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

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