Dead Man's Land

by Jack Patterson

  “Are we going to make it?” Prado asked.

  Cal nodded. “Unless something crazy happens.” He paused. “Speaking of crazy, Prado, now that we’re out of the country, why don’t you tell us what you really saw that night before you left the first time?”

  Prado shook his head. “There’s not much more to say. It was a crazy night.”

  “Surely you remember something else,” Cal pressed.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, fine,” Cal said. “You just seemed pretty shaken up about the whole thing.”

  “I saw a man die tonight—again—right before I got on a boat and left my country—again,” Prado said. “It’s very upsetting to me and I don’t want to talk about what I saw or who I saw or why—not now anyway.”

  “Fair enough,” Cal said. “I’ll be here to listen when you’re ready to talk.”

  Prado nodded. “Thank you.”

  ***

  WITH DAWN BREAKING BEHIND THEM, Cal ventured out of the cabin and onto the main deck to check on their progress. He was surprised to see the shoreline spread out in front of him.

  “I take it we’re almost here,” Cal said.

  Torres nodded. “We need to go through a channel up ahead before we reach our final destination.”

  “Are we going to be boarded and checked?”

  Torres laughed. “This is Mexico, Cal. I thought you said you’d been here before.”

  “I have—” he stammered. “But it was under different circumstances.”

  “Just keep your head down and do as you’re told—and everything will be fine.” He paused as he throttled back on the engine and moved into the inlet. Then he picked up his laptop and handed it to Cal. “Now would be a good time to transfer that money.”

  Cal reluctantly agreed and hammered on the keyboard until he’d managed to initiate a transfer from his savings account.

  “Thirty thousand dollars is on its way to you,” Cal said.

  “Thirty? It was forty-five thousand,” Torres said.

  Cal shook his head and forced a smile. “I see right through you, Torres. For once could you just be an honorable person?”

  Torres put his head down and grunted. “Just transfer the money.”

  Cal initiated the transfer and showed it to Torres, drawing a hint of a smile.

  “Let everyone know that we’ve almost arrived,” Torres said.

  Torres then initiated a transfer of his own to Goretti, along with a text telling him that the money was there.

  That ought to keep him off my back.

  Fifteen minutes later with the assistance of Ortega, Torres guided his boat near the dock of Fabian Munoz’s estate. He shut the engine off and finished tying off the boat.

  “We’re here,” Torres said.

  Cal waited for Kelly and the others. He helped her off the boat as they strode up a slight incline and onto a spacious piece of private property. Cal surveyed the scene, making mental notes of his surroundings. Big-busted women wearing bikinis and high heels paraded around the property with drinks in their hands while Latin dance music pulsed in the background. Seated near the water, one man reveled in a backrub given to him simultaneously by three ladies.

  Torres looked at Cal and nodded in the direction of the man receiving the backrub. “That’s Fabian Munoz,” he said. “You’ll be wise to keep your mouth shut around him and do as you’re told.”

  “Fabian Munoz, the drug lord? You’re dropping us off with him?”

  Torres nodded. “He’ll get you back into the country, don’t worry. This place ought to be proof that he knows how to get things into the U.S. without getting caught.”

  Cal shook his head. “You can’t do this to us.”

  “Watch me,” Torres said. He strode over to Munoz and knelt down to speak with him. After a few seconds, Munoz clapped his hands and two men armed with machine guns rushed to his side. Munoz pointed toward Cal and Kelly along with Prado and Guerrero. The men rushed toward them and ushered them back toward the house.

  Kelly looked at Cal. “I’m scared.”

  “Just do as you’re told.” Cal swallowed hard and lied. “We’ll be out of here soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 46

  WHEN WALLER AND HAMPTON arrived back in port in Miami, they contacted Homeland Security and alerted them to be on the lookout for several fugitives. They knew that Prado wouldn’t be able to come back to baseball without them finding out about it—and he’d be in a heap of trouble then. And while he was the one they were ultimately after, they wanted to arrest Torres and Ortega. They’d been outfoxed twice already, but Waller determined it wouldn’t happen a third time.

  Hampton waited until Waller got off the phone before he questioned his plan. “You really think that’s going to help? They’re not just going to waltz through some entry point. You need to let Border Patrol know. That’s where they’re going to be found, wandering in the desert somewhere.”

  “They’ll pass the message along.”

  “Not before it’s too late.”

  “Even if our efforts fail, Prado won’t throw another pitch without us finding out about it. Just relax. We’ll be fine.”

  Hampton shook his head. “Maybe he’ll just stay in Mexico and play there. Based on his early stats, there’s no way he was going to advance to the Major Leagues. That’s what I’d do anyway. Just cut my losses.”

  Waller rubbed his face with both hands. “So, we trump up charges against him, see if we can get extradition from Mexico.”

  “You think the Justice Department will go along with that?”

  “If it’s a matter of national security, they will.”

  “Be honest—we really don’t care as much about him as we do those two other scumbags smuggling people out of Cuba.”

  “I’m more pissed about them kidnapping our assignment in the U.S.”

  Hampton nodded. “Yeah, that too.”

  “Well, this seems like nothing compared to what we saw out there on the open seas—all those Russian tankers headed straight for Cuba.”

  “Something was going on out there, that’s for sure.”

  “I’ll make the call right now. Maybe it’ll be enough to buy us some time while we focus on catching Prado.”

  Hampton smiled. “We may end up being heroes after all.”

  CHAPTER 47

  PRADO LOOKED TOWARD CAL as a pair of armed men forced him down the hall apart from Cal and Kelly. They threw him into a room and locked the door behind him. Unfortunately, it was all too familiar. He’d been secluded in Fabian Munoz’s compound before, awaiting an opportunity to get into the United States. Only this time, he had no idea what he’d be going back to.

  Will they throw me in prison? Will I ever get a chance to play again?

  Prado shuffled to the corner of the room and looked out of the small slit of a window. But there was no glass, only bars. And it felt like a prison to him. Standing on his toes, he could see the bay and the sunrise starting to peek above the horizon. Yet the dawn of a new day didn’t bring him the hope he needed, the hope he craved. He fished the picture of Isabel out of his pocket and kissed it. Her photo and a growing sense of false hope was all he had to hold onto.

  “What’s it like?” a man said.

  Prado spun around to see Guerrero standing in the corner of the room. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there.” He took a deep breath. “What’s what like?”

  “The show. What’s it like?”

  “The big leagues?”

  Guerrero nodded.

  Prado shrugged. “I have no idea. I was a guest for the Mariners after they signed me, but that was as close as I got.”

  “Think I can make it?”

  Prado shook his head. “I hope so—at least I hope you can do enough to impress an agent. Otherwise, you won’t have a shot. You’ll be playing here in Mexico and drinking cheap tequila.”

  Guerrero leaned against the wall and slid to the ground. “What if they deport me?”
<
br />   “Who?”

  “These men. What if they decide I’m not worth it and send me on a boat back to Cuba?”

  “You’ll survive—but that won’t happen. I’ve seen you pitch, Guerrero. You’ve got a chance.”

  Guerrero looked up, his demeanor brightening. “You really think so?”

  “You were the best pitcher on our team—and the only one to beat the Nationales in the playoffs, from what I heard.”

  Guerrero smiled. “And you think I’ll be able to make it on with one team?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Before their conversation could continue, the door swung open and a couple of guards walked into the room. One of them waved a piece of paper in the air.

  “Congratulations, Señor Guerrero. You’re now a Mexican citizen. Now, time to make you an American ballplayer.”

  “Good luck,” Prado said as he watched Guerrero escorted out of the room.

  Prado was alone—again.

  ***

  TORRES PRESSED HIS HANDS against his thighs in an attempt to keep them from visibly shaking. While he admired Fabian Munoz’s drug operation, he wasn’t in awe of him. To the contrary, he despised him. And feared him.

  Munoz made national news in the U.S. when he started decapitating police officers and hanging their heads from overpasses on Mexican highways. He made an open declaration of war on Mexican law enforcement and appeared to be winning. Based off Torres’s observations, the Munoz compound was overflowing with women and money. And while it shouldn’t have, it made Torres’s interaction with Munoz all the more shocking.

  “So, are we good here?” Torres asked when he finally received the opportunity to talk with Munoz.

  Munoz, whose bare arms and neck were covered in colorful tattoos of skulls and demons, didn’t even turn around. He rubbed the back of his baldhead and continued to stare out at the Gulf of Mexico just a few meters away from the end of his deck.

  “Good for what?” Munoz asked.

  “With our delivery? Are we good to get paid now?” Torres asked, his palms beginning to sweat.

  Munoz spun around. He clasped his hands and touched his lips with his forefingers. “No, we’re not.”

  “What?”

  “In fact, I think I need something from you.”

  Torres threw his hands in the air. “What are you talkin’ about? We brought you another player—and one who has potential if he goes back. Maybe you can renegotiate his contract.”

  Munoz nodded. “Yes, Prado—the one who profits us nothing.” He paused. “And a second one who’ll be lucky to get the same worthless signing bonus that Prado here received. For all my expenses, I’m going to need something from you.” He took a deep breath and stared back out at the water. “Like your boat, for example.”

  “You can’t take my boat,” Torres said. “Besides, how am I supposed to get back into the country without one?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” Munoz motioned for the guards to grab them.

  The guards marched them down several hallways before shoving them into a room with Prado.

  “Oh, you again?” Ortega said as he looked at Prado upon entering the room.

  Prado growled at him. “If I wasn’t concerned about anyone watching us right now …”

  He let his words trail off, but everyone knew what he meant.

  “Knock it off, you two,” Torres said. “We need to work together if we’re going to get out of here.”

  Prado chuckled and shook his head. “What makes you think I’d ever want to help you do anything ever again?”

  “Karma?” Ortega asked.

  “It’ll take a whole lot more than that for me to even care about you, much less work with you,” Prado said.

  “They took our boat,” Torres said, hoping to generate some sympathy.

  Prado smiled. “What? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

  “That’s not what this is about. In fact, the last thing it’s about is my feelings. It’s about how we’re going to get back to the U.S. And it’s your problem now too.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Prado said. “I’m sure of it—and don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  “Good,” Torres said. “I wouldn’t worry about you so much if you weren’t the reason we’re all here, for better or worse.”

  Prado put his hands on his hips. “Put your worries aside. I’m sure I’ll be back in the U.S. in no time. Nobody knows my timetable because nobody’s asked.”

  Torres bit his lip. He wanted to believe Prado and share in his optimism—but it wasn’t happening. Not today. Not as long as it was clear that this operation prized money above all else.

  And Torres’s palms started to shake again.

  CHAPTER 48

  CAL GRABBED THE BARS in front of the window in the holding cell he and Kelly had been placed in. He pulled himself up to get a better look at his surroundings—a large grassy field with a windsock affixed atop a structure several hundred meters away. The field was surrounded by thick vegetation.

  He let go and slid to the floor.

  “Well, what’s out there?” Kelly asked.

  “Not much. Just an airfield—a big strip of pavement through a long grassy area.”

  Kelly’s lips quivered as she buried her head in her hands. “So, now what?” She started to cry softly.

  Cal knelt next to her and put his arm around her. “It’s going to be okay, Kelly. Just hang in there.”

  “It’s going to be okay? Really? You know that for a fact how?” Her sobs turned to heaves and moans.

  “You just have to trust me on this one.”

  “Trust you? Every time I’ve trusted you, I’ve ended up in some ridiculous situation—and I’m tired of it.”

  Cal took a deep breath. “I hate how this has turned out as much as you do, but this was your idea—not mine. You’re compassionate and you couldn’t leave Prado. I understand. But I don’t regret going along with you. We couldn’t just leave him.”

  She sniffled and looked up at him. “And I’m why we’re here, imprisoned in a Mexican cartel’s compound. We’re never going to get out of here alive.”

  Cal shook his head and sighed. “Look, we’re going to make it out of here. Believe me. It just may take a little bit more thinking, but we can do it.” He put his hand on top of Kelly’s and gave it a quick squeeze.

  Kelly started to cry again. “What about Maddie? What will happen to her?”

  Cal rubbed Kelly’s back. “Nothing is going to happen to her because we’re going to get back safe and sound—you can bet on it. Have I ever let you down before?”

  She shook her head, but they’d had plenty of near-collisions with the freight train of life that could’ve easily derailed everything—and Cal knew that’s what she was thinking.

  It was only a matter of time before some major event occurred, a major event that he couldn’t reverse or change. And while Kelly was well acquainted with the dangers this type of brazen reporting led to, he knew she didn’t want to face this head-on here, today, in Mexico at the hands of Munoz’s lawless marauders.

  “I’ll get us out of here—trust me,” Cal said, again squeezing her hand.

  Cal then stood up as he heard the fast-approaching sound of a jet.

  “What is that?” Kelly asked.

  Cal jammed his face against the window and searched in his limited line of sight for the plane. A few seconds later, it came into view and was gone in a flash as it sped down the runway after landing.

  “That is Dusty Drummond’s plane.”

  “And who exactly is Dusty Drummond?”

  “He’s one of the biggest agents in the game today. If he’s representing Guerrero, Drummond must think he’s a pretty big deal. He wouldn’t just fly down here for a guy who isn’t projected to have the skills to make it in the big leagues.”

  “And you know him?” Kelly asked.

  “We’ve had several conversations in the past since he represents a few playe
rs in Seattle. But I doubt he’d remember me.”

  “Think he’ll give us a ride out of here?”

  A faint smile spread across Cal’s face. “It’s worth a shot. Now, if I can just get out of here and get a moment to talk with him.”

  CHAPTER 49

  PRADO LEANED ON A BAT as he watched Guerrero wind up and deliver a slider that would’ve made the best hitter in baseball look foolish chasing it. Less than an hour ago, they were in their “comfort suites,” as Munoz called them during his conversation with Dusty Drummond. Now, they were on a neatly groomed baseball field at the far end of Munoz’s property. The field was kept better than any Prado had played on in Cuba—and maybe even better than the Sea Farers’ home field in Yakima. He couldn’t be sure until he walked on it to check it out.

  Prado grinned as Guerrero fired a fastball that led to Drummond letting out a slow whistle as he stared at the radar gun.

  “A hundred and two,” Drummond said, holding it up so Munoz could see it. “That’s some nasty heat right there.”

  Munoz nodded in agreement.

  Drummond turned to Prado. “Why don’t you give him a live batter, Prado? I want to see how he can do when he’s not just playing catch.”

  Prado strode to the plate and stepped into the batter’s box. He didn’t like the situation, for his sake or his former teammate’s. One of them was going to be a loser—and the consequences could be enormous.

  Guerrero rocked back and recoiled before unleashing a fastball that caught the inside of the plate for a strike, according to the catcher.

  Prado shot the catcher a look of disgust before he dug back into the batter’s box.

  Guerrero’s next pitch was a nasty slider that Prado waved at with his heavy wooden bat.

  The catcher laughed. “At least you tried that time.”

  Prado ignored his comment and zeroed in on Guerrero’s hands, which slowly rotated the ball until Guerrero got the sign he wanted—fastball, outer part of the plate. After playing with Guerrero for years, Prado knew what was coming. Not that it made him any easier to hit.