Dead Man's Land

by Jack Patterson

  Prado slumped to the ground and writhed around for a few moments.

  “Maybe next time you’ll listen,” the guard said as he spat toward Prado.

  Prado rolled over and stared at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths.

  Already out of hope, Prado was running out of time.

  Then he thought of Isabel. He needed to see her just once more.

  Maybe it’s time to tell the truth.

  CHAPTER 37

  AFTER SPENDING THE NIGHT ANCHORED offshore, Torres guided his boat to a quieter inlet early Friday afternoon. He tugged his hat low across his face and made Ortega stay below deck. He still doubted that the guard would create a manhunt for them, but he exercised caution.

  This dock wasn’t nearly as active, which was good and bad. Good that there weren’t as many people to notice him; bad that the low activity meant they might stand out more. Once he tied off, he descended into his boat and connected with his contact in Miami.

  Ortega fidgeted during the call, eyes wide and brow raised as he tried to glean information from Torres’s side of the conversation. When Torres hung up, Ortega didn’t wait.

  “Well—what did he say?”

  “He said everything is a green light for tonight,” Torres answered.

  “Meaning?”

  “We’ll have a short window to grab the player after the game and get back here to the boat.”

  Ortega walked toward the stairs and looked skyward. “And what about any other passengers?”

  “We’ve got three more who will meet us here thirty minutes after the game ends.”

  “Paying cash, I assume?”

  “No, but they said they can wire the money to our account while we’re on board. If not, we’ll just dump ’em in the Gulf.”

  “You want to take that chance? We need the money.”

  Torres held up his index finger. “You’re right. We do need the money—and that’s exactly why we have to take this chance.”

  “Who are the passengers?”

  Torres shrugged. “We’ll find out tonight. The key phrase is ‘Nice night for a stroll.’ Can you remember that?”

  Ortega nodded. “You ready to head over to the stadium.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll meet you there. I’ve got a few more things I need to do here to get the boat ready so we can make a fast getaway.”

  “Stay out of trouble.”

  “You know me,” Torres said.

  “Exactly. That’s why I said, ‘Stay out of trouble.’ Think you can do that for once?”

  “I could just leave you right now.”

  Ortega waved him off and ascended the steps.

  Torres spent the next hour filling up the boat with gas and checking everything. If everything went as planned, he would be out from underneath the thumb of Goretti.

  After this, I’m out. No more crime.

  He tightened the ropes on the dock and glanced at his boat once more before heading to the stadium. The sun had already started to dip below the horizon.

  This is going to be my night. I can just feel it.

  CHAPTER 38

  WALLER RAISED HIS BINOCULARS and peered at the island that seemed to rise out of nowhere. They hadn’t been on the water long since leaving from Miami, and the speed with which they arrived surprised him—though not as much as the size of the island of Cuba.

  “Where’s Gitmo?” Waller asked.

  “On the other side,” Hampton said. “You can’t see it from here. But we won’t be going anywhere near it.”

  “This feels like some fool’s errand,” Waller said as he put the binoculars down and turned toward his partner. He hated the water, though the Coast Guard cutter was more stable than the deep sea fishing boat he’d once been on.

  “It’s supposedly credible intelligence,” Hampton said. “Caught the chatter yesterday. I don’t know why you doubt it.”

  “These things never work out. Besides, my stomach doesn’t agree with ocean waves.”

  “Just lean overboard if you’re going to hurl. It’s best that way.”

  Waller sighed and reached for a bottle of water he’d set down nearby. He chugged it without taking a breath.

  “Think we’ll catch him this time?” Hampton asked.

  “We better. Our jobs are riding on it.”

  Waller leaned over the edge and threw up. He wasn’t sure if it was really the sea or the stress. Either way, he couldn’t wait for this assignment to end.

  CHAPTER 39

  CAL WATCHED THE CARRIBEAN SKY turn from blue to hues of orange and red as evening fell over Estadio Cristóbal Labra, home of the Grapefruit Cutters. He put his arm around Kelly, who, after photographing the first five innings of the game, decided to call it a night and enjoy the game. Cal affirmed her plan before the game. While they needed to maintain appearances at the ballpark, they also needed to save their energy for what would undoubtedly be a long night ahead.

  For a brief moment, they tried to forget about everything else and bask in the moment. A beautiful island night in a forbidden nation watching America’s favorite pastime. Cal took a deep breath and smiled.

  Ahh. Paradise.

  Everything appeared contrary to what he’d heard about Cuba. Life didn’t look that hard; in fact, it looked rather simple. Aside from the government officials, the people he interacted with seemed satisfied with their lives. No one was hustling anywhere; heads were bent over and buried in smart phone screens. People seemed genuinely happy to see one another in the streets. It held a unique charm, the kind of which Cal had never seen back home—not even in small town Americana. But when he looked closely enough, Cal could see the other side of the coin. These people have been stripped of everything that made them unique—everything that made them special. He wasn’t refusing to accept reality; rather, he was choosing to delay engaging with it. He wanted to hold onto his little slice of paradise, contrived as it was.

  A screaming foul ball landed a few feet in front of them, snapping him back to reality. The thud of the leather pounding the concrete stadium seats served as a reminder of what this place was really like—an island teeming with life only to have it squelched by the stiff structures of an iron-fisted government. Baseball served as a distraction—and the only place where the impoverished nation could compete internationally.

  Cal glanced over toward some seats near home plate and saw Prado bouncing Isabel on his knee, a sight Kelly captured earlier with her camera. Cal sighed and shook his head. No matter what was about to happen, it would be the last joyful moments Prado would spend with his daughter—if not forever, most certainly in that precious stage of life. Cal didn’t want to believe the reality of the aspiring player’s life, but he couldn’t deny it. The moment they left Cuba was the moment Prado would likely disappear forever.

  A few minutes later, Cal noticed another man walked up to Prado and started yelling at him. Prado stood up but was pulled back down by Campos. Then the man slapped Prado in the face and spit at him.

  Kelly saw it happen, too. “What do you think that’s all about?”

  Cal shook his head. “Not sure. But I remember Prado telling me that he stole money from his uncle, who’s somewhat of a drug lord here. Maybe it’s one of his henchmen.”

  “I thought drugs were prosecuted harshly here,” Kelly said.

  “They are, but there are always allowances to be made if you grease enough palms.” He shrugged. “Just like American politics.”

  After the inning ended, Kelly stood up. “I need a snack. You want something?”

  “I’m too nervous too eat,” Cal said.

  She patted him on the knee. “Relax. Everything is going to be all right.”

  He shook his head, his gaze remaining on the field as a new relief pitcher was announced for the Grapefruit Cutters, the fourth one since the second inning. “I hope you’re right,” he said through his teeth.

  He looked over his right shoulder and watched her disappear around the corner. He felt a tap on his left s
houlder and started to turn around.

  “Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice said. The voice seemed familiar, but disguised. Cal was trying to place it. He heard what sounded like the man cracking open a roasted peanut and then dropping the hull onto the ground.

  Cal kept his eyes on the field. “What do you want?”

  “I want to give you something,” he said, casually dropping the bag of peanuts next to Cal.

  Cal picked up the bag. “A bag of peanuts?”

  “There’s more than peanuts in that bag.”

  “Such as?”

  “Don’t look now, but look for it later. There’s a flash drive in there. Don’t even think about opening it—it’s encrypted.” He paused. “Find someone in federal law enforcement and give it to them. I think you know a few of them.”

  Cal furrowed his brow as he stared at the field. “How do you know who I am?” He turned around.

  The man was gone.

  A few minutes later, Kelly returned with a bag of peanuts. She stared at the bag in Cal’s hands. “I thought you said you couldn’t eat.”

  “It’s a long story, but I’ll tell you about it on the way tonight. We’ll have plenty of time.”

  She cocked her head to one side and sat down slowly. “Okaaay.”

  Once the ninth inning arrived, Kelly got up again. “Are you ready to do this?”

  Cal nodded.

  She collected her camera and patted Cal on the back. “Well, get movin’. Time is a wastin’.”

  Cal headed toward the restrooms down the right field line. He glanced over his shoulder to see Kelly kneeling near Prado while she took pictures of him playing with his daughter. She was supposed to tell Campos the pictures were for the paper, but that was only partially true—they would also be pictures to help Prado maintain sanity. It would be a gift to have those last few moments with Isabel captured in still photography. But he’d never see them if Cal didn’t execute the next portion of their plan.

  Kelly had created a disguise for Prado that Cal was to insert behind the toilet in the last stall. Cal wore the pants and shirt as a layer beneath his. A pair of sunglasses and a hat along with a fake mustache and a wig with long dark hair completed what she believed would be enough to get Prado out before officials noticed he was missing.

  Cal quickly stripped down then redressed, tucking the clothes in a bag and out of sight. He exited the bathroom and headed toward Kelly, who was still with Campos. Once he reached Campos, he thanked him for everything.

  Prado stood up and announced that he needed to use the restroom before saying his farewells. Another man dressed in military garb—Prado’s escort—also stood up and followed him.

  After Prado and his escort left, Cal announced they were leaving.

  “So soon? Don’t you know it’s bad luck to leave a baseball game in the ninth inning,” Campos said.

  Kelly laughed. “It’s bad luck for me if this man doesn’t get a good night of sleep—and we have a ferry to catch.”

  Campos stood up and shook Cal’s hand before kissing Kelly on both sides of her cheek. “Very well, then. I look forward to reading your in-depth look at Cuban baseball, one I trust will be very favorable.”

  “It’s been a pleasure,” Cal said, forcing a smile.

  They spun and headed toward the exit to wait for Prado.

  CHAPTER 40

  PRADO SLID THE LATCH to lock his stall and located the clothes Cal had stashed behind the toilet. In the bag were directions for where he was to meet them, all handwritten in Spanish. He undressed and redressed hurriedly, trying not to think about what he was doing—abandoning his daughter again.

  Not that it mattered this time. He’d already made that life-altering decision the first time he decided to leave. If he returned to custody now, his life would be over. He now held out hope on his second escape attempt that he could remain in the U.S. while he figured out a way to sneak Isabel and Liliana out of the country. For the moment, it was all he had—and he needed something to drive him from the dark place he’d nearly gone.

  He gathered all his clothes and tucked them back in the bag and tried to hide them from plain sight. He slid the latch again, unlocking the door, and exited the restroom. His handler didn’t even flinch as he walked by, still staring vacantly at the door for his return.

  A faint smile spread across Prado’s face, one that vanished the moment he looked toward his seat and saw one of Campos’ assistants holding Isabel. He tried to freeze the image in his mind just in case things didn’t work out.

  In a matter of seconds she was no longer visible to him as he headed toward the exit. He couldn’t dwell on it now. For the next few minutes, he needed to concentrate on the task at hand if he ever expected to escape.

  Prado walked briskly down the street. He watched a few kids fight for a foul ball that bounced on the street nearby. On more than one occasion, he’d been in a pack of kids trying to escape with a foul ball as well. But now he was just trying to escape with his life—and hopefully a future.

  Over the public address system, a man announced that the game was over with the Nationales junior team winning the game, 8-5. The crowd began to pour into the street behind him.

  Prado looked over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. He wasn’t.

  Then he looked ahead, peering down the dimly lit street for Cal and Kelly. He couldn’t see anyone.

  Behind him, a dull roar began followed by a series of whistles. He looked over his shoulder to see the police sprinting in his direction. He had a block head start but he wasn’t ready to assume they were after him.

  Just keep your head down and keep walking.

  He walked for a few more meters until he looked back and saw one of his uncle’s top lieutenants pointing at him and yelling. He glanced around to make sure he wasn’t imagining his accusatory finger. No one else was moving or seemed concerned with the disturbance. They all seemed more interested in being entertained by whatever was about to happen.

  When Prado looked back, he knew they were after him.

  Two police officers took off down the street, yelling for him to stop.

  Prado broke into a sprint. He ran for a few more meters before he glanced over his shoulder to see one of the guards raise a gun.

  Prado turned his gaze ahead and caught Cal’s eyes. “Run! Run!” he yelled in Spanish.

  Cal didn’t move until Kelly yanked his arm and they took off.

  Prado pumped his arms and didn’t look back. If he had, he would’ve seen one of the officers ready to squeeze off a couple of rounds in his direction. Instead, he saw a familiar face. The man was sprinting toward the police with his hands in the air.

  Several shots rang out in the street. Prado glanced back to see the man staggering to the ground right in front of the officers.

  Prado knew he would’ve been hit if not for the man. He darted down an alleyway in an attempt to lose the police still chasing him on foot. Sirens wailed in the distance, as he knew a full manhunt was about to commence if they didn’t leave right away.

  Kelly had scrawled out a backup plan in case they didn’t make the rendezvous point in time.

  Meet us at the Oeste Docks if you can’t find us. The boat leaves thirty minutes after the game ends.

  Prado didn’t think that would be soon enough based on the circumstances. The water would be the first place they’d look. But at least they were going to a dock that wasn’t as heavily trafficked.

  This just might work.

  Not that he had any other viable options.

  The direction he was running was toward the place where most of the dramatic speedboat exits occurred. Prado figured he could double back and catch up in time—but it would be close.

  He darted down another tight alleyway and plastered himself to the wall as sirens blared nearby. Once they sounded like they were a safe distance away, he doubled back and started walking back down the sidewalk. In front of him was a pack of kids walking home from the game. He stoppe
d in front of them.

  “Want to trade hats?” Prado asked.

  One of the boys readily agreed and Prado slipped it on. It wasn’t much of a wardrobe change but it was something. Maybe they’d be looking for the guy in the blue hat when in fact he now had a yellow one. He only had to throw them off his trail for a few minutes.

  He picked up his pace. As he looked around the street, he went unnoticed by others who walked casually past him. He walked along a street that intersected with the one where the man had stepped in front of him and was shot by the police. Emergency personnel attended to him as they prepared to put him into an ambulance. Prado glanced back to see one of the medical personnel throw his hands in the air, while another man rushed over with a sheet.

  He’s dead! No!

  Prado wanted to cry. He wanted to know why the man risked his own life to save him. He’d have plenty of time to ponder it once he was safely off the shores of Cuba.

  Stay focused.

  He kept walking and went two blocks before he decided to start running toward the docks.

  Less than two minutes later, he arrived. He found Kelly shivering and Cal trying to warm her by rubbing her arms.

  “Where’s the boat?” Prado asked.

  Cal shook his head. “They haven’t shown up yet.”

  “I hope this wasn’t a set up,” Kelly said.

  Before another word was spoken, Prado heard footsteps and turned to see a man racing toward him.

  “I’m gonna kill you, Prado,” the man roared.

  CHAPTER 41

  PRADO BRACED HIMSELF for a punch but was surprised when the man dove toward his knees. In a matter of seconds, Prado was rolling on the ground, trying to fight off a man who was considerably smaller than him in stature. But it didn’t seem to matter. He was getting the best of Prado.

  After a few moments of struggling, Prado broke free and stood up. He hunched over and held his arms out, ready to tussle with the man. Without the element of surprise, Prado liked his chances.