Deliverer Read online

  “Was I so transparent?” Truman murmured.

  “It’s a lucky guess.”

  Claber squinted. "If it really was him, we just missed our chance. We have to get the upper hand, and fast."

  Truman glanced toward the pocket where he knew Claber kept the camera. “Is it possible you got a picture?”

  “I might. Maybe he’s one of the guys I shot loitering around the hotel.”

  “Get prints made of every person you photographed. Let’s see if we can’t ID some faces.”

  The flight stalled in Dallas, and once again Truman told himself to avoid the DFW airport at all cost. The several hours' delay turned their flight into a red-eye. Truman tried to sleep, but he felt instant relief when the plane landed in Montreal.

  The blond agent behind the customs desk had just stamped his passport when the phone began to ring. A quick glance at the display showed Sanchez’s name. Truman's eyes flicked up to a digital clock above the baggage claim. Almost eight in the morning. Sanchez should be in Seattle, doing a quickie. Truman leaned against a square column and answered the phone. "Hello?"

  "Boss." Sanchez's whisper struggled to get through the speaker. "Got a problem."

  "Solve it," Truman snapped, not in the mood to baby him.

  Sanchez continued as if he hadn't heard, which irritated Truman. If the men didn't get out soon, they’d risk getting caught. "We got half a million of jewels in the van."

  "Then get out of there!" Truman hissed. He ran a hand through his short brown hair and looked around. No one watched him, except Claber.

  "We can't," Sanchez whispered. "We're being held up. They've posted guards outside the exits, and someone's trying to steal our van."

  It took a moment to analyze those words. Someone was holding his men up, while someone else tried to steal his van?

  “What’s wrong?” Claber mouthed.

  Truman shook his head and said to Sanchez, "Do they have a car?"

  "Yes, Boss. Parked in front of our van."

  "They have weapons on you?"

  "Big ones. Enough to take out the store."

  Truman shoved a hand through his hair. They were in trouble.

  The phone was plucked from Truman’s hand, and he turned in surprise to see Claber speaking into it. "Take the rear exit,” he instructed. “Kill the guards, and do it fast, before they realize what's happening. Take their car, dump the bodies, and get out of there."

  “What are you doing?” Truman sputtered.

  “Just do it!” Claber snarled into the phone. “It’s you or them!” He jammed his finger onto the end button.

  “Claber!” Truman hissed. He fisted his hands to hide his fury. Spots danced in front of his vision. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m sorry, Boss.” Claber lowered his eyes. “I know you don’t like messes. But it was them or us.”

  “We could have just let them steal van. I can afford a new one. Now you’ve put Sanchez’s entire team at risk.”

  “Word would get out,” Claber countered. “Everyone would know you’d rather dump cargo than face a fight. They’d lose respect.”

  Truman’s face burned at the allegation, though from rage or shame, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t deny the truth in Claber’s words. “Respect starts with my men, and that includes you. If you ever do something like that again—” He’d what? Kill him? Claber would know that was an empty threat. “You’ll be out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Claber said.

  Truman grimaced. His own men found him weak.

  Chapter 3

  Alfred, a white-haired man and by far the oldest in the group, picked up Truman and Claber from the airport late in the evening. Lack of sleep made Truman cranky and irritable. By the time they reached the mansion tucked deep in the Canadian forest, he had a headache the size of Mt. Everest. It pounded like the steady beat of a bass drum.

  Barley greeted him as soon as Truman opened the car door, the wet nose nearly knocking him back inside. Barley’s entire back half wagged back and forth with the force of his tail.

  “Good boy,” Truman said, scratching behind his ears. He glanced up to see Grey descending the concrete steps into the garage.

  Hey, Boyscout,” Claber sneered at Grey. “How was dog-watching? Earn another merit badge?”

  Grey ignored the badgering. “He’s glad you’re home, Boss. Started whining as soon as he heard the car pull in. Knew it was you.”

  “The only good thing my father left me,” Truman muttered.

  Grey shrugged. “Well, the money’s nice too.”

  Truman pressed a hand against his raging head. “Gentlemen, I’m exhausted. Claber, I’m leaving you in charge.”

  “Take Barley for a walk, Boyscout,” Claber said.

  “No.” Truman put out a hand, stopping Grey. “Come, boy.” Truman patted his thigh and Barley leapt to his side. “How are we on food?”

  “We could use some food items,” Grey admitted.

  “Then go get them. I’m sleeping. Do not disturb.”

  “Out of here, Boyscout,” Claber grumbled.

  Truman ignored them. He stumbled into the house and up three flights, pausing only to take a quick drink of tonic and gin. That usually helped. He climbed into bed. Barley jumped on beside him, the weight and smell of the dog comforting. Truman fell asleep before he’d closed his eyes.

  At noon Claber walked in and opened the blinds. Sunlight poured over Truman's face, and he winced. "Claber. I did not request a wake-up call."

  "Grey just phoned," Claber said, unperturbed. "He can't get up the hill. Says there's a cop staking out the driveway."

  Barley jumped off the bed and exited the room, tail wagging the whole time. Truman sat up and directed his attention at Claber. "Where is he now?"

  "He kept going. Pretended like that wasn't his stop. But if that cop decides to drive up the mountain..." Claber let the sentence hang.

  Truman scowled. "Why is he here? Fayande is supposed to keep them away from here. Isn't that what I'm paying him to do?" Officer Fayande was Truman’s inside man to the Montreal police force. It was his job to keep the cops out of Truman’s business.

  Claber grunted. "Maybe you better remind him."

  Truman grabbed the discarded jeans at the foot of the bed and fished through the pockets for his phone. His hand closed around it and he pulled it out, hitting the speed dial for Fayande. Truman didn't worry about Fayande turning him in. Fayande liked the perks of being in The Hand's pocket. Sure beat the policeman wages.

  Fayande answered, the French words purring through the telephone.

  Truman interrupted. "Why is one of your men at my doorstep?"

  Fayande switched to English in an instant, his voice laced with panic. "One of my men is at your house?"

  "No, luckily for you. He is in my driveway."

  "Who?"

  Truman gritted his teeth. "It's your job to know that, not mine. Get him out of here."

  "Right now, I will," Fayande promised. "It—"

  Truman hung up. He'd heard all the promises before and wasn't interested. Besides, it would do Fayande good to sit and fret. Truman put his hand on the nightstand and forced himself to his feet. "What's Sanchez's ETA?"

  He hadn’t heard anything from Sanchez in several hours. The men had killed the guards and rid themselves of the would-be thieves. Killing them didn’t sit well with Truman. It wasn’t how he operated. At least the men had been criminals and not civilians. Besides, like Claber said, Truman consoled himself, it was us or them.

  "They should be here before dinner," Claber answered. “Spoke with him two hours ago.”

  "Bring me some black coffee and toast. I'll be in the shower."

  #

  Grey made it up the hill after the cop disappeared, then unloaded groceries and other essentials into the house. The men grabbed a bite to eat and went back to the game room. Truman followed, listening to their chatter while he checked accounts on his tablet. He skimmed the Mexican news for any information on t
he killings. They had no suspects. It had to have been the Carnicero.

  Barley lifted his head from his spot under the pool table and began to growl. A moment later Truman felt the slight tremble of a car passing over the gravel drive. Truman tucked his tablet under an arm and ran up the stairs to the main level, Barley at his heels. He moved down the hall toward the entry way just as Claber exited one of the grand rooms.

  "Is it Sanchez?" Truman asked.

  "Yes. Just arrived."

  Truman grunted. "Why didn't he call ahead?"

  "He's on time."

  That was true. Still, a head's up was required. "Who’s in the driveway?"

  "Sanchez with the stolen vehicle. Van’s already in the 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 should be able to make a run for it on foot. I've studied the schematics of the store. Disable the inner cameras as soon as you enter. Stay out of view of the outside ones."

  "And this is the only raid we'll do that night?"

  "Yes." Truman tapped the pencil eraser on the map. If he had a mole in the local police force, Truman’s agents could use their limited power to buy him time, to clear a getaway path for him. But he didn’t.

  "Target?"

  Truman pictured the store in his mind. Located in a strip mall in a small town, it probably didn't have anything worth more than ten grand. His men had thirty seconds from the moment they entered the store. "It'll just be you and Eli. Let's shoot for fifty thousand."

  Claber's cell vibrated on the table between them. Truman cocked his head. He didn't give out his own personal number, so anyone wanting to contact him did it through Claber.

  Claber shot a look at Truman, his green eyes dark in the smoky air. "McAllister."

  Truman's stomach flip-flopped. Sanchez should've sold the weapons by now. Truman couldn't miss the call, though, or it might look like he was avoiding McAllister. "Answer it, quick."

  Claber poked a button on the touch screen. "Yes." He raised his eyes to Truman's. "One moment." He handed the phone over.

  Truman flipped the map around and ran his pencil over a highway. "McAllister. What can I do for you?"

  "Funny you should ask, Truman. I'm not sure that you can, but I thought you should know."

  "Know what?" Here it came.

  "Some of my men have disappeared."

  Truman erased the line he had drawn over the highway. "Deserters?"

  "I don't think so. These men were part-timers. They had jobs, families.” He paused. “Now they're missing."

  Truman gritted his teeth and shot a glare at Claber. He'd killed people who would actually be missed. "Where did they disappear from?"

  "They picked up a package for me and were on their way to a delivery. Never made it."

  Well, they were idiots to make a pit-stop on my raid. "Could it be the Carnicero?"

  "Could be, of course, but he usually leaves a crime scene behind."

  Too true. The Carnicero left his bloody handiwork out in the open, a warning and a promise to dangerous criminals: their turn would come.

  "I'm not sure I can help you, then."

  McAllister exhaled. "There was a theft at a jewelry store close by where they did their pickup. It had the classic marks of one of yours, so I thought maybe you were in the area."

  Truman’s neck prickled. Was McAllister fishing? Or did he actually know something? "Me? I never go out on raids."

  A soft growl came through the phone. "Your men, Truman."

  "Classic marks? It had a hand print?" He hoped not. He'd quit leaving the hand print years ago, preferring to leave cops uncertain whether he was the perpetrator or not.

  "No. But it looked like one of your jobs."

  A bead of sweat gathered at Truman's hairline. “How strange.”

  "You didn't do any robberies last week?"

  Silently Truman cursed. McAllister hadn't said yet where the crime happened. Now Truman had to play the lazy mastermind. "Busy week. Didn't have a chance."

  That was a lie, and he knew McAllister would know it.

  "Interesting," McAllister said. "The car's gone too. But I'
ve got a tracer out on it. If it shows up at any dealerships, I'll be notified."

  "That's good," Truman said, his face hot. Why hadn't they destroyed the car instead of reselling it? "I hope you find your men."

  "And my package. Was worth a pretty penny."

  "And your package," Truman echoed.

  "We'll be in touch. I'll let you know what I find out."

  Truman hung up, not even finding the strength to give a courtesy goodbye. "Claber. We might be in trouble."

  #

  In general, Truman left his men alone when they were on a mission. A phone call from him at the wrong time could ruin a raid. So he waited for them to contact him.

  But when nightfall came and they still hadn't returned, Truman couldn't wait anymore.

  He sat at the large oak dining room table at three in the morning, staring at the phone in his hands as if it had betrayed him. Barley slept in front of him, his big yellow head resting on Truman’s feet. The dog lifted his head when someone stepped into the room. Truman knew without looking that it was Claber.

  "Call it a night," Claber grunted. "I'll stay up and wait."

  Truman didn't lift his eyes. "I've tried all three cell phones. No answer."

  He waited for words of comfort, for assurances of his own paranoia. He didn't like dealing with the loss and risk that came with the darker side of his profession. As much as he hated to admit it, Claber had a better instinct for it. He needed his opinion. But Claber kept silent.

  "Well?" Now Truman looked at him. "What do you think?"

  "They may have run into trouble," Claber admitted.

  Truman sighed. He wanted a different answer, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Claber was right. "McAllister."

  "But how would he know?"

  Truman met his eyes, grinding his back teeth together. "We were set up."

  "McAllister followed us?"

  "Yes. I'm not sure why, but he either wanted to interrupt our raid or he wanted to track our location." Truman waited while Claber digested that information, then said, "We have an agent in Ontario. He's two hours from where Allan’s team was going. Contact him. I want to know if there are any reports coming in of accidents or foul play along the route."