Deliverer

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?"