Deliverer (15 page)

Rodriguez slowed down outside the motel, and Truman
pulled the driver’s side door open. "Let me drive."

Rodriguez complied, and Truman took off for the warehouse, driving as fast as he dared. "Call Derek. Tell him we're on our way."

Chapter 26

Truman slid the SUV into a parallel parking space up the street from the warehouse, watching for cops. He didn't see any, and nothing showed up on the radar. But they couldn't be far away.

"Rodriguez. Get in there and help Derek bring out the girls. You've got seconds before the police arrive!"

Rodriguez jumped out of the car and darted across the street, big black flashlight nearly invisible in the night. A car crossed Truman's line of vision, going the other direction, and when it cleared, Rodriguez had vanished inside.

The seconds ticked by. Nerves clawed at Truman's insides, and he couldn't speak. He tapped the steering wheel, the blood pounding louder in his ears with each moment the men were gone. How would they get away, if the police got here now and surrounded the warehouse? “Grey.”

“Boss?”

“Go through my phone.” He tossed the device to Grey. “Find a place for us to go.”

The two men appeared, dragging the girls behind them. "Hurry," Truman murmured. They would look awfully suspicious, crossing the street that way. Especially if spotted by a policeman.

Derek yanked the side door open and shoved the two girls in. Rodriguez had barely piled inside before Truman took off, letting the momentum of the car slam the doors closed. The road in front of him rose steeply up a hill, and Truman turned down a side street. A grassy meadow appeared in front of him, and he rammed the car forward, nearly taking out a bench before he realized it was a park.

The warehouse lay just below him, its white flattop roof clearly visible under the lamplights. Truman jerked the car to a stop and killed the engine. He had to see if this was really it, if the police really had found them.

Rodriguez lit up a cigarette. The man must be feeling the nerves also; thus far he had refrained himself from smoking indoors. The rancid smell filled the SUV, and Truman resisted the urge to put it out. Instead he focused on the view in front of him.

Moments later, dozens of police cars surrounded the one-level building. They came in quietly, no sirens or lights, and Truman knew the police hoped he was inside. But they didn't know for sure. They didn't even know for sure that the girls were in there.

Truman turned the car back on and glided out of the park. He'd seen what he needed to see.

He drove west, a rancorous anger brewing in his chest. They had almost detained him and found the girls.

Grey held out the phone. “How about this one?”

Truman gave it a quick glance. Earl. A British expatriate who left his country for political reasons. He’d made a new home in a small town in Iowa. Here in the US he'd found peace and prosperity—owing much of it to Truman.

It was almost midnight. Calling Earl at this hour should get his attention.

On the third ring, Earl answered. "Hello?" The higher British intonation carried through the sleepiness in his voice.

"It's The Hand. Need a bunk. I'll call when I get closer."

"You're coming here?" Earl didn't sound excited.

"Yes."

"Just you?"

"No."

Earl waited, but when Truman didn't provide any more information, he prompted, "How many beds?"

Truman paused to add up his people. "Four. And an enclosed space."

"Enclosed space?"

"For two girls."

"Oh. With beds?"

"No." Forget comfort. This wasn't a resort, and it was time the girls accepted their circumstances.

"All right." Earl's voice came out hushed. Truman suspected Earl didn't even want to know what was happening. "You have my address?"

"It’s not with me at the moment. I know the general vicinity.”

“Call when you get closer. I’ll guide you.”

Truman studied the three-story brick mansion as they approached. Built like a brownstone, the house had the cultured look of history and the ornate look of wealth. Earl must be doing well for himself.

Truman spotted Earl in front of the house, next to the open garage. He wore a white robe, and a strong breeze blew at his graying hair. Truman drove the SUV into the waiting garage.

They were here. The garage door closed with a jarring thump, and darkness engulfed them. Truman switched on the cabin lights and turned around. Both girls were awake, staring at him with a mixture of fear and grogginess. Truman fought back his own exhaustion; the digital clock on the dash showed it was almost three a.m.

Earl waited in the kitchen, the white robe wrapped around his body contrasting with the brown marble counter tops behind him. His eyes widened as Rodriguez and Derek dragged the girls in. "This way," he said. "I have a room for the girls."

The girls were the whole reason Truman was in this mess, on the run, trying to make a buck and save his life. "Not a bedroom," he snarled. "No windows."

"No windows. It's my old office."

Office? Truman paused in mid step. "Electronics? Computers? Phones?"

Earl shook his head. "No, no. It's quite in disuse. Just a few books, I'm afraid."

Truman narrowed his eyes. He wanted to think this through, but a thick fog of drowsiness pervaded his mind, making it difficult to even focus on the man in front of him. He shouldn't be up. He should be asleep, somewhere safe, reveling in the freedom his ingenuity and wealth had brought him.

He clenched his jaw. "All right." Truman spun around and glared at the girls. Sid would be here in two days. They better not try anything.

Earl led them through the house to a spiral staircase that went downstairs. Truman took in the elaborate molding, the expensive tile floors, the portraits dotting the wall. Leverage. Earl had money and family. He wouldn't want to lose either.

For that matter, did the
Carnicero
really want to lose his daughter? They had a way to contact him. Now Truman just needed the right thing to say. And the right way to say it.

They stopped in front of a door in the basement. Earl pushed it open, revealing an office the size of a small bedroom, complete with a closet. Truman leaned in, surveying it for potential weapons or weaknesses. It had a built-in bookshelf and books everywhere. A tall wooden file cabinet sat in one corner, but Truman knew it would be too heavy for the girls to lift.

Besides that, only a few sheets of paper littered the floor. Satisfied that the worst damage they could do was paper cut themselves, Truman pulled his head back and nodded.

Rodriguez shoved Murphy, and she fell on her knees inside. The
Carnicero
's daughter started to follow, but Truman grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back. He jerked his head at Earl, who arched an eyebrow but obliged him, closing the door to the office.

The girl inside went crazy. She screamed and threw herself against the door, almost yanking the knob from Earl's hands.

He grimaced and put both hands on it. "I'll need some help here. The lock is on the inside."

"We'll have to get that fixed." Truman spotted a large cabinet against the wall. "Move that china cabinet in front of the door."

Derek started toward it, but Earl said, "The door opens inward." The door rattled in the frame, and he pressed his lips together, straining to keep it shut.

Truman dug his fingers deeper into Rivera’s shoulder. Blood pounded in his ears, head throbbing with each scream. No more Mr. Nice Guy. "Open the door and knock her out."

Derek switched directions and yanked the door from Earl. Truman didn't see what he did, but he heard the thud of Murphy's body as it hit the ground.

Silence. Finally. He snapped his fingers at Earl. "Get a screwdriver and switch that knob around. I want it done before I get back." He used his grip on Rivera’s shoulder to steer her up the stairs. Derek, Grey, and Rodriguez clomped up behind him.

Truman spotted a door ajar on the main floor. He shoved it open and pushed the girl inside. She sank to her knees, her short blond hair falling in front of her face, and didn't move.

This must be where Earl had relocated his office. A computer desk, a nice chair, more books. "Close the blinds," Truman said, nodding at Rodriguez. He turned his attention back to Rivera. A seed of sympathy tried to take root in his heart, and he shoved it out. No time for that. Instead he took hold of his anger and stoked it.
McAllister would kill him in days if he didn't succeed. He and his men were at risk, and this one little girl could help stop that. "Get up."

She pushed herself to her feet, glancing around the room. Tears trailed down her dirty cheeks.

"Sit." Truman pointed at the black leather chair in front of the computer. She did, and he shoved the chair up to the desk. Digging around in a drawer, he pulled out a pen and paper and slapped them in front of her. "Write. Exactly what I tell you to."

The pen shook in her hand. That was okay. A ransom letter could have shaky writing. "Daddy," he said.

She didn't move, and Truman banged his hand down on the desk. "Write it!"

She drew in a deep breath, whimpering. She scribbled the word across the top of the page.

"I am safe. For now,” Truman continued.

Her hand paused for the briefest of moments before writing the words, and Truman knew she got it. She knew what she was doing.

"Time is running out. If you want to see me again, please electronically transfer four million dollars into this bank account." He rattled off several numbers, as well as the fictitious name of the account, watching over her shoulder to make sure she got them right. "You have seventy-two hours. I know this is a lot of money, but I know you have it. If you want to free—" for a split second he searched his memory for Murphy’s first name— "Amanda, please also deposit four million for her. At the end of seventy-two hours, depending on what you've done, we will either be released to the FBI or sold into slavery. If that happens, no one will ever see us again."

She finished up the sentences. Rodriguez leaned against the window sill, crossing his arms over his chest. "Shouldn't we offer proof? Of what we are going to do to her?" His words slurred with exhaustion, his eyes already closing.

Proof. That was a good idea. "Yes. Get a digital camera from Ear—our host." He cursed himself for almost saying the name. He’d made a mistake by letting them know his name. Being new to the kidnapping business was no excuse for incompetence. "We'll send him a picture of her."

Rodriguez nodded and pushed off the windowsill. Truman turned back to the girl. "Keep writing."

She lifted the pen again.

"Please don't let them hurt me, Daddy. I don't want this for my life. Please save me."

She sniffed, wiping one hand across her face and writing with the other.

One last sentence. The most important one. "Love, your baby girl, Jaci."
Thank you, Facebook, for providing her nickname.
He waited while she wrote out the last line. "Now sign your name."

Rodriguez came back in and handed a camera to Truman. He took it. He tossed the camera back from one hand to the other, an idea occuring to him. "Take your clothes off."

Chapter 27

Rodriguez's black eyes lit up, all signs of sleepiness disappearing. A sinister smile curled around his lips. Even Derek and Grey leaned forward in anticipation.

Truman stopped them with a look. "No one touches her. It's for her father's benefit only."

There could be no doubt about their intentions. They meant business.

After taking her picture, Truman had the
Carnicero
's daughter put her clothes back on. Grey took her back to her room. Though Truman longed to do nothing except sleep, he also wanted to get this ransom note out right away. He needed the money in hand before Sid got here.

Rodriguez hovered over his shoulder. Truman didn't look at him, but he suspected the man's eyes were frozen on the picture of the naked girl. "How do we get the note to
El Carnicero
?"

"We hope we're lucky." Truman flipped through a small notepad, stopping at the work email  Alfred had given him. It was a real enough email, even if the company didn’t exist.

In the possibility that the FBI was intercepting the emails, the worse that would happen was that the
Carnicero
wouldn't get the email and Truman wouldn't get his money. There was no money in the fictitious account. And Truman wasn’t stupid enough to send the ransom note from his own email address. Ripping a sheet of paper off the notepad, Truman scribbled out a response.

“
Rodriguez. Get to an internet cafe, set up a fake email address, and send this email to the
Carnicero
. Got it?"

"Sure, Boss."

Rodriguez left the room, and Truman allowed himself to feel the full extent of his exhaustion. Frustrated, tired, and a little bit hopeful, he let Earl guide them to one of the extra bedrooms.

Sleep didn’t come easily. Haunted eyes chased him throughout his dreams. In spite of the grogginess in his head, Truman couldn't convince his body to stay in bed past seven.

Grabbing a cup of coffee from the kitchen, he woke Grey and pulled him into Earl's office. Earl wouldn't object to Truman and his men taking over his house.

Truman sat in front of the computer and pulled up several bank accounts, showing them to Grey. "This is the money I'm setting aside for McAllister. This is what's left for us."

Grey sat on the desk next to him, squinting at the screen. "That’s not enough to pay us our share."

"Right." Truman opened a spreadsheet. "And I'm still short what I owe McAllister. This is what I anticipate getting from the sale of the girls. And this is what I need."

Silence followed. The evidence spoke for itself.

"Well?" Grey finally said. "What are we going to do?"

"I need enough money to appease McAllister, to make it so I'm not worth his time. And then I'm going to disappear."
Alone
.
He didn't add that last part, but he was certain Grey understood. This was the end of the collective. He met Grey's eyes. "I highly recommend you also make a plan to get out of public view."

Grey inhaled. "That's what's left for us?"

Truman turned back to the computer. "I am planning one last raid. As soon as we've rid ourselves of the girls, we're getting out of here. On the way out of town, we'll hit an electronics store."

Grey blinked. "Electronics?"

"Yes. If we hit a jewelry store, the cops will suspect right away that I'm in the area, and we'll never get out of here."

"But... is there money in that?"

A legitimate question, and Truman had the answer. He'd worked out these details before calling Grey into the room. "We'll go for the smaller, more expensive items. Laptops. Webcams." He grimaced. Even high end laptops didn't go for more than a thousand. And they were bigger, bulkier than jewelry. He shook his head, not letting himself get bogged down with the futility of this raid. It sounded pretty desperate, even in his head. He couldn't let his men feel that way. "We just need a couple thousand. I'll divide it up among us and we'll be on our way."

"Ah." Grey nodded. "So the money's not for McAllister?"

"No. His money will be on its way as soon as Sid leaves here tomorrow. This money is for us." It was the last thing he could do for his men, and the least. Each one would need a financial cushion to establish a new identity and new life elsewhere.

"Sid is coming tomorrow?"

Truman closed out his accounts and stood. "Yes. I'll call him later to confirm the time, but by tomorrow night, this will all be over." He gestured to the computer. "Go ahead. You might need to make some plans. When you’re done, go to the store and buy new outfits for the girls. Something Sid would approve of."

Grey grunted. Suddenly exhausted, Truman stepped from the office and went to the guest room. Sleeping during the day fit his schedule of the past few weeks anyway. He collapsed face down on the pillow and closed his eyes.

#

Truman watched Earl prepare the dinner tray for the girls. He placed two rolls and napkins, neatly folded, on the plastic tray, and then hesitated over the fried chicken.

"What's wrong?" Truman asked.

Earl bobbed his head, not quite meeting Truman's eyes. "I was thinking of the bones, sir. They might be used as a weapon."

Good point. "No chicken. Send them the cups of mashed potatoes."

"But I like the potatoes!" Derek complained.

Truman silenced him with a glare. He looked back at Earl as he settled the potatoes on the tray. "What did you tell your housekeeper?"

Earl shrugged. "That I didn't need her for a few days. She offered to come and prepare the meals, but I told her no."

"Did she ask why?"

"No." He hunched his shoulders and backed out of the kitchen.

Rodriguez hadn’t gotten a response from the
Carnicero
yet. Truman planned out in his mind the next threatening email he would send. After tomorrow, Jacinta Rivera would be no more. His daughter as he knew her would cease to exist.