Deliverer

Chapter 2

"Thank you for visiting Mexico, Mr. Scotch," the Mexican airport official said, handing Truman back his Canadian passport.

Truman gave a brief nod. Claber followed, patting his fake passport in the palm of his hand.

Neither of them spoke as they finished up at the security checkpoint. They sat at their gate and waited for the airplane to arrive. Only when they were on board and taxiing down the runway did Truman exhale, letting his shoulders slump. He could relax now. They were on their way home.

Claber's phone vibrated in his pocket.

“You didn’t turn your phone off,” Truman chastized.

“I never do.” Claber removed it from his pocket and thumbed over the message. "From Maverick." He glanced at Truman. "They were attacked."

Truman's shoulders tightened up again. "Where?"

Claber texted back and then scrolled through the response. “All of our hotels.”

"Who died?" Truman tightened his grip around the armrest.

"He doesn’t say anything about McAllister. Maverick missed being there by a few hours, but he left two men behind to meet with Cisnero."

“And?” Truman knew the outcome without asking.

“Dead. Cisnero and Maverick’s men.”

Truman pushed back into the headrest, his heart thumping like a barrel drum in his chest. “What about McAllister?”

Claber’s thumbs worked out the question. “Several of his men died, but he escaped.”

“The Carnicero?”

“There’s no proof."

"Of course." Truman nodded. "But who else could it be?"

Claber’s phone vibrated as another text came through. “Here’s a warning from Maverick. McAllister blames you. Thinks you knew.”

“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.