Dead Man's Land Page 10

  The man pursed his lips and cocked his head as he eyed Prado carefully. “Anything?”

  “Yes, anything.”

  “Very well, then. Why don’t you first start by telling us why you left?”

  Prado took a deep breath. “I wanted to make a better life for my family.”

  “It seems instead you’ve made it worse.”

  “If I would’ve known—” Prado’s words hung in the air, thick and foreboding. “That was never my intent.”

  “There are always unintended consequences for our actions.”

  The man nodded toward the two guards. One of them held Prado’s arms behind his back while the other delivered a series of punches to his face and stomach. Prado struggled to break free, but he was too weak. He slumped to the ground. After a few moments, the guard held his hands up.

  “That’s enough. Leave him alone. Let him think about what he’s done.”

  “What do you want from me?” Prado cried.

  The guard knelt down beside him and looked Prado in the eyes. “You saw something before you left, something that night at the docks. We need to know what it was.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Prado said.

  “Think about it, see if you can remember something. And if you can’t, think about how your daughter will be spending yet another night in an orphanage, away from the people who love her most—or love her at all.”

  He motioned for the guards to leave and they exited the room. He followed closely behind before stopping at the doorway. He turned around.

  “You’d be a fool not to listen to me,” he said. “I can help you out here.”

  Prado, leaning forward on his knuckles, stood up and glared at the man. “I didn’t see anything. What’s your problem?”

  “Don’t lie to me. I have tape that says otherwise.” He pulled the door toward him but didn’t shut it, leaving just enough room for his head to poke through. “You must decide how you want this to end—but I can assure you that if won’t end well if continue to lie to me. That much is for sure.”

  The door clicked shut, followed by the clicking of heels against the prison’s concrete floor.

  Prado looked down and watched a tear trickle off his cheek and onto the ground.

  He needed to find a way out—not only out of prison, but also out of Cuba.

  CHAPTER 21

  WALLER FELL INTO A CHAIR next to Hampton in a conference room and glanced at his partner. He dreaded what was coming next, a sure dressing down from Alex Williams, the head of their field office. Their inability to capture Prado was sure to be a black eye on his otherwise sterling resume. However, this assignment held more urgency for Williams.

  When the door unlatched, Waller turned around, expecting to see Williams. Instead, he saw Sheila Doleman. While her skirt bordered on inappropriate for such serious government work, Waller wasn’t complaining. Her curvaceous figure sauntered to the head of the table, entrancing him and his partner—so much so that they didn’t even notice their boss enter the room after her.

  She tossed her shimmery blonde hair back and took a seat.

  Williams snapped a few times. “What’s wrong with you guys? You’re acting like you’ve never seen a beautiful lady before.”

  Waller and Hampton turned their attention toward him, embarrassed that he’d outed them.

  “You may very soon well wish you’d never seen me,” Doleman said while continuing to look down at the papers in front of her.

  Waller leaned forward. “I’m sorry. Who are you again?”

  She looked up and eyed him cautiously. “Again? I never said who I was in the first place.”

  “Right. So you would be—”

  “Sheila Doleman, head of the Pacific Northwest for DHS.”

  Waller wrinkled his forehead. “Department of Homeland Security? What’s this all about?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me, Mr. Waller.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “You were the agent in the field chasing Vicente Prado—isn’t that correct?”

  Waller nodded. “Yeah, but I still don’t understand what this has to do with DHS.”

  “Just answer her questions,” Williams said.

  “What I want to know is very simple. What did you learn about Vicente Prado while you were chasing him?”

  Hampton leaned forward. “Hardly anything. By the time we got him in our vehicle, these two guys came out of nowhere and threatened to kill us if we didn’t hand him over to them.”

  “And you relented to their demands?” she said.

  Waller nudged Hampton with his leg under the table. “We didn’t have a choice, if we must be perfectly honest.”

  “You must—both your futures depend on it.”

  Waller cocked his head to one side. “I don’t understand what’s going on. Why the interest all of a sudden in some Cuban athlete who defected? We were told we were pursuing him because it fell into our jurisdiction.”

  She flipped a few straggly tendrils off her shoulder with the back of her hand. “Technically, yes. It did fall into your jurisdiction, but I’m not here to make this some bureaucratic spitball fight. As long as I get the answers I am looking for, I don’t care who captures him or why.”

  “So you know where he is?”

  She nodded. “We think so. We believe he returned to Cuba.”

  “That’s what we think too. It seems that was the kidnappers’ chief objective.”

  She nodded and scribbled down a few notes. “What makes you think that?”

  “That’s what they told us.”

  She slammed her pen down on the table. “It would’ve been nice if you would’ve told me this up front.”

  Waller threw his hands in the air. “We put that in our report. Did you even read it?”

  She glared at him. “I read every last word of it. There’s a big difference between saying you—quote—‘think he’s headed back to Cuba’ and—quote—‘the assailants said they were taking him back to Cuba.’ Surely, you can see that.”

  Hampton shrugged. “So, we’re not wordsmiths.”

  She slammed a file down on the table and started to pace. “Perhaps you don’t understand what is at stake here.”

  Waller sat up. “Perhaps you should tell us so we can understand. Otherwise, we’re groping around in the dark.”

  She sighed. “What I’m about to tell you is classified and doesn’t leave this room. Got it?”

  All three men nodded.

  Thirty minutes later after she finished briefing them, she brushed her blonde hair out of her face. “Now, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Hampton looked at Waller and nodded.

  “We think The Seattle Times reporter Cal Murphy might know something,” Waller said.

  “Was this the man who was with Prado when they escaped from the bus?” she asked.

  Waller nodded. “That’s the one. He spent several hours running around with Prado, hiding from the kidnappers. Mr. Murphy called me not long after Prado was seized from our possession.”

  “Did he say he knew anything?”

  “He called wanting to talk to Prado. He was looking for something he could write about.”

  Williams leaned back in his chair. “He and his editor called our office and wanted us to give him a statement.”

  “You didn’t say anything, I hope,” she said.

  Williams shook his head. “Nothing quotable. But I made sure they weren’t going to write anything. Not yet, anyway.”

  She wagged her finger at him. “They better not. I’m holding you responsible if they blow this thing wide open. You all know what’s on the line now—and I suggest you do your best to make sure this remains a tight-lipped investigation.”

  Waller squirmed in his chair and stood up. “Are we through? We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Doleman paused and nodded. “Just make sure you circle back with that journalist, Mr. Murphy. Maybe give him a few breadcrumbs and see
if he knows anything else that might be helpful for us. Keep him chasing shadows. Who knows—he could be a useful asset for us down the road.”

  CHAPTER 22

  CAL TRIED TO WIPE the ridiculous grin off his face. It was the same look he wore every time he found out he was getting to travel someplace on the newspaper’s budget. Especially a place like Cuba. It had been on his bucket list for a while, though he preferred to see the place time had forgotten as a tourist rather than a snoopy journalist. But he wasn’t going to complain.

  He walked into his house, found Kelly in the kitchen, and kissed her.

  “Someone must have had a good day at work,” she said.

  “After you’ve been chased by gunmen through the woods in the middle of the night, it’s safe to say that even taking Little League scores over the phone would be a marked improvement.” He entered the living room and swooped up Maddie.

  “How was your day today, princess?” he said.

  Maddie poked her lip out. “I got an owwie at the doctor.”

  “Let me make it feel better,” Cal said before he kissed her thigh where a small Sesame Street Band-Aid was. “All better?”

  She nodded. “Thanks, Daddy.”

  He put her down and slumped into his favorite chair. The grin remained on his face.

  Kelly settled down on the couch and stared at him.

  “What?” he asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that?” He mimicked her serious facial expression.

  “Because I’m trying to find out what’s going on since you won’t come right out and tell me.”

  Cal chuckled. “Okay, okay. I was going to wait until after we put Maddie to bed to discuss it, but I’ll tell you now.”

  She put her hands over mouth. “Did that magazine call about a job?”

  He waved her off. “No, no. Nothing that exciting, though I’m not sure I would take that job now anyway.”

  “What are you talking about? That was your dream job.”

  “Never mind. Look, the reason I’m so excited is that I have to go to Cuba for this story—and I need a photographer.”

  Kelly’s face lit up and then she eyed him cautiously. “You need any ole photographer—or you need this one?”

  “I need you.” He paused. “Well, more to the point—I want you to join me.”

  “And tight-wad Buckman approved this?”

  Cal bobbed his head from side to side. “He said he’d find the money in the budget. He said this is the kind of story that wins awards.”

  “Who would know that better than you?”

  “I am familiar with award-winning journalism, yes—but this feels like something even bigger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this story transcends sports. It’s a glimpse under the hood of another culture obsessed by sports with so many questions left unanswered.”

  “And there’s a bit of mystery and intrigue as well, right?” Her face was beaming.

  “Much more than just a bit. That’s what the story will center around, that is, if the paper is going to justify sending me over to Cuba on its dime.”

  She ran across the room and jumped in his lap, giving him a bear hug followed by a kiss. “You had me at Cuba.”

  “Well, Mrs. Kelly Mendoza Murphy, are you ready to tap into your Latin roots again?”

  “Si, si, Señor.”

  “Excellent. I’ll let Buckman know in the morning.”

  ***

  THE NEXT DAY, Cal entered The Times office with a little more pep in his step than usual. He grabbed the list of messages left for him by the secretary before heading to the sports department.

  Josh Moore, whose desk was located next to Cal’s, appeared to be re-reading his own article from that morning’s newspaper.

  “There’s nothing new in there,” Cal said, as Josh quickly folded up the paper and tried to act as if he hadn’t been reading it. “The Mariners lost again.”

  Josh rolled his eyes and picked up his coffee cup. “You can be so annoying sometimes.”

  “It’s because I’m often right.” He draped his jacket on his chair and headed for Buckman’s office.

  “And annoying,” Josh snipped.

  Cal sauntered into Buckman’s office. His boss was still on the phone and motioned for him to shut the door. After a few moments, he hung up. He folded his hands and looked at Cal.

  “So, we have a problem,” Buckman said.

  “A problem? What kind of problem?”

  “The kind of problem you and I don’t like—government bureaucracy.”

  “Oh, great. What now?”

  “You need a Treasury license for the purpose we’re sending you there for—and it’s not being granted.”

  “You’ve gotta be kidding me?”

  “Cal, I don’t know what we did here, but we’re certainly stirring up some kind of hornet’s nest.” He smiled as his eyebrows shot upward. “And I kind of like it.”

  “Great. I’m glad you find pissing off the U.S. government funny. But that’s not going to help me blow the lid off this story.”

  “What I don’t like is you not getting into the country when I know for a fact that they let some rag tag reporter from The Oregonian go last month for a story about Cuban art.”

  “Maybe I need to wear skinny jeans.”

  “We’re not that desperate.”

  Cal put his hands on his hips and sighed. “I thought relaxed relations between the U.S. and Cuba meant easier access.”

  “They do if it involves your family or humanitarian projects or religious and cultural programs.”

  “This is a cultural endeavor—writing about the game of baseball in Cuba. It might as well be a religious one as well.”

  Buckman chuckled. “No different than here really. But it’s what keeps us employed. Remember that. If people didn’t care about sports, we’d have to find real jobs.”

  “So, what’s your backup plan?”

  “What makes you think I have a backup plan?”

  Cal shook his head. “I don’t know, but you’re not angry enough yet. It makes me think you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

  Buckman winked at Cal. “Maybe I do.”

  Before he could say another word, Buckman’s phone rang. Cal sat down and stared around the office while Buckman finished his conversation. It didn’t last more than a minute.

  “Well, that was a call related to something I had up my sleeve,” Buckman said as he hung up.

  Cal leaned forward in his chair. “And?”

  “And what do you and Kelly know about building houses?”

  “Come again?”

  “Puget Sound Free Methodist Church is heading to Cuba tomorrow on a humanitarian aid mission for a week—and you and Kelly will be joining them.”

  CHAPTER 23

  TORRES GUIDED HIS BOAT in and docked at his slip in the Miami Beach Marina. Once Ortega helped him finish tying the boat off, Ortega slipped below and disappeared for several minutes. Torres checked his watch and eyed the Coast Guard cutter circling the marina.

  He went back aboard and grabbed Ortega by the back of his collar.

  “What’s taking so long down here?” he demanded.

  Ortega ignored him, muttering under his breath. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three …”

  “Are you serious? You’re counting the money?”

  Ortega stopped and looked up. “We’ve got to make sure it’s all here.”

  “If it’s not, it’s too late now. But if you don’t hurry up, we might not have any of it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Torres became animated, pointing toward the front of the hull. “There’s a Coast Guard cutter patrolling out there. And they can come aboard any time they like, even without our permission. So, let’s get outta here with our money before they decide to perform an inspection.”

  Torres began shoving the money Ortega had separated out of the bag back
into it.

  “What are you doing?” Ortega protested.

  “You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you? Put the money back and let’s get outta here before it’s all confiscated. I need that money.”

  Ortega growled and joined him in replacing the money back in the bag. Torres climbed up the stairs and offered his hand to Ortega.

  As Torres helped Ortega up and out of the boat, he eyed a Coast Guard officer staring directly at them and talking on his radio.

  “Let’s go! Now!” Torres said. “Just don’t look back.”

  Ortega turned around and looked over his shoulder.

  “I said, don’t look back,” Torres said, slapping Ortega in the chest.

  They both walked quickly to Torres’s 1973 gold El Camino. Torres unlocked his door and slid across to unlock Ortega’s.

  “Don’t throw the bag in the bed back there, okay?” Torres said.

  Ortega huffed. “What do you think I am—an idiot?”

  “I don’t know about you sometimes.”

  Torres turned the ignition as the El Camino roared to life. He smiled and laughed. “It’s good to be home again.”

  “Where to first?” Ortega asked.

  “First, we give Louie what we owe him—then we head over to Sharkie’s for his long-standing card game.”

  “Are you crazy? You want to give him a chance to win his boat back?”

  Torres shook his head. “No. I want to take his car, too.”

  Ortega peeked inside the bag. “Why don’t you buy a new one with all this cash? It’s far more easier than pissing off Sharkie again.”

  “But not nearly as much fun.”

  Ortega reached into the bag and started grabbing fistfuls of hundred dollar bill stacks.

  Torres glanced at him and wagged his finger. “No, sir. Put that back. We’ll count it up at the apartment after we pay off Louie. No skimming off the top.”

  Ortega put it all back, except for one stack in his right hand.

  Torres looked at him. “The one in your other hand, too.”

  “How do you do that?” Ortega asked as he put it back.

  Torres smiled and winked at Ortega. “Black magic.” He paused. “Better not try anything like that again. I might actually punish you for it.”