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  What Others Are Saying

  About Jack Patterson

  “Jack’s storytelling feels as natural as James Patterson’s, and the short-chapter setup is the literary answer to Lay’s potato chips: you just want one more and before you know it, you’ve gone through the whole thing.

  - David Bashore, The Times-News, Twin Falls, ID

  “Jack Patterson does a fantastic job at keeping you engaged and interested. I look forward to more from this talented author.”

  - Aaron Patterson, bestselling author of SWEET DREAMS

  “Patterson has a mean streak about a mile wide and puts his two main characters through quite a horrible ride, which makes for good reading.”

  - Richard D., reader

  “Like a John Grisham novel, from the very start I was pulled right into the story and couldn’t put the book down. It was as if I personally knew and cared about what happened to each of the main characters. Every chapter ended with so much excitement and suspense I had to continue to read until I learned how it ended, even though it kept me up until 3:00 A.M.

  - Ray F., reader

  DEAD SHOT

  “Small town life in southern Idaho might seem quaint and idyllic to some. But when local newspaper reporter Cal Murphy begins to uncover a series of strange deaths that are linked to a sticky spider web of deception, the lid on the peaceful town is blown wide open. Told with all the energy and bravado of an old pro, first-timer Jack Patterson hits one out of the park his first time at bat with Dead Shot. It’s that good.”

  - Vincent Zandri, bestselling author of THE REMAINS

  “You can tell Jack knows what it’s like to live in the newspaper world, but with Dead Shot, he’s proven that he also can write one heck of a murder mystery. With a clever plot and characters you badly want to succeed, he is on his way to becoming a new era James Patterson.”

  - Josh Katzowitz,

  NFL writer for CBSSports.com

  & author of Sid Gillman: Father of the Passing Game

  DEAD LINE

  “This book kept me on the edge of my seat the whole time. I didn’t really want to put it down. Jack Patterson has hooked me. I’ll be back for more.”

  - Bob Behler

  3-time Idaho broadcaster of the year

  and play-by-play voice for Boise State football

  DEAD IN THE WATER

  “In Dead in the Water, Jack Patterson accurately captures the action-packed saga of a what could be a real-life college football scandal. The sordid details will leave readers flipping through the pages as fast as a hurry-up offense.”

  - Mark Schlabach,

  ESPN college sports columnist and

  co-author of Called to Coach

  Heisman: The Man Behind the Trophy

  Other titles by Jack Patterson

  Cal Murphy Thriller series

  Dead Shot

  Dead Line

  Better off Dead

  Dead in the Water

  Dead Man's Curve

  Dead and Gone

  Dead Wrong

  Dead Man's Land

  James Flynn Thriller series

  The Warren Omissions

  Imminent Threat

  For Pinckney Thompson, the guy who made life

  on the baseball diamond fun every day

  “For me, baseball is the most nourishing game outside of literature. They both are re-tellings of human experience.”

  - A. Bartlett Giamatti

  CHAPTER 1

  VICENTE PRADO GLANCED out of the window at the man adrift in the water. He wanted to help him. Was he dead? The man’s unknown status tempted Prado to bolt back outside and find out for himself, but his feet felt as if anchors were wrapped around them. Yes, he wanted to go down to the dock and fish his body out of the water. But he couldn’t. Not now anyway. Though he’d passed the point of no return a mere five minutes before, it might as well have been a hundred years ago.

  The low gurgling hum of the engine grew louder with each passing second. For Prado, it was the sound of freedom rumbling toward him—and he couldn’t spend another minute on the island, even if he wanted to.

  Twelve hours ago, he couldn’t imagine anything that would tempt him to stay …

  ***

  WITH THE TOE OF HIS SHOE, Vicente Prado chipped off peach flecks of paint on the Estadio Cristóbal Labra seats. Faded pastels were the color of the revolution, at least it appeared that way to him. Expansive swaths of concrete stands surrounded the field, serving their purpose for the Isla de la Juventud Grapefruit Cutters fans, though not comfortably. A bead of sweat trickled off his nose and splashed onto the ground. He looked up at the cliffs rising behind the stadium to the north. They blocked his view to the sea, the only thing between him and a better future. He sighed and shook his head, unsure if he had what it took to survive beyond Cuba’s constricting confines. There was a world out there—a world with baseball teams that would be willing to pay him more than fifteen dollars a week to play. They’d pay him more than he ever imagined, though money didn’t drive his desire to escape to safety and play in a park just over 120 miles away in the southern tip of Florida.

  Freedom fueled his fire.

  “El Roque!” one of the coaches called to Prado. “The Rock” was a nickname he earned once while working in the island’s rock quarry. At age 13, a foreman handed him a hammer and told him to split the rock. In one swing, Prado sliced the rock apart. Immediately, he was sent to play baseball on a developmental team in Nueva Gerona, home to the island’s Cuban National series baseball team. As he walked toward the plate, he wondered how different his life would’ve been if he hadn’t halved the rock in a single swing.

  I’d still be swinging a chisel right now.

  Instead, he was swinging 36 inches of lumber crafted into a smooth bat, extracted from the dense forest on the southern part of the island, once named the Isle of Pines. He swung the bat several times with authority before digging into the batter’s box.

  The first pitch from the coach affectionately known as El Gordito sailed wide of home plate. The second pitch zoomed right down the middle, which Prado promptly belted over the left field wall. He put his left hand to his forehead and smiled as he watched the ball disappear.

  “Who do you think you are? Yasiel Puig?” El Gordito snapped.

  Prado grinned and readied for the next pitch. Gordito fired a fastball over the outer half of the plate. Prado didn’t miss that one either, unleashing a vicious swing that sent a screaming line drive toward right field that bounced off the wall.

  “Save it for the game tomorrow,” El Gordito said.

  Too bad I won’t be here.

  Prado nodded and smiled. He went through the motions, knowing full well he’d never be there when La Bayamesa, the Cuban National Anthem, was played before the Grapefruit Cutters’ playoff game with the Nationales, Havana’s version of the New York Yankees. They didn’t have a chance at winning the series—and everyone on Isla de la Juventud knew it. The Nationales stacked their team each season, making most years seem like a six-month-long coronation of Cuba’s champions. Prado had no reservations about skipping out on such a contrived event, especially if it meant gaining his freedom and playing in front of thousands of people.

  After practice, he walked home along Calle 32 toward his allotted housing with the sound of Timba music echoing through the state-ordained barrio. His apartment was better than most since he played baseball, but it didn’t feel like a place to be cherished. Iron bars reached skyward on the uninhabitable third floor of his building. The other two teammates who lived
with him didn’t treat it like the palace it supposedly was—at least according to his coaches. Prado stomped on a cockroach as he entered the house and slid the carcass under the small refrigerator with his foot. Without giving it much thought, he estimated that it was the fifth one he had crushed this week and “buried” there. It was Wednesday.

  He opened the fridge and searched for something to eat. It was mostly barren, but he scrounged around until he found some fruit and a small piece of pork. He slathered the meat in oil and flour before frying it up.

  “Are you going to see Isabel today?” asked Julio Domingo, one of his teammates.

  Prado spun around, unaware that he wasn’t alone. He nodded.

  “She’s got a lot of charisma,” Julio said. “Just like her papa.”

  Prado forced a smile and continued cooking. If there was anything that could snap him out of the doldrums, it was spending a few minutes with Isabel. Even at age two, she effused exuberance for life. She clapped her hands and shook her hips without much coaxing, ultimately transforming even the dourest demeanor in the room into a smile. She was the only reason he hesitated to follow through with his plan to leave the island—even while she was the one driving him to do it.

  She deserves a better life—like me.

  Prado wondered if he could actually make it happen. But he had to try. Remaining on the island doomed him to something far less than what he wanted. Plus, he’d heard the tales of the treasure and a life of freedom awaiting him across a small patch of blue ocean. He was determined to see if he could make it happen. If he got out, he’d figure out a way to get her out too. Or so he thought.

  He jammed the spatula beneath the thin piece of pork and slid it onto his plate. In a matter of minutes, it was gone—along with the fruit.

  Julio glanced at the clock on the wall behind Prado and pointed at it. “You better hurry. You know how Liliana hates it when you’re late.”

  Prado shoved his chair back and stood up. “I’ll be back in an hour,” he announced as he exited the house.

  He hustled along the street, stopping to sign a few autographs for young adoring fans as he shook his hips to the pulsating rhythms of Timba music blasting from the windows of several houses.

  “Are you going to beat the Nationales?” one kid asked.

  “We’ll do our best,” Prado answered. It was true. The team would definitely try, even if he wasn’t part of it when the two teams met on the field. But beating Havana’s best team—and the goliath of the Cuban National Series league—was unlikely even if they played their best.

  He sauntered along for another block before he ran into another acquaintance, his English tutor, Juan Garcia. “Bueno suerte, El Roque,” Juan said as he tipped his cap.

  Prado forced a smile and nodded. “Gracias.”

  As he rounded the corner, a woman grabbed his arm. “Please, can you help my son? He’s stuck in the tree.”

  He didn’t want to arrive any later than he already was—but he couldn’t leave the boy up in the tree. Tears flowed from the kid’s face and dropped on the ground next to Prado.

  I’m sure she’ll understand.

  Prado took a firm grip on a lower brand and hoisted himself up into the tree. He navigated the branches until he reached the boy.

  “Don’t cry. I’ve got you now.”

  He held the boy tightly as he climbed down. Once on the ground, he delivered the kid to his mother.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Prado nodded and smiled before breaking into a slight jog in the direction of Liliana’s apartment. A minute later, he knocked on Liliana’s door.

  Liliana, her hair pulled back and taut, greeted him at the door with little more than a sigh. She waved him inside with her mixing spoon. Chichi Peralta’s “Me Enamore” wafted through the house.

  Prado stopped in front of her and smiled. “Our song.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. We’re not getting back together.”

  He cocked his head to the side and furrowed his brow. “Mi amor.”

  She turned his head with her hand and pointed with her spoon across the room. “Su hija.”

  In the corner, Isabel wiggled her bottom back and forth, dancing with one of her dolls. “Papi!” she said, dropping the doll and toddling toward him.

  He scooped her up and hugged her. Finding the song’s rhythm, Prado danced around with Isabel. He thought he saw a faint smile spread across Liliana’s face out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked at her directly, she put her head down and continued mixing.

  Prado put Isabel down and walked into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter and stared at Liliana. He barely blinked as he watched her for the better part of a minute.

  Liliana grabbed a hand towel and swatted him with it. “Stop staring at me. It’s creepy.”

  “I have to tell you something very important,” he said.

  She stopped mixing and glanced at Isabel now sitting on the floor near his feet and playing with a toy. She looked back up at him. “What is it?”

  “First, I need to know if I can I trust you?”

  “I hope so—I’m raising your daughter.”

  “Our daughter.”

  “Whatever. Just ask me what you want to ask me and get on with it.”

  He moved closer and gently took her hand. “I might be leaving tomorrow.”

  She withdrew her hand and continued mixing. “Are you going overseas to play in some tournament?”

  “No, the playoffs are still going on. I’m talking about leaving—for good.”

  The words hung in the air for a moment before Liliana froze. She slowly turned and looked up at him. “You’re going to defect?”

  He nodded. “If I can. I know I can make it in the United States. All I need is a chance.”

  She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. “And you’re going to leave me all alone with Isabel?”

  “Not for long. I plan on making sure both of you get out as well as soon as I get the money.”

  “And what makes you think I want to leave?”

  He scanned the government housing Liliana called home. Wires protruded from the wall. Paint flaked off onto the floor. One of her windows was broken. The screen door only sufficed to keep Isabel in the house, failing to keep bugs out.

  With a wide sweeping gesture, he asked, “Why would you want to stay? We both need a fresh start.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “If I were to go, it doesn’t mean we’d be together.”

  “We can discuss that later—but I have a dream. And it can’t come true here on this island.”

  “I’m not making any promises, but it does sound exciting,” she said, a smile creeping across her face. “You better not let me down though. The second you can get us out of here, you better do it.”

  He nodded furiously, his face breaking out into a grin. “You have my word.”

  Without hesitating, he hugged her before rushing over to Isabel and picking her up again and twirling her around. “I love you!” He squeezed her tight and paused a moment to star into her glistening brown eyes. “I’ll see you soon.” Then he put her down and headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going? You just got here,” Liliana protested.

  “I have a long journey ahead—and I have to get ready.” He darted out the door, almost skipping along the street as he went.

  He’d long held out hope that he and Liliana could be a family with Isabel one day, despite Liliana’s adamant statements to the contrary.

  Possible en Los Estados Unidos.

  He took a deep breath and thought through the implications of his impending actions once more. If he left, he could never come back—not to play baseball, at least. And if he couldn’t play baseball, leaving the island wouldn’t be worth it. Never seeing Isabel or Liliana again wouldn’t be worth it either. But if he made it? It’d all be worth it. The options for staying appeared just as dire: never get together again with Liliana and barely survi
ve playing amateur baseball. The game was tied, the bases were loaded, and a full-count pitching was coming toward home plate—something had to give.

  ***

  LATER THAT NIGHT after his roommates had gone to bed, Prado stole downstairs with his knapsack slung over his shoulder. It was light because he was told it had to be. Beyond his cleats and glove, he’d only stuffed one change of clothes inside along with his toothbrush. He stopped in the kitchen and grabbed a couple of pictures—one of Isabel and one of Liliana.

  I can always make room for these.

  He kissed the photos and slipped them into his bag.

  To avoid awaking his roommates, he exited through the backdoor and shimmied down the narrow alley between his house and the one next door. He scanned the street for his friend.

  He didn’t see anyone, but looked down to see a lizard scurrying in front of him. On edge, he leapt backward and gasped before he put his hand over his own mouth. He froze and looked around. The street still looked empty. When it came to Prado’s top ten fears, lizards fought hard for the first spot.

  Pssst.

  Prado jumped again as Yunel Menendez popped up from behind a set of bushes. “Don’t do that to me,” Prado whispered. “You know I’m already jumpy.”

  Yunel grinned and punched Prado in the arm. “Did you see another lizard?”

  Prado glared at him and didn’t say a word.

  “Better get it together then because it’s going to be a long night. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  Prado nodded. “I can’t turn back now.”

  “Good. I promise no more lizard jokes. Now let’s go.”

  Prado followed Yunel down to the docks. There wasn’t another person Prado trusted like his cousin, who’d hatched the plan to escape four months ago. Ultimately, Prado needed to get to Mexico, where he could defect and then become a free agent allowing him to play in the United States—and play for the team willing to pay him the most money. The plan Yunel devised was equal parts genius, simple and brazen. Genius in that no one would suspect them concocting such a scheme. Simple in that it didn’t require much in the way of planning. Brazen in that they would have to rip off Ramon Lopez, Prado’s uncle and Yunel’s father, who also happened to be the drug kingpin of Isla de la Juventud. Lopez worked with Diego Cervantes, a cartel leader from the Dominican Republic who controlled distribution in several Caribbean countries. Cervantes’ reputation as a ruthless drug lord extended to all his captains—and Ramon Lopez was no exception.