Deliverer Read Free

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.
     

 
    Chapter 3
     
    Alfred, a white-haired man and by far the oldest in the group, picked up Truman and Claber from the airport late in the evening. Lack of sleep made Truman cranky and irritable. By the time they reached the mansion tucked deep in the Canadian forest, he had a headache the size of Mt. Everest. It pounded like the steady beat of a bass drum.
    Barley greeted him as soon as Truman opened the car door, the wet nose nearly knocking him back inside. Barley’s entire back half wagged back and forth with the force of his tail.
    “Good boy,” Truman said, scratching behind his ears. He glanced up to see Grey descending the concrete steps into the garage.
    Hey, Boyscout,” Claber sneered at Grey. “How was dog-watching? Earn another merit badge?”
    Grey ignored the badgering. “He’s glad you’re home, Boss. Started whining as soon as he heard the car pull in. Knew it was you.”
    “The only good thing my father left me,” Truman muttered.
    Grey shrugged. “Well, the money’s nice too.”
    Truman pressed a hand against his raging head. “Gentlemen, I’m exhausted.