Free Deliverer by Tamara Hart Heiner Page B

number topped the list. Truman dialed the number.
    French words carried through the receiver, and Truman cut him off with, "Officer Fayande?"
    The French stopped, and the man said in crisp English, "Yes. Who is calling?"
    "The Canadian White House," Truman said, spouting out their code words.
    Fayande didn't miss a beat, but Truman knew he was paying attention now. The tips Truman paid him more than doubled his police salary. "How can I assist?"
    "I need two or three of your men to pay me a visit tomorrow morning, about nine a.m. Can that be arranged?"
    "I believe so," Fayande said, his voice cordial and unassuming.
    "Make sure you know their loyalties." The police would see the kidnapped girls, and he couldn't risk an officer he didn’t know trying to be a hero.
    “I will make sure.”
    “That’s all, then." Truman hung up the phone, feeling reassured. With the police nearby, there would be an added level of security for the girls.
    He switched on his tablet and opened his online bank account. Finding Fayande's account, he transferred over several thousand. It was the only way to guarantee his silence.
    Truman retired to his room early. He'd spent some time in the game room, but the men were skittish. All conversation stopped when he came in, and over card games and movies they shot him surreptitious glances.
    Because of the girls. They didn't belong here, and all the men were high-strung, Truman included. He knew Claber had taken charge of them again, finding some project or task that needed to be done around the house.
    Truman stayed out of his way. He avoided running into the girls, especially after the disastrous dinner the night before. He cursed himself for meddling. Now they weren't faceless names to him. They were scared girls.
    He loaded a movie on his phone, but it didn't hold his interest. Becca. Thoughts of the beautiful blond entered his mind. She'd plagued him ever since he'd seen Sara. He combed his fingers through his hair, remembering the way Becca’s long nails would scrape over his scalp as she played with his hair.
    Rising from the bed, he crossed to the balcony and stared out over the descending trees. What if Becca hadn't died? Where would their love be now?
    Becca's image merged with Sara's, the kidnapped girl. He knew she wasn't Becca, but at the same time his heart latched on to her, placing all his emotional attachment to Becca on her.
    Second chance.
    The words whispered past his hair, tickling his face as they carried on the breeze. The wind didn't give advice, but Truman's heart beat in time to the words. Second chance.
    Was it possible? He had to talk to her. He'd never know otherwise. He returned to the nightstand and used his phone to call Claber.
    "Yes?" Claber answered. He probably suspected it was Truman, but since the number showed up as restricted, he couldn't know for sure.
    "Where are the girls?"
    "They're washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen. They should be done soon."
    At least his house was getting cleaner. "I want to speak to the blond girl. Sara. Bring her to me." Truman kept his voice professional, cold. He couldn't give away his emotional link to this girl.
    "Now?"
    "No." The other girls would notice if Sara disappeared right now, and they would likely mutiny. Victims went along almost willingly until they felt threatened. He had to keep them feeling secure. "When you take them to bed. Send the other two up the ladder first, then close the hatch before she follows."
    "Got it," Claber said. There was no confusion in his voice, no uncertainty about his orders.
    Truman relaxed and hung up the phone. The decision had been made. He would meet her and see what she thought of him.
    She arrived twenty minutes later. Claber knocked, and Truman, still dressed in his khaki pants and plaid button-up shirt, opened the door for her. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her, the long blond hair falling over her face as she stared at her feet. She was really here.
    Truman met Claber's