Dead Man's Land

by Jack Patterson

  Ride a bus, poke around, see what you can learn about Cuban baseball.

  Though, he couldn’t fault Buckman. How was he to know this simple assignment would be something entirely different

  Ride a bus to the middle of nowhere, get stopped and boarded by gunmen, jump out the window, run for your life, hide in a barn, hitch a ride in a flatbed truck, leap from the truck at a stop sign and get shot at.

  There were far more boring ways to spend his evening, but journalism appealed to him because of the thrill of the chase—as it related to gathering information to write a great story. For this particular assignment, he never once pondered that the thrill of the chase might include him fleeing for his own life.

  Occupational hazard.

  Prado sensed Cal’s frustration. “What are we going to do now?” he asked, finally breaking the silence.

  “We need to get someone to pick us up, someone I trust,” Cal answered.

  Prado nodded. “And how are we going to do that now? Your phone isn’t working?”

  “We’ll have to get a little creative.”

  Cal surveyed the area and spotted a small trail about twenty yards away at the bottom of a ravine. “Let’s use the trail. We won’t have to be so quiet and nobody will be able to see us from the road.”

  Prado nodded, following Cal toward the path.

  Cal stopped and held up his hand. “Look! Look!” he whispered. “Over there.” He pointed toward a clearing where a doe and her fawn were munching on some grass.

  “Que linda!” Prado said. He pushed his way past Cal to get a closer look, yet when he stepped on a branch that snapped, the deer glanced around and bounded away.

  “They don’t stay in one place for very long—unless you have a spotlight on them. And even then—” Cal let his words hang as he decided against adding a commentary to everything that was happening.

  “Will we see more of them?” Prado asked.

  “Perhaps. If we’re quiet.”

  “So, how are we going to get creative and get out of here? Are you going to steal a car?”

  Cal chuckled softly. “We’re not going to become criminals ourselves when we’re the ones being chased—not unless it’s necessary for our survival.”

  “Why don’t we just ask someone for help?”

  “It’s not that easy. People that live out here don’t like to be bothered. And if we went into someone’s house right now and turned the light on, we might as well be announcing where we are to the men who are after you.”

  Prado nodded in agreement. “So, we just try to survive?”

  “We’re going to get our hands on a phone and call the one woman who can help us without fear of getting caught.”

  “Who?”

  “My wife, Kelly. She’s brave and she’ll do anything for me.”

  “I wish I had a woman like that,” Prado said.

  “Did you leave one behind in Cuba?”

  Prado shrugged. “Sort of. I’m still in love with her, but she only talks to me because of Isabel. If it weren’t for our daughter, I’d probably never see her again.”

  “But you think you’ll see her again?”

  “I hope I see both of them again very soon, but I need more money to bring them over.”

  “How much did it cost for you to come over?”

  “Ten thousand dollars and twenty percent of my salary.”

  “It cost fifteen thousand each for Isabel and Liliana.”

  “Well, if we make it out of here alive, I’ll help you get them over here however I can.”

  “Mucho gusto,” Prado said.

  “De nada.”

  They trudged forward for a few more minutes until a floodlight at a house just ahead off the trail flickered on. Next came a loud raucous, halting their conversation.

  Cal heard one man yell at the other. It sounded like “Ortega!” to Cal, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Then a screen door slammed hard against the frame of the house.

  “Come on!” Cal whispered. He scrambled up the hill to get closer to the clapboard house and looked over his shoulder to make sure Prado was in tow. He remained in the shadows until he saw an old man rush down his driveway toward the road shaking his shotgun with both hands above his head.

  They stopped a few yards away from the house and crouched behind a woodshed.

  “Stay here no matter what,” Cal said.

  Prado nodded.

  Cal got up and dashed toward the front of the house. He slipped inside and located the old man’s cell phone on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t a smart phone, but it had texting. The clock on the phone showed it was 3:50 AM.

  He snuck back outside and ran around to the back of the house.

  Better to get caught outside in the woods than inside.

  Cal pounded out a text message with his thumbs and sent it to Kelly:

  Phone’s dead. Stranded. Running from crazy gunman trying to kidnap a Cuban player. We’re safe but I need you to come get us. Don’t trust anyone. Go to the 26 and 7 junction in the Umatilla National Forest near Baker City, OR. We’ll be waiting for you. Love you!

  He waited a few seconds until another message popped up on his phone.

  Neighbors will watch Maddie. Leaving now.

  Cal exhaled and typed out one final message.

  Thanks. Don’t message this # again.

  He stood up to go put the phone back inside the house when the old man fired his gun. Cal froze. He contemplated taking the old man’s phone, but he doubted the man had any other way of communicating with the outside world.

  Cal slunk back down against the side of the house and held his breath, quietly praying that the man wouldn’t see him.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  The man’s boots clunked on the porch steps as he went back into the house.

  “I’m gonna call the Ranger for sure now,” he muttered to himself before the screen door slammed behind him.

  Cal swallowed hard. He got up and slid the phone onto the porch. He returned to his position and waited as he could hear the man rummaging around inside for the phone.

  The man opened the door and stomped outside. “There you are,” he said. “I must’ve dropped you on my way out. Stupid people ruining my peace and quiet.”

  The screen door banged against the doorframe, followed by the slamming of the main door. Then the click of three locks.

  Cal smiled. Never can be too sure living out here.

  He looked around and saw no one. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be seen, Cal darted back toward the woodshed to tell Prado the good news.

  Cal slid down in the dirt to avoid detection. Then he looked up in horror.

  Prado was gone.

  CHAPTER 11

  BY DAYBREAK, WALLER AND HAMPTON had spent several hours combing the area where all the supposed raucous had occurred. But there was nothing. Not a sign of any suspicious vehicles or characters roaming the roadside.

  “I feel like this is someone’s idea of a sick joke,” Hampton muttered.

  “Certainly not mine,” Waller said.

  Waller’s phone buzzed with a call from his boss. He showed the screen to Hampton, who rolled his eyes. “This ought to be fun.”

  Waller answered the call and put it on speaker. “Yeah.”

  “Do you have them yet?” his supervisor asked.

  “Don’t you think we would’ve called you by now?”

  “Just checking. Things are starting to heat up on this story and we need to get some answers fast.”

  “Things are starting to heat up? What do you mean?”

  “The Seafarers reported Prado as missing after an attempted bus jacking.”

  “And this is heating up because—”

  “Because it’s starting to get picked up by some national media outlets.”

  “It’s not even morning yet. How does anyone know about this?”

  “It was all over local law enforcement scanners in Baker City. I’m sure someone there first reported it—a
nd it’s just continued to spread like wildfire.”

  Waller turned to Hampton and mouthed “local law enforcement” and then growled. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I want you to do the same thing you were supposed to do from the very beginning of this assignment—bring in Vicente Prado.”

  “It’s only two of us, boss. We’re not superhuman.”

  “Better find a way to do it fast. It’s my job on the line at this point.”

  “We want nothing more than to make you proud.”

  “Good. And one more thing—”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a reporter who is allegedly with Prado. A guy by the name of Cal Murphy.”

  Waller stared out ahead at the empty road. “I’ve heard of him. Does he write for The Times?”

  “He does. He’s some hotshot journalist. But we don’t know if he went with Prado voluntarily or if it was a hostage situation.”

  “Why would Prado want a hostage?”

  “Who knows? Why does any criminal do anything when they feel threatened? It’s always about survival. We can’t confirm that Murphy went with him on his own volition or if he was coerced, but both men remain missing.”

  Waller took a deep breath. “So, what you’re saying is that we might be able to appeal to this Murphy character if he went with Prado on his own accord?”

  “Exactly. Just be careful how you go about it. It could be a dicey situation.”

  “Don’t worry. We won’t let you down.”

  “Better not. I’m counting on you succeeding. I’ve only got six months to retirement and I don’t want to give anybody an excuse to fire me.”

  Waller smiled at Hampton. “We’d never let that happen, boss.”

  “Good. Call me when you’ve got an update for me.”

  “Will do.” Waller hung up. He turned toward Hampton. “Got any ideas how to flush these guys out?”

  “Well, they don’t know we’re looking for them. We at least have that advantage.”

  “So you want to just shout as we ride along the road that we’re federal agents and we’re here to help?”

  Hampton sighed. “I’ll try anything. If you think that’ll work—”

  Dawn finally started to break, but Waller still required the use of his headlights. He slowed down. “What’s that up there?”

  “It looks like two guys on foot.”

  Waller grinned. “Get ready to run them down.”

  CHAPTER 12

  TORRES FINALLY CAUGHT UP with Ortega, who was bent over with his hands on his knees. Between panting breaths, Ortega took his right hand off his knee and pointed into the woods.

  “Over there,” Ortega said, still struggling to catch his breath.

  Torres, who wanted to dress down Ortega first, instead turned on his flashlight and pointed the beam in the area Ortega directed. He couldn’t see anything at first—or hear much of anything either other than the faint rustling of leaves from the trees overhead.

  Ortega stood upright. “I think they’re hiding over—”

  “Sshhh!” Torres held his hand up in the air and leaned toward the area where his flashlight shone, straining to hear any sound.

  “They’re gone,” Ortega said.

  As soon as the words left Ortega’s mouth, two deer leapt up and bounded off deeper into the woods.

  Torres’s jaw held firm as he turned both his body and his flashlight slowly toward Ortega. “You saw two deer? That’s why you took off running and alerted everyone in this godforsaken forest that we were here? I ought to tie you to a tree and leave you right here.”

  “It’s dark.” Ortega’s voice went up a couple of octaves. “I thought it was a couple of dudes.”

  “If you saw two dudes running on all fours, we need to be the ones running from them.”

  Ortega shrugged. “It was an honest mistake.”

  “A mistake is misspelling a word or giving someone back too much change. Mistaking two deer for humans is stupidity.”

  “Hey, now. Hunters get shot in the woods all the time because other hunters think they’re deer.”

  “And there’s no intelligence test for you to purchase a gun in this country either. I stand by my statement. Now let’s get back to the car and get out of here before that crazy man shoots us—and claims he thought we were deer.”

  As they walked back toward the Hummer, Torres’s phone buzzed.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “Where’s my money?” a man asked.

  Torres sighed. “Look, I’ll get it for you as soon as I can. I’m working on having it to you in a few days.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Where I am isn’t important. What’s important is that I’m out working to get your money.”

  “You better not be messin’ with me, Torres. I know where you live.” He paused. “Even better—I know where your mother lives.”

  “Hey, now you leave her out of this.”

  “I’ll get to her first—and then I’ll track you down. You’ve got five days. The clock’s running. Tick tock.” He hung up.

  Torres grunted as he shoved his phone back into his pocket.

  “Who was that? Gallego?” Ortega asked.

  “Yeah. And he wants his money.”

  “Let’s hope we can find Prado by then and get him back to Cuba.”

  “We might have a chance—as soon as you stop chasing deer through the woods and firing off your gun. We need to keep a more discreet profile, especially now that he knows we’re onto him.”

  They finally arrived back at their vehicle and got inside. The early morning light was starting to illuminate the backside of the mountains to the east. It cast a bright glow, one Torres hoped was a sign that things were about to turn in their favor after everything seemed to be turning against them.

  Before they could start to plan how they might draw out Prado, Torres’s phone buzzed again and he answered it.

  “How’s your mission coming along?” asked a man with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “We don’t have him, if that’s what you mean,” Torres said.

  “What? You don’t have him? Why not?”

  “We’ve got him cornered out here in the woods somewhere, but we need a little more time.”

  The man grunted. “You don’t have more time. We need to talk to him as soon as possible.”

  “I’m doing my best,” Torres said.

  “Try harder. We don’t have room for failure.”

  “Look, I’m—we’re—doing everything we can, but it just might take a while. You can’t just snap your fingers and have whatever you want in this country, contrary to what you might believe.”

  “I don’t want everything—I just want Vicente Prado. Is that so hard to understand?”

  Torres let out a long breath. “I can assure you that you won’t be disappointed in the end result.”

  “I hope not,” the man said. “Because if we don’t have Vicente Prado here within three days, we’re going to torture your aunt.”

  “She didn’t do anything.”

  “And you haven’t done anything yet. So let’s stay focused on the task at hand. Bring Vicente Prado to me and all will be well.”

  “We’re still getting paid, right?”

  Click.

  The man hung up. Torres didn’t know if money or family was his motivating factor now—but it didn’t matter. Both proved sufficient in coaxing him to do what needed to be done. And if his actions caused his aunt to die, he could never forgive himself.

  Torres wheeled the car around and headed back down the road. “We need to start our search further away from here. We can’t risk any potential involvement from any forest rangers or cops. Our search from here on out needs to be done my way, under my rules and my leadership. Is that clear?”

  Ortega nodded. “Crystal.”

  “Good, now let’s get out here and start walking the trail that runs by the river.”

  Torres pulled his Hummer into a
pullout area mostly shrouded from the road with a line of thick trees. They got out and started along the path.

  The light trickling through the trees made it easier to see, something Torres hoped would eliminate any future wild goose chases—or in the case of Ortega, wild deer chases. Ortega walked in front and pointed up ahead. “You see that?”

  Torres nodded. He finally laid eyes on Prado before he tapped Ortega. “Don’t screw it up this time, okay? We’ve got to catch him, no matter what it takes.”

  Ortega looked over his shoulder and smiled at Torres. Then he exploded down the path, running toward Prado, who still hadn’t turned around.

  CHAPTER 13

  CAL PEERED INTO THE WOODS, trying to find any sign of Prado. He was sure that his instructions to remain there and wait for him were clear. It certainly couldn’t have had anything to do with the language barrier since Cal had interviewed athletes raised in the U.S. who weren’t half as articulate in their first language as Prado was in his second.

  Where did he go?

  Cal crept down to the path and looked for Prado. Nothing.

  He returned back to the shed and slumped to the ground, his back resting on the wooden clapboard structure.

  They still had a few hours before Kelly was scheduled to arrive and pick them up, but success for Cal’s plan was predicated on them remaining together and hidden until she showed up. With Prado wandering the Umatilla National Forest, he was at risk of being captured, injured, or killed. And it wasn’t just the two men hunting Prado that posed a threat. There were also black bears, wolves and cougars roaming around that could do just as much harm to an unarmed man.

  Think, Cal. What could make him leave? Where would he go?

  Cal leaned toward the corner of the shed and looked around it. The house seemed quiet, as did the road. Other than a random car or truck that sped by, it felt like a wilderness area. The birds overhead broke the natural silence, but the woods remained serene.

  Cal scooted toward the other side of the shed and looked around the corner. Perched atop a small rise about fifty yards away was another shed. Cal remembered seeing its outline in the moonlit shadows, but now that it was getting brighter, it appeared to be a more substantial structure than the one he was taking cover against. Not only that, but the door appeared to be cracked.