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

“You weren’t going to drink my coffee, were you?” Machado asked. He smiled and winked at Prado before he took a sip.

Prado slumped in his seat and sighed.

Machado sat next to him. “Now, all you need to do is tell the judge everything you told me—along with the murderer’s name—and you can be on your way.”

“But I don’t know his name.”

Machado shook his head. “I think you do.”

Judge Pedro Cabrera waddled to his seat and sifted through several documents on his desk. He took a deep breath and then glanced around the room. Prado had never seen so many Cuban government officials concentrated in one place, other than at televised national events. He recognized several of the generals, including a few who’d risen through the ranks over the years under Castro. It was a who’s who for Cuban government and military.

Who was this person who was murdered?

With so much attention surrounding the man’s death—and with all the effort expended to bring him back to Cuba at the risk of inciting an international incident—Prado figured at the very least he should’ve heard about the man’s death. But he still had no idea who the man was or why there was so much attention surrounding the murder.

Judge Cabrera cleared his throat. “So I understand, Mr. Prado, that you witnessed a murder before you tried to flee our beloved country. Is that correct?”

Prado nodded. “Yes, that is correct.”

“Would you mind recounting for us here about the details of that night?”

“Is this necessary? I’ve already told General Machado everything I saw.”

Judge Cabrera’s eyes narrowed. “Everything?”

“There’s nothing left to tell.”

“Perhaps the name of the man you saw take the life of another man?”

Prado slumped in his chair. “I’ve already said that I don’t know who it is. Why won’t you leave me alone about this?”

The judge leaned forward. “A man is dead and justice needs to be served. Why are you protecting this man?”

Prado threw his hands in the air. “I’m not protecting anyone. If I knew I would tell you, believe me. I’d do anything to end this harassment—except lie and falsely accuse someone.”

A low murmur filled the room. But before the judge could respond, the entire building shook. Prado’s eyes widened as he glanced around the room at the military brass, who looked just as shocked. The room that was deathly silent just moments before was suddenly filled with a cacophony of cell phone ring tones and nervous chatter.

What’s going on?

One of the generals approached the judge and whispered in his ear.

The judge addressed the room. “We’ll have to reconvene another time. Hopefully, Mr. Prado, you’ll have time to think about that night and the next time we meet, you’ll give me the name of the murderer.”

Prado sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. Everything seemed to be spiraling out of control, and he wondered if he’d ever be free again, much less see his daughter.

CHAPTER 31

IF THERE WAS ONE THING Torres didn’t excel at, it was keeping his mouth shut. His incessant blathering resulted in him losing at least half-a-dozen girlfriends, three decent paying jobs, and nearly a finger. Despite his track record of loose lips and disappointing outcomes that should have served as a warning, he never once considered being quiet and melting into the background. And when he and Ortega were drinking cheap beer at a local bar on Thursday afternoon on the Isla de la Juventud, it would’ve been prudent to heed those warnings.

But there were some things Torres just couldn’t do.

“Anyone here tired of living in this hell hole?” Torres announced after his fourth beer. “Anyone? Because if you are, I can get you out for the right price.”

“Go back to Miami,” a stocky man shouted across the room in perfect English.

Torres stood up and sauntered over toward the man’s table. “What makes you think I’m from Miami?”

“Bad hair, horrible accent, arrogant attitude. Do I need to go on?” the man shot back.

“I might have bad hair, but you’re going to have a bad face by the time I get through with you.”

The man stood up and puffed his chest out, almost making contact with Torres. “Is that so? I’d like to see you try.”

Instead of responding with a quick comeback, Torres chose to use a different form of communication, hurling a sucker-punch into the gut of his equally mouthy friend. It only took a matter of seconds before it escalated into a full bar room brawl. Ortega jumped in on the action, landing several haymakers before one bar patron connected with a right hook across Ortega’s face.

Less than ten minutes later, two Cuban police officers dragged Torres and Ortega out of the bar and to the police station, where they were booked and jailed.

Torres had yet to sober up when he grabbed the cell door and screamed. “I want my lawyer.”

A police officer ambled up to his cell and stared at him, looking Torres up and down. “Where do you think you are? The United States?” The man cracked a smile and turned around and walked away, while Torres screamed some more.

“I demand to speak to someone,” Torres said. “I did nothing wrong.”

“Nothing wrong? From this report, it looks like you did nothing right,” chided another officer.

“This isn’t fair,” Torres roared.

“You’re right,” one of the officers said. “This is Cuba. And you’re not going anywhere.”

CHAPTER 32

WHEN CAL AND KELLY stepped off the bus and headed toward their hotel, the man who’d promised to follow them remained a safe distance behind them. As they neared the hotel, the man’s pace quickened and he guided them into an alleyway near the hotel.

Cal spun around. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not safe to talk in your room,” the man replied in a crisp American accent. “I know it’s bugged.”

“Who are you?” Kelly demanded.

“The less you know about me, the better.”

“I’m running out of patience,” Cal said.

“I understand. Here’s what you need