Deliverer

Chapter 4

Truman's men spread around the game room, plates of sandwiches and chips propped up between card games and beers. Allan and his group should be home in a day from their assignment. The sooner, the better. Truman wanted this whole thing behind him.

Smoke filled the air from various cigarettes and cigars like a sleazy bar from a 1950s mobster movie. Truman pointed his pencil at a road highlighted on the map in front of him. "Put the getaway car here," he said to Claber. "You'll be half a block from the store, but you should be able to make a run for it on foot. I've studied the schematics of the store. Disable the inner cameras as soon as you enter. Stay out of view of the outside ones."

"And this is the only raid we'll do that night?"

"Yes." Truman tapped the pencil eraser on the map. If he had a mole in the local police force, Truman’s agents could use their limited power to buy him time, to clear a getaway path for him. But he didn’t.

"Target?"

Truman pictured the store in his mind. Located in a strip mall in a small town, it probably didn't have anything worth more than ten grand. His men had thirty seconds from the moment they entered the store. "It'll just be you and Eli. Let's shoot for fifty thousand."

Claber's cell vibrated on the table between them. Truman cocked his head. He didn't give out his own personal number, so anyone wanting to contact him did it through Claber.

Claber shot a look at Truman, his green eyes dark in the smoky air. "McAllister."

Truman's stomach flip-flopped. Sanchez should've sold the weapons by now. Truman couldn't miss the call, though, or it might look like he was avoiding McAllister. "Answer it, quick."

Claber poked a button on the touch screen. "Yes." He raised his eyes to Truman's. "One moment." He handed the phone over.

Truman flipped the map around and ran his pencil over a highway. "McAllister. What can I do for you?"

"Funny you should ask, Truman. I'm not sure that you can, but I thought you should know."

"Know what?" Here it came.

"Some of my men have disappeared."

Truman erased the line he had drawn over the highway. "Deserters?"

"I don't think so. These men were part-timers. They had jobs, families.” He paused. “Now they're missing."

Truman gritted his teeth and shot a glare at Claber. He'd killed people who would actually be missed. "Where did they disappear from?"

"They picked up a package for me and were on their way to a delivery. Never made it."

Well, they were idiots to make a pit-stop on my raid. "Could it be the Carnicero?"

"Could be, of course, but he usually leaves a crime scene behind."

Too true. The Carnicero left his bloody handiwork out in the open, a warning and a promise to dangerous criminals: their turn would come.

"I'm not sure I can help you, then."

McAllister exhaled. "There was a theft at a jewelry store close by where they did their pickup. It had the classic marks of one of yours, so I thought maybe you were in the area."

Truman’s neck prickled. Was McAllister fishing? Or did he actually know something? "Me? I never go out on raids."

A soft growl came through the phone. "Your men, Truman."

"Classic marks? It had a hand print?" He hoped not. He'd quit leaving the hand print years ago, preferring to leave cops uncertain whether he was the perpetrator or not.