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he waited for the men, then yanked it out only to thrust it in again.
    "This is all that's here," Claber said, closing the door behind him. Several men were away on raids, but about seven remained at the mansion.
    For a brief moment Truman wanted to tell them all to remember who they'd been before they came to him, where they'd lived, and to go back to that life.
    But that wouldn't be good for him, and the selfless moment passed.
    "We’re going to make some changes." He sat on the corner of his desk and threw the dagger into the opposite corner of the flat wood surface. "We'll be increasing the number of raids we do each week."
    "Each week?" Hastings echoed. "I thought once a week was risky!"
    "Not anymore." Truman waited a moment to let his annoyance fade a bit. Hastings reminded him of a high school student. "We're also going to start hitting a new venue."
    Murmurs ran around the group. Long had Truman made it clear that he stole jewelry, and nothing else. For him to change that proved how desperate he was.
    A whisper rippled through his group, until the older Bennett brother, Derek, had the guts to ask, "Why the change?"
    Truman pressed his lips together, growing irritated. He shouldn’t have to explain his every thought. Most knew he’d met with McAllister, but they didn’t need to know more than that."It’s time to expand. If you want out, be my guest. Don't expect any more payments, and remember that being on your own is on your own. No protection."
    He let those words sink in for a moment. Then Grey asked, "Where are Kessler and Sanchez?"
    Irony. On the heels of threatening to take away protection, he now had to admit that he didn't have much to offer. Truman cleared his throat. "Kessler stayed behind with McAllister. He had some complaints. He’ll be back soon." There. Let it seem like it was voluntary, that he and Kessler made some kind of agreement.
    The silence dragged on too long, and Grey cleared his throat. "And Sanchez?"
    Sanchez. An image of the shot-up body flashed before Truman's eyes. If he told them, he would either have a mutiny or people second-guessing his every decision. On the other hand, if he lied, they would find out soon. And then all their trust in him would vanish.
    "Sanchez is dead." Truman hardened his face and met each man's eyes. They wouldn’t know if it was him or McAllister who pulled the trigger, but it would breed a healthy fear among the men.
    Truman leaned forward, plucking his dagger out of the desk and cleaning his fingernails with it. “Here’s the new plan. As often as we can spare men, we'll have raids going on. And we're going for bigger items. Museums. Special exhibits. It's going to take some training, but it will work. A good change of pace. So you know the plan. Let’s get to work, boys."
    The men filed out of the room, all except Claber. He ran a hand over his buzzed head. “I’ve gone over all the pictures I took in Cancun. I printed several that could be our man. Maybe the Carnicero , or maybe one of the other shadows that follow him.”
    “Excellent. Give them to me. I’ll have Fayande take a look at them, see if he can ID anyone.”
    “Will do.”
    #
    Five in the morning, and Truman lounged in an extra-large leather chair in the game room. Barley had taken up his usual spot on top of Truman’s toes, the sixty-pound body of the dog warming his legs and calming his nerves. He reached down, absentmindedly massaging behind his ears. Several members of his team were still up. Cold hot wings and sandwiches piled up on the counter.
    The facade of normalcy was complete. It wasn't unusual for many people to be up this time of night, especially when waiting on the results of a raid. The smells, the low lights, the food, the alcohol. But there was the catch. Usually, Truman nursed a beer while he played. Tonight, he cradled his whiskey. His fingers moved robotically across the dog’s head, unable to keep up with the anxiety that spidered through his chest and