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

payment today, I must confess that it was a little short.”

Torres sat up in his seat. “Short? Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was, but this is gonna require another twenty-five G’s to get this corrected.”

“Are you insane? I paid you every last cent.”

“I’m very much sane, but I had my accountant go through it again. I’m gonna need the balance on that.” He paused. “Oh, and one more thing, Torres. I just texted you a picture of someone. If you don’t comply, I’m gonna snatch him. Is that understood?”

Torres started to tremble as he swiped over to his text messages. There on his phone was a picture of his five-year-old son, David. They’d been apart for well over two years now and he deeply missed him. Torres was missing out on getting to watch his son grow up. With the way Torres’s ex-wife treated him, he doubted he’d ever be able to find his son even if he wanted to. But Goretti obviously had—and he’d likely done in a short period of time.

Goretti finally spoke again after a few moments of silence. “I said, ‘Do you understand’?”

“Yes, sir,” Torres muttered.

“Good. Now get me what I asked for—and, Torres?”

“What?”

Goretti started to smile. “Tell your little partner to keep his big mouth shut. He’s only got himself to blame for this.”

Torres hung up and got out of his car. He took a deep breath and let out a guttural scream.

Nothing was going as planned.

CHAPTER 24

THE SINGLE LIGHT BULB SWAYED over the table as if it were keeping time. Prado watched it drift carelessly back and forth. After moving him to solitary confinement in a dark cell, this was his first glimpse of light in over a day.

A man entered the room dressed in military garb. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Sanchez and sat down. He opened a file in front of him and put on his glasses as he hunched over the papers.

Prado noticed his picture attached to the side of the folder with a paper clip. He caught a few words scribbled on the documents, phrases like “el traidor” and “el criminal.” He wasn’t sure if it was referring to him or someone else, though he knew the Cuban government viewed any attempt to escape the country as a treasonous one.

Sanchez closed the folder and clasped his hands. “It seems as though we have a problem.”

Prado stared at Sanchez but didn’t say a word.

Sanchez stood up and began to pace around the room. “Actually we have plenty of problems with you, starting with the fact that you deserted your team when they needed you during the playoffs—and for what? A pittance of a salary. Be glad we rescued you from those slave masters.”

Prado wasn’t inclined to agree. Though his contract with the Mariners wasn’t close to the millions superstars received, Prado had more money in his bank account than he’d earned over his lifetime combined. He figured he’d need to work at least another seventy years at his previous government-mandated pay level just to equal it. He shrugged.

“But the real problem we have with you is that you deserted your country when it needed you most,” Sanchez continued. “What you saw on the Isla de la Juventud docks—and then you did nothing—” He let his words hang for a moment.

“I saw nothing,” Prado said.

Sanchez stopped. “Do you know I could have you shot for lying to me?”

Prado didn’t blink.

“What I don’t understand is why you’re continuing to lie. We have proof that you witnessed a murder the night you left your beloved motherland, yet you sit here, smug in your arrogance, refusing to admit what we both know is true. I don’t know how you sleep at night with such contempt for your country.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

Sanchez slammed his fists on the table. “You didn’t see anything or you won’t tell me what you saw? Which is it?”

Prado sighed and shook his head. “It was dark.”

“I knew you were lying.” Sanchez shuffled back to his seat and sat down. “So, tell me what the man looked like who did this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop playing games with me, Señor Prado. It’s time for you to start cooperating before I begin to force it upon you.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I could make it worth your while. Maybe let you see your daughter—”

“You monsters already put her in an orphanage.”

“What if I said we could get her out of the orphanage.”

Prado sat up. “And get me out of this prison so I can be with her?”

“Perhaps. It’s up to you. Depends on how much you cooperate with me. Tomorrow I help you get sunlight. The next day—who knows? Maybe I can arrange for you to visit little Isabel.”

“I’m not saying a word until you guarantee me that I’m going to get out of here without being punished.”

Sanchez stood up. “I cannot make such guarantees, but if you cannot accept my offer in good faith, I’m afraid I must leave. Guards!”

A guard opened the door to the cell and held it open for Sanchez. “Have it your way, then. I’ll make Isabel’s transfer to the orphanage final tonight. She’ll never get out again—even if you manage to escape and become the greatest baseball player the world has seen.”

Sanchez walked toward the doorway and stopped. He looked over his shoulder at Prado. “Once they shut this door, this offer will end. It’s up to you as to how you want your daughter to spend her days here while you sit in prison.”

A hundred thoughts flooded Prado’s mind at once. He had several friends who grew up in Cuban orphanages—and every one of them shuddered to think of it. Then he thought about Isabel shaking her little bottom and smiling at him. That smile would be lost forever, as would her innocence. He couldn’t live with himself if that was the case.

“Wait!” Prado said. “I might have seen something.”

Sanchez rushed