Dead Man's Land Read online

  Just a few weeks ago, life held promise. Today, fate clutched him tightly and wrung every drop of hope out of him.

  Finally, Torres turned off the highway and neared a security checkpoint at the Bend, Oregon airport.

  “Not a word,” Torres said. “I have no reservations about putting a bullet in you.”

  Prado didn’t believe him, though he didn’t want to test his theory. He wanted to stay alive long enough to see Isabel again—and Liliana, too.

  The security guard inspected Torres’s papers and allowed him to pass through the gates, directing him toward the charter plane service they’d hired.

  Ortega stayed with Prado in the car and tried to make small talk.

  “Looking forward to going back to your homeland?” Ortega asked.

  Prado didn’t say a word and stared out the window.

  Ortega chuckled. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t look forward to going home if Cuba is where I was from. Those fascists will steal your hope and get fat on your back.”

  Prado glared at Ortega. “In other words, they do the same thing you’re doing to me.”

  Ortega reached back and backhanded Prado. “No more smartin’ off to me, son. I speak the truth. We’re doing no such thing. You should’ve never run. That’s certainly not my fault—and I’m insulted that you would suggest as much.”

  “Forgive me if you’re insulted, but sometimes we don’t wake from our slumber until we experience an offense.”

  “You’re about to experience an ass whippin’ if you keep talking,” Ortega retorted.

  “No matter what you do to me, it will never compare to what my country has already done. But you and my country are—how do you say it?—different sides of the same coin?”

  “If for even one minute you think we’re the same, you’re sick in the head. We care about people and want to help them, not hurt them.”

  “And this is how you help me?”

  “We’re helping the Cuban government by righting a wrong we should’ve never committed in the first place.”

  “Is that how you justify what you’re doing? No, you made a wrong right by helping me escape. Now, you’re helping them oppress me.”

  Prado started to tug and pull at the ties binding him to the backseat. “You better pray I don’t break free.”

  Ortega turned around and looked ahead as Torres returned to the vehicle.

  “Wheels up in fifteen minutes,” Torres said.

  “I don’t think our cargo is going to be very compliant,” Ortega said.

  “I’ll take care of that.”

  Torres opened the backseat and slid next to Prado. He pulled out a syringe.

  “What are you doing?” Prado asked as he leaned backward, trying to elude Torres.

  Torres smiled and held up the syringe. “Just hold still. You’ll only feel a little pinch.” He then jammed it into Torres’s neck.

  ***

  PRADO’S HEAD THROBBED as he came to. He was lying on a cot, thirsty and disoriented, unsure of where he was or what was happening to him. A pale light penetrated the small curtains as he bobbed up and down on the mattress springs.

  Where am I?

  He rubbed his eyes and opened them wide. The constant whine of an engine along with the rhythmic bouncing let him know he wasn’t in an airplane but in a boat.

  He staggered out of the cabin below deck and wandered up a small flight of stairs.

  Torres, standing at the helm of the boat, winked at him. “Well, good morning, sleepy head. Nice of you to join us.”

  Prado scratched his head and squinted at the sun’s light streaming from overhead. “Where am I?”

  “That’s not important. What’s important is where you’re going.”

  “And where’s that?”

  Torres pointed ahead. “Look that way. Anything look familiar?”

  Prado turned and looked across the bow of the boat at the horizon. He recognized the Sierra Maestra mountain range rising in the distance.

  Cuba.

  Torres smiled. “Welcome home, Señor Prado.”

  CHAPTER 19

  CAL AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING tired and achy. He wasn’t 21 anymore, even if he wasn’t yet 30. Still, he admitted that recovery time wasn’t what it used to be. His back felt sore as did his quad muscles from running through the woods. But at least he was alive—and in his own bed.

  Kelly rolled over and gave him a kiss. “On the plus side of this debacle, at least you’re not out of town for a week.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad you’re trying to look for the positives in all of this.”

  “And you just might get the story of a lifetime.”

  Cal rolled over and dangled his feet off the edge until he willed them to touch the floor. “I’ve had far too many of those already. I don’t want to make the rest of my career about topping the latest and greatest.”

  “You have to admit that a Cuban player kidnapped at the direction of his government makes for more than some passing mention on the inside of the sports section. In fact, I dare say this belongs on the front page.”

  “I don’t care where it’s placed as long as it’s compelling.”

  She snickered. “I find your newfound modesty refreshing—and a giant crock of—”

  “Okay, okay. I do care. But at this point, I’m just happy to be home and in one piece.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not what you said yesterday.”

  “Well, I’ve had a day to think about it.”

  “And by the end of the day, you’ll be raring to go on some crazy new adventure.”

  He smiled. “I can’t lie—you’re probably right. But you never know what the day will hold.”

  “I know what my day holds—and that’s getting Maddie to her doctor’s appointment for her three-year-old checkup.” She headed for the door.

  “Have fun.”

  “Oh, I will. She’s getting a booster shot today.”

  “So, ice cream afterward?”

  She nodded. “Care to join us?”

  “Perhaps, but I’ll have to get back with you on that. Buckman wants to have a big pow-wow over yesterday’s events.”

  “I don’t know which is worse—shots or a meeting with Buckman?”

  Cal stumbled toward the show. “Maddie definitely has the upper hand in this one.”

  “Call me later.”

  Cal drove to the office and headed straight for Buckman’s office. When he arrived, Buckman was hunched over his keyboard, squinting at the screen.

  “You know those glasses on top of your head might help you see more clearly so you don’t have to sit so close,” Cal said.

  Buckman didn’t move other than to flash an obscene gesture at Cal.

  Cal seemed emboldened by Buckman’s response instead of silenced. “Fink didn’t start doing that until he was in his mid-sixties. You’ve got at least a year or two head start on him.”

  Buckman’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head slowly toward Cal. “I’m still in good enough shape to take you.” He paused. “Don’t make me get up.”

  A sly grin spread across Cal’s face. “Don’t worry. I won’t. I wouldn’t want you to hurt your back or turn an ankle getting over here.”

  Buckman rolled his eyes. “I sure hope you’re better at coming up with a story than you are at coming up with original insults.”

  Cal settled into the chair in front of Buckman’s desk. “Isn’t that what we’re here to talk about?”

  Buckman gestured toward the door. “Shut it.” He glanced at his notepad in front of him until Cal sat back down. “I want you to tell me everything, starting with why these guys were after Prado—and why the FBI is, too.”

  Cal shrugged. “I can’t say for sure because Prado didn’t really know for sure either. But what he told me was that he saw a murder right before he jumped on a boat for Mexico so he could defect. And then the guys who were after him were the same ones who helped him escape—at least that’s what he suspected. His theory
was that they were upset over the small portion they were getting from his baseball contract, and there was a bigger payday from the Cuban government to return him. But that’s all I know.”

  “Did you get the sense that Prado is a shady character?”

  Cal shook his head. “On the contrary, I thought he was a good kid, perhaps just caught up in an unfortunate set of circumstances.”

  “Those smugglers are always bad news.”

  “Yes, but most of the time, that’s these Cuban players’ only option unless they can escape during an international tournament and defect there. Prado wasn’t good enough to make it on the Cuban national team—and judging from his play during his first week or so here, I can see why.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “He’s hitting .167 with one RBI and eight strikeouts. Not exactly national team material.”

  “Not pro baseball material.”

  “Time will tell, but it’s clear to me that someone either convinced him he was good enough to play in the big leagues or that he simply wanted out of Cuba. And neither of those things makes him some kind of menace to the Cuban government that they would want him back.”

  Buckman wagged his index finger in the air. “Unless that murder he saw wasn’t just some run of the mill murder.”

  “That’s a good theory, but it also doesn’t explain our government’s interest in him.”

  “Good point, which is why I’ve got a call scheduled with Alex Williams, the head of the FBI’s Seattle field office, for—” Buckman said as he looked at his watch, “right now. Care to join me on the call?”

  Cal nodded. “Absolutely. Let me grab my recorder and notebook.”

  By the time Cal returned to Buckman’s office, the phone was ringing on speaker.

  Buckman cleared his throat as the caller answered. “Alex, Frank Buckman here from The Times. Thanks for taking some time out to talk with us.”

  “My pleasure, Frank, but I’m not sure how much help I’ll be to you.”

  “Well, we’re just trying to get some answers surrounding Vicente Prado.”

  “You and me both.”

  Buckman took a deep breath. “So, I guess the biggest burning question we have is why would anyone come after him?”

  “I can’t really discuss that at this time.”

  “Can you tell me why the FBI would be after him?”

  “We were responding to a potential hostage situation.”

  “Come on, Alex, don’t blow smoke up my ass. I know good and well that’s local law enforcement jurisdiction—unless something else is going on. So what exactly is going on?”

  Williams’ breath came through loud on the speakerphone. “It’s a matter of national security, Frank.”

  “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. You think I’m gonna swallow the line you try to trot out all the time with me?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Or your version of it. I can’t believe you’re going to stonewall us here.”

  “I’m not trying to stonewall anybody. We’re still trying to get answers ourselves—and right now we just don’t have any.”

  “Can you at least confirm that Prado is out of the country?”

  Williams paused. “Yes, I’ll confirm that for you—but that’s all.”

  “So you can’t tell me why some Cuban defector was suddenly the focus of a FBI manhunt?”

  “It’s a matter of national security—that’s all I can say right now.”

  Buckman leaned closer to the phone. “Well, all I can say right now is that we’re not going to stop digging until we find out what’s going on. And I’m not going to seek your permission to publish a single word of it.”

  A long pause.

  “You hear me, Alex? I’m not going to come back to you on this one unless you hold a public press conference. You won’t be able to control the narrative.”

  Another pause, then Williams spoke. “I wouldn’t be so bold with your threats. I understand you have a job to do, but we have one that’s far more important to the American people.”

  “Hide behind your shield. We’re going to print what we find.”

  “Be careful what you do, Frank. There are always consequences for your actions.”

  “What are you gonna do? Arrest me?”

  “Of course not. But I would hate for your wife to find out about all your activity on the Ashley Madison website.”

  Buckman turned red and glared at the phone. “Now you listen here—”

  “No, you listen, Frank. I’m done playing nice. I’d love to explain every little detail to you, but it’s way above your security clearance. Either acquiesce or suffer the consequences.”

  Buckman picked his phone up and slammed it down, ending the conversation. “Gimme that,” he said, reaching across his desk and snatching Cal’s digital recorder from his hands.

  “Hey. What are you doing?” Cal said, trying to grab it back.

  Buckman hit a few buttons.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  Buckman handed it back to Cal. “There. At least you can’t blackmail me too.”

  Cal took it back and stared at the screen. “You deleted the conversation? That was proof that he was strong-arming you.”

  “You don’t know my wife very well—but if you did, you’d understand why.”

  Cal shook his head and slumped back down into his chair. He threw his hands in the air. “Now what are we gonna do? We actually had a good story right there about the FBI trying to suppress what was going on.”

  “You think the public cares about a pissing match between a newspaper and the federal government? What people want to read about is why any of this ever happened in the first place.” Buckman put his knuckles down and leaned forward on his desk. “And that’s your job.”

  “So, sounds like I’m going to Cuba then.”

  CHAPTER 20

  PRADO ROLLED OFF HIS COT and onto a grimy cell floor. His back was sore, though he wasn’t sure why. There were plenty of culprits, from the constant beating he took while a boat bounced over the Gulf’s unforgiving waves to the uncomfortable excuse for a bed he slept in the night before. Either way, he wasn’t sure how long it would take before he could stand fully upright. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to find out.

  A pair of guards stormed into his cell and yanked him to his feet.

  Prado looked at them. “Qué pasa?”

  The guards remained quiet. And when Prado didn’t move with the urgency they demanded, they used their clubs to beat him in the back and legs.

  Prado stumbled forward, trying to keep pace and avoid another round of abuse.

  The guard on his right broke the silence. “I saw this man hit two home runs against the Nationales last year. I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “I’m the same man,” Prado pleaded.

  The guards ignored him, instead rushing him down a long corridor until he came to a room with a table and two chairs. They shoved him inside and locked the door. A thin slit along the outer wall near the ceiling provided the room’s only light. A rusty fan spun slowly and rhythmically overhead while it emitted a low humming sound.

  Prado lay prostrate on the ground, unwilling or unable to move—he wasn’t sure which one. Though if pressed, he would’ve said unwilling. He wanted to see Isabel, his driving motivation to endure whatever abuse was destined to befall him. Even if he just got another glimpse of her, it’d be worth it.

  Another man, flanked by a pair of guards, entered the room.

  With his eyes closed, Prado rolled over and moaned. He squinted at the two men reaching down to pick him up. Prado’s knees almost buckled as he tried to stand upright.

  The man pressed his finger underneath Prado’s chin, lifting it up so he could look him in the eyes.

  “My son was one of your biggest fans, you know,” the man started. “He worshiped you, adored you. He even copied your batting stance at the plate. And how do you reward loyalty to you?”

  The man turned away
from Prado and paced toward the other side of the room. “You turn your back on this country and your team,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. He walked back toward Prado and glared at him. “How could you do such a thing?”

  Prado didn’t flinch.

  The man sucker-punched Prado in the gut, causing his target to double over on the floor. Prado moaned.

  “That’s what it felt like to my son.” He paused. “That’s what it felt like to me. You distracted the team and they lost to the Nationales.”

  Prado shook his head. “They would’ve lost with or without me.”

  The man helped Prado to his feet then slapped him. “That’s not the point. You abandoned your teammates in the time of their greatest need.”

  “Is this why I’m here? Because I abandoned the Grapefruit Cutters before the playoff game against the Nationales?”

  The man threw his head back and chuckled. “Oh, no. You’re here for something far worse.”

  “Please tell me what I did.”

  “You abandoned your country.” He delivered another quick jab to Prado’s stomach. Prado staggered backward but managed to maintain his balance.

  Coughing, Prado stumbled forward toward the man. “Abandoned my country?”

  “Yes, in the hour of her greatest need, you rode off in a boat, hoping to find great riches in another land. You forgot about everyone you left behind—even your daughter.”

  Prado’s eyebrows shot upward. “Where is my daughter? How is she? Is she okay?”

  The man put his hands up. “She’s fine, but for how long I don’t know. That depends upon you. For now, she’s living in a state orphanage.”

  “What about Liliana?”

  “When you left, she had a horrible accident. She tried to jump off a bridge and kill herself, but she managed to live. So, we did what we always do in those situations—we decided it would be best if the Cuban government raised your daughter.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Now, now. If you cooperate, you might get to see her.”

  “Okay, okay. Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”