“Oh, good, you’ve got ’em,” Hampton said. “I got a call and I was beginning to get worried that you weren’t here or something else happened.”
Waller looked over his shoulder at Corliss. “Pretty boy here—”
“It’s Agent Corliss.”
“Agent Corliss here suggests that we take Torres and Ortega and get out of here since we aren’t authorized to handle the questioning in this case beyond a few simple questions. But I’m about ready to cram my fist down his throat—”
“Let’s take ’em and get outta here,” Hampton said, unwilling to listen any of Waller’s further ramblings. “This is who we really came for—the guys who made us look foolish. Now they’re the fools, surrendering to us. Let’s book ’em and be done with it.”
Waller stopped. “Don’t you think it’s strange that they would simply turn themselves in rather than remain in Mexico?”
“Not all criminals are idiots,” Hampton said. “Besides, they’d probably be dead by morning if they did something to Munoz’s boys, so it’s likely a safe play on their part. Isn’t that right, boys?”
Torres and Ortega nodded and said nothing.
“I don’t like this,” Waller said.
“What’s not to like? We’re going to get medals for apprehending these thugs.”
Corliss smiled. “Good decision, Agent Hampton. I trust your partner will exercise that same wisdom in agreeing with you.”
Waller sighed. “Okay, fine. Let’s get out of here before I change my mind.” He turned toward Corliss. “Good luck getting your man. Those two are slippery.”
“I always get my man,” Corliss said. “Always.”
CHAPTER 56
CAL POUNDED ON THE BACK of the passenger seat, urging the cab driver to go faster. He glanced over his shoulder at the truck bearing down on them. Inside were several angry members of Munoz’s cartel. The margin for error had moved from scant to non-existent.
“Tell him to stop up there,” Cal told Prado as he dropped three twenty-dollar bills on the passenger seat.
Prado followed his instructions and the cab driver nodded.
“You ready?” Cal asked.
Prado nodded.
The moment the car skidded to a stop, Cal and Prado flung open their doors and sprinted down the footbridge of the Gateway International Bridge, spanning the Rio Grande. For a moment, Cal considered jumping into the Rio Grande, though he wasn’t sure he’d have such an advantage in the river’s murky waters.
Just don’t look back.
Cal pumped his arms and used the back windows and polished surfaces of cars to serve as mirrors for him. He lagged behind the more fleet-footed Prado, but not by more than a few meters.
“Keep going,” Cal shouted.
Despite the adrenaline coursing through his body, a glance at one of those back windows revealed that two of Munoz’s men were gaining ground on him. As he neared the checkpoint, he knew he wasn’t going to make it.
Then he saw a man ahead of him slow-walking a bike, laden with fresh produce. Cal didn’t want to inject the man into the chase, but he had no choice if he was going to make it to the footbridge before he got caught.
As he raced toward the man, Cal ripped the bike from the man’s hands and then rotated it and heaved it in their direction on the sidewalk. There was nowhere for the men to hide. They tumbled down and Cal spun toward the checkpoint, never looking back.
Prado stood at the gate with his passport out. He didn’t know what to do, but Cal noticed him drumming his fingers on the side of his leg.
Cal held up his passport and begged the border agent to let him through as he pulled Prado with him.
“I’m Cal Murphy and this is Vincente Prado—and DHS is looking for us,” he said.
Their names triggered a rapid response from the agent, who swung open the gate and pulled them inside. And not a second too soon, as Munoz’s agents had recovered from their fall and were bearing down on them.
When Cal reached the other side, he let out a long breath and slumped into a chair.
“We did it,” Prado said.
Cal nodded. “And I hope we didn’t exchange the frying pan for the fire.”
Prado looked at him quizzically.
“It’s an American idiom. It just means I hope we didn’t go from one bad situation to another bad situation,” Cal explained.
A faint grin spread across Prado’s face. “I understand.”
***
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Cal and Prado were escorted to a waiting area where Kelly and Corliss sat. Kelly leapt out of her chair and rushed over to Cal. She gave him a big hug and kissed him.
“Thank you for coming back,” she said.
“Did you ever doubt me?”
She rolled her eyes as they both walked over toward Corliss. “Thanks for coming down,” Cal said, offering him a hand.
“Don’t thank me just yet,” Corliss said. “We need to talk.”
CHAPTER 57
CAL OPENED A WATER BOTTLE and sat down at a table next to Prado. He took a sip and eyed Tom Corliss directly across from him. He wasn’t excited about the prospect of an inquisition after all they’d just been through, but anything was better than being hunted by Munoz’s henchmen.
“What do you want to know?” Cal asked.
Corliss took a deep breath and interlocked his fingers behind his head as he leaned back. “I’m more concerned with what you saw, specifically what Prado saw the night he left Cuba for the first time.”
Prado withdrew and glanced at Cal.
“It’s okay,” Cal said. “Agent Corliss is a friend. You didn’t do anything wrong—and he’s not going to send you back. Tell him what you told me.”
Prado rubbed his face with both hands and took a swig of his water before he leaned forward, both hands clasped. “I saw a man who was my friend murder another man connected to the Cuban government. My friend’s name was Juan Garcia, though Cal told me he didn’t think that was his real name.”
Corliss nodded. “Go on.”
“There’s not much more to tell. My cousin and I were taking money from my uncle’s safe when I heard a commotion going on at the docks nearby. I ran outside my uncle’s office to see what was happening—and I was just in time to see Juan take the gun away from the other man and shoot him. The other man fell into the water while Juan ran away.”
“Did you go speak to Juan?”
Prado shook his head. “At first I was more concerned with the other man lying facedown in the water. I thought maybe he could survive if I helped him. It didn’t look like Juan was trying to kill him on purpose since the other man pulled the gun first.”
“I see. Please continue.”
“But that wasn’t the last time I saw him.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, on my most recent visit, I saw him step in front of several guards shooting in my direction. He was gunned down—and I don’t think he made it.”
Corliss nodded. “That would explain some things on our end, that’s for sure.”
“Other than that, I don’t have anything else to tell you.”
Corliss wrote a few notes down on a pad. “Good. This is what we needed to know.”
Cal shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Prado isn’t the only one who knew him.”
“You?” Corliss asked. “You knew him too?”
“Not exactly, but he found me at a baseball game and handed me something, something he said I should give you.”
“Me, specifically?”
Cal shook his head. “No, but someone who was affiliated with the federal government, so you qualify.” He reached into his pocket and fished out the flash drive. “Here you go.”
Corliss inserted the drive into his computer. After a few clicks on the computers, his eyes widened. “Wow. This is amazing. You guys did great. The Bureau is going to flip when they see this.”
“What is it?” Cal asked.
“Confirmation,” Corliss said cryptical
ly.
“For what?”
“For something we suspected Cuba has been doing for years now—building a centrifuge to help enrich uranium and make it weapons grade. We had eyes and ears on the ground there—and reports about Cuba working with the Russians to construct this centrifuge and then selling the uranium to the Iranians.” He paused. “Did I mention, you can’t write a word of this in the newspaper? If you do, I’ll have you locked up.”
“Come on, Corliss,” Cal pleaded. “After all we’ve done for you and the Bureau.”
Corliss didn’t flinch, refusing to look up from the images on his screen. “I said, ‘No.’ End of discussion. Not one word. Do you understand? It’s a matter of national security.”
Cal nodded and muttered a resigned, “All right.”
“May God rest Agent Garcia’s soul,” Corliss said. “Or for those of us who knew him here, Jack Stratton.”
“Amen,” Prado said.
Cal sighed and looked down, shaking his head. “So, if I can’t write about what really happened, what can I say? You know my editor is going to demand a story—and won’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s a good question.”
CHAPTER 58
IT WAS EARLY SEPTEMBER and Cal stared at his laptop screen, banging out a few lines he thought were sharp and witty in anticipation of Vicente Prado’s rousing debut. Since his return to the U.S., Prado played like a man on fire and earned a late-season call-up to the Major Leagues. Safeco Field contained more empty seats than not and the team had been eliminated from the race to win the American League West division. It was the perfect environment for a debut.
For weeks, Cal sat on Prado’s story, mostly due to Buckman’s reluctance to let him publish it. But when the Mariners announced that Prado had been impressive enough to earn a late-season call-up, Buckman green-lighted the story.
While Cal had earned a well-deserved fine reputation for exposing cover-ups in the world of sports, Prado’s story was different. It was about one man’s quest to better his life against all odds—even if it meant dancing in the dark shadows for a while. And Cal wrote it flawlessly.
“This might be your best work yet,” Buckman told him.
Cal was inclined to agree, though he ascribed to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s line of thinking that every writer always thinks his best work is his latest one—until it settles into its proper place. But Cal struggled to see how his reporting on this story, not to mention his personal experience, could be trumped by anything he’d written in his career. The real story—the one that would undoubtedly win him an award—was a story he couldn’t tell. Or at least, it was a story he wouldn’t write out of respect for Tom Corliss. He had to come to terms with the fact that some stories are best left unwritten.
Cal shot a glance at Josh Moore, who was seated on his right. “Think he gets a hit tonight?”
Moore smiled. “I think he gets two and the Mariners win for the first time in a week. What about that?”
Cal shook his head. “There’s a reason you don’t work in Vegas.”
However, Prado’s debut was far more interesting given the fact that Pablo Guerrero was starting on the mound for the Texas Rangers. Two former teammates from Cuba would be going after each other.
While Cal typed up a few game notes for Josh, his phone buzzed. He picked it up and answered it—Tom Corliss was on the other line.
“Thank you for being so discreet in your story today,” Corliss said. “I read it online.”
“No, thank you. I appreciated your challenging me to write it without compromising national security.” Cal paused. “By the way, what’s happening with that?”
“Off the record.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s just say a series of earthquakes in the Greater Antilles this week will only affect Cuba. And it might hamper any construction efforts being made on Isla de la Juventud.”
“Outstanding.”
“Yeah, and it wouldn’t have been possible without you. The Bureau owes you a big thank you, as does DHS.”
“Just tell them to send me a check,” Cal quipped.
“Now, that’s funny.”
“Whatever happened to Torres and Ortega? I hope you went somewhat easy on those guys?”
“They both got probation, while Waller and Hampton both got a promotion.”
“God, help us all.”
Corliss chuckled.
“What about you?” Cal asked. “Did you earn any commendations for exposing the human trafficking ring they were running?”
“No, but I did get a promotion—and a raise,” Corliss admitted.
“Excellent.”
“Well, I just wanted to say thanks. You probably need to get back to your game.”
Cal smiled. “I’ll always make time for you. Thanks again for your help.”
“Sure thing.” Corliss hung up.
Cal returned his focus to the field and proceeded to watch Prado turn in one of the greatest debuts of any Mariner in the franchise’s history. A three-run homer along with two doubles and seven runs batted in. After Prado's first at bat, the crowd buzzed whenever he strode to the plate, with fans chanting, “El Roque! El Roque!”
After Guerrero exited the game, Cal wandered down to the clubhouse to make sure he could interview Prado first before all the regular beat reporters and TV station reporters jammed microphones in his face.
Cal meandered down the visiting team’s tunnel first. He wanted to catch up with Dusty Drummond. When he entered the Rangers’ locker room, Drummond sat on a couch, staring at his phone.
“Looks like maybe you took the wrong guy,” Cal said, hoping to get Drummond to say something inane. He didn’t take the bait.
“Guerrero will come around,” Drummond said, refusing to look up. “Besides, he got a ton of guaranteed money, thanks to me.”
“There won’t be any more of it where that came from if he pitches like that every time out,” Cal snapped. “You had a chance to take both of them—you were a fool.”
Drummond sneered at Cal and returned to his reading.
Cal sauntered over to the Mariners’ clubhouse. The minute the game ended, Prado raced into the locker room.
“Prado, wanna talk?” Cal asked.
Prado’s face lit up. “Let’s make it quick before the other reporters get here.” He paused. “I can’t thank you enough for all you did.”
Cal felt embarrassed. He wanted to report the news, not make it.
But he didn’t mind too much. A story about Prado’s debut into the Major Leagues would make the perfect follow-up to his article about all the trials the Cuban defector had endured.
And judging from the grin on Prado’s face, Cal figured the journey must’ve been worth it for the Cuban who lived up to his nickname in every possible way.
THE END
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BASEBALL WAS MY FIRST LOVE when it came to sports thanks to my grandfather delivering me a baseball signed by an unknown catcher at the time named Dale Murphy while I lived in England. Though I never had the natural talent to make it to the Major Leagues, I made it a goal to work there as a writer—and it’s there that I got to peek behind the curtain, which helped make for vivid and realistic portrayal of life as a professional baseball player.
I’d like to thank Joe Kelly and Nathan Krohn of the Boise Hawks and the Colorado Rockies organization for allowing me access to their players and get behind the scenes. Hamlet Marte, Steven Leonard and Colin Welmon were gracious in sharing their experiences with me about their time in the minor leagues.
Ben Badler from Baseball America was also helpful in ensuring authenticity in describing life in Cuba for baseball players there.
As always, Jennifer Wolf helped craft this manuscript into something better than I imagined. And Dan Pitts did another won
derful job in capturing the look and feel of Cuba for the cover.
And to you the reader—thanks for reading!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JACK PATTERSON is an award-winning writer living in southeastern Idaho. He first began his illustrious writing career as a sports journalist, recording his exploits on the soccer fields in England as a young boy. Then when his father told him that people would pay him to watch sports if he would write about what he saw, he went all in. He landed his first writing job at age 15 as a sports writer for a daily newspaper in Orangeburg, S.C. He later attended earned a degree in newspaper journalism from the University of Georgia, where he took a job covering high school sports for the award-winning Athens Banner-Herald and Daily News.
He later became the sports editor of The Valdosta Daily Times before working in the magazine world as an editor and freelance journalist. He has won numerous writing awards, including a national award for his investigative reporting on a sordid tale surrounding an NCAA investigation over the University of Georgia football program.
Jack enjoys the great outdoors of the Northwest while living there with his wife and three children. He still follows sports closely.
He also loves connecting with readers and would love to hear from you. To stay updated about future projects, connect with him over Facebook or on the interwebs at www.IamJackPatterson.com and sign up here for his newsletter to get deals and updates.
DEAD MAN'S LAND
© Copyright 2015 Jack Patterson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dead Man's Land Page 21