Deliverer Read online

  "Wouldn't McAllister hide his involvement? Try to lead us off the path by killing them where we wouldn't expect it?"

  Killing them. Truman's stomach turned over. That was, after all, the expectation now. His men were probably dead. "I don't think so. I think McAllister wants us to know he did this. He'll lay it out in the open for us."

  "Mocking," Claber said.

  "A taunt, for sure," Truman agreed. Anger darkened his insides and twisted there, burning. What did McAllister have against him, anyway?

  Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. Hamlet’s father said it best. "Perhaps also an invitation to play."

  Claber turned. "I'll make those phone calls."

  "I need something to read," Truman said, Shakespeare’s haunting words echoing in his mind. In spite of his lack of formal education, the plays of the Bard had captured his attention. Especially the tragedies. The injustice was so poetic.

  Barley lifted his head and whined, his large brown eyes mournful. Truman reached down and scratched behind his ears. “Bring me Hamlet. No. Macbeth." Yes. Betrayals, murders, and three witches. He put his face down on the table and waited for Claber to return.

  It seemed only a moment before the table jostled, waking Truman. He blinked blearily and lifted his head. Claber sat next to him and dropped a heavy book on the table.

  "Brought you all of Shakespeare. In case you change your mind again."

  "Thank you. Anything to report?"

  "Yes." Claber's eyes flicked toward a corner of the room, and he smoothed a hand over his buzzed hair. "The Ontario agent investigated for me. Found a two-car accident on a small back road, just south of the rendezvous point. A little greenie and a black sedan."

  Truman stood and opened his liquor cabinet. He hovered over the whiskey and chose the Scotch instead. "Cause?"

  "Looks like the driver of the green car was shot in the head. He went into a tailspin and took out the sedan when he crashed."

  He swallowed back a shot. "Survivors?"

  "No, but it wasn't the crash that killed them. All three men in the green car had multiple gunshot wounds."

  Truman nodded, feeling his eyes glaze over. Not a big surprise, really. Ever since that conversation last night, he'd felt something coming. Something like this. Truman stood up, drunk with fatigue and worry rather than alcohol.

  "One more thing. They didn't find any weapons."

  “The machine gun was gone?”

  “Gone.”

  Which begged a question. Had his men enacted the deal before their murders? He tried to dredge up sorrow for their deaths, but the only thing he felt was a prickly fear creeping over his neck.

  Truman shook it off. He couldn't do anything right now. "Macbeth," he said. "It's time we got reacquainted."

  Chapter 5

  Truman stayed in bed long after the sun came up. He lay half in and half out of his sheets, keeping the blinds closed and the room dark. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted like cotton.

  It was Eli who woke him, his fat lip hanging out over his chin "Boss, sorry to bother you, it's just—"

  "What?" Truman snapped, though he was too exhausted to be genuinely irritated.

  "It's McAllister." Eli held out Claber's cell phone.

  Adrenaline rushed through Truman's veins, and he sat up, heart pumping. He covered the phone and hissed, "Where's Claber?"

  "Don't know. But his phone was on the counter, and I answered it."

  That protocol needed discussing. But not now. Truman took the phone and said stiffly, "Hello?"

  "Truman." McAllister's voice slid across the phone waves like a slimy sea eel. "It appears you lied to me, my friend."

  McAllister knew. "There might have been a misunderstanding," Truman hedged.

  "No." McAllister's voice turned hard. "I misunderstood nothing. You killed my men, took my car, and stole my guns."

  Truman’s ire rose. "Then we are partially even," he said. "Since you killed my men."

  "Hardly," McAllister growled. "That was fair play. But now the gig's up, and I want my guns back."

  "I don't have your guns," Truman said. Even as he said the words, the full meaning hit him in the gut. There’d been no weapons in the car. His men must've sold them before the attack. But then, where was the money? He hadn't seen any deposits for it, and the agent hadn't indicated that the police found it with the bodies. McAllister must have taken it. "As you well know."

  "I hope you're lying, Truman," McAllister said, his voice going so soft Truman strained to hear it. "It will not bode well for you if I don't get them back."

  "I don't have them," Truman repeated. His mind raced. What could he do to appease McAllister? "Those men attacked one of my raids. I didn’t know they were yours. We defended ourselves."

  "They were collecting payment, Truman. What you rightfully owe me for our losses in Cancun!"

  Truman’s heart dropped into a pit in his stomach. McAllister must know how he lured the Carnicero to Mexico. But he couldn’t know. All Truman had done was leave bread crumbs, really. "What do you mean?"

  "You." McAllister's voice rumbled. "You leaked information about our meeting. The Carnicero followed Cisnero to my hotel. We all died. Because of you.”

  “What makes you think it was me?” Truman tried to sound logical. “You yourself said he’s always tracking us.”

  “Because no one else would be so stupid,” McAllister hissed. “You were there days before we were. And you’re the only one who doesn’t take this seriously.”

  Truman paused just a moment too long, and he knew it cemented his guilt. “I’ve had no contact with the Carnicero.”

  "Say what you want, Truman," McAllister growled. "I want my money. I want reimbursement for my dead men. And I want my weapons back. Got that?"

  "I'm not—" Truman began, but his defense was cut short.

  "Don't make me send you an invoice. I want to exchange money personally. No deposits. I'll be in touch."

  The call disconnected and Truman stared in disbelief at the phone in his hand.

  "What did he want?" Eli’s eyes narrowed. "Something about the Carnicero?"

  "Nothing to worry about.” Truman hadn’t seen any money from the sale of the weapons. It might still be in the car. “Take Kessler and the Bennett brothers back to the scene of the accident. Check the car for money. If you find any, deposit it immediately."

  #

  Truman waited in the darkened supermarket parking lot, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in impatience and suspense. He had agreed to meet McAllister's men here at one a.m., but so far they hadn't shown.

  The search at the crash site and the impounded vehicle had yielded nothing. No weapons, no money. Which meant someone had taken it. Truman had his suspicions of who that was, and the name started with Mc. He had no proof, however, and pointing fingers might only incriminate him further.

  Sanchez snored in the back, and Kessler's head bobbed in the passenger seat while the man struggled to keep his eyes open. McAllister's willingness to allow two of Truman's men to accompany him assuaged some of his fears.

  Kessler turned around and whacked Sanchez's leg. "Wake up!"

  Sanchez snorted and jerked his head up. "What? What is it?"

  "There," Truman said, pointing.

  A dark SUV with only its day lights on pulled up beside Truman. A beefy man emerged from the passenger side and opened the back door. He stood next to it, arms crossed, waiting.

  Truman grimaced. He hadn't planned on going anywhere. He didn't see an easy way out of this, though, so he pocketed his keys and emerged from his Ferrari. “Where's McAllister? I thought he had something to tell me.”

  “He does. Get in the car.”

  Truman leaned back against the low profile of his car and folded his arms. “You must think I'm crazy.”

  The beefy man cracked his knuckles and glared at Truman. Sanchez got out on the other side of the car, followed by Kessler.

  “I have my orders, Truman. I need
you all with me. McAllister is waiting.” The man sneered, his eyes following Truman’s men as they circled the vehicle and flanked me. “And you know how he hates to be kept waiting.”

  Before Truman could react, the beefy man shot out a fist, hitting Kessler in the jaw. He fell against the car and Sanchez threw a right hook into the neck of the man pummeling Kessler.

  “Enough!” Truman shouted, coming between them. “I'm pretty sure McAllister needs me in a cooperative mood.” He gestured toward the open door.

  The beefy man stood up straight, rolling a shoulder and popping his neck. “Get in.” He stood at the door like an avenging footman. One hand swung toward the car’s interior.

  “But boss—” Sanchez started.

  Truman cut him off. “Just get in the car.”

  The beefy guy waited for him and his men to get in, then closed the door and returned to the front.

  "All right," Truman said as the car peeled away from the parking lot. "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see when we get there," the driver said.

  Something large whacked Truman in the back off his head, hard. His vision swam and then went black.

  #

  When Truman came to, he sat in a chair with his hands tied behind his back, his head pounding painfully. He could see nothing in front of him except darkness, but he sensed he wasn't alone.

  He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth, trying to moisten it. "Where am I?" he croaked.

  A single light bulb in front of Truman clicked on. It swayed, leaving little purple and black dots in his line of vision. It also illuminated McAllister as he leaned forward in a chair across from Truman.

  "Welcome."

  Truman stared back at the man. The pain in his head made it difficult to think. "Is this how you treat all your guests?"

  "Sorry for the less-than-gracious accommodations. You are, at this point, more foe than friend. But perhaps we can change that."

  Truman's chest tightened. He didn't want to be on the bad side of any of these mercenaries. "Where are my men?"

  "On either side of you." McAllister gestured.

  Truman swiveled his head, and he realized two other chairs backed up against his. Sanchez and Kessler were not only tied up, but gagged. He couldn't make out their faces enough to see if they were awake. "What do you want?"

  "Simple. My weapons, and reimbursement for my losses."

  "I don't have them." And he didn't have any money for McAllister, either. None he was willing to give up.

  McAllister leaned closer, a gleam in his black eyes. "Millions," he said, his breath rank with the smell of cigarette smoke. "Those weapons were worth millions if sold into the right hands. Black market. But you wouldn't know that. You wouldn't even know who to sell them to. So where are they?" He pulled a gun from his pocket and caressed the mouth of the barrel.

  Truman knew a threat when he saw one. "I don't know."

  "But you saw them." McAllister loaded a bullet into the chamber with a sharp click. "Didn't you?"

  "I saw them. They never left the car. Unless you know otherwise." As far as he knew, Truman was telling the truth. Maybe the weapons were never sold. "If they weren't there after the car crash, I don't know where they went. Maybe someone is not being honest with you." That might be true, too. Because something was missing, whether it was the weapons or the money. And Truman didn't have it.

  "Michael," McAllister whispered.

  Michael? What did that mean?

  Truman only had a moment to wonder before a man stepped from the shadows and dropped a pillowcase over his head. A moment later his chair flipped over so that Truman lay on his back, hands crushed between him and the concrete floor.

  Water gushed over his face, seeping into the cloth around his nose and mouth. Truman gasped for breath, but only liquid filled his mouth. He inhaled and snorted against the burn as water gushed into his nostrils.

  He couldn't breathe. His heart beat erratically, and his hands pulled against the rope holding them, grabbing at the chair as he struggled for air. He tossed his head to and fro, trying to shake the pillowcase off, until someone grasped him in a vice-grip and held him still. Truman bellowed, but more water entered his mouth. He grew lightheaded and banged his head against the chair.

  The chair righted and the cloth came off. Truman sputtered, sucking air into his lungs, rasping against the ache in his chest.

  "We were saying," McAllister continued as if nothing had happened. "Where are those weapons?"

  McAllister will kill me.

  With that realization, Truman's composure crumpled. "Listen." He tried to shout the word, but his raw throat only managed a stage whisper. "I'm being completely honest. We don't have—"

  McAllister flicked his finger and Truman was on his back again, pillowcase shoved over him. Again he tossed his head until someone held him still. He sputtered, a soundless scream fighting over the streaming water.

  When they sat him up, Truman hung his head, staring at the ground and gasping as water ran down his chin and nose. He waited. This was McAllister's game.

  "Now. Where are those weapons?"

  Truman didn't answer. Water pooled on the concrete beneath his feet.

  "Truman. Where are they?"

  The Hand. He was The Hand. Anger and fear surged together into a desperate wave of defense, and his head bobbed up. "I don't know!" His hoarse voice echoed in the room, which must've been bigger than he thought. "My men are dead! I never received payment for the weapons, and I don't have them!"

  "Ah." A satisfied smile drew up the corners of McAllister's mouth. "But you did take them. Now we're getting somewhere." He templed his fingers and pressed the tips to the goatee on his chin. "I guess that means you owe me."

  "Yes," Truman whispered. "I owe you." Just let us out of here, he thought, and we'll see about who owes who.

  "I would say you owe me quite a bit. So let's cut a deal. Your life—for ten million."

  Truman sputtered. Ten million? He would have to triple—no, quadruple—his number of raids, make an effort to bring in the big bucks, cut his men's pay, risk losing his moles, all in the name of making this money.

  "You think that's a lot?" The smile still played on McAllister's face. "Let's add things up. You led the Carnicero to us in Mexico. I lost men and merchandise. Two million. You shot my men. You might not think they were worth much, but they were to me. And now I'm supporting their families. So one million for both of them. Then there's the car. Not my nicest vehicle, but a good car. Fifty grand. But then we've also got the issue of the weapons." His eyes flashed in the darkness. "I could've gotten almost a million for each, and I had five of them."

  "That's only eight million," Truman protested.

  "But we're here, aren't we?" McAllister growled. "I had to search for my men. I had to contact you. Then I had to drag you out here, wasting my time and yours, so we could come to an agreement. My time is valuable." His hand twitched. "Wouldn't you agree?"

  Truman's eyes strayed to the man behind McAllister's left shoulder. He gave a nod.

  McAllister struck him in the side of the head again. “Answer me!” He screamed.

  “Yes!” Truman screamed back. His vision swam again and he could hardly focus on the man in front of him.

  McAllister seated himself. "Glad we are in agreement. Therefore I added on another two million. Call it inflation, call it service charge, call it manual labor." He put his hands on his knees and leaned close enough to Truman for their noses to touch. " Or call it revenge. But that is my price. Your life is included there. Take it or leave it."

  Truman couldn't make that money. But the other option wasn’t really viable. Literally. Somehow he had to come up with it. "How long?"

  "I'll give you one month."

  One month was hardly enough time, but Truman knew better than to reason with a madman. McAllister had set the bar high so Truman would fail. The man would like nothing better than to see him fall. "All right. I'll do it."

&nb
sp; "So glad we could come to an arrangement." He stood and stretched, motioning his thug to untie Truman.

  Truman relaxed his fists, trying not to show how he trembled.

  The man untied Kessler next, then moved on to Sanchez. Truman met Sanchez's eyes, gave him a small nod.

  "Oh, one more thing, Truman," McAllister said, his tone conversational. "I forgot to mention what will happen if you fail."

  Truman didn't even want to know. He rubbed his wrists. "What?"

  "I will hunt you, Truman." He pulled out his gun and leveled it at Sanchez, who had barely stood up. "I will take you down." He shot Sanchez's right foot. Sanchez shrieked around his gag and grabbed it, stumbling on the left one.

  "One man," McAllister continued, shooting Sanchez in the left thigh.

  "Stop!" Truman shouted, making a move toward Sanchez even as the man collapsed on the concrete, moaning and writhing in agony.

  "At a time," McAllister finished, shooting Sanchez in the head.

  The last gunshot echoed in the room, made more poignant by the silence that followed. Sanchez lay still, his bloody remains speckling the gray floor. Truman stared, a nameless horror building in the pit of his stomach and spreading to his pounding head.

  This wasn't an arrangement. It was a threat. It wasn't a debt, it was a ransom.

  "There was no need for that," Truman said, finally finding his voice. The words came out calm, surprising himself.

  "Consider it an object lesson," McAllister replied evenly. "Just in case you thought about running, or cheating, or anything less than fulfilling our bargain."

  "Of course," Truman said, as if killing his man were nothing out of the ordinary. "Now let us go, before I have no one left to help me collect your money."

  McAllister chuckled and gestured to his thug. "Blindfold Truman and get him out of here."

  Truman stiffened. "Just me?" He cursed himself for not seeing through McAllister's plan. This was why he hadn't made Truman come alone.

  "We'll keep your friend here." McAllister stepped up to Kessler and put a hand on his shoulder. "As collateral."

  Truman met Kessler's eyes and then dropped his gaze. He had no intention of losing this man's life to McAllister as well. But he wasn’t certain he could succeed.