Deliverer Read Free Page A

Claber, I’m leaving you in charge.”
    “Take Barley for a walk, Boyscout,” Claber said.
    “No.” Truman put out a hand, stopping Grey. “Come, boy.” Truman patted his thigh and Barley leapt to his side. “How are we on food?”
    “We could use some food items,” Grey admitted.
    “Then go get them. I’m sleeping. Do not disturb.”
    “Out of here, Boyscout,” Claber grumbled.
    Truman ignored them. He stumbled into the house and up three flights, pausing only to take a quick drink of tonic and gin. That usually helped. He climbed into bed. Barley jumped on beside him, the weight and smell of the dog comforting. Truman fell asleep before he’d closed his eyes.
    At noon Claber walked in and opened the blinds. Sunlight poured over Truman's face, and he winced. "Claber. I did not request a wake-up call."
    "Grey just phoned," Claber said, unperturbed. "He can't get up the hill. Says there's a cop staking out the driveway."
    Barley jumped off the bed and exited the room, tail wagging the whole time. Truman sat up and directed his attention at Claber. "Where is he now?"
    "He kept going. Pretended like that wasn't his stop. But if that cop decides to drive up the mountain..." Claber let the sentence hang.
    Truman scowled. "Why is he here? Fayande is supposed to keep them away from here. Isn't that what I'm paying him to do?" Officer Fayande was Truman’s inside man to the Montreal police force. It was his job to keep the cops out of Truman’s business.
    Claber grunted. "Maybe you better remind him."
    Truman grabbed the discarded jeans at the foot of the bed and fished through the pockets for his phone. His hand closed around it and he pulled it out, hitting the speed dial for Fayande. Truman didn't worry about Fayande turning him in. Fayande liked the perks of being in The Hand's pocket. Sure beat the policeman wages.
    Fayande answered, the French words purring through the telephone.
    Truman interrupted. "Why is one of your men at my doorstep?"
    Fayande switched to English in an instant, his voice laced with panic. "One of my men is at your house?"
    "No, luckily for you. He is in my driveway."
    "Who?"
    Truman gritted his teeth. "It's your job to know that, not mine. Get him out of here."
    "Right now, I will," Fayande promised. "It—"
    Truman hung up. He'd heard all the promises before and wasn't interested. Besides, it would do Fayande good to sit and fret. Truman put his hand on the nightstand and forced himself to his feet. "What's Sanchez's ETA?"
    He hadn’t heard anything from Sanchez in several hours. The men had killed the guards and rid themselves of the would-be thieves. Killing them didn’t sit well with Truman. It wasn’t how he operated. At least the men had been criminals and not civilians. Besides, like Claber said , Truman consoled himself, it was us or them.
    "They should be here before dinner," Claber answered. “Spoke with him two hours ago.”
    "Bring me some black coffee and toast. I'll be in the shower."
    #
    Grey made it up the hill after the cop disappeared, then unloaded groceries and other essentials into the house. The men grabbed a bite to eat and went back to the game room. Truman followed, listening to their chatter while he checked accounts on his tablet. He skimmed the Mexican news for any information on the killings. They had no suspects. It had to have been the Carnicero.
    Barley lifted his head from his spot under the pool table and began to growl. A moment later Truman felt the slight tremble of a car passing over the gravel drive. Truman tucked his tablet under an arm and ran up the stairs to the main level, Barley at his heels. He moved down the hall toward the entry way just as Claber exited one of the grand rooms.
    "Is it Sanchez?" Truman asked.
    "Yes. Just arrived."
    Truman grunted. "Why didn't he call ahead?"
    "He's on time."
    That was true. Still, a head's up was required. "Who’s in the driveway?"
    "Sanchez with the stolen vehicle. Van’s already in the