Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

back to their Hummer and started to drive slowly along the road.

“See anything?” Torres asked.

“Not yet,” Ortega answered. “Just give it a few minutes. He’s not about to spend the night out here. He’s fresh off the boat.”

“Yeah, well, they told me not to underestimate him.”

Ortega peered into a cornfield, searching the small area dimly lit by his flashlight. “What do you think he did?”

“They didn’t tell me. They just told me how much they’d pay me for bringing him back—and that’s far more than any percentage we made off his paltry signing bonus.”

“You sure they’re going to pay us?” Ortega asked.

“They better. I’m not handing him over until I’ve got the money in my possession. I won’t be taken.”

“If you were, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Torres kept his gaze constant on the field on his left but slammed his right fist into Ortega’s chest. “I’ll make this the last mission you’re on with me if you keep up those wisecracks.”

“Seriously? You’ll make this the last one? Please tell me that you mean it.”

Torres turned and glared at Ortega. “Enough. Keep looking for Prado.”

They puttered down the road and appeared to be headed into the city limits when Ortega shouted.

“Wait! Over there!” he said, pointing into the darkness.

“What is that?” Torres asked.

“No. Who is that?” Ortega answered.

They crept closer toward the silhouettes of two men, who broke out into a dead sprint.

CHAPTER 7

CAL FELT AS IF THE LIGHTS were burning a hole through him. Yet he took advantage of the illuminated path in front of him and took off running. Once he noticed a small wooded area ahead, he darted toward it.

“Come on, El Roque. We need to move,” Cal said over his shoulder.

He could hear Prado’s footsteps as they headed toward the trees.

Cal wished this didn’t feel so familiar, but he’d been faced with life-threatening situations so many times that he wondered if it was the tension or sprinting that had raised his heart rate.

What was I thinking, jumping out of that bus?

It was far too late for regrets. Besides, he knew exactly what he was thinking: Vicente Prado had fast become his friend. Forget the assignment. This was about helping a guy survive—and hopefully thrive in America. He never even needed to write a single word about it.

Breathing hard, Cal entered the swath of trees. Limbs slapped him in the face as he ran, undoubtedly doing the same to Prado behind him. Cal wanted to use his phone to light their path, but he didn’t want to alert the men to their position.

“Where are we going?” Prado asked.

“Somewhere safe—I hope,” Cal said between heaving breaths. “Keep moving.”

A pale light shone down on a barn just beyond them through the trees. Cal thought it might be the perfect place to bed down if they evaded the men.

Cal looked over his shoulder at Prado. “Let’s hide in the barn.”

He leaped over a log in midstride, though Prado wasn’t so fortunate. He let out a string of Spanish expletives as his shins connected with the tree.

“Come on,” Cal said. “We’re almost there.”

He helped Prado up and they continued to stumble toward the barn.

Once they reached the door, Cal slid the latch upward and slipped inside, holding it open for Prado. Cal pulled out his phone and quickly identified a ladder leading to a hayloft in the back of the structure.

“This way,” he said.

They both scrambled up the ladder. Cal began to shove several stray bales of hay toward the edge of the loft, creating a barrier behind which they could hide.

Prado seemed to understand the purpose of Cal’s actions and joined him in shoving the bales to the edge of the loft. He stacked the bales on top of each other, forming a larger barrier.

“Good work,” Cal said.

They both lay on their backs and tried not to breathe.

The piercing cry of a hound dog broke the relative silence, followed by the slamming of a screen door.

“What is it, girl?” bellowed a man’s voice. “What’d you see?”

Oh, great.

Cal knew it was challenging enough to try to escape a few crazy guys trying to kidnap Prado. But now he had a howling hound dog, who’d not only revealed their location to his master, but also to their assailants.

Brilliant.

The sound of feet, crunching on the dirt in the distance, made them both hold their breaths.

A few seconds of silence.

“There’s nothin’ out here. Stop barkin’ at squirrels,” the farmer grumbled.

The screen door slammed behind him—and both Cal and Prado let out a sigh of relief.

“Who are those guys after us? And what do they want?” Cal asked.

Prado took a deep breath. “I think they want to take me back to Cuba.”

“They can’t do that.”

“But I think that’s what they want to do.”

Cal shook his head as he stared into the darkness at the barn’s rafters. “Why? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You said you saw something.”

Prado took a deep breath. “I did—right before I left.”

“What did you see?”

“I saw a murder.”

“And you think they want to risk an international incident and bring you back to Cuba because you witnessed a murder?”

“I know that voice.”

Cal wiped the sweat beading on his forehead. “What voice?”

“The one that called out for me.”

“Who is he then?”

“He’s the guy who helped smuggle me out of Cuba.”

“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,