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crawled over his neck.
    The others were tense, as well. This was a new game they were playing. Eyes kept lifting from their card games to dart to the clock on the wall, or risk a glance at Truman before turning away. Tensions were high. Tonight should show them that they could handle the change.
    At least, if everything went well. He watched their silent card games and was grateful they didn’t know the real stakes.
    Truman had sent Claber on this raid. Too much rested on this one to trust it to someone else. He, one of the Bennett brothers, and Christof had traveled to the Washington DC area the day before. Truman had carefully selected a mid-profile art museum. It had security, but not as intense as the more famous museums. And yet if he managed to steal just one original art piece, he'd be a tenth of the way to paying off his debt.
    Of course his men wouldn't take just one. They would go for a collection, something worth ten or fifteen million. Shouldn't be too hard.
    Yet Truman had never gone after something so valuable. It wasn't in his job description. He acted confident in front of the men, but his hands shook with agitation. How good of a thief was he? Robbing a jewelry store took some skill and wit and speed. But what about an art museum?
    The phone rang, startling Barley, who ran off. Probably under his desk, the chicken. Truman consulted his wristwatch. A quarter after five. The raid was set to start just before three a.m. Nearly two and a half hours to complete the job. Too long. "Yes?"
    "Boss." Claber's voice came through, loud and clear. Wind or something noisy buzzed in the background.
    "What?" Truman strode from the game room, moving out of hearing from the others. "Are you done?"
    Claber heaved a sigh. "Yeah, we're done. We failed. We couldn't do it."
    Truman gripped the phone tighter. He'd half expected this outcome, but still, it couldn't be right. "What do you mean?" He glanced toward the game room, not wanting anyone else to overhear. "There was so much resting on this! You couldn't fail!"
    "I’m sorry." Claber's voice remained steady. "We barely got away. We disabled the alarm, as usual, but there must've been another. Maybe when we took the painting off the wall." His voice rose in pitch. "And the paintings were heavy. It took all three of us to carry it. We heard the guards approaching, running. We tried to run with the painting, but in the end we had to ditch it. Like I said, we barely got away. We hid the van in a darkened house across the street. The cops showed up just as we piled in, so we stayed inside for two hours, laying low with the doors locked. They came by, shone their lights in, but they didn't see us. Not that it would matter; we didn't get the painting. Things calmed down now, so we're on the road again."
    Truman raked a hand through his short hair. He felt like an idiot. There must've been a way for him to foresee this. "You wore gloves and masks?"
    "Of course."
    "Security cameras?"
    "We cut that part of the electrical grid. But they might’ve had back-up power, seeing as how we triggered an alarm somewhere. Still, we were in black. Only our flashlights would've been visible."
    "No one's following you?"
    "No one," Claber confirmed.
    "How many guards did you take out?"
    "Just two, the ones in the front. We gassed them. One struggled, but he went under without being struck. So no injuries."
    Truman nodded to himself. Killing McAllister's men had started all this trouble. It wouldn’t happen again.
    Even as he thought it, a desperate itch started under his ribcage and worked its way up. Perhaps it wasn't possible anymore to avoid confrontations. His men carried weapons. If they had fired on a guard, could they have bought enough time to escape with a painting?
    Doubtful. Truman sighed again. "Find a motel and stay down there. I'll rethink our next steps. We might have to change our tactics a bit."
    "A bit?" Claber echoed. "Boss, we're way behind. We're playing like children in a