CHAPTER ONE

A ham-size fist connected squarely with Jerod Jones’s face, landing him on his back, skidding down the polished floor in front of the bar, patron’s feet hopping out of the way. The huge trucker stood firmly, feet planted shoulder-width apart, fists curled into tight, vibrating balls. He leaned forward as if against a powerful headwind to deliver his snarling condemnation.

“You fuckin’ rag-head sympathizer! Maybe you think those assholes who flew our planes into buildings should get frequent flyer miles!”

Without a lick of embarrassment, Jones managed a wry smile as he climbed to shaky feet, spewing apologies to those silent, staring customers pressed back against the bar.

“Sorry, Sorry. Didn’t mean to scuff your shoes—did I tear your nylons, dear—sorry—nice legs.”

Jones stretched his six foot frame upright, rotating the kinks out of his muscular shoulders as he rubbed his jaw. As if an afterthought, his flecked brown eyes, slid up to his attacker. This piercing look wasn’t hostile, but for the receiver, deeply unsettling, and caused the much bigger man to flinch.

Jones peered at the trucker, but his speech seemed to be for everyone.

“It’s damn true. I am a son-of-a-bitch. Least most see me that way. Be that as it may, all I’m sayin’ is, if someone fucks with someone else long enough, there’s gonna be a reaction. You know, cause-and-effect.”

The trucker pulled his eyes away from Jake to garner some support from the crowd.

“Cause they’re fuckin’ dick-wads, and we’re the effect of god’s hand that’s gonna stamp them assholes out.”

Plenty of supporting guffaws from some good-ol-boys standing about. Jones nodded in seeming appreciation while rubbing life back into his thirty-three year old limbs.

“Well, ya see Bubba, that’s not the cause-and-effect I had in mind. I was thinkin’ a little closer to home. Somethin’ like this: I give my opinion, which is a cause; then you knock me on my ass; that’s an effect. Cause and effect.”

Several people laughed, their darting eyes searching for support. Jones continued his instructive commentary as if a secondary school teacher in front of a rowdy group of pupils.

“But listen, ya gotta stay with me now, because this is where an effect turns into a cause.”

The trucker glared across at Jones, his fist rising with his temper.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Jones’s eyes drilled into the trucker’s

“Your effect; knocking me on my ass, has become my cause.”

“Cause for what, you babblin’ dipshit?”

“Cause for me to help some paramedics earn their pay.”

Jones leapt forward with a barrage of punches, finishing with a powerful uppercut, arcing the towering trucker onto his back with a heavy thud, jumping the beer bottles on the bar. The whole saloon yelped in unison, but froze as they stared in awe. The silence was short-lived; a few trucker friends from behind their fallen comrade began their advance. Jones whisked a beer bottle off the bar. He tapped the end of it into his open palm as he eyed the approaching threat.

“Ya know, I like beer. I can drink this or bash it across somebody’s head.” The glint in his eyes went out. “What’s it gonna be?”

A roomful of eyes shifted to the three stout truckers. As if following their initial intention all along, the boys diverted their path to their fallen friend to lend helping hands. The bruised trucker shrugged them off.

“Get the fuck off me!”

The big man wavered on his feet, glowering at Jones. Jones returned a look, but not the hostility. The sparkle came back into his eyes as he glanced around the static room.

“Well, I guess a good show like that deserves free drinks for everybody!”

Sudden, thankful cheers erupted from everyone as a roomful of casual observers crowded the bar, filling in the space between the combatants. Blurs of smiles and numerous pats on the back for Jones. Jones grinned back at all his new-found friends.

“All that excitement makes a man want to pee. Hold my place, will ya?”

Jones smiled his way through the mass of happy bodies, out of the bar, past the bathrooms, and into the brisk autumn night air. Chuckling to himself, he scurried to his 1999 Kenworth W900L eighteen-wheeler and climbed aboard without a look back. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he gave a salute to the spotlight-lit Gracie’s Truck Stop sign.

The radiant glow of the dashboard lights accented Jones’s rugged face and devious smile.

“Partir, c’est mourir un peu. To leave is to die a little.” A wry, sad laugh escaped. “Or, in my case, it’s to live a bit longer.”

Jones’s semi turned off the empty country road and followed his lights up a long gravel drive through over-hanging trees. The yellow beams swung past a two-story clapboard country house, an old rusted Ford that had grown into the landscape, and an overgrown pile of cut wood waiting for a winter night. At the end of the driveway, a small white prefab warehouse loomed bright in the headlamps. Jones circled his truck and pulled to a gentle stop in front.

A middle-aged man in coveralls limped from the house and hobbled down the drive, a scurvy smile twisting his lips, suckin’ on a pipe, and spittin’ tobacco. Jones climbed down from the truck and stopped in the drive, shaking his head in incomprehensible wonder.

“Jesus, Lenny. Ya gotta smoke and chaw at the same time? Why ya rushin’ to your maker so fast?”

Lenny squinted at Jones as he shuffled to a stop not a foot away. He looked up at Jones’s shit-eating smirking face as if peering into the mysterious countenance of the Sphinx. His rebuttal came out as a statement of fact.

“You’ve seen my wife and kids.”

“Fuckin’ hell, Lenny. You don’t have a wife and kids.”

“And no nagging mother, neither. In fact, the closest thing I have to a nosey busybody would be you, Jones.”

Jones’s eyebrows shot up in wonder.

“My god, Lenny! I do believe you gave me a compliment.”

Lenny eyed Jones sideway, but couldn’t help from grinning. He turned away and headed for the warehouse.

“It’s a good thing I only see your bony ass twice a month. Back your rig inside. We got one heavy sucker and a bunch of throw-ons.”

Jones did as commanded and eased the rear of his big rig into the tight opening of the sheet metal warehouse. Floor to ceiling, boxes and crates were stacked about, almost filling the enclosure, but sitting on a forklift like a prized possession from Raiders of the Lost Ark, was a wooden crate about four feet in two directions and eight feet long.

Jones eyed the crate suspiciously. “What the hell’s in there?”

Lenny snapped back a response to a stupid question. “How the fuck should I know? They ain’t paying us a grand and five for 20 questions. It’s machine parts, whatdaya think?”

Jones rubbed his chin as his eyes flicked between the crate and Lenny.

“Good thing I got a light load. I guess we can pile the other stuff on top.”

Lenny barked a quick dismissal. “That’s a no-can-do, no sir. Nothing on top. Jam it in around, okay?”

Jones squinted at Lenny.

“You got somethin’ live in there, Lenny. I’m not transportin’ any illegals or Mafia hits. Nope. I saw that movie where the guy finds this Chinese girl in his trunk and—”

“Jones, there’s no people in the goddamn crate. Nor animals, or aliens from outer space. It’s just heavy stuff.”

Jones’s eyes went back to the crate.

“Oh, okay, then. Just heavy, not alive, stuff...and no drugs, right?”

Inside twenty, Jones was behind the wheel of his rig, and leaning out the driver’s window to Lenny, standing in the drive.

“I’ll call ya at the first drop.”

“Remember, this has a timeframe, Jones. Six days. No more. We all know you’re one of the world’s better examples of a fuck-up, but your saving grace is that you’re always on time.”

Jones gave Lenny a shit-eating grin.

“We all have our talents.

Lenny adroitly ignored him.

“On your flip side, we’ll catch-up on lies about our past over a couple bottles of Jack.”

Jones hesitated, as if he should say something more, but didn’t.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

Lenny flicked Jones a fleeting look, and turned away with a wave as he gimped across the drive. Jones’s big truck crept down the long drive, turned onto the country road, and disappeared over a hill.

The interior light came on in a sedan parked near Lenny’s driveway, illuminating two suited men, one on a cell phone.

“Yeah, it’s Burton. We have an old Kenworth eighteen-wheeler with a freight box, Oregon plates, DB-669-1549. One large crate, numerous small boxes. Headed somewhere east. Lag time six days, so could be anywhere along the eastern shore. Yes, sir, we have the tracker on him.”