Deliverer Read Online Free PDF Page A

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