Deliverer Read online

  Also by Tamara Hart Heiner:

  Perilous (WiDo Publishing 2010)

  Altercation (WiDo Publishing 2012)

  Inevitable (Tamark Press 2013)

  Deliverer

  Tamara Hart Heiner

  Kindle edition

  copyright 2013 Tamara Hart Heiner

  cover art by Steve Novak

  Also by Tamara Hart Heiner:

  Perilous (WiDo Publishing 2010)

  Altercation (WiDo Publishing 2012)

  Inevitable (Tamark Publishing 2013)

  Kindle Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Deliverer

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  About the Author

  Other Books by this Author

  First Page of Perilous

  Dedication

  To Charity Broeringmeyer (say that three times fast) and Hillary Sperry, for the honest and unrelenting feedback. It was just what I needed. And to the rest of the Bella Vista/Bentonville Writer’s Group. You make learning fun!

  And to my husband Mark. All writers know that without a supportive spouse, the muses don’t work. For his support I am eternally grateful.

  Chapter 1

  “There.” Jeff Truman nodded his head toward the private car that had just pulled up to the posh hotel across the street. A balding, sunburned man climbed out, pushing a pair of sunglasses up his nose. A gold chain glinted around his neck. Several body guards flanked him.

  Claber lifted his camera and snapped a picture. “McAllister.”

  “Maverick will be here soon.” Truman pulled on his fingers, relishing the sound that released tension with each crack. “You sure this is a good idea?”

  Claber’s green eyes darted toward Truman before focusing on the beachfront hotel. “You mean, using them as bait to lure out the Carnicero?”

  Bait. Truman gnawed his lower lip. Such a strong word. “They’re not bait.” Maybe they were. “If something goes wrong...” He let the sentence draw off.

  “You’re doing a service. It benefits all of us if we can learn the Carnicero’s identity. You’re just the first person brave enough to risk catching him.”

  Claber said the words with such conviction that Truman almost believed him. It was, essentially, the truth. Every crime lord on the planet tiptoed around for fear of the unknown vigilante discovering theim and destroying them.

  And if Truman could provide that identity, his comrades might finally respect him. All it had taken was letting a few more details than necessary slip out to his associates as he discussed his upcoming meeting in Cancun. None of them would mean to betray him, but they would talk amongst themselves and to other people. With any luck, the Carnicero had ears to the ground.

  “Maverick,” Claber said as a bearded red-head exited a cab. He did a quick scan of the area before entering the hotel.

  He glanced at Claber, poised with his digital camera as he watched the traffic. “I better get inside before they wonder where I am.”

  Claber frowned. “Wait. Where’s Cisnero?”

  “Her flight was delayed. She’ll be here later. In the meantime, you take pictures of anyone going in or out of the hotel.”

  “And what if it is the Carnicero?” Claber said. “I won’t know him. You won’t know him until he comes in, guns blazing.”

  That was the problem with not knowing what a guy looked like. Perhaps including himself as bait hadn’t been the best idea. “Trust your gut. If you think someone looks suspicious, send me a message. I’ll get us out.”

  “Will do.”

  #

  "You in or not, Truman?" Maverick, a large red-head who chewed his tobacco like an overgrown cow, smashed himself in front of Truman. His mouth smacked noisily and he gave a wide smile. "How about it? Can we convince you?"

  Truman stared back at Maverick, taking in the glazed eyes and bovine expression. He half expected the idiot to moo. He lifted his gaze to peer out the windows behind Maverick. Sunshine reflected off the white sands of the Cancun beach, aqua waves rising and falling as if the ocean were sighing. For a moment, Truman imagined he wasn’t here to meet with criminals and thug lords. Instead he was on a leisure trip with his dog Barley, a big golden lab who would enjoy a change of scenery from the Canadian forest.

  Maverick snapped his fingers, the amused look gone from his face. He settled back in a cushioned chair around the conference table. "You in or not, Truman?"

  They had tried this before. Multiple times, in fact.

  Truman checked his phone, worried he’d miss a warning from Claber. Nothing so far. He leaned forward, closing his fingers together and resting them on the glass tabletop. "Truth is, gentleman, I'm quite content with my life as it is. Smuggling jewels may not bring me as much money as weapons, but it's not as dangerous, either. And I have enough to live off."

  And then some. Truman had estates and residences all over the world. He paid his men generously. And of course he had a stash of money to buy off any suspicious authorities.

  McAllister sneered, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin gave away his age. His lip curved up to expose glinting white teeth.

  Here it comes, Truman thought.

  "That's only because Daddy left you a nice kitty when he died, huh, Truman? How long you gonna play before it runs out? Time's coming when you can't hide in your castle doing nothing."

  "Maybe I'll retire when that happens," Truman replied with a shrug. His collar clung to his neck in the humid air. Might be hard to live the life of a law-abiding citizen. Then again, he had always tried to bend the rules rather than break them.

  A noble boy. Who would not do thee right?

  The line from Shakespeare’s King John imprinted on his thoughts. Truman reflected on the meaning behind them. As long as he was the noble and good one, he was set.

  McAllister growled, blue eyes narrowing over the red nose that matched the red skin of his bare head. "I know you think you're better than us. That somehow you haven't dirtied your hands because all you do is steal. Well, that don't matter to some. You've got as much on you as the rest of us, and you're marked."

  Interesting. It was as though McAllister had heard his thoughts. Truman kept his face passive and templed his fingers. "What do you mean?"

  Maverick jumped in, pausing only to spit his wad of tobacco at the nearby trashcan. "The Carnicero. That's what he means."

  McAllister glared at Maverick, but Truman had suspected that answer. "Wha
t about him?" Truman's question came out sharper than he intended. A trickle of fear tickled the palm of his hand, and he clenched his fist. He had to remind himself that speaking about the man wouldn’t make him suddenly appear.

  "We took great risk in arranging this meeting," McAllister hissed. He glanced at his five men who guarded the doors to the conference room.

  "The Carnicero is tracking us," Maverick said, nodding his bushy red-head in emphasis. "We don't know how, but every time we meet, he seems to come along."

  "He’s always tracking us." Truman stood, grabbing his baseball cap and pulling it down low over his eyes. He kept his chin up and his lips straight, trying to mask his unease. "Let’s wrap this up. It's a beautiful day out there, and the beach looks wonderful. We should all be enjoying it." If the Carnicero hadn’t shown by now, he wasn’t coming. Truman didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

  McAllister's jaw worked for a moment before he got his words out. "He won't skip you, you know. You might not do the work your father did, but you're no golden boy."

  "We can help." Like an excited puppy, Maverick was there again, eyes lighting up. "If you make one shipment of weapons, we'll get you stocked with a few big pieces. Set up an international safety net for you."

  For a nanosecond, the offer tempted him. "Thanks, but my answer's still no. I'm safe where I am." Truman straightened. "I have a strong network already."

  Truman turned his back and walked out of the conference room. Nobody called after him or tried to stop him. Probably they had known it was a waste of time before they even started.

  #

  Claber hadn’t budged from his perch on the low wall across the street.

  “Nothing?” Truman asked, as relieved as he was disappointed.

  Claber shook his head. “I’ll show you all the shots I got. But I didn’t see anyone who struck me as suspicious.”

  “No, he didn’t come. We would all be dead if he had.” It had been a foolish endeavor. What had Truman thought, that the Carnicero would skip him over? McAllister was right. He might not deal in weapons or drugs, but he was no saint.

  Truman narrowed his eyes at his second-in-command. Sunlight bounced off the buzzed-cut head. "Put some sunscreen on your head before you burn as bad as McAllister."

  That brought a grim smile from his tall, muscular cohort. Claber snapped a few pictures of the scantily clad women on the busy street and put the camera away. "What time do we meet our man?" He scanned the crowd around them.

  "He’s not coming here." A taxi waited at the curb, and Truman stepped forward to snag it. "We'll take a taxi to his hotel after we stop by our room and get the cargo."

  "His hotel?" Claber echoed. "Since when does Raminaji stay in a hotel?"

  "Raminaji's dead. This is his successor, and he's understandably nervous."

  Neither spoke during the twenty-minute drive to their hotel. They went up to their room, where Truman proceeded to take apart their suitcases, opening hidden pockets and unscrewing the handles.

  "What about the carry-ons?" Claber asked. Those were trickier to hide jewels in, since they went through the cameras.

  "Sewn into the bottom inside seams,” Truman answered. “Loosen them, but don't remove the threads."

  Claber plucked at a stitch with his fingernail. "This Grey's work?"

  Truman piled a collection of gold necklaces, rubies, diamond earrings, and pearls onto the bed. "Man's a miracle with a needle."

  “And in the kitchen.” Claber’s stomach growled.

  Truman grunted his agreement and began adding up the retail value of the jewelry. His men were trained to grab a quick handful and leave the scene of a robbery as quickly as possible. They might not get the most expensive items, but they wouldn’t get caught, either.

  He had seven diamond wedding rings, two diamond solitaires, one $37,000 diamond and gold ring, and enough bracelets and necklaces to total almost $140,000.

  Truman couldn't expect to get that, but he would get at least half. Sure, he could do better with drugs or weapons. But $70,000 once or twice a month more than covered his expenses.

  “We won’t be coming back to the hotel.” Truman zipped up his bag. “Leave anything you don’t. I don’t want the staff to know we’re gone.”

  The taxi trip across town took nearly half an hour. Truman drummed his fingers on the armrest, one hand clutching the door handle. He wouldn't call himself nervous, but he’d lured the Carnicero here and had to be ready to get out at a moment's notice. He wasn't well known down here. If they were stopped by Mexican authorities or the drug cartel, he could slip away with the jewels, unseen. Claber should be safe, as he had no contraband on him.

  Truman's mind skipped back to Maverick's offer to join the weapon's trade. He received such offers frequently. To join the weapon's trade, the drug trade, the sex trade. He could make a lot more money.

  But McAllister was right: Truman had money. His father had made sure of that.

  The taxi arrived at a small, single-level hotel. Truman's eyes raked over the metal roofing and crumbling stucco.

  "They don't show this one to the tourists," Claber murmured, sliding his head closer to Truman's.

  They got out of the cab, and Truman pressed less than half the fare into the cabdriver’s hand. The man opened his mouth to protest, but Truman stopped him. “Wait. Wait.” He pointed toward the trunk where their luggage sat. “I pay you four times as much.” He opened his hand to reveal much more than the required money.

  The driver’s eyes widened. He nodded quickly.

  Taxi secured, Truman stopped in front of number 5 and knocked on the door. Claber puffed out his chest and fingered the inside of his jacket. Truman kept his gaze on the hotel.

  The door cracked open. A heavy chain prevented the full extension, and thick smoke wafted out the crack.

  "Quién és? Quién és?"

  "El Mano." Truman hoped they wouldn’t have to conduct this transaction in Spanish. "Hablás inglés?"

  "Sí, sí. Entren. Come in."

  His Mexican accent muffled the words so badly that at first Truman didn't realize he'd switched languages. But the door widened, and Claber went in first, flicking on lights and surveying the room even as Truman followed.

  "What do we call you?" Truman asked the short, beady-eyed man in front of him.

  "Fernando," the man said. His bloodshot eyes tracked Claber as Claber moved around the small bed and stepped into the bathroom. Sweat gathered on his upper lip.

  "Relax, Fernando," Truman said. "He’s securing the room."

  Claber stepped out of the bathroom. "It's clean."

  Fernando let out a soft breath. Judging from the fidget of his hands and the look in his eyes, Truman guessed there were drugs in here somewhere.

  Claber gave the all clear and moved to the window to stand guard, adjusting the curtain to hide his face while peering out over the parking lot.

  Truman reached into his jacket and removed the small satchel of jewels. "I'll display each item one at a time. You tell me what interests you and we negotiate."

  Fernando's hand twitched. "I can't see all at once?"

  "No." Truman shook his head. "We deal with one piece and then we move to the next." He knew from experience that showing all his jewels at once instantly gave the other person the upper hand. They would pay more for the pieces they really wanted and offer token prices for the others. Some had even tried to steal the jewels and run. Unbelievable that they would expect Truman to come in unarmed.

  "How I pay?" Fernando scratched his eyebrow.

  You are so stoned, my friend, Truman thought, I could rob you and you wouldn't even know it. "Cash. Up front."

  "American dollars?"

  "Mexican is fine."

  Fernando's fingers twitched. "Okay."

  One by one Truman lifted out each item, and they debated the price. Fernando was new at this. He offered money too low, and the bargaining took longer than usual.

  Finally they reache
d an agreement. Fernando counted out the bills and Truman accepted them. "Next time, we do this faster. It shouldn't take this long."

  "Sorry, sorry," Fernando mumbled.

  "Let's go." Claber pulled the door open and they slipped out.

  They kept to the shadows until away from the hotel, and then Truman hailed a cab. "El banco, por favor," Truman said. It didn't matter which bank. Any of them could do the transfer for him.

  Chapter 2

  "Thank you for visiting Mexico, Mr. Scotch," the Mexican airport official said, handing Truman back his Canadian passport.

  Truman gave a brief nod. Claber followed, patting his fake passport in the palm of his hand.

  Neither of them spoke as they finished up at the security checkpoint. They sat at their gate and waited for the airplane to arrive. Only when they were on board and taxiing down the runway did Truman exhale, letting his shoulders slump. He could relax now. They were on their way home.

  Claber's phone vibrated in his pocket.

  “You didn’t turn your phone off,” Truman chastized.

  “I never do.” Claber removed it from his pocket and thumbed over the message. "From Maverick." He glanced at Truman. "They were attacked."

  Truman's shoulders tightened up again. "Where?"

  Claber texted back and then scrolled through the response. “All of our hotels.”

  "Who died?" Truman tightened his grip around the armrest.

  "He doesn’t say anything about McAllister. Maverick missed being there by a few hours, but he left two men behind to meet with Cisnero."

  “And?” Truman knew the outcome without asking.

  “Dead. Cisnero and Maverick’s men.”

  Truman pushed back into the headrest, his heart thumping like a barrel drum in his chest. “What about McAllister?”

  Claber’s thumbs worked out the question. “Several of his men died, but he escaped.”

  “The Carnicero?”

  “There’s no proof."

  "Of course." Truman nodded. "But who else could it be?"

  Claber’s phone vibrated as another text came through. “Here’s a warning from Maverick. McAllister blames you. Thinks you knew.”