contract with better terms just for trusting him for a week to prove it. Kee-yo had stayed on with no complaints.

Check-point Charlie's real name was Charlene Forrest. She had enlisted in the Marines right out of high school and stayed until the fighting in Afghanistan calmed down. She still craved action and applied to all the carriers looking for a challenge. None took her seriously enough for her. Troy heard of her through an acquaintance. An acquaintance that had no problem mentioning her name for a few hundred dollars. The Marine had no problem picking up Troy's challenge and signed on the line.

Mike Conlow had driven the Ice Roads until he lost his truck in a lake. Unfortunately for him, his insurer refused to pay the cost of a replacement, citing that it had been intentional. Troy heard of it several months afterward and offered him a job. MiLo jumped at the chance and liked it so much, he stayed on, even though he had already made enough to replace his truck several times over.

And then there was PeaceMaker. Colt Denton. Colt had started out working for the state of Arizona's Attorney General hauling evidence for destruction. The Department of Justice heard of him and hired him away with a better offer. Colt worked for them for years hauling loads until things started getting hairy. He was hauling a load of narcotics and his route and truck description was leaked. The cartel tried to hijack it. The only survivor just happened to be one who had no idea who leaked the information. Colt quit in disgust. Troy showed up a month later with a contract in hand and list of references to back him up.

Colt checked him out with every source he had and was astounded by the replies. If somebody had a load that needed to go by ground without fail, Montaine was the man to call. No matter how dangerous, it would get there on time or no longer exist. Nor would any fool that tried to take it either. No Phantom Lines truck had ever been successfully hijacked. Delivery or death, no exceptions. Montaine was the best on the road and he charged for it. His record had garnered him special favors as well. Each truck had a license plate that came with a warning. Do Not Detain. Three of the trucks carried an even more severe warning. Do Not Approach. PeaceMaker and Faust had been with Phantom the longest, the first to have those plates.

When Jodi signed on and Trip-9 went on the road, it had the other plate. They carried the highest security loads. She carried the deadliest. Every load she carried was lethal. Truck number 000999, Trip-9. Solid grey with black carbon fiber trim and anodized stacks, it tended to vanish on the road. The truck nobody in their right mind wanted to get on the wrong side of.

Jodi finished her meal and crumpled the pouch in her fist. She did not like new people. This time though, she had no choice. This new mechanic was one of a few that had the knowledge to work on the prototype engine of Trip-9. As good as Troy Montaine was, he couldn't always get the person he wanted. Jodi knew it had been sheer luck that this new guy, Jason, had been free and willing to relocate. Troy's offer had included a two year lease on a townhouse.

"What do you want Faust?" Jodi said without looking over.

The driver said gently. "Troy told me. You have my sympathy."

"Right." Jodi commented.

Faust leaned against the rail. "Arnie was here before me. Before Colt. He was a good man. I'll offer a deal. If you wish, I'll take you to the funeral."

Jodi didn't look over. "What's my end?"

"That is your end. For mine, I'll leave them at home." Faust replied. "Their presence would be less than appropriate."

Jodi snorted. "Frick and Frack will pout."

Faust smirked at the reference to his girlfriends. Many were surprised to see him dating 23 year old identical twins. He amazed people with his ability to tell them apart. Jodi was able to do so as well, but regarded them dismissively. Faust jokingly referred to them as his Sins, Envy and Lust. He also joked about finding them on the side of the road. The truth was that they had grown up across the street from him when they were children and he had always been the object of their attraction. They had made it their mission in life early on to claim him for their own. However neither would relent to the other, therefore they both dated him.

Faust chuckled. "They'll see things my way."

Jodi turned and headed back toward the other end. "I can take care of myself."

"Trip." Faust called, stopping her. "He seems like a good and capable young man. Give him a chance."

Jodi had turned to listen, now turned back and continued on. She wanted to be somewhere other than there right now. Making friends was hard. Losing one, was devastating. What she wanted most, was to be out there. Her feelings were her own, out there. Where nobody could see or hear her. There were no friends on the road. Dane had told her the truck would not be ready until Monday. Troy had given her off until then, though she had come in anyway.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Monday morning Lacey walked into the lounge. "Good morning."

All the drivers returned the greeting.

"Nice outfit." Jodi commented.

Lacey glanced to the baby-doll top, Cruel Girl jeans and western boots then frowned. "Really, or you think I wanted to hear that?"

Jodi shrugged.

Faust had come in during the statement and leaned over Lacey's shoulder to say seductively. "You do look nice Lacey. Fetching, I'd say."

Lacey elbowed him in the gut. "Get thee away from me, whack-job."

Faust chuckled and went over to the coffee pot. "One day you will learn how to accept a compliment with grace Lacey. Care to discuss an exchange?"

"NO. I'll never be stupid enough to make a deal with you." Lacey glared then looked over to Jodi. "Trip, are you up? Dane says you're road-ready."

Jodi nodded. "Gimme somethin'."

Lacey started handing out envelopes. "Trip. MiLo. SuJa. Faust. PeaceMaker. ARVEE you have one coming in a couple of hours, so stand-by."

"Nothing for me?" Dell asked in surprise.

Lacey tapped her clipboard. "Its not final so I didn't want to get your hopes up. Since you asked though, I might have a double-up. Stuntman and Kee-yo, you might be rolling out tonight. Fly-by, congrats on the win, but you're staying put. Uncle Troy needs you for something. Check-Point Charlie, your truck is down. Two days. Hobby's on idle. Hit the Hard-ball."

Those that had loads made their way out. Lacey held Jodi back and closed the door.

"Trip. Don't tell me what you think I want to hear or what you think you're supposed to say. Mean it, or don't bother. Got it?" Lacey asked.

Jodi nodded. "Ok."

Lacey sighed. "I don't mean to jump all over you. Just say what you mean. If you like something, say so. Don't force sociable. Just relax and let things be. Ok?"

"Ok. Shrink said I needed to try engaging more." Jodi said.

Lacey nodded. "That's fine. Just be real about it. You can be real. That's all I wanted to say."

Jodi left the lounge. She stopped in her office and put on the gun belt. A quick check of ammo then grabbed the Barrett REC-7 rifle. Now she was ready.

Jason stood back and watched her walk around the truck then climb up. "You're all set."

"Fans." Jodi called out.

Jason switched on the fans. They would pull out the smoke of the truck. The big grey Kenworth roared to life and after a minute began to slowly back up. The tractor hooked to the trailer with a loud bang and snap. The connection was tested then Jodi got back out and walked around. Air lines and electrical were connected. She climbed back into the cab. Air lines pressured up and slowly the truck rolled forward and stopped hard.
Jodi looked down to the mechanic who gave her a thumbs-up then stood by button to open the door. She tore open the envelope and shuffled the sheets. A minute later she latched the five point harness, returned the thumbs-up then slammed her door shut. Jason opened the door. Trip-9 gunned twice then leaped forward, up-shifting to gain speed. Faust, in the red Peterbilt rolled out a moment later, followed by PeaceMaker's black WesternStar, Suja's blue Peterbilt and MiLo's light grey WesternStar. The Road Phantoms were taking the highways again.

 

At anytime over a million trucks are professionally driven on the highways and by-ways of America. Carrying everything from acid to yachts. Not all loads are so innocuous. Some are precious and some are out-right lethal. For loads that are deemed dangerous or valuable to be referred to as High-Security, special trucks are used. Trucks that look so normal, one would never guess it from any other. Trucks that run in secret, apart from their company, called Ghost Fleets. Others have no markings at all, and are specially modified. One such company that specializes in High-Security Loads; Phantom Lines....

 

Anyone that stood along the roadside, would swear they felt the ground shake. Five 18-wheelers roaring onto the highway from the side road. As it opened up into multiple lanes then merged to the interstate, the trucks began to jockey for position.

"Well. We're out of here. Let's have some tunes." MiLo called out over the secure radio.

Faust chuckled. "I have one that's perfect. Open Channel."

All five drivers switched over to the Channel and Faust set to transmit then brought up the song. A moment later, the opening riff of Take Me Down by The Pretty Reckless began to play. Back at the terminal for Phantom Lines, Lacey patched the channel through to speakers in the bays. It wasn't often so many trucks left at once, so the drivers liked to make an event of it. She found it funny. But there was no denying Taylor Momsen had the seductress part down.

PeaceMaker had switched lanes and started to pull ahead. MiLo grabbed another gear to come around him.

"You gonna spur that hawse?" MiLo challenged.

SuJa called back, laughing. "LET 'ER BUCK!"

The big red Peterbilt shifted over to an outside lane and Faust laughed. "First one to the cloverleaf? What's the deal?"

"Aw, HELL NO!" SuJa up-shifted.

PeaceMaker had glanced in his mirror then exclaimed over his mic. "Look out! IT'S TRIP!"

The grey Kenworth had dropped back, but now was bearing down on them. Black smoke streamed out of the twin 6 inch stacks as it closed on the line of trucks driving abreast with one lane empty between them. That lane now being consumed by Trip-9.

"Better grab another gear and drop the hammer. You're all racing for second." Trip-9 said flatly and roared past them.

Faust stomped his accelerator down, pulled out of gear, let off the pedal, slipped it into the next gear and put the pedal down again. "Its on, girl."

The others were 'floating' their gears as well, shifting without using the clutch. The gears of big trucks were not synchronized, that was how they were able to do so. The technique required a feel for the truck. Literally. The engine sound was the most common gauge, but an experienced driver could feel through the steering wheel and floorboards when the gears needed to be changed. It became a little tricky if a driver had the engine retarder on, otherwise known as Jake-Brakes. It used the engine's compression against itself to slow down a truck. Using that device was what caused the throaty, growling and sometimes crackling sound associated with trucks. The larger the stack, the louder the sound. Any liquid that found its way down the stack, made the crackle or popping sound.

Jodi took note of his position in the mirror and up-shifted again. One behind the other, they hit the cloverleaf at high speed and took the long curving ramp to go East, followed by SuJa. PeaceMaker took the Northbound ramp. Only MiLo went West. As the song faded out, Lacey turned off the patch to the bays. She sipped her diet soda and updated information. No routes would be changed.

 

~*~*~*~
 
Allegany Ballistics Labs: Rocket Center, West Virginia

Chuck Wheldon stood on the loading dock as a blue Peterbilt slowly backed up. Its doors had been opened by the driver before backing the last twenty feet to the dock to gently bump the edge. The driver climbed down and strode over to the steps and met him.

"Chuck Wheldon?" MiLo asked. "I'm SuJa. Here to pick up load number 47261-52."

Chuck nodded. The driver fit the description, as did the truck. The papers on his clipboard were authentic as well. He waved to the waiting men. "It's him. Load it."

One man went to the truck and set up the ramp. Two forklifts slowly took in shrink-wrapped pallets of plastic looking crates. The trailer was being loaded with missile components. The solid fuel and engine assembly.

SuJa counted every crate on each pallet, keeping a count. He also checked many of the crates' seals. As the fourth pallet was about to go inside he stopped it. "Hold it!"

Everyone stopped and watched as he looked over a crate then waved. "Problem. No seal on this crate. I'm kicking it."

"SHIT! Give us a minute." Chuck said then waved them all to stop.

The crate was pulled and visually inspected then opened and inspected by a supervisor. He determined the components were in order and authorized the crate closed and sealed. SuJa verified it was now satisfactory and allowed the pallet to be re-wrapped then loaded. Two rows of ten pallets, twenty total. Chuck signed the manifest where SuJa marked then took the yellow copy.

After SuJa had pulled the truck up and closed the doors. They were locked and sealed. Chuck also noticed that he was now armed and wore a jacket that matched his pants.

"SuJa." Chuck called out.

SuJa turned around. "Yeah?"

Chuck shrugged. "What's it mean?"

SuJa grinned. "Suicide Jockey. Later."

One of the security guards walked over. "Is he serious?"

"I remember now. Back in the old days. Horse and wagon; they carried dynamite and nitroglycerin. It was called Suicide Runs and the guys driving the wagons became known as Suicide jockeys. The ways have changed, but the name stuck. Yeah, he's serious." Chuck said.

The truck rolled out of sight without any indication of the dangerous load inside. By noon the next day it rolled in to Raytheon's facility in Waltham, Massachusetts. Within minutes the last pallet rolled off and other pallets became to be loaded. Once again, SuJa inspected them before nodding for them to be loaded. Fully assembled AIM-9X II SideWinder missiles. These crates were longer so instead of ten pallets per row, there were only eight and they had to be secured with a series of extendable bars called load-locks and straps.

Jerry Booker signed the manifest. "You're all set SuJa. No idea why they called in somebody like you. This is a regular load."

"They pay, I roll. Standing around asking why, slows up the works." SuJa replied then went to his tractor. He pulled forward then came back to close, lock and seal the doors.

It was true that other carriers routinely carried these loads. This time was different. Raytheon Security filed a report that they suspected a load information was going to be compromised. This shipment in particular. The OSI had been contacted. A surveillance team verified the threat. The load of Sidewinders marked for Joint Base Langley-Eustis was targeted. Once again, the blue Peterbilt rolled out.

SuJa knew the story. It had been in the paperwork to expect possible hijacking. Outside Raytheon's gate, he pulled on the helmet and fastened the five-point harness. The trailer doors had an interior set of locks that only he could release from inside the tractor. He sent the underway signal over his satellite link.

Not long after he was on the interstate, they came.

"Howdy boys. Nice of you to show up and keep me awake for a while." SuJa chuckled to himself and trod down on the pedal.

The powerful 3406 CAT engine roared as he picked up speed and switched gears. As the big truck neared one hundred miles per hour they made their move on him. A white cargo van pulled up along side. The passenger waved to get his attention then motioned him to pull over.

SuJa looked down then smirked and gave them the middle-finger. "I'm gonna to piss you assholes off. How d'ya like me now?"

He pressed the alarm button. It sent the signal to Phantom that his truck was now under a hijack attempt. The passenger leaned out his window with an assault rifle. SuJa didn't even give him a chance. He let off the pedal and the Jake-Brakes roared, slowing the truck. He down-shifted and floored it. The Peterbilt surged forward.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" The driver of the van yelped as the big Peterbilt nudged his back end.

Suddenly the truck surged forward again, banging the van and causing it to slide around then slide sideways in front of the truck. He let off then rammed ahead. the van was pinned sideways in front of the truck. The tires blew and were shredded away to the rims, now throwing a shower of sparks. SuJa backed off again and rammed it. The wheels caught and the van rolled over onto its side. The Peterbilt didn't slow down and caught it from rolling over again and continued to push it along on its side, uncaring of the scene inside.

The passenger looked in horror as his driver screamed. When the van had flipped over, his arm slipped out the open window to be pinned underneath and ground away between the road and van. Now the driver was going about the noisy business of bleeding to death. Quickly the passenger turned the rifle and shot him in the head to end the suffering. It was a struggle, but he started to climb up to push his upper body out of his own window. If he could do that, then he could shoot at the driver of the truck and kill him.

SuJa smiled inside his helmet as he saw the rifleman emerge from the passenger window and turn his gun on him. Round after sparking round bounced harmlessly off the windshield. SuJa let off then rammed again, knocking him back down into the van. He could see that the hijacker went straight down to the other window. His feet hit speeding pavement causing his legs to be pulled under. It took only a moment for the pain to hit, but the fear already had him screaming.

Finally the van began to drift to the side and slide away, slamming into the concrete support column of an overpass as the big blue Peterbilt roared on by undeterred. After two miles, SuJa switched off the alarm and sent the All-Secure signal. Several people had seen the event, but only one person called it in. By the time the State police were brought in, he was already over the state line. SuJa made his drop-off at the base within his scheduled time without further incident.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Winnisimmet, Massachusetts:

"Are you sure about this?" Kennedy Pena asked.

Chief Willie Pena nodded. "The Regional for ATF assured me, this guy can do it."

Reed pointed. "Is that him?"

A big red Peterbilt slowed and turned in. It stopped and they saw a man wearing dark red open one of the trailer doors, hook it then the other and climbed back into the tractor. The truck pulled around the face outward then rolled back and stop to gently bump the edge of the loading dock. After climbing out of the cab again, he slowly walked toward them and lifted himself up to greet them.

Willie's eyes were immediately drawn to the two hand cannons strapped to the man's thighs before the clipboard in his hand. "Right on time."

"Chief Pena." The driver wearing dark red leather pants and jacket softly growled before turning to Kennedy and Reed. "Hello. Such nice company you keep."

Kennedy didn't like the way he talked. It set her on edge so she glared at him. "Let's just tend to business. Mister?"

"Faust. I like; business. Shall we get to it?" Faust practically purred then tossed a wink to Reed and looked to Willie. "I'm picking up ten pallets of small-arms. Lot numbers; 2085591 through 2085601."

Willie nodded. "Yeah. You understand; this is a high-risk load?"

Faust chuckled malevolently. "Of course. I wouldn't be here, were it NOT."

Willie saw him produce a silver coin and begin to tumble it across the backs of his fingers of his left hand. A difficult task itself, but this guy was doing it easily with leather gloves on. That's when he remembered something the Regional supervisor said.

"Willie. The driver coming; his name is Faust. He's dangerous. You don't have to worry about the guns. Just worry about HIM. He's STRANGE. If he has a coin out, DON'T take it. Bad things happen to people that get his coin." The ATF Supervisor informed him.

Willie asked. "How bad, Deputy Director Hale?"

"Death, usually." Jeremy Hale said flatly. "All the people that wind up with those coins, die or go to jail for a very long time. Faust has the devil's luck. Any time there's been an attempted hijacking, they all die. More than once, the truck and trailer were completely blown off the road, he walks away without a scratch on him. Anybody he gives that coin to, is rotten."

Willie watched him play with the coin as the Evidence Clerk brought out the first pallet of crated guns.

Reed was watching him too. "The trucks were hijacked the last two times the Department tried to get rid of guns. What makes you different?"

"Have they now? Well, that makes things more exciting for me, doesn't it?" Faust smiled to the teenager then held up the coin. "If you really want to know, we could make a deal. You look like a smart young man. What say you?"

Willie caught his attention. "Reed. That's not our concern. He's the man for the job and leave it at that."

Suddenly Faust turned to look at the pallet being loaded and smiled. As the clerk came out, he commented. "Such dedication! You're a good Lumper."

"Uh, yeah. Thanks." The clerk replied.

All three watched Faust in confusion. From that moment on; he never took his eyes off the clerk, except for a minute when he went inside the trailer then came back out smiling. The coin continued to tumble over his gloved fingers.

When the last pallet was loaded, Faust flipped the coin to him. "Good job LOADING me up. Thank you. For EVERYTHING. Quite a DEAL."

Willie was about to say something, but the clipboard was in front of him before he could.

"Sign on the line, WILFREDO PENA." Faust growled with a leer. "And we; will be DONE."

Willie Pena had met many different kinds over the years. Good, bad and wild. Some were even crazy. But when he looked in the eyes of the man in front of him, he saw pure evil delight. It was there, burning like a fever in his dark eyes. As if Faust now knew something was going to happen, something he WANTED to happen. Without a word, Willie signed and felt like he had just sealed someone's fate. Or signed away a soul that wasn't his own.

Faust tore out a copy, handed it to him then turned with a smile to drop down from the dock and laughed. "A bargain! The best I ever HAD."

"Uh, Dad?" Reed asked, confused.

Willie stared as the truck was pulled forward. "Not now Son."

They heard a song started to play and a haunting male voice began to sing lyrics that sounded sinister.

If you feel alive. In a darkened room. Do you know the name, of your solitude? If you ain't got the answer. If you dont know the truth. If you want the power. Then let it flow through.

Kennedy said softly. "That's Danzig. I knew somebody that used to listen to him alot."

Would you let it go? Oh. Would you let it go? OH! Would you let it go? Oh, OH! WOULD YOU LET IT GO? They cannot end this morning. Of my life. Show me. How the gods, KILL!

Faust finished securing the doors and waved over his shoulder, laughing, as the song erupted into full volume. He climbed in and a moment later the truck began to pull out.

Willie spun around to the clerk, who was looking at the coin in his hand. "Alright Ed! Spill it! What did you do?"

Ed Haynes looked shocked. "H-How? NOTHING!"

"He's the leak!" Kennedy said, putting two and two together.

Ed tried to bolt, but Reed was faster and tackled him, bringing him down. Willie leaped onto him as well and began to cuff him.

"ONE COP DEAD AND THREE IN THE HOSPITAL BECAUSE OF YOU!" Willie yelled.

Ed protested. "You don't understand! The Connors knew I worked here. That I'd know when guns were being moved. THEY'LL Kill ME IF I DON'T TELL THEM. THEY TOLD ME TO PUT THE TRACKER IN THE TRUCK!"

"He knew." Kennedy said, now understanding everything. "Somehow, he knew Ed did it. OH MY GOD! Willie, he WANTS them to try for him!"

"The Devil's luck." Willie said, more to himself than anyone else. "Anytime there's been a hijacking of his truck, they all die. Even if the truck is blown off the road; he walks away without a scratch. OH GOD, just WHAT have I turned LOOSE?"

Faust up-shifted again. The feeling was there and he looked at the small box, the size of a pack of cigarettes. The tracking device was working perfectly. He didn't feel the need to tell them there was a scanner in his trailer and it signaled to him that it had detected a transmitter. In no time at all, he was approaching the city limits. He saw them in the distance. A medium-duty box truck blocking the road with two pick-ups in front of it. Two cars were parked on the side of the road and several men were scattered around the improvised road-block.

He pulled the helmet on, hit the alarm button then switched off his headlights and turned on a different set of lights. The underside and space between the tractor and trailer were almost floodlit with red light. Songs were changed with the push of a button and Mother by Danzig began to play. Faust laughed as he down-shifted, trod down on the pedal then pressed a button on the backside of the shift.

"What the fuck? Darren you think this guy doesn't understand, he's going to stop?" David Connors asked.

Darren spoke around the cigarette between his lips. "We're gonna kill him anyway, who cares. Huh?"

The brothers saw the lights of the truck change as it sped up. It was glowing red and flames shot from the twin stacks as the big diesel roared louder.

"Is this guy fucking crazy? SHOOT HIM!" Darren Conners ordered.

Pistols and assault rifles began to shoot at the truck, but the bullets merely sparked across it and amplified laughter rang out from the truck. The truck roared as it slammed into their roadblock and several were pinned between vehicles. The truck continued on through like the battering ram it was, clearing the road. The box truck was finally shoved to the side as it rolled over.

Faust pressed the alarm button again then stopped. He backed up and stopped again then climbed down. Several men were struggling to get their bearings or stumbled around. Their situation was resolved quickly when Faust pulled the two Wildey .475 Magnums from the holsters. Each cartridge had to be hand-loaded and the slugs had been milled, from 666 Stainless Steel. Annealed or Cold-Worked Austenitic Stainless Steel - A666. There was no need for any personal insignia to be detailed on the flat of the slug. Its composition was signature enough. The hardened slugs could tear through ballistic vests with ease, not that these men were wearing any.

David and Darren Connors fell to the ground staring in horror at the gun-toting man-demon approaching them as he laughed over loudspeakers from the truck.

"Wh-Who the Hell are YOU?" Darren demanded.

One of the guns was holstered and the man produced a coin that he flipped and caught. "That will cost you to know. Do we have a Deal?"

"YEAH!" Darren ground out in pain.

Faust flipped the coin to him and pulled off his helmet while it was in the air. Darren caught it and saw the man's face, smiling in absolute pleasure as the gun in his hand bucked twice. One shot for Darren and one for David, killing both.

Faust turned back for the truck, laughing. "Faust. A Deal is a Deal."

In Darren's right hand facing up was the coin, showing an ornate stamped F. Six dollars and sixty-six cents of hand-cast sterling silver. Faust's trademark, that his truck had an attempted hijacking. His laugh lowered to a chuckle as he sent the all-clear signal and drove away, heading to Houston for the ATF warehouse there.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Federal Evidence Storage- Chicago, Illinois;

Agent John Wahlpool stood on the loading dock watching the gate. "So when's this guy going to get here Dean?"

"Any minute now." Agent Dean Scranton answered. "I was told I'd know him when I saw him."

"Well we need to hurry up and get this shit out of here. The Marlans are pissed we seized it. Even more when we found their rat and shut him up." John reminded.

Dean sighed. He wanted to hate the agent-turned informant, but he understood. He may have been an agent, but he was also a father and husband. They had taken his wife and kids. Dean had been on the recovery team that got them back. Currently Harry Marlans' eldest son was in lock-up, sharing a cell with the biggest, meanest bad-ass they had inside. The man had killed ten men in a club in a beat-down. Worse for anyone else, he had no ties to any gang or group. A group of ViceLords had gang-raped his sister during an initiation. She was only 17 and now in a coma from the beating to make her submit.

They both perked up when the sound of a diesel engine slowing down could be heard followed by a black rig coming into view. It easily pulled in then turned about and stopped. The driver climbed down and went to open the trailer doors.

Dean began to laugh. "I should've known it would be HIM."

John looked over then back to the driver and back to his partner. "Dean-o, you can't be serious. For Christ's sake, he's wearing fucking spurs!"

Dean continued to laugh as the truck bumped the dock and the driver walked up.

"Dean-o. I knew I should've turned this one down." PeaceMaker commented.

Dean glared back. "Yeah. And if I'd known it was you, I'd have said screw it and sent this shit out UPS."

The stare-down lasted a few seconds then both men erupted into laughter and shook hands.

"Damn, its been a while." Colt said. "How long you been with this bunch?"

Dean nodded. "Too long. I been with them for three years now. I got fed up with all the weekend warrior wanna-be's ATF deals with."

"Uh." John regarded the two in confusion.

Dean looked over. "John. Colt Denton, PeaceMaker. Best transporter on eighteen wheels. PeaceMaker, John Wahlpool, my partner."

PeaceMaker shook hands. "You have my sympathy. Or should I say, pity? How'd you get stuck with this idiot, John, consolation prize for losing a raffle at Wal-mart?"

John shook his head. "Worse. I came over from a Vice unit in St. Louis. During a raid on a cat-house I caught The Drip. DEA said I could have a new treatment, but had to work with him. Suffering is part of the treatment they said."

"And now you know the true meaning of regret. I'd have told them I'd rather keep The Drip." PeaceMaker said with a straight face.

Dean shook his head. "I gave up rednecks with burning crosses that can't even spell racism, for this?"

"Yeah. You did. Now load the truck, boy." PeaceMaker drawled then laughed.

Dean waved to the two Evidence Clerks. They began bringing out pallets with forklifts and loading them inside the trailer. Twenty-two pallets went in under close watch.

John noticed PeaceMaker kept looking at something as each pallet went into the trailer. "What's up?"

PeaceMaker held up what looked like a pager. "Scanner. It tells me if any kind of transmitter is planted in the trailer. Clean so far."

"Its old school you should be worried about. They probably have a dedicated team watching the building to call an intercept team with a description of your truck." Dean commented.

PeaceMaker shrugged. "Its their funerals for trying."

John asked. "You want an escort? We can get some cars to go with you."

"Bad idea John. We'd just be getting in his way. Once Peacemaker gets a gear, anything that gets in his way is toast. Or Roadkill." Dean said.

"That's right." PeaceMaker said then held out the clipboard. "Sign your life away Dean."

The DEA agent took it and began to sign. "Yeah, yeah. If the shit ain't real or short, you'll come back and shoot me then drag my body behind your truck all the way to D.C. I know."

PeaceMaker took the clipboard back and dropped down from the dock. "That's right. Channel 30, Raffle and Drip."

They watched him pull forward then walk back and secure the door. He waved over his shoulder and climbed back into the truck. Two quick blasts on the air horn and he started rolling out.

Dean sighed. "There he goes. 70 feet long and close to 40 tons; chrome, steel and pure mean-ness. The Marlans family would be better off not trying for this load. Come on 'Drip', let's go find a C.B. and listen to the carnage."

"Thousands of comedians on the streets, starving to death trying to be funny and I made a joke that got me stuck with a shitty nick-name." John griped.

PeaceMaker up-shifted and headed for the interstate. He'd barely made a mile and a half when a Chicago P.D. cruiser pulled up alongside with his lights on. PeaceMaker up-shifted again and increased his speed, now coming up on eighty miles per hour. The police cruiser was keeping up with him and an officer stuck his arm out the window and waved at him to pull over.

A voice called over the C.B. "Black WesternStar. Pull over!"

Peacemaker spun his wheel left instead and shoved them into the K-rails and pulled away without dropping speed. He noticed two vans and a car speeding to take over the chase. He let the van directly behind him get closer then yanked down the 'Johnson Bar', a bar on the steering column for the trailer brakes only. The tandems locked up making the speeding van plow into his back end. The armored trailer took no damage from the impact, but the van's front end was smashed in and had blood on the windshield as the truck pulled away to resume picking up speed.

Jimmy Marlans shouted. "WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY? HE TOOK OUT A COP CAR LIKE HE HAD A LICENSE AND NOW A VAN TOO? GET UP ON HIS SIDE. I'M GONNA SHOOT THE FUCK!"

For the first time in his life, Mickey Tole had the feeling that this was a BAD idea, but he did as he was told. He floored the pedal making the Camaro leap forward. He pulled around the truck and came up on the driver's side. Jimmy pulled out the old school Smith and Wesson .44 revolver and aimed at the window. He pulled the trigger all six times and started swearing.

"SON-OF-A-BITCH! BULLET-PROOF GLASS!" Jimmy swore then his voice went up an octave. "OH SHIT!"

The truck had tapped it brakes enough to get the car slightly ahead then swung in behind and roared forward. It was the classic PIT and slung the car sideways to be caught by the nose of the truck. Jimmy and Mickey were both yelling in anger and fear as the truck shoved them down the highway, edging toward the right side of the lanes then dropped back to rush forward and slam them. The car was launched over the side to plummet onto a street below, upside down. The other van seeing this, dropped back and took the next exit.

"Break 30." PeaceMaker called out over the C.B. "How 'bout you Raffle? You and Drip got your ears on?"

Dean groaned in reply. "We hear ya. Go ahead."

Peacemaker said to them. "Three four-wheelers of idiots, one is a local bear. I'm gone."

Dean tossed the microphone onto the dash and started the car. "That was quick. Damn he makes a big mess. Dirty cops, when will they ever learn?"

On the highway, PeaceMaker was now roaring along at over 90 miles per hour. He could see what looked like three white trucks with yellow lights running in a side-by-side formation. He switched over to channel 19 and grabbed the mic.

"Break 19." PeaceMaker called out.

A voice called back. "Go Break!"

PeaceMaker could see better now and recognized the trucks. "Southbound. Big Iron Boyz clear that get-gone lane."

"Who-dat?" A voice called out.

"PeaceMaker." PeaceMaker growled.

"Lane's yours." One of the Big Iron Boyz called.

Immediately the middle truck slowed down giving the left truck room to swing into the lane. PeaceMaker up-shifted again, taking him over the 100 mark as he went past the well-known trucks. They were rolling at the posted limit of 60, so he practically blasted by them. There were three trucks on the roads, no driver wanted to cross. PeaceMaker, Faust and the mysterious grey Kenworth supposedly driven by a woman. PeaceMaker turned on his radio and was greeted with Ronnie Milsap's Prisoner of the Highway. He turned it up loud.

In fact, every truck heading southbound heard and moved out of the far left lane. That continued for an hour after PeaceMaker left the city limits behind. Just over the state line into Missouri; a cruiser turned on his lights, swung out and closed in then backed off to slowly cross over to the Northbound lanes.

Looking in his mirrors PeaceMaker smirked. "That's right. You don't want nothing with this truck, Full-Grown."

Full-Grown being the C.B. term for State Police. The cruiser had obviously gotten close enough to run the license plate and knew to heed the warning it came with. Even though he had a radio capable of monitoring the police bands, PeaceMaker only used it inside cities. Out on the open Highways, he didn't need it. If the license plate didn't deter someone, then they were fair game for him. Not long after sunrise he pulled off the interstate onto a state highway and drove three miles.

The black WesternStar pulled in at a small station. He pulled all the way around the building to get into position between the single set of deisel pumps. An old man came out.

"How much you need, Driver?" The old man asked.

PeaceMaker nodded to him. "All I can hold."

While the old man filled the tanks, PeaceMaker checked the fluids then cleaned the windshields and mirrors. He gave the cords to the air tank valves a quick tug to purge the water out. After fueling, they went inside. Peacemaker paid for the fuel, filled two large thermos bottles with coffee and grabbed a breakfast biscuit. Within minutes he was back on the interstate en-route to Dallas, Texas.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Mike Conlow rolled in to Lake City Ammo Plant in Independence, Missouri. In the loading dock lot he opened the doors then backed up to gently nudge the dock and bailed out.

"How's it goin', eh?" MiLo asked and handed the man his clipboard.

Brandon Jackson looked over the forms and nodded. "Your accent threw me for a minute. Paperwork's in order."

"Always is. You ready?" MiLo asked.

"Yep." Brandon replied the called over his shoulder. "Load up!"

Two forklifts came out and began to carefully load up the pallets. MiLo checked what looked like a pager on the belt of his jacket and marked off each pallet going in. Finally he handed over the clipboard.

"Fourteen pallets of 30 millimeter Depleted Uranium rounds. Sign there." MiLo said.

Brandon signed and handed the clipboard back. "Satisfied? Good to roll?"

MiLo tore out a copy. "Yep. Anything new?"

"Yeah. Everybody thinks this load is going to Fort Hood, Texas. Just in case. All good?" Brandon remarked then gave him a thumbs-up.

MiLo chuckled. "All good. Don't let 'em work you too hard."

Brandon just shook his head and chuckled too. MiLo hopped off the dock and went back to climb up into the tractor. He pulled forward ten feet then went back and secured the doors. As he went back to the cab he chambered his pistol then zipped up the jacket and pulled on the helmet. In the driver's seat he latched the harness and sent the load out signal. As he rolled out he played his favorite song, Road Hammer.

Carefully he watched his mirrors and saw a pick-up that was keeping a fair amount of distance. MiLo just grinned, he already had a plan to deal with them if they actually were following him. At the next exit he turned off and rolled to the truck-stop he had spotted earlier. A big Petro. The light grey WesternStar rolled through the gate and headed for the parking area. The pick-up had followed him, but had to stop. It wasn't allowed in there.

"Aww. What's the matter? The mean ol' gate guard won't let your little pick 'em up truck in, eh?" MiLo laughed to himself then rolled behind a line of trucks.

He pulled up Chris Rea's Workin' On It and headed for the back gate and rolled right out. As he rolled past the front of the truckstop he was hidden by another truck beside him. He turned onto the ramp and began to up-shift as another big truck was right behind him. He was laughing as he hit ninety-five miles per hour. MiLo knew they would be going crazy soon. By the time they figured out he wasn't there, they wouldn't know which way he'd gone and would never catch up.

"Better luck next time hosers!" MiLo said to himself as he drove off into the night heading for Moody Air Force Base in Georgia.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Jodi spun the wheel to make the turn for the gate of Shaw Air Force Base. The Airman at the gate waved her forward with his flashlight then climbed up to see her ID and check it against the list. He walked around the truck, playing the beam underneath it and noted its number then pointed to the side. The dark grey Kenworth pulled forward and over. A dog was brought out and circled the truck.

Another Airman waved to her. "I need to look inside the cab."

Jodi waved back for him to go around to the other side. He heard locks then tried the handle. The door swung open and he climbed up to look inside.

"Holy shit! What kind of truck is this?" The MP asked, seeing the framework of a roll-cage and the woman was firmly strapped in with a five-point harness.

Trip just looked at him. "You done?"

Slowly he backed down from the truck. "Yeah. Follow that Hummer."

After a wave to proceed, the Hummer led the way with Trip-9 following close behind. Slowly the truck was directed to the base Ammunition Supply Point, A.S.P. At the depot she climbed down and opened the doors then backed into to dock. Once again Jodi had to show her ID. Both her license and Military ID. It took a few minutes to confirm her clearances, but all came back in order.

One by one, pallets were brought out. Jodi almost crawled all over each one, looking for anything out of the ordinary before waving it to be sealed and loaded. Two metal cases on each of the ten pallets down both sides of the trailer. Forty warheads, three mega-ton yield each. After each pallet was secured, Jodi finally came out of the trailer and handed over the clipboard.

"Sign forms 46, 71 and 139 Colonel." Jodi instructed.

The colonel looked them over and said. "I never heard of 139."

Jodi pointed it out. "139 replaces forms 29 and 36, Colonel. As of September 21, last year. Verify that."

The Colonel went over to a phone and called in. Four minutes later he hung up and began signing the forms.

"You certainly are up-to-date on procedures. My Lieutenant knew exactly what form you were talking about. I guess I'm getting old." the Colonel admitted then finished and handed the clipboard back.

Jodi shook her head as she counter-signed then tore off certain copies. "Technically, these should have been picked up ten years ago Colonel. I'm sure D.O.E. about shit when they found out these were still here."

Colonel Mekland frowned. "They did. Everybody, from the Base Commander on down to me, got REAMED."

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm good to go." Jodi stated. "Colonel."

Mekland nodded. "Safe trip."

Trip went back to the tractor and pulled forward then walked back to secure the trailer doors. She walked around the entire truck and trailer.

"What's she doing Colonel?" One of the MPs asked.

Mekland had been watching as well. "She's looking for anything that doesn't belong Airman. Such as transmitters or sabotage devices."

The MP was shocked. "You mean she thinks one of US would do that?"

"Harsh lesson Airman. When it comes to nukes, there is no such thing as trust. I'd be concerned if she didn't check her truck." Colonel Mekland stated watching her climb back into the tractor.

The truck began to roll forward then out on to the road. Ten minutes later, it rolled through the gates out into the night. Inside the truck, Jodi had already sent her load-out signal. She reached forward and switched off the third light switch, which turned off the majority of truck lights. Trip-9 was now running Black-Out and up-shifted, picking up speed. It took less than an hour to go from Shaw to Camden, South Carolina to get on Interstate 20. Merging onto the interstate, the grey Kenworth passed 70 miles per hour and continued to accelerate. She would be able to run Interstate 20 all the way to Pecos, Texas then turn North to go into New Mexico for Carlsbad.

The sun was rising just as Trip-9 rolled into Augusta, Georgia. A quick refuel stop outside Atlanta gave enough fuel to run non-stop to Marshall, Texas. Phantom Trucks never used any of the national chain truckstops when loaded. Only small places where the truck was in full view and any incident would be slow in reporting by request. Jodi drove on. Atlanta was no problem, rush hour was past. Finally in Louisiana, in the Shreveport-Bossier City area, she pulled in at Barksdale Air Force Base. There was a secure area waiting for her to sleep at.

An hour before sunrise, Jodi woke up. Quickly she walked around the truck, checking for any devices then climbed back in. A Humvee led the way back to the gate and she rolled out. Not long after, she pulled in at Pony Express; an old truckstop in Marshall, Texas. Both tanks were filled to full and she tossed out the trash from her cab. Including the gallon jug she had used to empty her bladder with. Inside she paid for the fuel, two gallons of water, filled both thermos bottles with fresh coffee and some foil-wrapped sandwiches. If Jodi had the habit, she probably would have bought cigarettes too, but she didn't. After another quick walk-around, Trip-9 was back on the road.

40 miles west of Abilene, Texas was the next refuel point; Trent, Texas. The sun was setting as the dark grey Kenworth broke from the gloom with its jake-brakes growling and turned in at the run down station.

An old man lurched out. "Fillin' up, Driver?"

"Yessir." Trip replied and uncapped the tanks for him then acknowledged his cap. "Vietnam."

"That's right. I was with the 25th. Snot-nosed kid back then." He said setting the nozzles into the tanks and began fueling.

Trip grabbed a squeegee and cleaned the windshields then mirrors. "What do you hear, West-bound?"

The old man spit to the side. "Got a Sheriff down there, this side of Pecos. * Pogue County. He's about as mean as a Two-Step Charlie and twice as sneaky."

"Speed-trap?" Trip asked.

"He done learned himself a new trick. He sets himself up a fake road close and makes folk detour off the interstate and then gets into his town where he can fine 'em every dollar they got. If they ain't got enough, he takes whatever they do have. Including trucks and cars." The old man said angrily.

Trip nodded grimly. "Big mistake to try that with me."

The old man nodded to the station. "You might be wantin' to call Highway Patrol to make sure there ain't no real Road Closing."

"I can do that from in the truck." Trip said.

The pumps stopped and he hung up the nozzles and came back around. "Anything else?"

Trip pulled cash from the inner pocket of her jacket. "That's it."

She pulled off the notes and handed them over. He took them and counted out change from his own pocket and hand-wrote a receipt.

"Thanks." Trip said, pocketing the ticket and zipped the jacket.

The old man pointed to her guns. "Missy, them hawg-legs will get Sheriff Bocum's attention real quick if you get down from that truck. I ain't lying, he'll shoot as soon as look at you."

Trip was climbing back up into the cab. "He can try. Take care Trooper."

He watched her start the engine, strap in and pull on a helmet then close the door. "Lord-a-mighty. Something tells me Bocum should sit around drinkin' beer tonight."

As Trip-9 merged back onto the Interstate she used the cellphone to call in. A few minutes later Troy himself called back, Texas Highway Patrol stated there were no closures for I-20. That suited her just fine. It didn't take long and she was pushing 110 miles per hour as night fell. Miles flew by under her wheels. Twice she saw police lights come on after she passed and give chase, only to back off after getting close enough for the license plate to be run.

"Break 19 West-bound." A voice called out on the C.B.

Another voice answered. "Go Break."

The first voice called out. "West-bound is detouring Exit 91."

"Rod-jo, rod-jo. I'll keep an eyeball out for it. 10-10-on the side." The second voice replied.

Trip felt it was a set-up. Neither party had identified themselves nor had the reason for the detour been stated. Another factor was that she had just passed mile marker 101. She was being given plenty off warning about the road up ahead. Sure enough, a crude barricade came into view. The real give-away was that the signs had obviously been hand painted and marked with flares, not blinking lights.

"Pathetic." Trip muttered to herself and held her speed, crashing through the make-shift barrier.

Seconds later blue lights came on and gave chase. Jodi switched songs and cranked the volume. The remix of Gavin Rossdale's Adrenaline began to play and she floored the pedal and upshifted for the last gear. Trip-9 lurched and settled into building more speed. The alarm was activated and the big truck roared on.

In the squad car a deputy called over the radio. "SHERIFF! I GOT A LIVE ONE. THE DAMN TRUCK JUST BLEW THROUGH THE BARRICADE!"

"Bobby. Turn on your lights and run 'em down." Sheriff Bocum answered.

Bobby protested. "I'm doin' that already! I'm doin' a hun'ert 'n fi'teen and that damn truck is just up and walkin' off!"

Bocum snapped at him. "Trucks don't go that fast, Boy! No trucker'd try to out run a cop."

"West-end! That truck's a comin' Block 'em!" Bobby called in frustration.

A voice called back. "We just pulled our cars out, Bobby. C.C. is pulling out his truck to block further on."

Bocum jumped back in. "I'll go to C.C.'s truck. Ya'll better stop that truck first!"

None of them had any clue that Jodi's scanner had found their frequency and she was listening to their exchange. One by one she checked the loads of her two Colt 10mm pistols. Then she worked the zipper of her jacket up to the collar. Once the helmet visor snapped down, It would take anti-armor rounds to bring her down. Just in case, she shoved two of the rifle's magazines into her jacket pockets.

Up ahead she saw the two cars blocking the road and a handful of flares leading to them. Visions of Baghdad faded in and out as she found herself screaming the song lyrics like she had back then.

"Too much is not enough! Nobody gave it up! I'm NOT the kind! TO LAY DOWN AND DIE!" Trip sang at the top of her lungs and slammed through the cars. "ADRENALINE, SCREAMING OUT YOUR NAME! ADRENALINE, 'CAUSE YOU DON'T EVEN FEEL THE PAIN! WILDER THAN YOUR WILDEST DREAMS! I'M GOIN' TO EXTREMES! TASTE ADRENALINE."

A hundred yards further a tractor and dump trailer blocked the road. It was easily seen the trailer was full of debris. Trip locked up the brakes and corrected to prevent a jack-knife. As soon as the truck lurched she threw it from gear and hit both valves to lock the brakes and bailed out, grabbing the REC-7 before clearing the cab.

"FREEZE!" Bocum yelled then started shooting with his Smith & Wesson revolver.

Trip brought up the assault rifle and switched to AUTO and let loose a burst of 6.8mm that chewed up the front of the pick-up truck and drove him down behind it. Bullets began smacking into her back, drawing Trip's attention. She turned and triggered off another burst, dropping the Deputy to writhe on the road. Trip snapped the visor down and stalked toward the truck. A long burst ripped into the truck from the REC-7 and magazines were changed.

"SON-OF-A-BITCH!" Bocum swore trying to reload his revolver.

Shots from behind again gained her attention and she spun and let loose two bursts that almost tore the second corrupt Deputy in half. She turned back and send another volley into the side of the blocking tractor. The driver inside barely avoided being hit by any. Quickly he understood what was wanted and started up the truck then backed it into the median strip. He then had to duck from bullets being fired from the Sheriff.

"PULL THAT TRUCK BACK UP HERE!!" Bocum yelled after shooting twice.

A quick stitch of rounds through his legs made him flop onto the road.

"I'M A FUCKIN' SHERIFF YA SUM BITCH! YOU AIN'T EVEN GONNA MAKE IT TO MY JAIL!" Bocum cursed and raised his pistol.

A burst into his shoulder rendered it useless and the revolver dropped. Trip bore down with the assault rifle.

Bocum glared with hatred. "I'm the goddamn law here! I'll have you hung! Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Trip just held down the trigger,sending the remaining rounds to hammer through his chest and turned away. "Trip-9."

Slowly she walked back to her truck, retrieving the spent magazine along the way. Trip began to roll forward and went around the discarded pick-up. She turned off the alarm and sent the all-clear signal. Her phone rang, so she answered it using the Bluetooth to her helmet.

"Go." Trip answered.

Troy Montaine's voice asked. "Status?"

Trip replied. "Secure and rolling. Three bodies."

"Highway Patrol is on the way." Troy warned.

"I'm already gone. Trip-9, out." Trip said then disconnected.

Five minutes later two highway patrol cars stopped at the wreckage.

"Jesus Christ! What the Hell happened?" One of the patrolmen asked.

The other shook his head. "Earlier, a truck blasted past me. I ran the plate and got a Federal warning. Looks like that jack-ass Bocum tried to hijack it."

"What do you mean; a warning?" The first patrolman asked.

"You just started on your own. There's a group of trucks. Those trucks haul government loads and have license plates that tell you to back off. The one I just saw, told me not just to back off. It told me the driver is dangerous. That means they were hauling stuff we don't want no part of. You see a warning come up, obey it. Let THIS be a lesson to you." The older Patrolman pointed to the now dead Sheriff. "A badge don't mean shit when it comes to those trucks."

They called in for services to come clean up the highway. The driver of the dump truck was detained for questioning, sometime during which, men in dark suits visited.

It was late morning when the dark grey Kenworth rolled through Carlsbad, New Mexico. It stopped at a facility called WIPP. Waste Isolation Pilot Plant. After being unloaded, it rolled back out.

 

~*~*~*~
 

MiLo walked into Troy Montaine's office. "You wanted to see me?"

Troy stood up. "Come in Mike. Ted, this is Mike Conlow."

"I've been looking forward to meeting you." Ted stood up and offered his hand, his Canadian accent was evident.

"Hi. What's up?" MiLo asked.

Troy sat back down. "Think of Ted as my counterpart in Canada. He came to ask if I knew of any drivers experienced with high-security willing to relocate to Vancouver. I only know one."

MiLo nodded. "That would be me."

Troy nodded back. "That's right. His offer is on the table and I have no objection. You have no obligations, but your own. Would you like to hear his offer?"

"It would be closer to family. Ok. I'll hear you out." MiLo replied.

Troy stood up and went to the door. "Take your time gentlemen."

"Thanks." Ted said.

Troy closed the door behind him and went down to Dispatch.

"Hey boss." Lacey greeted.

Troy patted her on the head. "Find that driver information for me. Silvia Petrescu, the GypsyMoth."

Lacey nodded as he left. "On it Uncle Troy."

Troy went out to the bays to look over all the trucks. Soon, the Road Phantoms would be taking the highways again.

---

---

*Author's notes- Winnismett Tales characters used with permission from their creator: efingdumb. Many thanks ef.
Pogue county, Texas is fictional and used for the purpose of this story.

 

At anytime over a million trucks are professionally driven on the highways and by-ways of America. Carrying everything from acid to yachts. Not all loads are so innocuous. Some are precious and some are out-right lethal. For loads that are deemed dangerous or valuable to be referred to as High-Security, special trucks are used. Trucks that look so normal, one would never guess it from any other. Trucks that run in secret, apart from their company, called Ghost Fleets. Others have no markings at all, and are specially modified. One such company that specializes in High-Security Loads; Phantom Lines....

 

Chapter 1

Jason had been working hard all morning to finish. Trip-9's truck had taken a beating, though everyone that had seen it commented it was light damage compared to usual. Still though, he'd had to dive in and hurry to pull the damaged parts and replace them over the past three days. He stopped to go refill his cup. After a stop in the men's restroom, he went to the break room for more coffee.

He refilled it the way he liked and snapped the lid on to take a sip. "Oh Yeah."

A giggle from behind made him turn around and freeze. Red-haired twins in identical black dresses faced him, smiling.

"He's cute." The twin on the left said, added to by the twin on the right. "He's new."

Jason looked to them and stammered out. "Uh. Hi."

Slowly they approached him, still smiling and drawled in unison. "Hi."

"Can I, like, help you?" Jason asked.

The twin on the left slipped an arm over his shoulder. "Got a name?"

"Are you fun?" The twin on the right did the same.

"Um." Jason looked from one to the other then saw someone in the doorway and blurted out. "I DON'T KNOW THEM."

The twins looked to see Jodi walking in and said in unison. "Hi Trip!"

Jodi didn't even look at them. "I thought there was a Leash-law in town."

"You want to put us on leashes?" The twin on the left asked with a smile, while the twin on the right giggled and asked. "And pretty collars?"

"Get off the mechanic." Jodi said then gave them a quick glance. "Jason. That's Frick on your right. Frack is on the left. They belong to Faust."

"It's amazing how she can tell us apart." The twin on the left remarked.

The twin on the right pouted. "But she never plays with us."

"YOU will, WON'T YOU?" They asked together caressing Jason Coruthers' face.

Jason stammered. "I, uh, well."

Jodi turned around and stared coldly at the two. "Frick, Frack. Off. NOW."

Jason could swear the temperature of the room just dropped and the twins slowly moved away.

"Wow Trip." One twin commented and the other nodded. "We didn't know he belonged to you."

The leather-like pants creaked slightly as Jodi started walking to the door. "He works on my truck. He isn't done yet."

Faust asked in his usual growl-like purr as he sauntered in. "Cranky today, Trip?"

"Keep them off the mechanic." Jodi said walking out.

The twins rushed over and slipped their arms around Faust. "Trip's being MEAN."

Faust looked over to Jason. "Jason, was it? I see you've met my Sins."

Both waved to the mechanic and giggled.

"This, is Lust." Faust said seductively and kissed the one on his right, then growled and kissed the one on his left. "And this, is Envy."

"Trip won't let us play." Envy complained while Lust nodded. "We'd give him back. In a day or two."

"UGH!" Lacey groaned then glared at Faust. "What are THEY doing here?"

"LACEY." The twins whined.

Lacey ignored them and addressed Jason. "You work on Trip's truck, right? When will it be ready for her?"

Jason tried to regain his composure. "This afternoon, sometime. Does she need it tonight?"

"I need her ready to roll tomorrow morning." Lacey said then added. "Fly-by, too."

Faust looked over. "Monkey said I'm ready. I can go if you need."

Lacey shook her head. "I already have a load for you. It's right up YOUR alley."

"Fly-by is ready. I'll have Trip-9 finished this afternoon and ready to roll." Jason stated.

"Tell me when." Lacey nodded then looked over to Faust and the twins. "Do something with them."

Jason thought it best to make his way out while she was talking to them. He rushed back through the first door of the bays and slowed down as he walked to the last one.

Setting his cup down he shook his head. "Nah, that wasn't strange."

Shaking that off, he went back to work.

 

~*~*~*~
 

The next morning all drivers and mechanics were in the break room when Lacey came in.

"Faust, Stunt-man, Gypsy-moth, Fly-by and Trip; you have loads. PeaceMaker, Check-point Charlie and Hobby; standby-by. Arvee is on idle. SuJa is down." Lacey called out then looked over to a mechanic. "Danny, how long on SuJa?"

Danny nodded. "The truck'll be ready tomorrow. The idiot driving it on the other hand, can't do nothing with. He's beyond all fucking hope."

"Hey now!" SuJa said.

Everyone laughed.

Even Lacey had smiled and waved them out. "Go to work."

When all but the drivers with loads had left, Lacey began handing out envelopes. "Trip and Fly-by are a double-up. Gypsy, I know you're new and all, but you're doubling up with Stunt-man. Sorry."

Dell Seavers looked over to Lacey. "That hurts."

"I'm pretty sure I can deal." Silvia Petrescu, Gypsy-moth, replied.

Silvia was slowly getting used to the company. They were different than any other she had heard of. She had grown up behind the wheel of her father’s Peterbilt. Joined the US Army at 18 as 88H - Cargo Specialist. Silvia won her spurs running Gun trucks on Red Route 1 in Afghanistan after the first of three combat tours. The attitude of 'The load gets through, no exceptions' didn't go without notice. She was tapped to run supplies to the forward Firebases and Basecamps. In all of the runs, she never lost a load or convoy under her protection as a Gun truck driver. Served eight years before being discharged. Honorable Discharge and returned home.

The homecoming wasn't joyous; finding out that her mother and father had been killed in a Hijacking. Her parents had taken a load of small arms ammunition for the U.S. Marines. Within hours the truck was hijacked and stolen, her parents left on the side of the road dead. She spent the next two years looking for the hijackers before finding them, members of a gang subordinate to a Mexican cartel. She killed them in an all-out rolling firefight on I-10 between Pecos and El Paso, Tx. Luck was on her side, along with the law. Public opinion though, was not. No one would give her a load due to the cloud hanging over her head. Everyone thought she was heavy handed in her use of force to protect the load she was carrying. It was a load of high explosives, small arms ammunition, and AT-4’s.

That's how things had been for a year. Two weeks ago, a man with a cane showed up. Troy Montaine; and he had an offer. It was a never-ending fix for a driver like her.

Seavers looked over. "My office in five minutes?"

"Sure." Silvia nodded then went to the office Lacey had assigned her to.

Inside, Silvia changed into the new clothing given to her. Lacey had explained that though it looked cool and fit her style, it's real purpose was to protect her. The pants and feminine-looking Duster were made with ballistic material. Even the boots she had to immediately start wearing four days ago, were bullet-resistant. It felt strange to strap on the gunbelt with its two .45 caliber Heckler and Koch pistols. She had an old Colt, but Montaine shook his head and told her that she would use his guns driving his truck, or none for somebody else.

"My money; my driver, my truck, my guns." Troy said flatly. "Or not at all."

Silvia nodded. There were no two-ways with this man. It would be his way, or no way. After really checking out the truck, she really got the picture. There was NOTHING ordinary about this company. When she had asked around, mouths closed. The only thing people would say about Troy Montaine was, If you needed something, somewhere? He was the man, but don't ever try to cross him.

She then walked down to his office. "I'm ready."

Dell waved her in. "C'mon in."

Dell explained the load. Then he explained the route and why. Finally he explained the protocols. Silvia was impressed. Despite her inital thoughts of him being a bit of a flake, Stunt-man was fairly serious and thorough when explaining.

"I think maybe I need to apologize." Silvia said.

Dell leaned back against his desk. "Why's that?"

"No offense, but I thought you were a flake when I first met you." Silvia commented.

Dell laughed. "I am! I am also a professional. Professional Stunt-Man, Stunt Coordinator, Stunt Driver, Truck Driver. You can be fun and professional at the same time. So what if I'm a flake? I commit to the job when it's time to work. I never got more than bumps and bruises on set. I got hurt off-set and now I do this. Get my point? Do it right, or do it for the last time. This is JUST like stunt-work. The only difference is, you DEFINITELY don't get a second-take. Let's go."

They went to the bays and climbed into their trucks. Within five minutes, the doors lifted and they rolled out. Stunt-man's sparkling root beer color Freightliner leading Gypsy-moth's light grey WesternStar.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Fly-by met Trip in her office.

"Hey Trip. What's the skinny?" Brendan Williams, Fly-by, asked.

Jodi brought over the atlas and pages. "High speed run. Pick-up is in Hot-lanta. The Hot-Zone."

Brendan gave a low whistle. "CDC? Oh jeez. That place creeps me out."

CDC, Center for Disease Control. A Federal Agency under the Department of Health and Human Services . From the common cold to Ebola, focuses its attention on infectious disease, food borne pathogens, environmental health, occupational safety and health, health promotion, injury prevention and educational activities designed to improve health. They maintained a highly restricted research area called the Hot-Zone. Anybody that knew anything about disease research, knew about it. The doctors that worked there were the most highly trained and dedicated. Hot-Zone was for Level-5 contagions. Diseases that killed in days, or hours.

Trip looked over. "Then you're gonna LOVE where the drop-off is."

"Plum Island?" Brendan asked.

"Namtar's Fortress." Jodi replied flatly.

Brendan shivered. He'd only heard rumors of the place. It was where the military secured weaponized pathogen research. It was a classified location hidden at Dugway Proving Grounds, established in 1942 to test biological and chemical weapons, located about 85 miles southwest of Salt Lake City, Utah. Somewhere within an area the size of Rhode Island was a twenty square mile zone called Namtar's Fortress. Namtar was the Mesopotamian god of disease and death. Naming a facility that secured and researched pathogens that had become weaponized after him, wasn't that far of a stretch.

Jodi looked at him intently. "Stay inside your truck. During pick-up and drop off."

"How bad? CDC-5?" Fly-by asked.

Level-5 was the highest level of contagion, lethal, issued by the CDC.

Trip shook her head slowly. "No. This is Black-8."

That put it all into grim reality. The military had their own system for bio-agents. Red one through ten and Black one through ten. Red were naturally occurring and killed within days, like Ebola. All bio-agents in the Black category were created through research and killed within hours. The higher the number, the faster it killed.

"Once we pick-up. The only stopping is for fuel and twice to sleep, four hours each time. We have no restrictions. You and I are the fastest trucks." Trip said then asked. "Go, or No-Go?"

Fly-by looked at the manifest for what seemed like an eternity then said. "Go."

Trip nodded. "Hook up your reefer. We roll in five. I'll lead."

Fly-by nodded.

"All you have to is stay on my tail Fly-by." Trip instructed. "Hook-up and roll."

After grabbing her guns, she led him out. Five minutes later, the grey Kenworth was followed by a white one, heading for the road.

 

~*~*~*~
 

Faust was ready and rolled out in minutes. This was definitely HIS kind of load. A load of 25 tons of cocaine seized by Border Patrol being transferred from their El Paso facility to a DEA group in New Orleans. Normally PeaceMaker would take this type of load, but the information was that the cartel wanted it back and had already tried. They would definitely try again. The DEA requested Faust specifically. They one of two things would happen. Either the load would go through, or the cartel members on this side of the border would be wiped out.

It wasn't his first time and a previous hijack attempt gained him a name. El Chófer del Diablo. The Devil's chauffeur. That amused him. Almost as much as the DEA using seized drugs to bust major organizations. The problem came when large amounts were in play. 25 tons got alot of attention. The producer wanted it back. The smuggler wanted it back. The buyer wanted it back. The junkies themselves wanted it back. All that would between the dope and everybody else, was Faust. A run like this would require the Devil's luck.

---

Chapter 2

Gypsy-moth followed right behind Stunt-man. He had to remind her that they didn't have the load yet, so they still had to play by the rules. Most companies did all they could to prevent dead-heading, running without a load. Empty trucks didn't make money. Phantom was different. Every second the truck was out of the bay was paid. However, the special privileges Phantom had only applied to when they had loads. Except for PeaceMaker, Faust and Trip. Because of the nature of their loads, they had no restrictions. Also there was the off chance that the decontamination of Trip-9 wasn't thorough enough.

"How you doing back there Gypsy?" Stunt-man asked over the radio.

Gypsy-moth called back. "All good Stunt-man. We coming up on it?"

They had drove according to the regulations then stopped in Reno to rest up. Now they were ready. It was late afternoon and they were about to pull in at the holding area n Pershing County. It was basically a high security warehouse for gold and silver bullion produced in Nevada. Also it was where Casinos kept gold payments. The security there was just short of the Depository at Fort Knox. Or so the official statement was. Some secretly argued that it was more heavily defended.

Slowly the two trucks turned in at the gate and stopped. After the authorization was confirmed they rolled through and docked.

"How you doing?" Dell asked the man at the dock. "I'm Stunt-man. She's Gypsy-moth."

The man nodded and shook hands with both. "I'm Rick Scanlon. We're all set to load you up."

Dell nodded. "Ok. Bring 'em on."

Two forklifts began bringing out pallets of gold bullion. Each one stopped before going into the trailers for the bars to be counted. Scanlon also counted. When the last pallet was loaded Gypsy looked over to Stunt-man and shook her head.

"Something's wrong." Scanlon remarked. "Ten bars are missing."

Stunt-man nodded. "Noticed that ourselves. What's up?"

Scanlon looked pissed off. "That's just what I'm going to find out!"

Twenty minutes later one of the forklifts came out with ten bars on a pallet, followed by Rick with a look of disgust.

"Sorry about that. The last bars weren't staged because they had come in separately and were stored differently. My fault." Rick apologized.

The additions were added to the count sheet and Gypsy nodded. "Clerical error I guess."

Scanlon shook his head. "No. I FUCKED up and it's not taken lightly. We don't do 'oops' around here."

"The count is right, now. You fixed an error before it became a problem. I got no gripe." Stunt-man said.

"But I do." Scanlon said clearly. "I messed up. I have to take the hit. That's the way we are here."

Rick Scanlon took both clipboards and signed off then accepted the manifest copies. "Stay safe out there. Our protection stops at the gate."

Stunt-man chuckled. "Fine by us. Let's go Gypsy."

They climbed into their trucks and rolled out. Along the way Stunt-man noticed more Nevada Highway Patrol cars along the highway. They had driven two hundred miles when Gypsy-moth noticed something in her mirror.

"Stunt-man." She called out over their secure radio. "I got something coming up on our back-door."

George Thorogood could be heard in the background when he replied. "We got something up ahead too."

Over the CB a voice called out. "Two trucks heading south. Save yourself some trouble. Pull over and get out."

"That's pretty straight forward." Stunt-man replied over the CB.

Gypsy asked. "Does this mean we can hurt them now?"

"That's a BIG 10-4. Bring out your whiskers and grab a gear." Stunt-man instructed.

He floated up a gear as he drifted into the oncoming lane. Gypsy floated up too and took up his previous space. She also flipped a switch she had been told about. A set of slim metal rods swung out and down from the front bumper. Gypsy had been explained of their purpose. Just as they closed in on the group of vehicles in front of them, she saw what Stunt-man had suspected. Spike strips. She had to laugh as the two trucks broke past unharmed. The Whiskers serving their purpose, scooping up and holding the spike strips away from the tires to be dragged along. A hand signal from him told her to stop and they both bailed out.

Dell had the old M-14 in hand as his boots hit the hardball, Silvia had an M-4. Both opened up, peppering vehicles as they advanced. Good news, bad news. Nevada is a 'stand your ground' state, which means there are a lot of guns, especially assault rifles. These guys didn't show up to party empty handed. Civilian version of AR-15's, Bushmasters, returned fire as did a few AK-47s. That was the bad news. The good news was, the shooters didn't have the skills honed from actual combat or time spent on ranges. The only way to acquire the skill of shooting accurately while being shot at, was experience.

The next best thing to that was being on the set of a war movie. Stunt-man treated it as such and kept his cool and focus. Between the two of them, the hijackers found themselves being hammered by overwhelming return fire.

"COVER ME!" Stunt-man called out then dashed back to the front of the trucks.

Gypsy-moth had complied and triggered off bursts to keep them pinned down as he worked. Stunt-man held the rifle one-handed to shot in the general direction while pulling the spike-strips out of the way. His sharp eyes had caught what Gypsy hadn't. Flashing lights in the distance. Highway Patrol cars were coming.

"TAKE OUT THEIR RIDES!" Stunt-man instructed as he rejoined her.

Gypsy changed aim. "ON IT!"

A static target was easier to hit. Tires were first then they shot into the engine compartments. They weren't concerned about the rounds having the punch to penetrate the blocks, just to get in there and tear up components. Batteries, radiators, belts, distributor caps, hoses and wiring were the real targets.

"THEY'RE WALKING NOW!" Gypsy-moth stated, seeing steam or smoke coming from the vehicles.

Stunt-man smiled. "Roll out!"

Together they covered each other's retreat to the tractors. Gypsy dropped a gear and began to roll forward. Her door popped open again and she leaned out the send cover-fire as Stunt-man climbed up into his truck and began to roll forward. He saw what she was doing and did the same, but in a higher gear. Gypsy ducked back inside and up-shifted. The hijackers knew they were about to lose them and risked coming out to shoot more accurately. That's when they finally noticed the problems had compounded.

Stunt-man dropped back into his seat and shifted again then grabbed his mic. "CUT AND PRINT, THAT'S A WRAP!"

Gypsy-moth wanted to laugh. He left his channel open and she now heard Hold On, I'm Comin' by Welshly Arms start to play.

"You know, I'm surprised you aren't playing Danger Zone." Gypsy called out.

Stunt-man answered. "They didn't have a shoot-out. Besides, we don't have planes. I could have played something from Mad Max Thunderdome, but Tina Turner doesn't fit this."

"It don't?" Gypsy asked shifting again.

Stunt-man laughed. "Nope. She's a nice lady though, never turned anybody on the crew away for autographs or pictures. Even found time to write some songs on set."

"NO WAY! You worked that one?" Gypsy asked as he pulled ahead.

A line of patrol cars screamed past them heading for the fight.

"Just another day on the job." Stunt-man chuckled. "Just like M.I.2 and The Patriot. I was in Shanghai Noon, too. I wanted X-Men but they wouldn't let me."

Gypsy was truly interested. "Why not?"

"The Stunt Coordinator knew I had a sprained ankle." Stunt-man laughed. "He threatened to break it if I ever tried to lie to him again."

Gypsy laughed back. It was easy to understand. That movie had been a blockbuster, anybody would want to have been in it. The rest of their run was uneventful as they blended into the mass of trucks heading East on Interstate 10 then on Interstate 20.

---

Chapter 3

Jake Roper had barely crushed out a cigarette and was lighting another as he stood waiting on the loading dock.

"Roper, what's got you all jittery." The Sergeant in charge of the Border Patrol lock-up asked.

The DEA agent blew out a stream of smoke. "I'll just be glad when this is over."

"Don't feel like the Lone Stranger. If Enrique sends more guys, we might not be able to keep them out." Ron Sanchez remarked. "We're just not equipped or staffed for this kind of thing."

Jake shook his head. "Enrique Ventura is not my main concern."

"Should be. He wants his coke back. Twenty-five tons is A LOT. He's gotta make good or his distributor is going to take it out on him." Ron pointed out.

Roper took another drag off the Winston. "They can slaughter each other for all I care. Look, this has been a constant nightmare and guessing game of who can be trusted the whole time this shit has been here. An hour ago I found out just exactly who is coming to pick it up. I was worried before. Now I'm fucking scared."

The sound of a diesel engine slowing down interrupted them. A red tractor-trailer began turning in.

Roper groaned. "Oh shit. He's here."

The truck stopped and the driver dismounted to open the trailer doors then backed up to the dock and made hiss way to them.

Sanchez felt like he was being sized up by an old rattlesnake when the man in red leather walked up the steps of the dock to join them.

"Agent Jake Roper." The man in red growled with a smile and held out a clipboard. "I'm here to pick up."

Roper didn't like the guy. He knew the man was a border-line psycho, but the higher-ups wanted him. The load was already compromised. No need to be sneaky, the second the coke moved an inch, everybody and their connection would know.

"Load him up!" Roper told the man sitting on a forklift.

Sanchez watched as the man in red stood casually then produce a coin and began to tumble it across his gloved fingers. After two pallets were loaded, he found it strange. The driver wasn't even counting the kilos of cocaine. He barely seemed to pay attention to the pallets either.

"Everybody is obsessed with that shit. You aren't even counting it. Why?" Sanchez asked.

Faust looked over and smiled. "Because I don't care about it."

Ron Sanchez could tell just by looking into the man's eyes. He didn't care if the dope was all there or not. He wanted something else. The man was using the dope as bait.

"Ron. If that load is short, I'm the one at fault. Not him." Jake said as he was watching the next pallet go inside the truck.

"Es esto loco o simplemente estupido?" Sanchez asked quietly to no one, if this was crazy or just stupid.

Faust heard and laughed. "Somebody will be finding out, REAL soon."

Suddenly as the next pallet was driven in Faust stood at the opening of the truck and stopped the forklift from coming back out.

"Ingles, Espanol?" Faust asked.

The man answered. "I speak English. Why?"

Faust pointed into the trailer. "Good. Now go back and get it. Bring it to me."

"I don't." The man started to say, then ducked as the single pistol shot clanged off the support beam in front of him. "SHIT!"

The coin began to tumble over Faust's fingers again then he held it up. "To save time, I'll buy it."

The forklift driver knew he had been found out. With his hands now up, he slowly walked back and pulled the transmitter from the pallet. Faust gave him the coin and took the tracking device.

"Your ass is grass." Roper said.

Faust waved him off. "Finish loading the truck. A deal is a deal. When he calls in he can tell them its me. You know who I am now, don't you?"

After looking at the coin he slowly nodded his head and said in Spanish. "El Chófer del Diablo."

The Devil's driver. The coin had revealed it.

Faust leaned in close and almost purred. "What else are you willing to sell?"

Quickly he shook his head. Now that he knew exactly who stood in front him, he wanted nothing to do with him.

"No? Just load the truck?" Faust asked and when the man nodded he replied. "How disappointing. Load the truck, you have a tip-off to call in."

Roper watched and kept count as the forklift resumed loading. When he was done, Faust beckoned him down then spoke quietly. Roper became more and more unnerved as Faust smiled as he spoke. With the look of a man about to give the order to his own firing squad, the forklift operator took out his cellphone and made a call. After he disconnected, Faust chuckled and patted him on the back.

Roper signed off the manifest and handed the clipboard to Faust. "That's all of it."

Faust signed then tore out the yellow copy. "If you say so. Time for a bit of fun."

"I'm not going to ask. I don't want to know." Roper remarked.

"You don't? That's surprising. Enrique himself is coming." Faust snickered. "I feel generous; I'll leave you a piece Roper."

Roper's eyes widened as a second coin suddenly tumbled across Faust's fingers then offered. "I could offer you a DEAL."

Slowly the DEA Agent reached for the coin. "What do you want?"

"Your undivided attention for a few minutes." Faust leered.

Roper took the coin. "Done."

Faust chuckled. "Don't waste a second."

Roper stared at the man in front of him. A man with a reputation of being pure evil. Sadistic delight danced in his eyes. Roper could hear someone leave to go back into the building and after a couple of minutes, a loud noise. As if something had been dropped.

Finally Faust turned around to leave. "A bargain, the BEST I ever had."

After he left, Roper turned to look. The forklift driver had hung himself from a set of warehouse shelving with an extension cord. There was no need to call paramedics. He could tell from the angle of the man's neck, it was broken. He chose suicide over jail. Considering his character and actions, it was the better of his options.

Sanchez had watched in horror as the whole thing unfolded. He now turned to Roper. "Now we can't get anything from him."

Roper shook his head. "He didn't have anything to give than what he did. He wouldn't have lasted an hour in a cell anyway. Let's go. We're about to see something worse than what Santa Anna wanted at the Alamo."

Faust had a five minute lead and it was increasing. Normally it would be insane to go where the hijacker expected a truck to be. Even more so to make sure they would be getting there in enough time to set up. Faust knew they would be exactly there. They didn't know who he was though, but definitely heard his voice. Especially the tone of it. He had practically challenged them to come. Machismo dictated such an insult had to be met.

Enrique Ventura was beyond angry. First the Border Patrol had discovered the safe house of his cocaine, then seized it and now the informant at the warehouse had been caught. What really burned was the fact that the driver of the truck had openly challenged him, personally, to try taking it back.

"Enrique." A man with a MAC-10 called. "We'll be ready in a couple of minutes."

Enrique snarled. "Hurry up Benito. VAMOS!"

The sound of airhorn caught all their attention. A red truck and trailer was now bearing down on them.

"Is that him?" Benito asked.

Enrique didn't get the chance to answer. Amplified laughter came from the truck as black smoke began to pour from its stacks, the engine roared.

"Este tipo esta loco?" One of the men asked loudly if the driver was crazy.

"Mierda no! Es el chofer! EL CHOFER DEL DIABLO!" One of the men announced.

Several began to shake their heads and start moving away. They now knew who they were facing. The Devil's driver.

Enrique yelled. "TIRAR AHORA! MUERTE TODOS INICIAR TIRO!"

Enraged at his men frozen in fear, Enrique ran out into the middle of the highway and started shooting. The nine millimeter bullets bounced harmlessly away, of the ones that actually hit.

Faust had spotted them in the distance and began playing Mother by Danzig. When he saw them moving around, he knew they had figured out it was him. That's when he switched on the speakers and began to laugh. It only amused him more when the first bullet ricocheted off his truck. The expensive clothing was the give-away. Enrique himself had mustered enough anger or courage to stand and fight. Faust down-shifted and stomped the pedal down. The higher compression from the lower gear served his purpose.

"Un trato es un trato, Enrique." Faust announced then thumbed the switch on the back of the gear shift.

Enrique was now frozen in his own terror as the big red truck bore down. The the drive spoke, a deal is a deal, as flames leaped from both the rig's stacks. Then he was punched backward from the truck's nose. He didn't even hit the ground when it sped up to literally catch and hold him against its grill then plow through the cars in the way. One dragged him down and under the truck.

The men watched in horror as single coin bounced on the road then slowly stop spinning to rest by Enrique's dead hand. They barely saw it when the police cars screeched to a stop. Roper was with them and looked down at the mangled body.

Sanchez saw the coin. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah. A deal's a deal." Roper nodded.

Behind them, men struggled as they were forced into the squad cars. All of them screaming about a truck from Hell, driven by the Devil, laughing as it ran Enrique down.

"Roper. Just exactly who was that guy?" Sanchez asked.

Roper sighed as he felt the coin he had been given. For some reason, it felt like it was burning his hand. "Faust."

"Faust? Like the guy that made the deal with the Devil?" Sanchez looked over.

"Look around." Roper replied then started walking back to car. "What do you think? Could an ordinary man do this? ALL this?"

Sanchez began follow. "No. A crazy one might try."

Faust continued on. Things were fine until night fell and he was approaching Beaumont, Texas. A Highway Patrol unit came along side.

"Attention driver. If you are who I think you are, don't worry. I won't try to stop you." The Highway Patrolman called out over the CB, channel 19.

Faust slipped his helmet back on, just in case and answered. "Oh?"

"Up ahead is a problem. The road is being blocked. A protest group of white supremacists. It's the Klan. They've tied up all Eastbound lanes. Can I ask that you re-route around them?" The patrolman asked.

Faust chuckled. "My speed can't drop now. The explosives will go off to prevent my load from being taken."

The Patrolman was shocked. "EXPLOSIVES? HOW BIG WOULD THE BLAST BE?"

"Sixty pounds of Semtex will be really interesting." Faust now laughed.

In the car, the Patrolman called over his radio to the units trying to clear the protest group and its opposition. "ALL UNITS! ALL UNITS! CLEAR THE HIGHWAY! THE TRUCK COMING IS NOT ALLOWED TO STOP! CLEAR THE FUCKING AREA OF CIVILIANS! ITS BOOBY-TRAPPED IN CASE IT STOPS!"

That was all the Sheriff's deputies and Highway Patrol needed to hear. They immediately began forcing people to the sides. The angry protesters wanted to go back in to continue challenging the men garbed in white robes and quasi-Nazi uniforms spewing slurs against minorities.

The Sheriff himself went in front of that group. "You have to clear these lanes of traffic. Now."

"That badge doesn't change your color, Nigger! You don't tell a proud WHITE man what to do!" The leader of the faction declared.

"Its your funeral if you don't. I can't stop what's coming. Nobody can." Sheriff Darnelle Jones stated then walked away.

Again the derogatory slurs began to go out over bullhorns. It all stooped when the sound a roaring diesel engine could be heard as its headlights cut through the darkness and smoke of a burning cross.

Faust began laughing as the song recommended by his mechanic Monkey began to play again. Nick Nolan's Life Of Sin was becoming a favorite. the speakers outside were switched on and his laughter rang out.

"Fools and their souls are soon parted." Faust announced then switched his lights.

The truck's headlights cut off. From beneath and behind the cab red lights came on, giving the red Peterbilt a hellish glow.

"STAND YOUR GROUND! WE ARE WHITE AND RIGHT!" The white garbed leader called out to his group.

Faust bore down on them then down-shifted. The Caterpillar engine screamed in protest, building compression. As the truck plowed into the now fear-filled group trying to hold the straight-arm Nazi salute, flames erupted from the twin stacks.

Faust called out, laughing. "IT WAS ME ALONE WHO CHOSE, A LIFE OF SIN!"

Screams came from all sides as the truck plowed through, even the burning cross fell to its impact. The truck never slowed, only crushed that in its way underneath. Everyone had been too shocked to try even taking video, much less a picture of it. They all thought the driver would suddenly screech to a stop or the group would jump out of the way. They were all wrong.

On the other side, Faust switched back to regular lights. The song ended. His speakers off he sang along with the next song.

"OUTLAW JUSTICE! TROUBLE'S GONNA COME! OUTLAW JUSTICE! DEVIL'S ON THE RUN! CATCH ME IF YA CAN!" Faust sang.

He was really starting to get into the Dark Country albums. Through the night he rolled on, heading for New Orleans without further event.

---

Chapter 4

Trip and Fly-by had stopped at the Pilot in Atlanta to sleep and eat just after noon. They woke up at ten that night to eat again and refuel then drove out to the Hot-Zone. Two highway patrol cars were sitting at the gate as they pulled in. After they were checked, the trucks were directed inside the compound. A man standing by a small 'yard truck' guided them into a side-by-side parking formation.

He then cranked down the landing gear then unlatched the fifth-wheels. Trip and Fly-by pulled forward, dropping their trailers and clearing the way. The 'yard truck' hooked up to Fly-by's trailer and after the landing gear was retracted, he drove inside a large building.

"So what do we do now?" Fly-by asked over the secure radio.

Trip answered back. "We wait. The trailers are being loaded in a controlled environment. negative air pressure and stable temperature. They'll DeCon the trailers on the way back to us. Try to get in another nap, it's gonna be awhile."

The 'yard truck' came back and took Trip's trailer. Two and half hours later both trucks were knocked on to wake them. Both drivers climbed down and met a man in a suit.

"Forester." Trip greeted him.

Alan Forester nodded. "Nice to see you Trip. The trailer's are loaded and almost finished with DeCon. Here's the manifests. You know the drill, Don't pen the trailers once you set your locks. Maintain constant temperature at all times. You have a fifty-two hour window of transport. Georgia State Patrol will get you out of Atlanta. After that, you're on your own, as usual. Anything?"

"Standard fail-safe?" Trip asked,

Forester nodded. "Without the code, the thermite package will incinerate the entire trailer in three seconds."

Trip nodded. "Copy that. That's it then."

"Ok. Hook up and roll. That's it. You already know the rest. Be careful, this is a Level Black 8. This agent is lethal within three hours of contact. It isn't pretty."

Fly-by asked what was on mind, though he really didn't want to know. "What's it do?"

"It hits hard and fast. First is a shortness of breath accompanied by a feeling of fluid inside the lungs within thirty minutes. That's because you're bleeding into them. The blood then also begins to evacuate via nasal, ears, eyes. Rectal and urethral bleeding as well along with bladder and bowel failure. Major organ failure within the next forty-five minutes to an hour. Major muscles also begin to deteriorate. That's when your brain starts to melt." Forester explained flatly.

Fly-by shook his head to try clearing the mental image the description had given him. "Jesus H-fuckin' Christ!"

"Now you're going think every little thing might be exposure. Never ask what the shit does, dumb-ass." Trip remarked. "It'll kill you, that's enough to know."

Forester patted Fly-by's shoulder. "Even if all goes well, you'll still get checked out before leaving the Fortress. Ok?"

"Ok Doc." Fly-by said, sounding a little more relaxed.

Trip saw the 'yard truck' coming back with Fly-by's trailer. "Get ready. Here they come."

Fly-by looked and headed for his truck. "I'll follow your lead."

Both got back in their trucks and waited. Fly-by backed up and hooked to his trailer and waited while the lines and cables were attached. Trip's trailer was brought out next and she hooked up. They put on their helmets and she rolled out first. Fly-by fell in right behind her. The gate guard waved them on through as the patrol cars pulled out in front. With their lights on, the Georgia Patrolmen led the way to the 285 loop. They merged onto the interstate circle and took the far outside lanes.

"Got any good driving music for this?" Fly-by asked over their secure radio.

Trip opened the channel and pulled up Orange Crush by REM. Soon she was edging 85 miles per hour and starting to crowd the patrol cars.

Fly-by felt good. "are they going to drag ass ALL the way around this damned thing?"

"Who cares. Fall back and drop the hammer. I'll take point." Trip called back then did just that.

The big grey Kenworth eased back then drifted over two lanes and roared to life as the bulk of lights went off.

"Go dark. We're outta here." Trip instructed.

Fly-by followed suit and switched off the bulk of his lights and trod on the accelerator. He stayed hot on her trailer as they began to move through higher gears and screamed past the two bewildered patrol cars. when the song ended, Fly-by called out for a repeat playing. It was the perfect music for the current setting. When both trucks were exceeding 120 the two patrol cars were failing to stay with them and were left as the trucks continued to gain speed.

The two trucks moved through the light traffic in tandem like Sidewinder snakes on hard-pack ground. Trip occasionally flashed her headlights to clear a lane. In no time at all they slowed enough to make a high speed coast of the merge to Interstate 20 then geared up again. Motorists in cars and trucks were startled when the two ghost-like rigs suddenly blasted by them and were gone in seconds. Several CB-ers complained, but were met with silence instead of response.

"BREAK 19! DAMN DRIVER! You wanna back them trucks down? Almost blew me off the damn road!" One CB-er called out. When there was no response he warned all listening. "Ya'll look out. Two crazy-assed drivers are Westbound outta Hot-lanta like their asses're on fire and their heads're catchin'!"

He then called out the mile marker he was at and guessed as to theirs. Trip and Fly-by heard, but ignored the conversation and stayed in the far left lane as their speed topped out. Just above 135 for Trip and 132 for Fly-by. As the traffic thinned out to sporadic she switched on her ground radar. It was the secret to her success. Only her truck and Fly-by's had it as they could reach the highest speeds of the whole group.

Just about all the truckers within a hundred miles had soon heard the warning over the channel and many were not surprised when suddenly the scale stations went into by-pass. Within minutes they saw the reason why. Two rigs running together in almost total black-out screamed past and disappeared just as fast as they came.

"HOLY SHIT, SABER! Did you see THAT?" a driver on the out ramp called out over the radio.

Saber replied. "Nope, Rookie. Didn't see a thing. You must be tired, eyes playing tricks on you. NOTHING there."

Several other drivers echoed the statement, they saw nothing.

Trip heard the exchange and smirk then switched songs to that one Faust had played a while back. Take Me Down by The Pretty Reckless. It wasn't bad.

"OH I LIKE THIS! WOOOOO!" Fly-by called out and let his racing groove settle over him.

For the racer, this just became his kind of run. He knew he wouldn't be able to pass Trip-9, but it was fun to just draft behind, as if waiting for a chance to make his move to steal the lap and flag. They both had twin 85 gallon tanks, but the high speeds they were running at would drink the tanks down fast. Just over the Louisiana line, they pulled in at a small station that was just opening and took on fuel. The mom and pop station could only serve one truck at the time so they made use of it going to restroom. Fly-by took care of his needs while she refueled then Trip did the same as he refueled.

Trip pulled out and led the way back onto the highway as the first rays of sunlight started to stain the sky.

"We'll take Dallas and refuel again to run for line. Stop in Kansas to sleep. Can you handle it?" Trip asked.

Fly-by felt as revved as his truck. "Romp on it Trip, I'm on you. I got the tune."

He set to broadcast and brought up Godsmack with Straight Out Of Line. It was a hard, heavy hitting song. Just what they needed to hear as they came up to speed. They passed through the towns along the way and had to slow down due to the morning traffic. Instead of the usual four and a half hours a normal person needed, it only took them three. He kept the hard hitting music going until they stopped outside Dallas. Both knew this was where their run would slow down.

As Trip-9 pulled out after refueling Jodi called out. "We have to chill until we get outside the outlying towns, then we can get on it again."

"No problem. I can hold back. You said we'd run to the Kansas line and break there, right?" Fly-by asked.

Trip replied. "10-4."

She kept their speed around 75 miles per hour as they wound around Dallas. Several times the traffic opened up enough to let them bump up to over 80 but it wouldn't last long. Typical traffic for such a big city. It would have been safer to wait until close to midnight. That wasn't an option, too much could go wrong and she didn't want to linger in an area for too long. When the ramps for Interstate 35 came into view they sprinted for it and to the Northbound ramp. From there they would stay running North into Oklahoma. Once clear of the suburbs of Dallas the traffic thinned out enough to resume higher speeds. Both trucks accelerated to over 100 miles per hour and maintain it until deep into Oklahoma. Another refuel stop and they ran all the way to Kansas before stopping to refuel. At an old closed down station they backed the trailers together and took a sleep break.

Fly-by shifted around in the seat to get comfortable enough then slept for four hours. When he woke from the chirping of the secure radio he groaned.

"How the hell do you get used to that, Trip?" Fly-by asked.

Trip answered casually. "Practice."

Fly-by shook his head in disbelief. There had been no trace of fatigue at all in her voice. Quickly they performed a walk-around of their trucks and verified they were ready. The two trucks pulled out as the sun was setting. Trip knew the refuel point was within thirty minutes of driving but would only be open for another hour. Normal truck lines would have teams of drivers for runs like this. The nature of the load prevented it. Far safer to only risk two highly paid drivers with no dependents than two teams that usually had families requiring benefits.

That had always been Troy Montaine's hole-card. His drivers had only themselves to lose and thought it was a fair trade in accordance to their personalities. They loved the risk. He didn't want the kind that would risk racing a train to a crossing hauling explosives, he hired the one that always won, because it was the only way they felt alive. A driver that would weld a bulldozer blade to the front of their truck to charge down Donner Pass in a blizzard. Crazy enough to take a challenge, but skilled enough to pull it off. That was the hallmark of Phantom Lines.

Fly-by stuck to Trip's tail-lights as she pushed past 130 again. He had finally felt re-energized after the refuel. A chance to eat and get coffee, he was good to run again. The traffic was light at night and they were running black-out as usual, aided by ground radar. Soon they were on Interstate 70 heading for Colorado. That would be the most difficult leg of the run, Colorado was just as strict on truckers as California and in some case, even harder.

As they crossed the state line, Trip called out. "Colorado. All go-no quit now. Stay on me back there."

Fly-by laughed. "Sure you don't want me to lead?"

"You know the road that good?" Trip asked, already knowing the answer.

"Ya got me. No, I don't. You know this run better than anybody. I'm on you." Fly-by chuckled.

He knew Colorado was an unforgiving state. The roads would curve and plunge without much warning. Even more so if going at high speed. Trip knew the run so well, she could do it almost blind. That was how many she had made. By noon the next day they were finally crossing into Utah. At Salina they jumped off the Interstate onto a State highway big enough to handle their transition to InterState 15 to run up to Salt Lake, but turned off at Santaquin onto state highways. Trip explained it was a more direct route. Direct, but slower and less populated. It was getting harder for Fly-by to stay sharp, but Trip was easily finding ways to keep him engaged and alert. As night fell he saw the first sign. U.S.Army Dugway Proving Grounds. Under that was Skull Valley Reservation.

"Fly-by." Trip called out.

Feeling the miles like never before, Fly-by answered. "Yeah?"

"Back it down. Taking the next left. We'll be there in an hour." Trip informed him.

Fly-by sighed. "Thank FUCKING God! How the hell do you do this?"

"My Give-a-fuck broke in Baghdad. Never got it fixed. Turning." Trip replied.

Both trucks turned onto a narrow black-top road and followed it for twenty minutes. She had kept their speed down enough to not alarm the gate guards. They stopped and were inspected then waved through. Over half an hour later as the first rays of sunlight hit, a large building surrounded by a fence loomed ahead. Another set of guards inspected the trucks and waved them in. An Army Sergeant waved them to a side-by-side parking position then checked over the manifests and unhooked the trailers.

Two Army trucks came over and hooked up to the trailers and took them away while the Sergeant climbed up to stand on the side of Trip-9 and direct her. The trucks were parked and the Sergeant waved for them to follow him inside a smaller building.

"Check and clear your weapons. Clothing goes in here and go through that door." The Sergeant instructed then left.

Trip did as instructed and took her time, letting Fly-by go through first. They would be checked over for any exposure. The final stop was a set of showers. Two sets of Army sweats waited for them. There were M.R.E.s waiting for them and two beds. They were informed they would be kept there for at least twelve hours. When Fly-by finally woke up, it had been almost sixteen hours.

"Wow. I feel like I been beat with a tie-down bar." Fly-by stated, sitting up.

Trip was stamping her foot into a boot, their clothing had been returned during their sleep. "Better than the alternative. We can get dressed now."

Fly-by eagerly began to get back into his own clothing. It looked much like his racing suit.

A door opened and pleasant looking woman came in. "I see you're both awake now."

Trip immediately saluted. "Captain Hill."

The Captain smiled and returned the salute. "As you were. How do you feel?"

"Ready to go, Ma'am." Trip replied. "What's the word?"

"You're both clear, Trip. Mister Fly-by, there's nothing to worry about. Neither of you were exposed. You're fit to leave." Captain Hill stated.

Fly-by laughed. "Ain't gotta tell me twice!"

Captain Hill smiled. "Like I've never heard that before. Right this way, Sergeant Devon will see you out."

They followed her down a hallway then were buzzed through door and met the Sergeant who had brought them in.

"Your trucks and trailers are finished with DeCon. Follow me." He led them to an exit with another door by it. "Specialist Winslow, their weapons."

The soldier in the room nodded. He came back with their pistols and rifles. "Verify arms and sign out."

Trip went first and checked her weapons then signed for them. Fly-by did the same and they followed the Sergeant outside. He led them to their trucks that sat parked in the large lot.

"You're fully fueled and ready to go." The Sergeant informed them.

Quickly they made a a walk-around then climbed into the cabs. Minutes later they were rolling through the gates. An hour later they were approaching the main road.

"If you want, you can bail off and got to Salt Lake to stop for a while. I'm heading straight back." Trip called out over their secure radio.

"Sounds good to me. See you back at the terminal in three days." Fly-by replied and signed off.

In the back of his mind, he wondered exactly what had been in the trailer. He just couldn't see using such big trucks to carry flasks and petri-dishes.

In her own truck, Trip was glad Fly-by hadn't asked any details. Fly-by wouldn't have been able to do so well had he known inside the trailer had been ten capsules containing a human corpse. Very few knew that some of the bodies donated for medical research would be used in such fashion. There was no way to restart a brain, but many of the other functions could be restarted with mechanical means and simulate a live body. One that could host disease. Kept at a critical temperature and using machines to circulate blood and even breathe, a body could fool pathogens into behaving as they would inside a real living person.

The only other method was using animals such as primates or pigs as test subjects. That was where real risk came in. The diseased animals had a habit of being uncooperative, even attacking the researchers and infecting them. Trip knew that by the time they had both returned to Phantom's terminal, the Army and DARPA researchers would be working to synthesize a serum to combat the pathogen. A serum that would then be stockpiled in case of an outbreak.

---

Chapter 5

Trip sat down in the salon chair.

"So Jodi. You have great length now, don't tell me you want it all gone?" The stylist asked.

Trip shook her head. "No Stacy. I want something different though. A color maybe."

Stacy nodded and smiled. "Color is good. What do you want to do?"

Trip held up her jacket, a dark grey color. "Match this."

"You're nuts." Stacy remarked.

Trip tossed the jacket into another chair. "Make it happen Stace."

"Ok." Stacy said. "I still think you're nuts. Who wants grey hair on purpose? Platinum blonde, sure, but actual grey? It's your hair. I'll do it if you want."

Trip sat back and watched as Stacy began mixing the color then drape a cape over her. when the brush began to apply the color, Trip smirked at her own reflection.