Dead Man's Land Read online

  “And now he wants to take you back? That makes no sense.”

  “I overhead him say that he was going to get a percentage of my contract. Perhaps he wasn’t satisfied with how much he received.”

  “So, now he wants to take you back?”

  “I don’t know. If I saw what I think I saw, the government would most definitely want me back.”

  Cal huffed. “This seems like too much for simply being a witness to a murder.”

  “But it’s who was murdered that makes it important to the government.”

  “So, who was murdered?”

  “I’m not sure—but I know the man who did it.”

  “And knowing this made you realize you needed to run?”

  “Yes.” He paused. “I know it may not make sense to you, but it frightens me. Plus, I can’t go back—no matter what. They’ll kill me.”

  “Who will kill you? The Cuban government?”

  “No. The man I stole from. He’s a dangerous man.”

  Cal’s eyes widened. “I thought you were just a baseball player.”

  “I am—but the government must know what I saw.”

  Cal gestured toward the rafters with his hands. “How can you be sure?”

  “I can’t. But a friend back home emailed me and warned me that this might happen. He said he’d heard something while on the docks one day. I just knew it when I saw those men that they were there for me.”

  Cal let out a long breath and stared skyward. The practices of Major League Baseball and its acquisition methods of Cuban players seemed to pale in comparison to the story he’d stumbled upon.

  While they lay still, a truck roared to life.

  “Come on,” Cal said. “We’ve gotta move.”

  They both scampered down the ladder and rushed outside to see a flatbed truck sitting idle off the side of the road a couple hundred yards away. The back of it was empty—and provided the perfect place to stow away.

  “Hurry,” Cal said over his shoulder before he took off for the truck. He climbed in, followed by Prado. A few seconds later, a jolt—and the truck eased forward.

  Cal let out a sigh of relief. They’d made it and were going somewhere, wherever somewhere was. But he wasn’t concerned with their final destination, just the fact that they’d figured out a way to escape the two men who seemed determined to capture Prado for one reason or another.

  As the truck bumped along the highway, Cal considered how he’d ended up here in the first place, going under the pretense of a ride along with a minor league team only to secretly gather more information about the burgeoning Cuban baseball player smuggling industry. He smiled as the thought of what a weak idea that story seemed compared to the new one blossoming in front of him. This was far more than an interesting story. A player’s life was at stake, his entire future hanging in the balance.

  And Cal was going to make sure he did everything he could to ensure Prado’s survival—and his own.

  CHAPTER 8

  GUS WALLER TOOK A LONG PULL from his coffee cup and secured it between his legs. Gripping the steering wheel, he looked over at his partner, Bill Hampton, who worked over a toothpick while studying an atlas. Their car lurched forward and came to a stop as Waller pumped the brakes.

  “What do ya think? East or west?” Waller asked.

  Hampton sighed. “I don’t know. Based off the fact that we haven’t gotten a hit off his cell phone in over an hour, I’d guess west. Nobody gets a signal up there.”

  “What if he turned his phone off?”

  “Would you do that if you were being chased by someone who wanted to kill you? Only criminally minded people do that.”

  “Unless he was trying to save battery life.”

  Hampton tottered his head back and forth and took the toothpick out of his mouth. “You’ve got a valid point.”

  “So, which way is it? East or west?” Waller asked again.

  Hampton closed his eyes and paused for a moment. “West. Definitely west.”

  Waller wheeled their car in a westerly direction and turned on the radio. He scanned the radio for a few songs until he shoved a CD into the dash.

  “What are we gonna listen to tonight?” Hampton asked.

  “The greatest manhunt song ever written.”

  Seconds later, the slow country twang of Willie Nelson came through the speakers.

  “It’s hard to be an outlaw,” Waller crooned. “Ain’t that right, Hampton?”

  “Not when we’re on your tail.”

  Waller took another sip of his coffee. “Dang straight.”

  They rode along in silence as Waller contemplated how his night had taken such a sudden right turn. It was only a few hours ago that they’d received a call from their boss to get ready to head to Boise to pick up a Cuban baseball player who played for the Yakima Seafarers. Why they wanted him was unclear, just that it was a matter of national security. And that was all Waller needed to know. He knew not to ask too many questions.

  But just as they were about to board the final flight of the evening for Boise, they received a call reporting a shooting in Baker City that involved the Seafarers’ bus. And when they got the full details, they learned that the Cuban player they were after, Vicente Prado, was on the lam. Two unidentified men stormed the team’s bus and tried to take Prado captive before he escaped without anyone being hurt. The report also stated that another man traveling with the team went after Prado; it was assumed that they escaped together.

  “What do you think this is all about?” Hampton said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “This manhunt we’re on. You think he killed somebody?”

  Waller shook his head. “I’ve got no idea—and it’s not my job to speculate.”

  “Geez, Waller. Lighten up. I just asked a simple question to make conversation. Can you be something other than a damn robot all the time?”

  Waller cut his eyes toward his partner and turned his head slowly. “Emotions are a dangerous thing in our line of work.”

  Hampton threw his hands in the air. “I’m not asking you to get emotionally involved—I’m asking for your opinion about why this guy is such a high priority all of a sudden. He’s been in the country, what—two months or so? And now we have to snag him tonight? It’s not like he’s been hiding here. He’s been playing baseball for an organization that keeps players like him on a tight leash.”

  “Okay, I’ll play along.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe they just found out about some illegal activity he was involved with before he came here.”

  “What could a guy in Cuba do that would necessitate an FBI manhunt?”

  “Perhaps whatever he did happened after he arrived here.”

  Hampton chomped down on his toothpick. “And it warrants FBI involvement?” He shook his head. “This feels suspicious.”

  “Well, maybe you should ask him after we capture him? You speak Spanish well enough, don’t you?”

  Hampton leaned back in his seat and put his hands behind his head before letting out a long breath. “It’s just odd, that’s all.” He paused for a moment. “And I’ve never been kept in the dark about something this long in all my years working for the bureau.”

  “A whole two years?”

  Hampton glared at Waller, who kept his eyes on the road. “Yeah, a whole two years. How many times has this happened to you, oh great grizzly veteran?”

  “More times than I can count.”

  “And you just went along without asking questions or wondering aloud what the whole manhunt was all about?”

  Waller shrugged. “Depended on how inquisitive I was that day.”

  “I’m very inquisitive—all the time. That’s why I work for the FBI.”

  Waller picked up his coffee cup and took another swig. “Maybe you should’ve been a scientific researcher.”

  The Waylon Jennings song ended and Bob Marley’s “I Shot the Sheriff” pumped through the speakers.

 
“Really? This song is on your special manhunt CD?” Hampton said.

  “The three dirtiest words in our line of work are ‘local law enforcement.’ They don’t do anything but get in the way.”

  Hampton’s phone buzzed and he answered it.

  Waller looked at the sign off to the right of the road: Umatilla National Wildlife Refuge.

  Here we go.

  A minute later, Hampton hung up and started to relay the contents of his conversation. “That was HQ. They said they got a call about something going down off U.S. Route 26.”

  “And does this involve the man we’re chasing.”

  “It does. And the boss emphasized how important it was for us to get to him first, even before any local law enforcement.”

  Waller held up his finger. “Not those three dirty words.”

  “Sorry. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  A sly grin spread across Waller’s face. “Or the deputy.”

  Hampton moaned. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “So what exactly is going down?”

  “He said there’s been a report of two suspicious men in the area.”

  “Armed or not?”

  “They didn’t say. They just said we better get to them first.”

  Waller eased onto the accelerator pedal as their car roared faster down the two-lane highway. “I hate disappointing the boss.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ANGEL TORRES HUNCHED over the steering wheel as he eased down the desolate road well outside Baker City. He had no idea if he was going in the same direction as their target, Vicente Prado. They’d tracked Prado to a farmhouse but couldn’t find anyone, even after they woke up the farmer who owned the place and forced him at gunpoint to turn all the lights on and help them. Their only other lead was a truck that roared off in the same direction they were traveling.

  It’d been well over an hour since they started bumping along State Highway 7 toward Umatilla National Forest and they still hadn’t seen a thing.

  “I think we lost them,” Ortega said over his shoulder, taking a momentary break from straining his eyes to see any movement along the highway.

  “Or maybe they were never in the truck,” Torres said.

  “I swear I saw two people jump into the back of that flatbed. You know I wouldn’t lie to you about it.”

  Torres’s thoughts switched between fear and anger. Fear of the man who threatened to break his hands if he didn’t have his money by the end of the following week. Anger for letting Prado get away in the first place. His nostrils flared when he considered that the biggest mistake he made was listening to Ortega and following the lone truck. He should’ve known better. Ortega once punched an innocent woman in a bar room brawl because he thought she looked like a man who he owed money to. Sure, Ortega was drinking, but he reacted to certain situations in ways that made everyone wonder if he was either completely mad or legally blind.

  After stewing for a few moments, Torres finally responded. “Did either of them look like that guy in the bar you punched?”

  Ortega laughed and then slugged Torres in the arm. “Give it a rest, will ya?”

  “But she was a woman. I’ll never give that one a rest.” Torres slapped the front of Ortega’s chest and snickered.

  The Hummer Torres was driving veered off the shoulder and rattled over gravel and dirt.

  Ortega reached across the front seat and pushed the wheel sharply to the left. “Watch where you’re going! You almost killed a guy back there.”

  Torres looked in his rearview mirror and saw the outline of a man illuminated only by their vehicle’s red taillights and walking in the opposite direction.

  “I almost hit him?”

  Ortega nodded. “Yeah, but why don’t you slam on the brakes and see if he can help us?”

  Torres stopped the vehicle and put it in reverse, backing up until he came next to the man. Ortega rolled his window down.

  “You guys need to be careful. You almost killed me back there.” He then let out a string of expletives and punctuated it with a middle finger salute.

  Ortega leaned out of the Hummer, resting both arms on the door. “So, you might not be interested in helping us?”

  “Screw you, man. Get outta here.”

  “Not even for a hundred bucks?” Ortega waved a hundred dollar bill in front of the guy.

  The man froze and then snatched the money. He stuffed it into a side pocket on his backpack. “Okay—what do you want to know?”

  “We’re looking for a couple of guys who were traveling in a flatbed along this way. Do you remember seeing anything like that in the past thirty minutes or so?”

  The guy nodded. “Back up at the 26 Junction, I was about a hundred yards or so north when I saw a flatbed truck come to a stop. Two guys jumped out and took off running. The driver got out of the truck and fired his gun in the air. It was like he didn’t know they were back there.”

  Torres leaned toward the window. “How long ago was this?”

  “Maybe five minutes or so. You can see the junction once you go around this bend here,” he said, gesturing down the road.

  “Thanks!” Torres said. He didn’t waste a moment, jamming the car into drive and stomping on the gas.

  They roared around the bend and skidded to a stop at the junction before pulling over to the side of the road.

  Torres got out and snatched his gun out of the console. He knew he couldn’t use it if he wanted to get paid, but it was more for his protection.

  Better safe than sorry.

  Ortega scurried out of the passenger side with his firearm held upright.

  “Put that thing down,” Torres whispered. “We need him alive. We don’t need to start a shootout, especially not here.”

  Ortega complied but crept along the road. The sliver of moon overhead didn’t do much in the way of illuminating the road due to the mostly cloud sky.

  A slight breeze rustled the leaves overhead while a car engine roared in the distance. But no sign of any people.

  “Where could they have gone?” Ortega asked.

  Torres shook his head. “Beats me. This place looks like a fantastic hiding spot. This is where I’d go if I thought someone was after me. Dense vegetation. Low traffic.”

  “And bears.”

  Torres chuckled. “How many times have you heard of someone getting eaten by a bear in Oregon?”

  Ortega stopped and shrugged. “Why does that matter, especially if I was the one the bear ate? It only takes one chomp.”

  “Sometimes I can’t believe you can even dress yourself in the morning.”

  Ortega’s voice went up an octave. “What? It could happen.”

  After a few minutes of sneaking around without hearing or seeing anything of consequence, Torres suggested they split up, each taking a different side of the road so they could cover more ground.

  Torres looked behind him and noticed the Hummer was almost a half a mile behind them, which would be a problem if they had to drag two men back to the vehicle. He whispered to Ortega that he was going to go back and move it.

  Torres sprinted back to the truck and drove it past Ortega, pulling into a clearing just off the side of the road. When he got out he heard water running. He looked down off the shoulder and caught a glimpse of the faint moonlight flickering off the creek below.

  He ran back to catch up with Ortega, walking parallel on opposite sides of the two-lane road.

  They hadn’t been moving much more than a minute when Ortega froze and whispered. “Do you see that?” He pointed ahead with his gun.

  Torres craned his neck to see around the bend. Ortega had a better position to see around the corner, but he held suspect every sighting from his partner.

  “What is it?” Torres finally asked, unable to see anything out of the ordinary.

  “I think I see somebody.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Don’t do anything until they both come into view.”


  “It might be too late by then.” He paused. “Wait. There’s two of ‘em.” Ortega took off running.

  “Ortega!” Torres’s whispered plea was a futile one due to the quandary in which he now found himself. He needed to stop Ortega—or else there’d be no chance of catching either one of them. Without any knowledge of the situation, Ortega was rushing into something that might spell doom for their stated objective: capture Vicente Prado. But if he yelled, the men would be alerted and escape. However, if he yelled, the men might also split up and give them the advantage they needed to team up on Prado—as long as they could quickly distinguish which man was which in the pale moonlight.

  Screw it!

  Torres grabbed his flashlight and broke into a dead sprint after his partner. “Ortega!”

  But Ortega kept going until he stopped and raised his gun, firing off several rounds.

  “No!” Torres screamed. “Put your gun away!” His lungs started to burn, as did his legs.

  Ortega started to run again, further angering Torres.

  “We’re coming for you, Vicente Prado!” Ortega shouted.

  Torres didn’t break stride until he saw a floodlight switch on outside a house just off the main road. A man stomped out onto his porch and fired his shotgun into the air.

  Come on, Ortega. Don’t blow this for us.

  Torres pumped his arms and legs even harder. He looked back over his shoulder to see the man with the shotgun now at the edge of the road, his weapon raised high in the air.

  “Pipe down before I call the ranger!” the man yelled at them in a gravelly voice.

  Ortega kept running and so did Torres—before Ortega dipped down off the road and into the woods.

  “They’re over here!” he yelled.

  CHAPTER 10

  CAL CROUCHED LOW IN THE BRUSH and repeatedly pressed the power button on his phone, hoping to see any sign of life. After a few moments of waiting, the screen remained black. He huffed and shook his head, unsure of what he needed to do to get Prado back to safety.

  Their narrow escape from their unsuspecting transport service still had Cal shaking. Stranded in the forest in the middle of the night with two gunmen in pursuit proved to be a far cry from the assignment as it was originally pitched to him.