Dead Man's Land

by Jack Patterson

  “We’re screwed,” Ortega blurted out as he scratched in the dirt while sitting against the wall.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Torres said.

  “This week or this month?” Ortega said.

  Torres forced a weak laugh. “We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

  Ortega eyed him closely. “Got a key in your pocket?”

  “Something even better—I’ve got money on the boat.”

  “Isn’t that how you were planning on paying off your debt once you collected your score from this job?”

  “Things change—plans change. If I’m dead, I won’t owe anybody anything.”

  Torres laughed. “And you think your debt is going to be forgiven? Just like that?”

  “Good luck trying to collect it. But, it’s not me with the debt—it’s you. Remember?”

  Torres sighed. “How could I forget?”

  They heard footfalls along the corridor as an eerie silence came over the rest of the jail.

  “Well, no time like the present to put your plan into action,” Ortega whispered as he patted Torres on the back.

  As the footsteps drew nearer, Torres engaged his prey. “Pssst. Over here.”

  The guard walked toward them, his heavy steps creating such a high level of tension that it was almost palpable in the jail’s stale air. His face was barely visible, but a scar above his right eye glimmered when the pale light hit it just right.

  “Silence,” the guard said. He turned to walk away.

  “I have something to say that I think might interest you,” Torres said.

  “I said, ‘Silence!’ ”

  Torres reached through the bars and grabbed the guard’s arm. He pulled him close. “We’ve got money.”

  The guard stopped and yanked his arm free from Torres’s grip. “How much?”

  “Plenty. But I can’t very well give it to you here, can I? Maybe you can take us out of here and I’ll lead you to it.”

  The guard took a deep breath and exhaled. “I can’t just march you out of here through the front door.”

  “Perhaps we need to be transferred, in case anyone asks. Just take us out the back way.”

  The guard closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Let me finish my rounds first and I’ll be back.”

  He turned and walked down the corridor, just as methodically as he’d entered it.

  “You think he’ll come back?” Ortega asked.

  Torres’s eyes widened. “I’d say it’s a toss up.”

  “Yeah—a toss up between him letting us out or coming back and beating the crap out of us again.”

  “Got any better plans at the moment?”

  Ortega retreated to his cot while Torres remained at the cell door, his hands resting on the bars. He even said a prayer.

  He always prayed before he was about to commit a crime.

  God, forgive me for what I’m about to do.

  He knew it was a prayer that likely wouldn’t be answered, but it was how he was raised—even if his actions obfuscated the fact that he’d attended a Catholic school. Yet at the moment he trusted his wits and his fists more than he did a God he’d never seen.

  A few minutes later, faint footsteps sounded hurried as they moved toward him. There was the click of metal clanking against metal and then the creak of a door opening. “If we’re going to do this gentlemen, we must hurry,” the guard said. “I created the transfer papers. No one will know you’re gone for three or four days at least.”

  Torres and Ortega exited the cell and waited for the guard to shut the door. They hustled down the hallway and out the back of the building through several secure areas.

  Once outside, the guard flashed a knife at them. “If you try anything foolish, I’ll slit your throat. Understand?”

  Torres swallowed hard and nodded in unison with Ortega.

  After they cleared the prison area, the guard ditched his secretive whisper and spoke plainly. He stood upright, his surname stitched onto his coat: “Belliard.”

  “Where to now?” he asked.

  “The docks. I have the money stashed there on my boat,” Torres said.

  “Excellent. I have a boat there, too. That should make the transfer easy.”

  Torres said nothing as they meandered along toward their intended destination. He was trying to figure out the best way to kill the man.

  “It’s not fair what they were going to do to you,” Belliard said, breaking the silence.

  “What do you mean?” Torres asked.

  “You were going to be sentenced to six months in prison for your role in that fight.”

  “Six months? For that?” Ortega exclaimed.

  “You’re fortunate it wasn’t a year. I’ve arrested men who’ve spent seven years in prison for having just one gram of marijuana on them,” Belliard said.

  Ortega’s mouth dropped. “Seven years?”

  “Most of the time it’s four or five. It just depends on how the judge is feeling.”

  Torres didn’t want the man’s sympathy—he wanted his gun.

  “How did you get a boat?” Torres finally asked.

  “Being a police officer has its advantages from time to time.”

  “You mean you get bribes, like we’re doing right now?”

  Belliard nodded. “Exactly.”

  After a few more minutes, they neared the docks. There appeared abandoned.

  “My son loves to come to the docks,” Belliard said. “I don’t think there’s anything he likes to do more.”

  “How old is your son?” Ortega asked.

  “Four. He’ll be five in a month.”

  Torres wanted to scream. Instead, he bit his lip and marched on behind Belliard.

  Belliard stopped. “Where’s your boat?”

  “It’s right over there,” Torres said, pointing toward it.

  “Lead the way.”

  Torres continued with a brisk pace. He scanned the area for any potential witnesses. He turned onto a dock and walked down it.

  “My boat is tied to the dock next to it,” Belliard said. “This should make the transfer quick and easy—just like your getaway.”

  In a matter of minutes, the three men commenced the transfer of ten thousand dollars from boat to boat.

  Belliard’s boat contained a small cabin in the hull. Torres surveyed it, deeming it barely seaworthy. He wondered if Belliard had ever actually been out on it.

  For the last load of money, Torres followed Belliard down into the hull. Belliard hadn’t even put the money down before Torres began pounding him.

  Belliard staggered back and pulled a pistol out of a holder on his ankle. He pointed it at Torres.

  “Looks like someone needs to get transferred back tonight,” Belliard said.

  Torres threw his hands in the air. Before Belliard could make another move, Torres moved to the side and wrestled the gun from the guard’s hands. He then trained the gun on Belliard.

  “The tables have turned. Looks like I get out of jail free tonight.”

  Torres was about to pull the trigger when he heard footsteps on the deck above, followed by rapidly descending footfalls. Ortega appeared at the foot of the steps, panting.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said.

  “Help! Down here!” Belliard said.

  Torres cracked Belliard in the head with the butt of his handgun. The guard slumped to the floor.

  “You gonna take care of him?” Ortega asked, gesturing toward Belliard.

  “We can’t take any chances. Besides, he’s not going to come after us. If he does, he’ll have to admit that he broke us out in the first place with the fake paperwork. And I doubt he wants to go to prison.”

  “You really think we should take that chance?” Ortega asked.

  Torres shoved Belliard’s gun into the back of his pants. “It’s the only chance we’ve got at this point to get out of here with what we came for. Now, if you want to get paid, help me pick up all this money and get
it stashed back on our boat. And hurry it up. I’ve got to call back my contact in Miami. It seems we might be able to fill our boat with paying passengers tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 35

  CAL AND KELLY WALKED to the police station on Friday morning and chatted along the way. They were tired of talking to one another in the bathroom with the water gushing. The sun beamed bright on them as a cool breeze blew in off the coast.

  “How are you feeling about our plan after you’ve had a night to sleep on it?” Kelly asked.

  Cal shrugged. “It’s as good as any. Besides, what other options do we have at this point? I think going home empty-handed isn’t one of them.”

  “Well, I think it’d be impossible to go home without anything at this point. I got some great photos—and you’ve got a story one way or another.”

  “But it’s not the story I want.”

  “Be honest, Cal. For once in your life, you don’t really care about the story as much as you care about the person.”

  Cal scowled. “I always care about the person.”

  “Yeah, the dead person.”

  “I care about the living people, too. That’s why I work so hard to get these stories right.”

  “But they’re just stories for you. This time, you’ve encountered flesh and blood—and you’re willing to risk almost everything to save him.” She paused. “It’s a new side of you—a side I think I like.”

  Cal smiled. “You know me, always reinventing myself.”

  Kelly laughed. “You’re pretty much the same person I’ve known since you found your footing as a reporter when you covered that story of those three dead football players in Idaho.”

  “Well, I hope I’ve been evolving, albeit slowly.”

  “Very slowly.”

  “All right. Knock it off. We need to focus here and keep our heads. It’s the only way we’re going to get Prado off this island.”

  Kelly nodded toward the police station. “It looks like we’re here.”

  Inside the police station, they were met by Jorge Campos again.

  “Buenos días,” Campos said. “How has your stay been here?”

  “Wonderful, thanks,” Kelly said.

  Campos shot her a glance before turning to Cal. “And for you, Señor Murphy?”

  “Everyone here has been most hospitable.”

  “You are traveling back tonight, no?”

  “Yes, we’re leaving by boat this evening.”

  “Well, I hope that you’ve found us to be more than accommodating to your requests. As you know, we care very much about how people view our country, especially U.S. citizens.”

  Cal forced a smile. “Of course. You want Americans to vacation here once relations are fully relaxed.”

  Campos held his index finger up. “You’re smarter than you look.” He gestured toward a small conference room off the central office space. “This way, please.”

  Inside the room, Prado sat in his chair. He shifted restlessly in his seat as Cal and Kelly entered the room. They all exchanged pleasantries and sat down.

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” Cal said. “I want to talk about your return to Cuba. When I left you, I didn’t get the feeling you were itching to go back.”

  Prado cut his eyes over toward Campos and took a deep breath. “I think it was a big misunderstanding. When those men arrived, they were there to escort me back to Cuba. At first, I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay and play baseball. But I missed my family. My daughter is my whole world. I just couldn’t be away from her.”

  Cal furrowed his brow. “Those men stormed the bus with guns to take you—and you ran. I think referring to them as ‘escorts’ is far too generous.”

  “To-may-toe, too-mah-toe,” Prado said. “Their job was to bring me home. And ultimately, I decided to go with them on my own accord.”

  “That’s not what the FBI is saying.”

  Prado shrugged. “I know that people will say whatever they need to in order to keep their jobs. They let me go.”

  Cal jotted down a few notes on his pad. “So, what’s life like for you now?”

  “I’m still getting used to life here again.”

  “Are you going to be playing baseball next season?”

  Prado shot another glance toward Campos. “I hope so, but we’ll see. Right now, I’m just focusing on spending time with my daughter, Isabel, and returning to life in our beautiful country.”

  Frustrated by Prado’s rehearsed answers, Cal nodded toward Kelly to take a few pictures of Prado. “I don’t have many more questions for you other than are you going to be at this evening’s game between the Nationales and the Grapefruit Cutters? It’s the development teams in an exhibition series, but I think you’ll find it compelling nonetheless.”

  Prado nodded. “Of course, I’ll be there.”

  “Isabel will be with him,” Campos interjected. “And you can take plenty of pictures then.”

  “Excellent,” Cal said. “Well, I think that’s all we came for.”

  They all stood up. Campos shook Cal’s hand vigorously and then squeezed it tight.

  “This was his choice,” Campos said. “Don’t make it sound any other way.”

  Cal released his hand from the grip and shook it. “I only report facts.”

  “Good. Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?” Campos said.

  “Best of luck to you,” Cal said, nodding at Prado. “We’ll see you tonight. I’m looking forward to meeting Isabel.”

  Prado forced a smile and gave a half-hearted wave before he sat back down.

  On the way out of the police headquarters, Kelly looked up at Cal. “Think he’ll go for it?”

  “No doubt. He was lying through his teeth. He hates it here.”

  “Good. I’m sure he’ll be pleased with the results.”

  Cal put his arm around her. “I’m sure he will be—as long as nothing goes wrong.”

  CHAPTER 36

  PRADO SKIDDED TO A STOP with a thud, compliments of his skull. It slammed hard into the wall. He moaned and rolled over, only to be greeted by a guard with a club. The guard kicked Prado in the ribs several times before beating his legs. When the guard went for his face, Prado held up his hands in defense.

  In a few seconds it was over. Slowly moving to his hands and knees, Prado pushed himself up. He staggered for a few steps and collapsed onto his cot. He leaned over the edge and spewed a swath of saliva mixed with blood onto the floor. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath. The throbbing in his side made even such a mundane task a painful one.

  The door clanged shut and Prado was left alone—for only a moment—to contemplate his future. The door creaked open again and Prado sat up.

  “Don’t get up for me,” General Machado said. “I’m just here for a welfare check. I want to make sure you’re still alive. The last thing we want is for you to die while the reporter is still here.”

  Prado fell back onto his bed. “I might as well be dead.”

  Machado clucked his tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous. You live in the greatest country in the world. Why wouldn’t you want to enjoy all of this?”

  Prado grunted. “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the tight confines and lack of light—or the fact that my daughter isn’t here with me.”

  “It never bothered you much before,” Machado said, wagging a finger at him. “We all know you’re not some exemplary father. In fact, you’re nothing more than a washed up baseball player. At this point in your life, the quarry is more suited for your talents.”

  “And you insist that this is the greatest country in the world?” Prado forced a laugh. “Hardly.”

  “That’s not up for debate,” Machado said. “A recent magazine stated as much.”

  “A magazine run by our government, I’m sure.”

  “Don’t be so dismissive. The message is still truth no matter who is delivering it.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Machado began to pace around the room. “I
don’t care what you believe or what you don’t believe. The reality is the rock quarry would be a blessing for you. Instead, you’re going to be transferred to Combinado del Este tomorrow.” Machado leaned in close. “So enjoy your time tonight with your daughter and on the baseball field because it will be the last time you’ll see either of them for a long time.”

  “I highly doubt that,” Prado shot back, smirking and looking away.

  “If it weren’t for that reporter, you’d already be dead. But as it stands, you’ve been granted a slight reprieve due to his presence on the island. Don’t take it as a sign of goodwill or your perceived innocence. We all know what you did.”

  Prado threw his hands in the air. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything to land me in a prison cell. You have to believe me.”

  Machado walked toward the cell door and tapped on it several times, waiting for a guard to show up. “It’s not that I don’t believe you—it’s just that I don’t care. You chose this path by trying to escape our beautiful country. Now it’s time for you to deal with the consequences.”

  With that parting shot, the door swung open and Machado exited. The door rattled hard behind him as he exited.

  He lay on his bed for an hour until he finally decided to move. His life was over, especially if it would be devoid of Isabel. He’d never get to watch her grow up. He’d never get to hear the pop of the baseball in his glove. He’d never be as free as he was when he was chasing his dream of playing baseball in the Major Leagues. Gone—all of it. Even Liliana hated him.

  He contemplated how he might get a guard to shoot him, accidentally or otherwise. He didn’t care how painful it was. He just wanted out.

  Prado grabbed the bars on his cell wall and started shaking them as he screamed. He knew he’d appear as a crazy man—that was the point. And then if he made a break for it, maybe someone would gun him down.

  “Shut up,” said the guard who approached Prado’s cell.

  Prado ignored his command and shook even harder, rattling the cage. Down the hall, others called out, telling him to be quiet. But it only inspired Prado to rebel even more—until the guard shoved a Taser through the bars and shocked him.