Deliverer (4 page)

Truman couldn't make that money. But the other option wasn’t really viable. Literally. Somehow he had to come up with it. "How long?"

"I'll give you one month."

One month was hardly enough time, but Truman knew better than to reason with a madman. McAllister had set the bar high so Truman would fail. The man would like nothing better than to see him fall. "All right. I'll do it."

"So glad we could come to an arrangement." He stood and stretched, motioning his thug to untie Truman.

Truman relaxed his fists, trying not to show how he trembled.

The man untied Kessler next, then moved on to Sanchez. Truman met Sanchez's eyes, gave him a small nod.

"Oh, one more thing, Truman," McAllister said, his tone conversational. "I forgot to mention what will happen if you fail."

Truman didn't even want to know. He rubbed his wrists. "What?"

"I will hunt you, Truman." He pulled out his gun and leveled it at Sanchez, who had barely stood up. "I will take you down." He shot Sanchez's right foot. Sanchez shrieked around his gag and grabbed it, stumbling on the left one.

"One man," McAllister continued, shooting Sanchez in the left thigh.

"Stop!" Truman shouted, making a move toward Sanchez even as the man collapsed on the concrete, moaning and writhing in agony.

"At a time," McAllister finished, shooting Sanchez in the head.

The last gunshot echoed in the room, made more poignant by the silence that followed. Sanchez lay still, his bloody remains speckling the gray floor. Truman stared, a nameless horror building in the pit of his stomach and spreading to his pounding head.

This wasn't an arrangement. It was a threat. It wasn't a debt, it was a ransom.

"There was no need for that," Truman said, finally finding his voice. The words came out calm, surprising himself.

"Consider it an object lesson," McAllister replied evenly. "Just in case you thought about running, or cheating, or anything less than fulfilling our bargain."

"Of course," Truman said, as if killing his man were nothing out of the ordinary. "Now let us go, before I have no one left to help me collect your money."

McAllister chuckled and gestured to his thug. "Blindfold Truman and get him out of here."

Truman stiffened. "Just me?" He cursed himself for not seeing through McAllister's plan. This was why he hadn't made Truman come alone.

"We'll keep your friend here." McAllister stepped up to Kessler and put a hand on his shoulder. "As collateral."

Truman met Kessler's eyes and then dropped his gaze. He had no intention of losing this man's life to McAllister as well. But he wasn’t certain he could succeed.

No more words were exchanged while Truman was blindfolded, but none were needed. The consequence of failing sat heavily in the air, ringing in Truman's ears as they marched out to the car.

Chapter 6

Claber gathered the men into the study the moment Truman got back to the mansion. Truman knew he looked like a wreck, but he had to explain the situation to them, and it had to be now.

He thrust a small dagger into the surface of his wooden desk while he waited for the men, then yanked it out only to thrust it in again.

"This is all that's here," Claber said, closing the door behind him. Several men were away on raids, but about seven remained at the mansion.

For a brief moment Truman wanted to tell them all to remember who they'd been before they came to him, where they'd lived, and to go back to that life.

But that wouldn't be good for him, and the selfless moment passed.

"We’re going to make some changes." He sat on the corner of his desk and threw the dagger into the opposite corner of the flat wood surface. "We'll be increasing the number of raids we do each week."

"Each week?" Hastings echoed. "I thought once a week was risky!"

"Not anymore." Truman waited a moment to let his annoyance fade a bit. Hastings reminded him of a high school student. "We're also going to start hitting a new venue."

Murmurs ran around the group. Long had Truman made it clear that he stole jewelry, and nothing else. For him to change that proved how desperate he was.

A whisper rippled through his group, until the older Bennett brother, Derek, had the guts to ask, "Why the change?"

Truman pressed his lips together, growing irritated. He shouldn’t have to explain his every thought. Most knew he’d met with McAllister, but they didn’t need to know more than that."It’s time to expand. If you want out, be my guest. Don't expect any more payments, and remember that being on your own is on your own. No protection."

He let those words sink in for a moment. Then Grey asked, "Where are Kessler and Sanchez?"

Irony. On the heels of threatening to take away protection, he now had to admit that he didn't have much to offer. Truman cleared his throat. "Kessler stayed behind with McAllister. He had some complaints. He’ll be back soon." There. Let it seem like it was voluntary, that he and Kessler made some kind of agreement.

The silence dragged on too long, and Grey cleared his throat. "And Sanchez?"

Sanchez. An image of the shot-up body flashed before Truman's eyes. If he told them, he would either have a mutiny or people second-guessing his every decision. On the other hand, if he lied, they would find out soon. And then all their trust in him would vanish.

"Sanchez is dead." Truman hardened his face and met each man's eyes. They wouldn’t know if it was him or McAllister who pulled the trigger, but it would breed a healthy fear among the men.

Truman leaned forward, plucking his dagger out of the desk and cleaning his fingernails with it. “Here’s the new plan. As often as we can spare men, we'll have raids going on. And we're going for bigger items. Museums. Special exhibits. It's going to take some training, but it will work. A good change of pace. So you know the plan. Let’s get to work, boys."

The men filed out of the room, all except Claber. He
ran a hand over his buzzed head. “I’ve gone over all the pictures I took in Cancun. I printed several that could be our man. Maybe the
Carnicero
, or maybe one of the other shadows that follow him.”

“Excellent. Give them to me. I’ll have Fayande take a look at them, see if he can ID anyone.”

“Will do.”

#

Five in the morning, and Truman lounged in an extra-large leather chair in the game room. Barley had taken up his usual spot on top of Truman’s toes, the sixty-pound body of the dog warming his legs and calming his nerves. He reached down, absentmindedly massaging behind his ears. Several members of his team were still up. Cold hot wings and sandwiches piled up on the counter.

The facade of normalcy was complete. It wasn't unusual for many people to be up this time of night, especially when waiting on the results of a raid. The smells, the low lights, the food, the alcohol. But there was the catch. Usually, Truman nursed a beer while he played. Tonight, he cradled his whiskey. His fingers
moved robotically across the dog’s head, unable to keep up with the anxiety that spidered through his chest and crawled over his neck.

The others were tense, as well. This was a new game they were playing. Eyes kept lifting from their card games to dart to the clock on the wall, or risk a glance at Truman before turning away. Tensions were high. Tonight should show them that they could handle the change.

At least, if everything went well. He watched their silent card games and was grateful they didn’t know the real stakes.

Truman had sent Claber on this raid. Too much rested on this one to trust it to someone else. He, one of the Bennett brothers, and Christof had traveled to the Washington DC area the day before. Truman had carefully selected a mid-profile art museum. It had security, but not as intense as the more famous museums. And yet if he managed to steal just one original art piece, he'd be a tenth of the way to paying off his debt.

Of course his men wouldn't take just one. They would go for a collection, something worth ten or fifteen million. Shouldn't be too hard.

Yet Truman had never gone after something so valuable. It wasn't in his job description. He acted confident in front of the men, but his hands shook with agitation. How good of a thief was he? Robbing a jewelry store took some skill and wit and speed. But what about an art museum?

The phone rang, startling Barley, who ran off. Probably under his desk, the chicken. Truman consulted his wristwatch. A quarter after five. The raid was set to start just before three a.m. Nearly two and a half hours to complete the job. Too long. "Yes?"

"Boss." Claber's voice came through, loud and clear. Wind or something noisy buzzed in the background.

"What?" Truman strode from the game room, moving out of hearing from the others. "Are you done?"

Claber heaved a sigh. "Yeah, we're done. We failed. We couldn't do it."

Truman gripped the phone tighter. He'd half expected this outcome, but still, it couldn't be right. "What do you mean?" He glanced toward the game room, not wanting anyone else to overhear. "There was so much resting on this! You couldn't fail!"

"I’m sorry." Claber's voice remained steady. "We barely got away. We disabled the alarm, as usual, but there must've been another. Maybe when we took the painting off the wall." His voice rose in pitch. "And the paintings were heavy. It took all three of us to carry it. We heard the guards approaching, running. We tried to run with the painting, but in the end we had to ditch it. Like I said, we barely got away. We hid the van in a darkened house across the street. The cops showed up just as we piled in, so we stayed inside for two hours, laying low with the doors locked. They came by, shone their lights in, but they didn't see us. Not that it would matter; we didn't get the painting. Things calmed down now, so we're on the road again."

Truman raked a hand through his short hair. He felt like an idiot. There must've been a way for him to foresee this. "You wore gloves and masks?"

"Of course."

"Security cameras?"

"We cut that part of the electrical grid. But they might’ve had back-up power, seeing as how we triggered an alarm somewhere. Still, we were in black. Only our flashlights would've been visible."

"No one's following you?"

"No one," Claber confirmed.

"How many guards did you take out?"

"Just two, the ones in the front. We gassed them. One struggled, but he went under without being struck. So no injuries."

Truman nodded to himself. Killing McAllister's men had started all this trouble. It wouldn’t happen again.

Even as he thought it, a desperate itch started under his ribcage and worked its way up. Perhaps it wasn't possible anymore to avoid confrontations. His men carried weapons. If they had fired on a guard, could they have bought enough time to escape with a painting?

Doubtful. Truman sighed again. "Find a motel and stay down there. I'll rethink our next steps. We might have to change our tactics a bit."

"A bit?" Claber echoed. "Boss, we're way behind. We're playing like children in a battlefield. If we're going to play in the big league, we need to act like big leaguers."

It was the closest Claber had ever come to chastising Truman, and he bristled. Yet Claber was right. He couldn't make the money he needed without breaking a few arms. And that meant stepping out of the comfortable mold he'd made for himself.

Chapter 7

"Here's the new plan,” Truman said, his voice echoing over the speaker function of his phone. He leaned nearer the microphone. “Is everyone listening?"

"We're all here," Claber said.

"Here, Boss," Grey said, his words distorted by the speaker on Claber's cell.

“Here,” Eli echoed.

"All right." Truman inhaled through his nostrils, feeling the burn of the cold air. Heating the giant manor was an unnecessary luxury at the moment, and so he and his men wore their gloves and jackets inside the thick stone walls. They grumbled, but Truman ignored their veiled questions.

Claber’s group had stopped in a cheap motel somewhere in Virginia, but they wouldn't be there long. "I've made some decisions,” Truman continued. “We’re going back to jewelry. It’s what we know best. But not just any jewelry. Museum pieces."

A bed creaked on the other side of the phone, and Truman knew they weren’t thrilled by the idea. They'd probably prefer never to step foot into a museum again.

"Don't worry.” Truman spoke before anyone could object. “Even you can do these ones.” The insult in his words would be like fire to their egos, propelling them forward to the next task. “These museums aren't as protected. I'm sending you to Texas."

"Texas?" Eli asked, surprised.

"Houston, to be exact," Truman said. “There's a special art exhibit this week only. The Swan Lake necklace. Worth almost two million." He’d found the special exhibit after just a few internet searches. Then it hadn’t taken much to bribe a contact into visiting the museum and scouting out the security. Between the expensive exhibit and the lesser security, the Houston museum was the best combination for his men.

He heard scribbling on paper, and then Claber asked, "What's security like?"

"Tight, but not too. I've got a rear entry point with only two guards. Should be really quick. If you're lucky, they'll be in another part of the museum. If you're not, gas them. It shouldn't be too hard."

“One of us can even create a distraction,” Eli said.

"We got this,” Claber said, repressed excitement in his voice. “When do we leave?"

"In the morning. Give yourselves two days. I want you there by Wednesday at the latest. Get the necklace, then head west to the Rockies. Come up into Canada through our Montana route.”

“The Montana way?” Grey interrupted, his voice closer to the phone. “But the museum’s in Texas.”

Truman rolled his eyes. Better if Grey stuck to sewing and cooking. “The police won't be searching for suspects that far away. Get across the border as quick as possible. No stops, got it? Get back here with that necklace. That's all that matters." Two million. That would go a long way toward his debt. At least it would be something to show McAllister, an indication that he took this threat seriously.

"Yes, sir," Claber confirmed. "We'll be back within the week."

"I'll text you the address to the museum. Oh, and Claber," Truman paused. "This mission cannot fail. You have to get that necklace. Do whatever it takes."

"Understood," Claber said.

Truman knew Claber had been chomping at the bit for some time now, wanting something bigger than ring-napping.

Well, he was going to get it.

#

“I have a possible identification on one person from the photographs you gave me,” Fayande said, his voice particularly nasal this time of the morning.

Truman switched the phone to his other shoulder and did another pull-up. Sweat dripped down his chin, dampening the white tank he wore. “Go on.”

“We have him on our wanted list as well. We have identified two aliases for him. Gregorio and Alejandro.”

Truman dropped into a chair, breathing hard and trying not to choke on the musty basement air. “Why is he on your list?”

“Possession of illegal firearms, murder. Resisting arrest, falsifying documents. The last photograph we got was at an airport three years ago. The passport he used at that time said he was Alejandro, from Mexico. Mexican authorities gave us the name Gregorio da Silva and said he is Brazilian. Brazilian authorities have never heard of him. Our trail ended there.”

It was a very good lead. “Send me a copy of the photo. We’ll track him down.”

“I am emailing it to you now.”

Truman reloaded his email several times before the message appeared. It took over three minutes for the jpeg to open. He was ready to give the stupid machine to Barley as a chew toy when the image finally loaded. It was out of focus but clear enough. The man’s face was in profile as he crossed the street, jaw loose as if chewing gum. Tall, Latino, with a trim black beard framing his face. Late forties.

Could this be him? Could this be the
Carnicero
? Truman copied the email to Claber and gave him a call. “Take a look at this image I’m sending you. What do you remember about this one? He might be the man we’re looking for.”

#

Claber checked in with Truman an hour before the raid in Houston. He had orders to call again as soon as they completed the raid, and Truman knew he would. This time, instead of waiting in the game room, surrounded by emotionally distressed men, he stayed up in his bedroom. He kept a full liquor cabinet there anyway.

At one in the morning, the eastern Canadian air felt crisp and humid, with a bite to the mild breeze. Truman stood on the small balcony and shivered. The chill kept his mind clear,
despite the whiskey he'd been ingesting since Claber's call. He looked down over the dark pine trees swaying back and forth over the mountainside and swayed with them as he tipped the bottle back again. Even in the day time, Truman couldn't see the gravel road that led to the highway below. At night, not even his men liked to drive up the mountain. Certainly no one else came to visit.

Privacy. He thrived on it. He appreciated the camaraderie he had with his men, and even felt familial ties with some of them. But when it came down to it, he preferred to be alone. That was when he did his best thinking. It was also when he could pretend he lived a normal life.

He closed his eyes, remembering a time when he hadn't known the pressures his father would place on him. He had assumed, like everyone else, that he'd go to college, get a job, get married, and have a family.

High school changed all that. His father began grooming him for his inheritance, and friends' houses became training grounds for thievery. Friendships didn't last long after that, and neither did school.

Not that it mattered. His father had always known he'd uproot Truman from his civilian lifestyle and plunk him in the middle of the woods to take over his organization.

Except... Truman hadn't done it right. He never wanted to be a criminal mastermind. And yet, he had never denounced it either. He admitted being unwilling to give up the luxurious lifestyle he had, the gluttonous amounts of food and riches and travels. He prided himself on his fine tastes, the collection of sculptures and busts that adorned his house, the hand-painted murals.

If only the loneliness didn't feel so forced. It was one thing to choose to be isolated; it was another to have no one to pass the time with. His men did not fill the void in his life.

The cell phone on the night stand rang, vibrating until it fell onto the floor. Truman turned, leaving the balcony and crossing the room in three giant steps. Claber. "Well?" He pressed the phone against his cheek and lowered his voice. "Did you get it?"

"We did," Claber said. Triumph tinged both words, punctuating each with emphasis. "We have the necklace."

Grey and Eli whooped loudly in the background. Truman nodded. One necklace wouldn't cancel out his debt, but
in the hands of the right buyer, it was a step in the right direction. "How did it go?"

"Fine. It went fine."

Claber's voice changed, and Truman knew he wasn't telling everything. "What went wrong?"

"Nothing went wrong." Claber hesitated. "I did what you said to do. Whatever it takes.”

“Meaning?” Truman demanded, not sure he really wanted to know.

“We had to take extra measures, that's all. We gassed the first two security guards without any problems. But another came around the bend right as we were leaving. We didn't expect him.”

Truman swore. He hadn’t thought the other guards would venture so far from their posts. “Did he see you?”

“He pulled his gun out."

Truman exhaled, his heart rate slowing. "But you got away? And no one was hurt?" At least the raid wasn't wrecked.

"None of us were hurt."

Truman tensed as he realized the way Claber had phrased that. "Was someone else hurt?"

"It was him or us, Boss. So I shot him."

Another murder. Truman cursed and slammed his bottle onto the table. Was there nothing else Claber could’ve done? A line from
The Life of Timon of Athens
came to his mind:
He commands us to provide and give great gifts, And all out of an empty coffer.
Claber
only had what Truman had given him to work with, and that had proven faulty. "Were you seen?"

"The van, maybe. But we took out the plate light and blacked out the registration. We'll fix it tomorrow."

"Where are you now?"

"Heading for New Mexico. We're running high right now." Indeed, there was an exuberance in Claber's voice that Truman rarely heard. "We'll stop to rest closer to morning.”

"Keep your eye out for cops," Truman instructed. His network in the US was strained, and more than likely he wouldn't be able to bail them out of trouble if the police found them.

"We will," Claber said cheerfully.

"Good job," Truman said, but the words felt remote. A hollowness filled his chest. He had the necklace. But at what cost?

What was he becoming?

#

The ringing phone woke Truman from a deep slumber. His eyes refused to open and his head throbbed like someone had stuffed it with cotton.

The phone stopped, and he hauled his pillow over his head. Birds whistled their early morning greeting outside, and he groaned. Details of the night before came back to him. Staying up until three a.m., the successful raid, stealing the Swan Lake necklace.

The phone started up again, dancing its way toward the edge of the nightstand. Why would Claber be calling this early?

He reached out and grabbed the phone. Restricted. A knot of trepidation formed in his gut. Claber would not call from a restricted number. But nobody else should even
have
his number. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Truman." McAllister's voice purred through the line, cheerfully sinister. "How are you today?"

The knot hardened into a cold rock. Truman wanted to ask how McAllister had gotten his number, but it was a moot point. He had the number, and it only showed that he was resourceful.

Truman's house, tucked up in the pine-covered foothills of Montreal, was entirely self-sustaining. A well outside provided water. Generators created the electricity necessary for lighting, heating, and cooling. He had no land-line, only cell phones, and those were pay-as-you-go. No one could track him. No internet, either, except what he got on his phone and tablet. While records of the house existed, there was nothing to tie it back to him.

The message was clear: it wouldn't be long before McAllister tracked down Truman's residential address, as well.

These thoughts flashed through Truman's head in an instant. He cleared his throat, careful not to betray his fear. "Same to you. Not a social call, I assume."

"Correct." Heavy breathing filled the phone line. "Do you hear that? It's a friend of yours. Say hello."

Kessler. Truman heard the muffled sounds of fearful whimpers. He gritted his teeth. "I'm getting you your money. Last night my men stole a two-million dollar necklace. I—"

"Two-million?" McAllister interrupted, sounding amused. "You owe me ten."

"Yes, I know." Truman spat the words out. "This is just the beginning. I'll have all the money soon." He let out a careful breath. "I might need a little more than a month."

"You don't have it." McAllister paused. "However... is the necklace on you?"

"No, not yet. My men will be here in three days."

"Give me the necklace as soon as you get it. I'll keep it as a down payment and extend you another four weeks."

Truman's heart thudded in his ears. Two months still wasn't very much. "I'll do it."

"Good." Something slammed loudly, making Truman jump. A high-pitched, muffled scream echoed in the background. "Your man here is counting on you. He's already given his
hand
in your defense."

Hot rage dipped through Truman's mind, blinding him for a moment. If he could reach through the phone and pull McAllister's throat out, he would. He hung up the phone, his whole body trembling with fury.