garage."
Truman switched directions, curiosity filling him as he thought about the mystery car. It should provide a few clues.
Sanchez and Allan stood next to the car in the circle drive, deep in conversation. Sanchez leaned against the hood of the dark green BMW, his deep-set eyes shaded by a baseball cap. For a moment the bright sunlight reflecting off the car blinded Truman, and he shielded his eyes. There was something familiar about it.
"Boss." Sanchez pushed off the hood and approached him.
"Everything go right?" Truman studied the sleek sports car in front of him. It didn't look like the normal car used in a robbery. Barley sniffed the tires and then lifted a leg. Truman snapped his fingers. “Barley, down, boy!”
“Where’s the boyscout?” Claber snapped and glanced around. “Someone get the dog back in the house!”
Sanchez’s eyes darted toward Barley. He made a move as if to grab him.
“Sanchez!” Truman barked. “Tell me what happened.”
"We got the jewels. None of our men died."
Truman leaned in the driver's side and inhaled the clean car scent. Nothing his men drove smelled so clean. "Any idea whose car this is?"
"No, boss. We didn't stop to examine it. We got some blood on the exterior... but we took it through a car wash. So it's good now."
“Good thinking.” Cleaning up after a homicide wasn’t the norm for his men. At least they’d thought on their feet. Truman popped the trunk and went around to the back of the car.
Sanchez and Allan joined him. Sanchez let out a low whistle. "I didn't see that when I was throwing in the bodies. That's a hot piece of metal."
“You didn't notice this blood, either.” Truman scowled at the black blood stains on the upholstery, then turned his attention to the weapon in the trunk. He withdrew the long black machine gun, a chill running through him to know how easily his men could've been slaughtered. But who would have such a weapon, and why harass his men? More importantly, why have such a weapon and not use it?
McAllister.
The name popped into Truman's head just as he realized where he'd seen the car before. McAllister had it at a summit in Colorado. McAllister trafficked in illegal weaponry. This was his car.
Truman put the gun down, studying the interior of the rest of the car. He owned several guns and kept his men armed. But most weapons like this one ended up in the hands of tyrants, evil men who lusted after power and had no qualms about murdering hundreds of thousands of people if they stood in their way.
Truman did not condone such behavior. But this weapon sat in the back of a trunk like a gift, a token apology for nearly ruining his raid. And probably several others could be found under the upholstery, in the dash, beneath chairs.
He shut the trunk. "Anyone see you?" he asked without looking at Sanchez.
"Only the dead men."
Truman cringed at the words. "Keep this on the down-low. Allan, I need an illegal arms dealer. Someone who won’t know me. Clear it with me, then take a couple of men and make an exchange. And rip out that upholsery before you sell the car."
"Got it." Allan vanished inside the four-story mansion.
“Sanchez.” Truman called back the other man before he could follow Allan. “Stay here. Tell me exactly what happened.” Truman stared a moment longer at the dark green car. He had to rid himself of this car, along with the weapons, before McAllister could trace it to him.
Chapter 4
Truman's men spread around the game room, plates of sandwiches and chips propped up between card games and beers. Allan and his group should be home in a day from their assignment. The sooner, the better. Truman wanted this whole thing behind him.
Smoke filled the air from various cigarettes and cigars like a sleazy bar from a 1950s mobster movie. Truman pointed his pencil at a road highlighted on the map in front of him. "Put the getaway car here," he said to Claber. "You'll be half a block from the store, but you
Truman switched directions, curiosity filling him as he thought about the mystery car. It should provide a few clues.
Sanchez and Allan stood next to the car in the circle drive, deep in conversation. Sanchez leaned against the hood of the dark green BMW, his deep-set eyes shaded by a baseball cap. For a moment the bright sunlight reflecting off the car blinded Truman, and he shielded his eyes. There was something familiar about it.
"Boss." Sanchez pushed off the hood and approached him.
"Everything go right?" Truman studied the sleek sports car in front of him. It didn't look like the normal car used in a robbery. Barley sniffed the tires and then lifted a leg. Truman snapped his fingers. “Barley, down, boy!”
“Where’s the boyscout?” Claber snapped and glanced around. “Someone get the dog back in the house!”
Sanchez’s eyes darted toward Barley. He made a move as if to grab him.
“Sanchez!” Truman barked. “Tell me what happened.”
"We got the jewels. None of our men died."
Truman leaned in the driver's side and inhaled the clean car scent. Nothing his men drove smelled so clean. "Any idea whose car this is?"
"No, boss. We didn't stop to examine it. We got some blood on the exterior... but we took it through a car wash. So it's good now."
“Good thinking.” Cleaning up after a homicide wasn’t the norm for his men. At least they’d thought on their feet. Truman popped the trunk and went around to the back of the car.
Sanchez and Allan joined him. Sanchez let out a low whistle. "I didn't see that when I was throwing in the bodies. That's a hot piece of metal."
“You didn't notice this blood, either.” Truman scowled at the black blood stains on the upholstery, then turned his attention to the weapon in the trunk. He withdrew the long black machine gun, a chill running through him to know how easily his men could've been slaughtered. But who would have such a weapon, and why harass his men? More importantly, why have such a weapon and not use it?
McAllister.
The name popped into Truman's head just as he realized where he'd seen the car before. McAllister had it at a summit in Colorado. McAllister trafficked in illegal weaponry. This was his car.
Truman put the gun down, studying the interior of the rest of the car. He owned several guns and kept his men armed. But most weapons like this one ended up in the hands of tyrants, evil men who lusted after power and had no qualms about murdering hundreds of thousands of people if they stood in their way.
Truman did not condone such behavior. But this weapon sat in the back of a trunk like a gift, a token apology for nearly ruining his raid. And probably several others could be found under the upholstery, in the dash, beneath chairs.
He shut the trunk. "Anyone see you?" he asked without looking at Sanchez.
"Only the dead men."
Truman cringed at the words. "Keep this on the down-low. Allan, I need an illegal arms dealer. Someone who won’t know me. Clear it with me, then take a couple of men and make an exchange. And rip out that upholsery before you sell the car."
"Got it." Allan vanished inside the four-story mansion.
“Sanchez.” Truman called back the other man before he could follow Allan. “Stay here. Tell me exactly what happened.” Truman stared a moment longer at the dark green car. He had to rid himself of this car, along with the weapons, before McAllister could trace it to him.
Chapter 4
Truman's men spread around the game room, plates of sandwiches and chips propped up between card games and beers. Allan and his group should be home in a day from their assignment. The sooner, the better. Truman wanted this whole thing behind him.
Smoke filled the air from various cigarettes and cigars like a sleazy bar from a 1950s mobster movie. Truman pointed his pencil at a road highlighted on the map in front of him. "Put the getaway car here," he said to Claber. "You'll be half a block from the store, but you
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