Deliverer (6 page)

Chapter 10

Truman hung up  and handed the phone back. "Well. He's more than willing to negotiate. How much did you bring in from the raid?"

Claber's shoulders relaxed and he seated himself in the chair in front of the desk. He obviously thought he was out of the fire. "The necklace is worth two million. We only got a handful at the jewelry store before the girls created a distraction, but I think we pulled a quarter of a million there."

"It's in the safe?"

"As soon as we got here."

Truman nodded. "Good." He paused, letting his thoughts wander. "I have no idea how much I'll be able to get for the girls. I've never done anything like this." There were lines he’d told himself he'd never cross, yet here he was. "I want a million for each. Three million total."

"That's a bit high, Boss. Even the best markets usually only pay half a million for each girl."

That hardly seemed worth it. He could make that much in a few jewelry raids. But Sid rolled in the dough, with vacation homes across the world. How did he find his girls, and where did he sell them? Truman didn't want to know. "But one is the
Carnicero
’s daughter, right? Two million  for the three girls."

Claber leaned forward. "And where are we getting the other millions?"

Truman stiffened his jaw to keep from grimacing. If he had a year, he could bring that money in, easy. But a month? Less? He wasn't sure it was possible. "I don't know. McAllister's getting impatient. I’m not sure he'll give me the full time to find it."

"And if he doesn't?" Claber asked softly.

"I'm planning an escape route. If we leave here, we split up. You'll take a contingency and I'll take one. We'll liquidate everything we have as quickly as possible, then rendezvous somewhere far away."
Somewhere unreachable.
"I'll give you the full details when I have them."

Claber leaned back, his green eyes thoughtful. "We could kidnap more girls. It wasn't hard."

Truman stood up, angered by Claber’s crassness. "No. That's not what I do."
I'm not one of them.
"We're doing four raids this week. Get teams of three men each together. I want the raids done at the same time. No time for the stores to tip each other off."

"Where?"

"Stay away from Texas and Idaho. Do the Midwest. It's been awhile."

"Kentucky it is." Claber lifted out of his chair. "Did you want me to find a way to contact the
Carnicero
?"

"Yes. Lure him out of hiding. In fact." Truman tapped his chin. Did he dare dangle a ransom in front of the
Carnicero
? This man was notorious for finding and annihilating the most secretive of operations. A ransom might simply make Truman a bigger target.

Or it might get him the money he needed. "Let's wait to see what Sid offers me. And then we’ll triple it and ask for it as ransom. No, quadruple it. If the
Carnicero
wants his daughter, he'll pay for her."

"Assuming he wants her."

"Yes." Truman narrowed his eyes. "Assuming."

#

Truman opened his tablet, updating his file sheets with information about the raids and the money they'd brought in. This was a business, after all, and he kept organized records.

The girls must still be cleaning. He hadn't seen them since the night before, and he'd given Claber orders to manage them all day. But it was time to meet with them. He owed them an explanation.

He stepped out of his office and hesitated. What role should he take with them? The kind, sympathetic, accidental kidnapper? Or the harsh "tough-luck" kind of guy?

He wandered into the game room, where several men spread out on couches, sleeping. He had to expect that, since he kept them up in the night traveling or planning raids.

"Grey." Truman tapped Grey's foot with his own, waking the man.

"Hmm?" Grey sat up, rubbing his pale eyes. "Boss. What is it?"

"I need you to prepare a formal dinner for tonight."

Grey blinked several times, stretching his arms behind his shoulders. "Okay. How many guests?"

"Four." Truman paused, then said, "The girls you kidnapped, and me."

That got Grey's attention. He dropped his arms, jaw gaping open. "You're going to eat dinner with them?"

Truman held his gaze, keeping his eyes stern. "Yes. And a nice one."

Grey inhaled and shoved his fingers though his wavy brown hair. "I'm not trying to say you shouldn't. But it might be a better idea to keep distance between you."

Truman considered that. He did feel a need to establish a hierarchy; the girls had to know he was in charge. But he didn't want to make this any more miserable for them than it was. "I have to explain things to them. And I have questions for them."

"But you can't be on equal footing.”

Truman crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you suggest?"

"Meet with them, if you want." Grey nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Eat dinner with them, even. But don't serve them what you eat. Make them see that they're subservient."

Subservient. An ugly word.

"Boss," Grey said, and Truman heard the sincerity in his tone, "I know this isn't your thing. Look, it's not mine. We had to save our backs, though. At least we didn't kill them all."

"At least," Truman grunted.

"You can't let them think you're soft. They'll take advantage of you."

Grey was right. Truman hated to admit it. He had to maintain order. The consequences for their actions had to be severe. "Fine. Prepare the dining room. Make them something simple, soup and bread, whatever."

A glint came into Grey's eye. "And something nice for you."

"Yes."

Grey got to his feet, brushing his pants, his hands twitching with excitement. Truman would never understand Grey's love for the kitchen. "I'll take the Camaro to the store, then?"

"Go." Truman waved him away.

Grey was right. What was he thinking? He couldn't very well strike up a friendship with the girls and then sell them into slavery.

He stopped at the mirror in the entryway and examined his reflection. Shadows hung under his eyes, a dark contrast to the gauntness of his pale face. He didn't like what he saw.

#

Everything about the mansion Truman's father had left him was ornate. From the red carpet in the entryway to the marble busts on the show room, it had the detail and expense of a museum.

The dining room was no exception. Truman didn't entertain often because he kept his location a secret. But a long wood table took up the middle of the room for the occasions when he needed it. White pillars took away the sharp edges of the corners, and crown molding ran along the top of the tiered ceiling. Murals of fruits in pastels covered one entire wall.

Truman trailed his fingers down the white tablecloth, admiring Grey's handy work. That man had missed his calling in life. Here he led the life of crime when he could be gainfully and happily employed as a chef somewhere. Platters of gourmet foods covered the table, from cuts of beef with gravy to honey-glazed vegetables. Truman shook his head. He couldn't eat all this. It was more "in your face" than "I'm in charge."

Three other chairs had been placed around the table. In front of each chair sat a bowl with green soup in it. Truman resisted the childish urge to wrinkle his nose. Green soup?

"Grey," he called, and Grey's footsteps echoed along the tiled flooring before he emerged from a servant's door.

Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, Grey looked like a construction worker, not a chef. "Yes?"

"This is too much." Truman gestured at the food.

Grey bobbed his head. "I'm sure the guys will eat the leftovers."

The message was clear: This is not for the girls. "Find Claber,” Truman said. “Tell him to bring the girls in."

"You got it."

Truman tapped his fork on the cloth. He heard Claber approach and stood up again. Pressing his hands down the front of his shirt, he smoothed out any last wrinkles, then berated himself for worrying about such a thing.

One of the heavy French doors opened, and the three girls shuffled in. They stared at the ground and came to a stop just inside the dining room. The tallest of the girls, the one with red hair, kept lifting her eyes and darting them back down.

Amanda Murphy
, Truman reminded himself. Their names should not be important to him. And yet, they were.

Interesting how she wasn’t frightened. Or at least, she was more curious than frightened.
He filed that information away under her name.

Now what? Truman stared at them. How did a kidnapper act? He inclined his head, catching himself before he extended a complete bow. They would see that as a mocking gesture. "Please, sit." He motioned to the chairs around the table.

The brunette—the
Carnicero
's
daughter, if Claber had his facts straight—lifted her face, gaze flicking over the table. Jacinta Rivera. Truman searched her face, looking for a resemblance to the vigilante. He knew from the way her nostrils flared that she was hungry. They all had to be.

They ambled forward, slowly, as if expecting him to spring a trap. When nothing happened, they sat down around the table, still silent, still glancing around in suspicion.

Could he blame them?

He had a show to put on. Truman began piling his plate high with food from different dishes. He glanced at the girls as he speared a long piece of broccoli. Their eyes were on him. More precisely, on his food. None of them had touched their soup.

He suppressed a sigh. So much food here. Plenty for them to have some.
Don't
, he told himself. "I don't particularly like the color of pea soup either." He spotted a cloth-covered basket in the middle of the table, within reach of the girls. He doubted Grey baked his fresh rolls anticipating that the kidnapped girls would eat them, but Truman couldn't deny them that much. Besides, bread and soup went together. "There's fresh bread." He pointed his fork at the basket.

That got their attention. All three began sticking their hands in for rolls. Rivera grabbed a handful and dumped them in her lap. Truman watched her take a bite and close her eyes. Maybe Grey was wrong. Maybe he could accomplish more with them if they didn't feel intimidated by him.

She opened her eyes and they met his. She ducked her head, splotchy redness creeping up her face. Grabbing her spoon, she poked at her soup.

No. It was too late. No matter what he did, they would never trust him. "So." He placed some golden, deep-fried shrimp on his plate, despite the fact that he had no appetite. "Why were you watching the robbery?"

No one answered. He looked at Murphy, the redhead, who sat on his left. "Well?"

She didn't look at him, and his eyes fell on Sara Yadle, the youngest of the group. That shiver of delight and surprise ran through him again.

Becca
. Except she wasn't Becca. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Yet the feeling of familiarity wouldn't fade. He couldn't make himself not care for her. Putting a gruff note in his voice, he said, "What do you think, girl?"

Sara's eyes lifted from her bowl. "Curiosity."

He raised an eyebrow. Was she the only one brave enough to respond to him? "Dangerous." Not a surprise, though. Many of the troublesome endeavors he participated in as a child began with curiosity.

He examined them while they sipped their soups and tried to see them as objects, expensive items for him to do what he pleased with. "Such beautiful girls." None of them responded, except to maybe huddle down further in their chairs.

While he knew he should maintain the distance between them, a part of him wanted to draw them out of their shells. He didn’t have guests often, and he was curious about them. "Do you have names? How about it? Red?" He nodded at Murphy. "By far the most beautiful in the group. Exquisite beauty." His eyes were drawn to Sara, again against his will. "And you are nothing but a child. Yet your innocence is so—captivating." He frowned, stopping his words.
Careful, Truman.
He couldn’t
feed this fascination with her. He forced himself to turn to Rivera. Their salvation. He could see some of the features from the man in the photograph, now that he looked. She was his daughter. She had to be. Now he just needed to make sure it really was the
Carnicero
. "And you."

She met his eyes. "What about you? We don't know your name."

"Of course you do. Who else would I be, but The Hand?"

The girl exchanged a glance with the redhead, then looked away.

Truman cleared his throat. They should know he had connections everywhere. "Never mind. I already know who you are. You're all over the news, though the police are hesitant to link your disappearance to the robbery."

The police had saved him more often than they knew, and he meant the real ones, not the planted agents who worked to keep his name off the radar.