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

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