Dead Man's Land

by Jack Patterson

  “We’re not police officers,” Waller corrected. “We’re special agents with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  Prado put his hands in the air. “I did not mean to offend you. I am still just learning my way around this country and what different things mean.”

  Waller tugged on Hampton’s shirt and pulled him aside. Prado watched their intense deliberations and held his breath, hoping they were about to tell him that they would take him to Boise to join his team.

  No such luck.

  “I know this might seem like an inconvenience to you, but we need you back with your teammates,” Waller said. “It’s the best environment for you—and a place where you can thrive.” A long pause. “But before we do that, we need to get just a few quick questions answered, questions that aren’t getting answered out here.”

  Prado’s shoulders slumped. Nothing helped him cope with the intense rigors of trying to succeed in the most competitive baseball system in the world like being with people who understood his plight. Whether he knew it or not, thrusting him into the FBI’s judicial system was a quick—and sure—way for him to ultimately fail in his quest to achieve big league stardom.

  He climbed back into the car, his arms still locked behind his back. “Can someone undo these handcuffs? I’m not going to run.”

  Waller nodded toward Hampton, who unlocked Prado’s cuffs. Prado rubbed his wrists and grimaced. “This is not the America that I heard about.”

  Waller chuckled as he turned the ignition and the engine roared to life. “No place is perfect—not even America.” He paused and looked into the backseat at Prado. “But we’re not trying to arrest you—we just want to know the truth.”

  “I’m telling you the truth,” Prado said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Waller turned his attention back to the front of the car. Before he had a chance to move, a black Hummer roared up on their position, parking right in front of them so they couldn’t move forward.

  Two men jumped out of their vehicle and raced toward Waller and Hampton’s car.

  “Out of the car now!” screamed one of the men.

  Waller slowly got out with his hands in the air. Hampton followed likewise.

  Meanwhile, Prado threw his hands behind his back and laid down in the seat, hoping the men wouldn’t see him.

  His plan failed.

  He felt the strong arm of another man grab him by the back of his collar and start to drag him out of the car.

  “You’re with us,” the man mumbled as he led Prado out of the backseat of the Subaru and toward the Hummer.

  CHAPTER 16

  TORRES TRAINED HIS GUN on the FBI agent in front of him as he walked backward with his prized possession: Vicente Prado. For all the stories he read about Prado being “the next big thing” to come from Cuba and hit Major League Baseball, Torres found El Roque to be just as underwhelming as the first time they met at the Isla de la Juventud docks a few months ago.

  Torres squeezed Prado’s bicep. “Aren’t they feeding you anything here? I thought you’d put up more of a fight,” he whispered in Prado’s ear.

  Prado glared at him but didn’t say a word—or even struggle.

  “Nothin’ personal,” Torres said. “Just business. You understand? I’m not going to be eating three meals a day with the percentage I earned off your paltry bonus.”

  Prado scrambled into the backseat of the Hummer. Ortega zip-tied Prado’s hands behind his back and then zip-tied them into a child safety seat anchor.

  Satisfied that he’d securely fastened Prado inside, Ortega slapped him on the shoulder. “That ought to hold ya.”

  Prado looked straight ahead.

  Torres stormed back toward the FBI agents. “Keep your hands where I can see them. No funny business.”

  Waller and Hampton complied. The driver’s side door was cracked with Waller keeping the door from slamming shut due to the slight incline off the side of the road.

  “You really wanna do this, man? Assault two FBI agents?” Waller asked.

  “Who said anything about assaulting you? I’ll only hit back if you try to hit first.” Torres eyed the gun on Waller’s hip. “The same doesn’t go for shooting. You go for your piece, I promise you won’t get a shot off.”

  Torres waited for Ortega to join him.

  Using his gun to direct them, Torres needed to tidy up the scene to ensure he had enough time to escape the country. “I need your phones over here—slowly.”

  Waller and Hampton took their phones out of their pockets and threw them on the ground toward Torres. Waller’s phone landed a few feet in front of the car door.

  “That’s it. You two are good boys. No monkeying around. I like that. Now your guns.”

  The agents complied.

  Ortega snatched Hampton’s phone and gun without incident. But when Torres bent down to pick up Waller’s phone and weapon, Waller kicked the door fully open, slamming Torres in the head.

  “Damn it! What do you think you’re—”

  Before Torres could utter another word, Waller was on the other side of the door, kicking Torres. During the initial skirmish, Waller’s gun and phone were pushed beneath the car to a distance that wasn’t easily reachable.

  Torres’s gun fell out of his hand as he rolled over and tried to halt Waller’s assault.

  Meanwhile, Hampton seized his opportunity to attack Ortega. The two engaged in a short scuffle, but Ortega managed to hold Hampton as he clutched his gun and kept it trained on the FBI agent.

  Torres and Waller continued to roll around just off the shoulder of the road between the two vehicles. Waller took control for a moment, but Torres squirmed toward his gun and put his hand on it first. As Torres was whipping it around to point it at his foe, Waller kicked Torres’s hand, dislodging the gun and sending it skidding underneath the Hummer.

  Waller stomped on Torres’s head and dashed toward the vehicle. He slid down and grabbed the gun. He rolled over and pointed the gun at Torres, who was racing toward him.

  “That’s far enough,” Waller said. “Unless you want a few holes in you.” He clambered to his feet. “Now, I think we’ll be taking back Mr. Prado to one of our field offices for questioning, along with you two as well.”

  “Not so fast,” Ortega yelled. “You seem to forget I’ve got a gun trained on your associate here.”

  Waller chuckled. “What are you gonna do? Shoot him?”

  Hampton wasn’t amused. “Hey, Waller. Come on, man.”

  Ortega jammed his gun deeper into Hampton’s back. “I’m not playing around, man. If you don’t lay the gun down, I’m going to kill your partner.”

  Waller’s demeanor turned serious. “Hey, now. Let’s not do anything stupid, okay? How about we take Mr. Prado back with us and we let you go. It’s quite clear that you’re both in over your heads here—and kidnapping is not something you want going on your record, though I’m quite certain it’d be a marked step up from your current record.”

  Ortega’s eyes narrowed. “Enough with the fast talk, Mr. Smart Guy. I’m calling the shots or you’re making a visit to this suit’s widow—if you make it out of here alive yourself.”

  “Here’s a good rule to live by: Don’t make idle threats,” Waller said.

  “Here’s another one: Don’t make any threats until you know how many bullets are in your gun,” Ortega said. “Now, I know you’ve got one bullet left because I’ve been with my partner for a while now. But I’ve got four bullets. Are you willing to play those odds?”

  Waller scanned the ground for his piece, which he couldn’t readily see.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Ortega said. “Drop the gun and kick it over to my partner.”

  Waller looked at Hampton, whose eyes were pleading with him to comply with Ortega’s directive. After a few seconds, Waller did as he was told.

  “Good decision, suit,” Torres said as he picked up the gun. Torres then grabbed the agents’ guns as well. He smashed
their phones on the road and chucked the battered pieces into the woods.

  “You don’t say much when you don’t have a gun,” Waller said to Torres.

  Torres pistol-whipped him in the back of the head as Waller slumped to the ground. “It’s called being smart. You might want to try it sometime after you wake up.”

  Ortega then did the same to Hampton.

  “Thanks for coming through,” Torres said.

  “When have I ever let you down,” Ortega shot back.

  Torres shook his head. “Check on Prado, will ya?”

  Ortega shuffled back to the Hummer to check on Prado, who remained secured in the back seat. Torres then knifed two of the tires and pulled out the car’s sparkplug.

  “There,” Torres said as he stood up and admired his work. “That ought to keep them here for a while.”

  Torres climbed into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine.

  “Well, well, well, Mr. Prado. I bet you didn’t realize you were buying a round-trip ticket when you signed up with us, did you?”

  CHAPTER 17

  CAL RUBBED HIS EYES and looked at Kelly. He grabbed her hand and caressed it, though she barely flinched. She kept her eyes on the road, her demeanor stoic. After a few moments of silence, she finally spoke.

  “Why did you get out of the bus and run after the player?” she asked. “Can you give me a good reason?”

  He turned toward her and let go of her hand. “Oh, Kelly. Don’t be like that, not now. I’m just glad to be back with you.”

  “Glad to be alive—that’s what you really mean.”

  “Kelly, come on.”

  “Look, I understand that your have an insatiable appetite for adventure—so do I. But adventure and danger are two different things. You have to be more careful.”

  “I was careful. Nobody got shot.”

  “But you could’ve been.”

  “But—”

  She held up her index finger. “You’ve not only got me to think about, but you’ve also got a little girl who adores you. And I don’t know how either of us would survive if you were gone.”

  “I’m not going to do anything that puts my life in jeopardy.”

  She glanced at him, her brow furrowed. “Did you know that everything would be fine and dandy when you jumped through the bus window? Did you know it was just going to be cinch to escape from two criminals?”

  “How do you know all that?”

  “It’s all over the news. I heard one report from an eye witness in Baker City who saw it all happen.”

  “But they didn’t help out?”

  “You didn’t either. You ran, remember?”

  “I was helping the player.” Cal paused. “He’s Cuban. He wouldn’t have made it through the night if I wasn’t with him.”

  “And what were you going to do? Wrestle bears that attacked him? Take a bullet for him if the criminals caught him? I’m sure he would’ve done just fine on his own.”

  Cal sunk into his seat and threw his hands in the air. “I don’t understand where all this is coming from, honey. You know I love you and care about you.”

  “You have a funny way of showing it, dashing into danger when it’s not necessary.”

  Cal sighed. “Okay, I’ll concede that perhaps it wasn’t the best decision I’ve ever made—but at the end of the day, everything is okay. Prado’s safe with the FBI.”

  “The FBI? Why were they involved in this?”

  “Beats me. Probably had something to do with the fact that he’s Cuban. I don’t know. But my point is, everyone is fine.”

  She shook her head and then looked at him. “Promise me that you’ll think next time before you do something so crazy. I know you have to help people, but can you just maybe help people who aren’t susceptible to getting shot at or kidnapped.”

  Cal nodded. “I promise I’ll give it more thought next time.”

  “So what really happened out there?”

  Cal took a deep breath and picked up her phone. “Why don’t I tell you and Buckman at the same time?” He dialed Buckman’s cell number.

  “Buckman.”

  “Buckman, it’s me, Cal.”

  “Oh, thank God you’re alive! Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. It was quite an ordeal.”

  “So, what happened exactly?”

  Cal explained in painstaking detail how the attackers boarded the Seafarers’ team bus, how he and Prado jumped through a window and ran to safety. He also shared how they almost got caught by a jumpy old man with a gun.

  At that point, Kelly backhanded him in the chest. “You didn’t tell me that,” she said under her breath so her comment wouldn’t be heard by Cal’s boss.

  Cal threw his hands in the air and mouthed, “What?”

  Then he concluded the story by sharing about how two FBI agents arrived on the scene and volunteered to take Prado in order to keep him safe.

  “Has the team put out any official announcement yet?” Cal asked.

  “I haven’t seen anything,” Buckman said.

  “Well, it’s early, but I’m sure they’ll be releasing something very soon.”

  “In the meantime, we’ve got you and your first-person account of all that happened.”

  Cal took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Buckman.”

  “You don’t know what?”

  “I don’t know if I like this idea. I like to report the news, not make it.”

  “Sometimes you don’t have a choice. Besides, it’s not like you were out there pandering to the crowd or stirring up something on social media just to get your name trending on Twitter. What you did was legitimate—both as a reporter and as a human being. You were trying to help someone.”

  “You’re right. I was.” He thought for a moment. “Okay, I guess it’ll be all right for me to do it.”

  “Great. Write up what you know now and we’ll fill in all the sordid details later as they come in.”

  “I’ll try to get you something later this evening. It might be a while.”

  “Take your time,” Buckman said. “And thanks again for all your hard work, Cal. If all my reporters worked half as hard as you—”

  Cal grinned and finished Buckman’s thought. “You’d never get a sports section out, would you?”

  Buckman snickered. “Feigned modesty will get you nowhere with me. I’ll look for your story later today and keep you posted on what we find out.”

  “Later.” Cal hung up and looked at Kelly. She started to chew on her bottom lip.

  “You know what? I don’t wanna know. You flirted with death obviously—but I don’t wanna hear about it. It’ll just give me nightmares.”

  “We weren’t flirting with death. You make it sound like the guy pointed his gun right at us and was crazy enough to fire.”

  “Well, that’s how you made it sound to Buckman.”

  “It wasn’t exactly like that.”

  She waved him off. “You’re ridiculous, Cal.”

  He chuckled and reached into his pocket to pull out the card Waller had given him before he left. “Maybe the FBI agent can give me an update on what’s going on.”

  Cal punched his number into his phone and waited once it started to ring. It rang six times before it went to voice mail.

  “Why isn’t he answering my calls?” Cal asked aloud.

  “We’re in the middle of Egypt,” Kelly said. “Cell service out here isn’t exactly the most reliable.”

  “True,” Cal said as he hung up. “I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

  ***

  WALLER HEARD AN ODD SOUND coming from the road. He leaned toward the pavement and cupped his hand behind his ear. Squinting, he looked at the blacktop and tried to figure out what was causing it.

  “Do you hear that?” he asked.

  Hampton nodded. “It’s your phone—or what’s left of it.”

  “It’s still working?” Waller couldn’t read the screen, which was splintered. “I can fix this.�
� Waller located the main piece, dug out the sim card and jammed it into the burner phone in his console.

  A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again. It was Cal Murphy.

  “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, Mr. Murphy, but I sure am glad you called,” Waller said.

  “Is everything all right?” Cal asked.

  “We’re alive—that’s about as positive as I can spin it right now.”

  “Great. Is there any way I can talk to Prado for just a moment.”

  “No, not right now.”

  Cal protested. “Geez, Waller, just hand him the stupid phone. It won’t take long.”

  “I’d love to hand him the stupid phone right now, but it’s not something I can physically do right now.”

  “And what can you physically do right now?”

  “Just about anything I want.”

  “Except hand the phone to Prado?”

  Waller sighed. “Look, Cal. I don’t know any other way to say this than the simplest way: he’s gone.”

  “What? How?”

  “The kidnappers took him.”

  CHAPTER 18

  VICENTE PRADO WATCHED THE TREES zip past them out of the passenger side window from the backseat of Torres’s Hummer. If he kept his head in one spot and his eyes focused outside, the trees appeared to flicker before turning into a muddled mass of green and brown hues. While it appeared like a benign image to everyone else, it looked like something different to Prado, something bleak and dark. It was what his dream transforming into a nightmare looked like.

  They rolled along for several hours with barely a word uttered between the two men up front. Prado certainly wasn’t interested in talking to them, not after he gave them a large sum of money to take him out of the country, risking his life to do so by stealing from a ruthless lowlife like his uncle. Yet, here he was, his hands tied behind him and cruising toward the end of a dream that never got off the ground.

  He was left to ponder the worst about his future, which felt like it was closing in around him with no hope for an escape hatch. If the Cuban government was so determined to bring him back, he knew the kind of protection he’d be under. They’d throw him in jail for sure once they extracted whatever information they wanted out of him.