Deliverer (5 page)

Chapter 8

Truman couldn't sleep after McAllister's call. He went on a jog with Barley, letting some tension in his joints seep into the cold September air. He finished his jog at the shooting range just east of the house and fired a few rounds. He didn't have an endless supply of ammo, though, and it occurred to him that he might need it.

Chilled by the thought of a bloodbath, he went down to the basement and lifted weights. The odor of mildew and rust overwhelmed his nostrils, and his eyes wandered over the mess in the room. Trash piled up in the corners. Rust decorated the pipes and sinks. The basement stank of wet and decay.

Claber's call at noon was a welcome distraction. “We're in Utah,” he said. “Heading for the Montana border.”

“
Perfect,” Truman said into the phone. He entered the kitchen and scowled at the food and trash littering the room. Did nobody clean up after themselves? Sometimes Grey was far more beneficial at home than on raids.He opened the fridge and tossed half of the contents into a trash bag. “Wait until nightfall or our agent might not be working.” They had safely crossed the border many times, even if the border patrol didn't include one of Truman's men. But with a theft as important as the Swan Lake necklace on board, Truman preferred to play it safe.

“We will.”

The rest of the day passed in a monotonous silence. Truman spent most of it outside with Barley, finding the emptiness of the house oppressive and stifling. He didn’t go inside until it got too dark to see.

Toward midnight the phone rang, waking Truman from where he slept at the foot of his bed. Claber again. Truman cleared his throat and answered. "Yes."

"Boss?" Not Claber. Eli's voice came across the line, high-pitched and whiny. Unusual for Eli.

Truman pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "What is it, Eli?" Something couldn't have gone wrong so soon. Not now.

"We had, um, uh, a slight mishap."

Truman's lower lip curled into a snarl. "What? What happened?"

"We had to kidnap these four girls that were spying on us."

It took a full minute for the words to sink in. Girls. Spying. Kidnap. "You did what?" he shouted.

"Well, they were—" The phone went dead.

Truman pulled it away from his ear and stared at it. Signal lost. He waited a few minutes for Eli to call back, but he didn't. They must be in a dead zone. There were half a dozen of those between Montana and Canada.

Rattled, Truman lay back on his bed. He tried to summon the hypnosis of sleep, but thoughts tumbled around his mind, trying to make sense of Eli's brief sentences. Kidnap? Girls? How? Why? What were his men doing with them?

Truman sat up and opened the nightstand drawer. As it should be, the whiskey bottle lay on its side, silent and inviting. Truman took a big swig, then another. Kidnap. Spying. Four girls.

He was a jewel thief. Not a kidnapper. This was not part of the game.

He took several more gulps before collapsing face down on the bed, passed out.

#

Claber didn't call all the next day, and Truman resisted the urge to check on them. The only words Truman had for his second-in-command were furious and condemning. Claber knew better. How could he let something like this happen? Kidnapped girls. Every cop in the nation would be looking for them.

It took some effort for Truman to scan the American newscast on his tablet. Finally, with the right combination of words, he found an APB, put out by the Idaho Falls Police Department.

“Four girls, disappearing from the Idaho Falls mall after ten p.m.”

The mall? Why were his men at the mall?

He studied the girls’ names and bios again. Just a couple of teenagers. His heart sank. What was he supposed to do with them? He couldn't very well just let them go. But they couldn't be here.

The sun still hung high in the sky around three p.m. when Sanders burst in. "Boss. They're here."

By now all his men knew the kidnapped girls were coming. Truman kept his face stern and followed Sanders back downstairs. Men crowded around the windows, anxious to get a peek.

Stepping out onto the porch, Truman watched the black van pull into the circle drive. Claber emerged from the passenger side. His eyes darted toward Truman, then turned away before they made contact. Truman grimaced. Claber knew this was a bad situation. How could he have allowed it to happen?

Claber straightened his shoulders, his green shirt tightening over his deltoids, and palmed a baseball bat. With one hand, he threw open the cargo doors.

Truman didn't move, but he couldn't deny the curiosity. What kind of girls were these? Did they want trouble?

A Hispanic girl emerged first, her gaze roving over the house before landing on him. She stared, brown eyes wide, before lowering her gaze. Behind her a taller red-head stepped out. Her face swiveled left and right as if she couldn't control the movement. The third girl looked younger than the other two, even younger in real life than in the photo attached to the APB. Her shoulders hunched over and she gripped her forearms, never once lifting her eyes from the gravel path beneath her feet.

Something about her seemed familiar. Truman studied her as they neared before realizing that a fourth girl hadn't come out. He waited, but Eli closed up the van and followed behind the girls, his fat lip jutting out even further than usual.

Truman jerked his head, trying to catch Claber's eye. But Claber didn't look at him as he led the girls into the house.

Grey came up last, and Truman pulled him aside. "What's going on, Grey?"

Grey cleared his throat, eyes darting about as if seeking a hiding place. "We just did what Claber said. Honest, boss."

In other words, Grey wasn't taking credit. "There's only three." Truman let the statement fall and hang there, waiting for an explanation.

Grey coughed. "The other girl's dead."

"Dead?" Truman asked sharply.

"I didn't really see." Grey shook his head. "I was in the van." He stood there a moment, waiting for more questions. But Truman could see Grey didn't have the answers. He released the other man’s arm.

“Keep Barley out of sight,” he ordered. The girls might attach themselves to the dog, or worse, he to them.

Grey bobbed his head and scurried away, reminding Truman of a mouse evading a predator.

Truman caught up to the girls and Claber, listening as the bigger man snapped out threats and innuendo. Truman stayed back, allowing them to talk unimpeded by his presence. Claber led them all the way to the fourth floor, and then yanked the drop-down ladder to the ground, revealing the attic access.

The small blond girl gripped the ladder and started into the attic, and with a jolt of recognition, Truman knew her.

"Becca." He breathed the name to himself. But it wasn't Becca. It couldn’t be. Becca was dead.

Still, something about her so reminded him of Becca that he couldn't remove his gaze from her. He found he’d stepped closer without meaning to. He clenched his fist to keep himself from reaching out and touching her, just to see if she was real. Was her hair as soft as he remembered? Did her nose still crinkle when she smiled? Did her eyes sparkle as if lit from the inside?

Truman shook his head. "Claber."

Claber turned, still not meeting his eyes. "Yes, boss?" he grunted.

"I'll take it from here."

The girl finished scrambling up the ladder, disappearing into the attic.

Claber cast one last glance at them. "Take a rest, ladies. Maybe tonight you'll have company!" His grin faded as he met Truman's eyes for the first time, and then he clomped down the hall.

Anger boiled just beneath the surface of Truman's calm exterior. Perhaps giving the man so much power had been a mistake. "No company today, girls." He studied the two cowering against the ladder. He wished he could reassure them, tell them they wouldn't be hurt. But they might be. They hadn't exactly walked into a butterfly palace. "This is my house, and I'm in charge. Do exactly what I tell you, and I won't hurt you." Which was true, at least. "I don't know about Claber, though. And he's my second-in-command. He'll be in charge of you for most of the time. Up, now. Go on."

Truman waited until they were all in the attic, and then he closed the trapdoor and latched it from the outside. His head pounded. He gritted his teeth and marched downstairs.

He went all the way down to the game room, where the murmur of voices dropped off the moment he entered. Truman stepped up to the bar and poured a glass of whiskey before turning around. All eyes dropped to their tables, laptops, card games, or whatever entertained them, under his scrutiny. Truman noticed the men centered themselves around Claber, Grey, and Eli. He scowled. So his men would know the scoop before him. He couldn't lose face in front of them.

"Claber." The man stood, but Truman waved him down. "This house needs to be cleaned. Top to bottom. You're in charge of those girls tomorrow. Put them to work by six. Keep them busy or they'll cause trouble. And then I want you to report to my office. Seven a.m." Yes, that was a bit early, but Truman wanted Claber to feel his ire.

"Sir?" Claber furrowed his brow. "How can I be in charge of the girls and in your office at the same time?"

Truman stared at him, letting the question linger in the air just until the silence grew heavy. "You delegate." Turning, he grabbed up the rest of the bottle of whiskey and went upstairs, just in case his bedroom supply was running low.

Chapter 9

True to his orders, Truman heard Claber's steps stomp past his room and toward the attic entrance a few minutes before six the next morning. Truman stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, half of his face still covered in shaving cream. He tried to discern the other pair of steps with Claber, but he couldn't identify the person.

"Just let Claber handle this," he muttered. But
images of Becca flashed in his head and he couldn't let it alone. Toweling off his face, he headed upstairs after Claber.

Claber and Sanders stood a few feet from the stairwell, close to the attic entry. The ladder was down, and Truman surmised that they were waiting for the girls to descend. He approached the two men, earning a nod from Claber. The girls talked softly in the attic, and then jean-clad legs started down the ladder. The brunette. Behind her came the redhead. Truman stepped closer so he could overhear them.

"Maybe now we can escape," the redhead whispered. "Watch for the weaknesses of the house."

Of course, girls who thought themselves clever enough to spy on
other people’s business would assume they could find a way to escape. Truman crossed his arms over his chest. "There are none."

The girl let out a cry and almost lost her balance, catching herself before she fell off the ladder. She turned and stared at him, green eyes wide. The thought struck Truman that she was very pretty, but that didn't matter. The first lesson here would be respect. "Where would you go? To the police?" The Montreal police wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole, not once they knew The Hand was involved with them. "Enough. For now, you're my prisoners."

The last girl, the young blond one, started down the ladder. Truman's eyes lifted to her, almost against his will, and he worked hard to keep his face straight. Becca. Just seeing her made a warm feeling erupt in his chest. He forced himself to look back at the redhead, and he pointed at Claber and Sanders. "Go."

They scurried away, making an obvious effort to step around him. Truman ran his hand over his cleanly shaved chin. What had he gotten into?

#

At exactly seven o'clock, a knock sounded on the heavy wooden door to Truman's office. "Come in," Truman said, settling himself on top of the desk. This he couldn't wait to hear.

Claber came in. Truman gestured for him to close the door. "Well? What's your explanation?"

Claber grimaced. "We didn't mean for it to happen."

"Granted." Truman leaned forward, putting a hard tone in his voice. "But it did. And I want to know why. Why are there three girls in my house? And what happened with the fourth?"

Silence answered, and a bad feeling settled in Truman's gut. "Do I need to ask again?” he snapped. “I said no stops. Get the necklace and come straight home. What happened?"

Claber cleared his throat. "We stopped in Idaho Falls to get a bite—"

Truman held up a hand, frowning. "What were you doing in Idaho?" He knew from the news reports that the girls were from there. But that wasn't the route home. His men should never have been in that state.

"Got a call from our contact in Idaho Falls. Said he needed a new cover, that the police were suspicious. So we drove up to take care of business."

Yes, Truman conceded, such a thing could happen. "Why wasn't I notified?"

Claber lifted his chin, meeting Truman’s gaze straight on. "I assumed he called you first. Idaho’s not far from our Montana entry. I figured we’d kill two birds with one stone."

It wasn't what Truman would have done. But Claber had been in charge of the raid. "Go on. What did the contact say?"

“We relocated him and gave him a new cover. Since he knew we were coming, he had already bribed the mall security guard for us. It should've been quick and easy."

Already bribed the mall security? What mall security? It took Truman a half a second to put the two together. The contact arranged a get-rich-quick scheme just for Truman. But some things just didn't fit. "Where'd the girls come from?" He slammed his fist down on the desk. "I'm a jewel thief, not a kidnapper. I'm wanted for burglary, not murder!" The end of the sentence came out in a hiss, and Truman let it linger. He glowered at his man.

"They were spying on us," Claber said. His gaze wavered. "It was either kill them or bring them along. They'd seen too much."

Truman snorted. He didn't believe that for a second. "They saw a black van! You should've drugged them and dumped them in a ditch! And the girl that's dead. What happened there?"

"She was running to flag down a Jeep."

The last thing Truman needed was a murdered girl next to the Canadian border. "What, are we going to leave a trail of dead bodies from Idaho to Canada? Lead them right to us?" He pinched the bridge of his nose, some of his fury giving way to weariness. "You
, of all people, know what's on my head. No false moves. We can't afford it. Everything we pull in this year goes to paying that debt, understand?" He dropped his hand and looked at the two men. "At least we've still got the Swan Lake necklace." He stared at Claber, waiting for confirmation. He bobbed his head in affirmation.

Sliding off the desk, Truman opened a drawer behind it and pulled out another whiskey bottle. The truth of the matter was, he had three girls in his house and didn't know what to do with them. Ransoms rarely worked. Police got involved, tracked them down. His whole organization would crash down like a house of cards. Not even his connections with the local force would hide him.

A dark thought twisted it's way into his mind.
Girls are worth money.

He wasn't sure where the thought came from.
Only truly sick people dealt in human trafficking.

And yet, he knew it was more lucrative than weapons, than even drugs. But also one of the most risky, and Truman wanted no part of it.

Still, he knew people who trafficked. Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad move. He could get rid of the girls and cross off some of his debt at the same time.

Sid was a familiar contact, someone his father had known.
He had a summer home here in Canada, but Truman didn't know where the man was right now. He would come to Montreal if he was interested. Truman could make him interested. "Claber, get me Sid. He'll buy each of those girls for half a million, maybe more. We're still in the game."

Claber stepped over to the desk and scanned a list of phone numbers taped to the inside of the drawer. "Hold on, Truman. I'll call Sid, but didn't you recognize the little Latina girl? That's Gregorio Rivera's daughter."

Truman squinted at Claber. The name didn't ring any bells. "Who's Gregorio Rivera?"

"The
Carnicero
."

Truman jerked backwards, bumping the bookcase behind him. "What? Are you sure?"

Claber nodded. "Found pictures that match the one I took in Mexico.”

“Gregorio Rivera? Is that his real name?”

“It’s the one he goes by in the States. I researched the girls on the drive. I found him when I got onto the girl’s Facebook account. He's kept himself mostly invisible, but he forgot to think about his daughter's Facebook page. Family pictures everywhere It's him. He's her father."

"Well." Finally, a bit of fortune. "We'll have to think about this. Assuming that man really is the
Carnicero
, and assuming he’s really her father, she's worth a lot more. Quite a bit more."

"My thoughts exactly." Claber nodded.

Truman drummed his fingers on the desk. "We have to be one hundred percent sure they’re who we think they are."

Claber patted the camera he kept with him. "We can send an agent to check her house. It’ll be easy to find now that we know her name. We watch him for a day or two, we’ll know if he does lengthy foreign travels."

"Yes." Truman's gave a wry smile. "Nice of the police to give us their information. If she really is his daughter, we can demand a much higher price for her." He jerked his head at Claber. "Get someone on it."

"Yes, sir."

Truman swatted at the dusty desk and sat on it. The half-empty bottle of whiskey stood like a silent sentinel. He eyed it, tempted to take another swig. He gave in and swallowed, trying to moisten his dry throat.

Standing again, Truman paced the room. He was running out of money, and he needed more if he was to keep his finely tuned orchestra playing. He came to a decision. "Even if she’s the
Carnicero
’s
daughter, I don't want her. But Sid will. Make that call, Claber."

Claber pulled out his cell phone.

Stealing wasn’t such a bad crime. Most of the money he made went back to the community, instead of sitting and rotting in some museum. But last week he'd added murder of a civilian to his criminal activities. This week, kidnapping.

Would he add slavery next week?

Truman stopped pacing, coming to a halt in front of Claber. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Everything we pull in right now goes to paying off McAllister.”

"Truman.” Claber held out his phone. “Sid."

Truman accepted it, already anticipating Sid’s slimy voice that left a foul coating in his mind. "Sid. How would you like to do some business?"