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

He felt the strong arm of another man grab him by the back of his collar and start to drag him out of the car.

“You’re with us,” the man mumbled as he led Prado out of the backseat of the Subaru and toward the Hummer.

CHAPTER 16

TORRES TRAINED HIS GUN on the FBI agent in front of him as he walked backward with his prized possession: Vicente Prado. For all the stories he read about Prado being “the next big thing” to come from Cuba and hit Major League Baseball, Torres found El Roque to be just as underwhelming as the first time they met at the Isla de la Juventud docks a few months ago.

Torres squeezed Prado’s bicep. “Aren’t they feeding you anything here? I thought you’d put up more of a fight,” he whispered in Prado’s ear.

Prado glared at him but didn’t say a word—or even struggle.

“Nothin’ personal,” Torres said. “Just business. You understand? I’m not going to be eating three meals a day with the percentage I earned off your paltry bonus.”

Prado scrambled into the backseat of the Hummer. Ortega zip-tied Prado’s hands behind his back and then zip-tied them into a child safety seat anchor.

Satisfied that he’d securely fastened Prado inside, Ortega slapped him on the shoulder. “That ought to hold ya.”

Prado looked straight ahead.

Torres stormed back toward the FBI agents. “Keep your hands where I can see them. No funny business.”

Waller and Hampton complied. The driver’s side door was cracked with Waller keeping the door from slamming shut due to the slight incline off the side of the road.

“You really wanna do this, man? Assault two FBI agents?” Waller asked.

“Who said anything about assaulting you? I’ll only hit back if you try to hit first.” Torres eyed the gun on Waller’s hip. “The same doesn’t go for shooting. You go for your piece, I promise you won’t get a shot off.”

Torres waited for Ortega to join him.

Using his gun to direct them, Torres needed to tidy up the scene to ensure he had enough time to escape the country. “I need your phones over here—slowly.”

Waller and Hampton took their phones out of their pockets and threw them on the ground toward Torres. Waller’s phone landed a few feet in front of the car door.

“That’s it. You two are good boys. No monkeying around. I like that. Now your guns.”

The agents complied.

Ortega snatched Hampton’s phone and gun without incident. But when Torres bent down to pick up Waller’s phone and weapon, Waller kicked the door fully open, slamming Torres in the head.

“Damn it! What do you think you’re—”

Before Torres could utter another word, Waller was on the other side of the door, kicking Torres. During the initial skirmish, Waller’s gun and phone were pushed beneath the car to a distance that wasn’t easily reachable.

Torres’s gun fell out of his hand as he rolled over and tried to halt Waller’s assault.

Meanwhile, Hampton seized his opportunity to attack Ortega. The two engaged in a short scuffle, but Ortega managed to hold Hampton as he clutched his gun and kept it trained on the FBI agent.

Torres and Waller continued to roll around just off the shoulder of the road between the two vehicles. Waller took control for a moment, but Torres squirmed toward his gun and put his hand on it first. As Torres was whipping it around to point it at his foe, Waller kicked Torres’s hand, dislodging the gun and sending it skidding underneath the Hummer.

Waller stomped on Torres’s head and dashed toward the vehicle. He slid down and grabbed the gun. He rolled over and pointed the gun at Torres, who was racing toward him.

“That’s far enough,” Waller said. “Unless you want a few holes in you.” He clambered to his feet. “Now, I think we’ll be taking back Mr. Prado to one of our field offices for questioning, along with you two as well.”

“Not so fast,” Ortega yelled. “You seem to forget I’ve got a gun trained on your associate here.”

Waller chuckled. “What are you gonna do? Shoot him?”

Hampton wasn’t amused. “Hey, Waller. Come on, man.”

Ortega jammed his gun deeper into Hampton’s back. “I’m not playing around, man. If you don’t lay the gun down, I’m going to kill your partner.”

Waller’s demeanor turned serious. “Hey, now. Let’s not do anything stupid, okay? How about we take Mr. Prado back with us and we let you go. It’s quite clear that you’re both in over your heads here—and kidnapping is not something you want going on your record, though I’m quite certain it’d be a marked step up from your current record.”

Ortega’s eyes narrowed. “Enough with the fast talk, Mr. Smart Guy. I’m calling the shots or you’re making a visit to this suit’s widow—if you make it out of here alive yourself.”

“Here’s a good rule to live by: Don’t make idle threats,” Waller said.

“Here’s another one: Don’t make any threats until you know how many bullets are in your gun,” Ortega said. “Now, I know you’ve got one bullet left because I’ve been with my partner for a while now. But I’ve got four bullets. Are you willing to play those odds?”

Waller scanned the ground for his piece, which he couldn’t readily see.

“Don’t even think about it,” Ortega said. “Drop the gun and kick it over to my partner.”

Waller looked at Hampton, whose eyes were pleading with him to comply with Ortega’s directive. After a few seconds, Waller did as he was told.

“Good decision, suit,” Torres said as he picked up the gun. Torres then grabbed the agents’ guns as well. He smashed their phones on the road and chucked the battered pieces into the woods.

“You don’t say much when you don’t have a gun,” Waller said to Torres.

Torres pistol-whipped him in the back of the head as Waller slumped to the ground. “It’s called being smart. You might want to try it sometime after you wake up.”

Ortega then did the same to Hampton.

“Thanks for coming through,” Torres said.

“When