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

CHAPTER 34

ON THE OTHER SIDE of the police headquarters, Torres and Ortega sat in their own cell. The ray of sunshine that had provided the scant stream of light into the room vanished as the sun dipped below the horizon. The other detainees grew rowdier with the near darkness. Only spotty lights in the main corridor glowed at this hour, creating a haunting effect. Torres wondered if they’d survive the night. Unfamiliar environment. Unfamiliar prison protocol. Then Ortega said what he was thinking.

“We’re screwed,” Ortega blurted out as he scratched in the dirt while sitting against the wall.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Torres said.

“This week or this month?” Ortega said.

Torres forced a weak laugh. “We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Ortega eyed him closely. “Got a key in your pocket?”

“Something even better—I’ve got money on the boat.”

“Isn’t that how you were planning on paying off your debt once you collected your score from this job?”

“Things change—plans change. If I’m dead, I won’t owe anybody anything.”

Torres laughed. “And you think your debt is going to be forgiven? Just like that?”

“Good luck trying to collect it. But, it’s not me with the debt—it’s you. Remember?”

Torres sighed. “How could I forget?”

They heard footfalls along the corridor as an eerie silence came over the rest of the jail.

“Well, no time like the present to put your plan into action,” Ortega whispered as he patted Torres on the back.

As the footsteps drew nearer, Torres engaged his prey. “Pssst. Over here.”

The guard walked toward them, his heavy steps creating such a high level of tension that it was almost palpable in the jail’s stale air. His face was barely visible, but a scar above his right eye glimmered when the pale light hit it just right.

“Silence,” the guard said. He turned to walk away.

“I have something to say that I think might interest you,” Torres said.

“I said, ‘Silence!’ ”

Torres reached through the bars and grabbed the guard’s arm. He pulled him close. “We’ve got money.”

The guard stopped and yanked his arm free from Torres’s grip. “How much?”

“Plenty. But I can’t very well give it to you here, can I? Maybe you can take us out of here and I’ll lead you to it.”

The guard took a deep breath and exhaled. “I can’t just march you out of here through the front door.”

“Perhaps we need to be transferred, in case anyone asks. Just take us out the back way.”

The guard closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Let me finish my rounds first and I’ll be back.”

He turned and walked down the corridor, just as methodically as he’d entered it.

“You think he’ll come back?” Ortega asked.

Torres’s eyes widened. “I’d say it’s a toss up.”

“Yeah—a toss up between him letting us out or coming back and beating the crap out of us again.”

“Got any better plans at the moment?”

Ortega retreated to his cot while Torres remained at the cell door, his hands resting on the bars. He even said a prayer.

He always prayed before he was about to commit a crime.

God, forgive me for what I’m about to do.

He knew it was a prayer that likely wouldn’t be answered, but it was how he was raised—even if his actions obfuscated the fact that he’d attended a Catholic school. Yet at the moment he trusted his wits and his fists more than he did a God he’d never seen.

A few minutes later, faint footsteps sounded hurried as they moved toward him. There was the click of metal clanking against metal and then the creak of a door opening. “If we’re going to do this gentlemen, we must hurry,” the guard said. “I created the transfer papers. No one will know you’re gone for three or four days at least.”

Torres and Ortega exited the cell and waited for the guard to shut the door. They hustled down the hallway and out the back of the building through several secure areas.

Once outside, the guard flashed a knife at them. “If you try anything foolish, I’ll slit your throat. Understand?”

Torres swallowed hard and nodded in unison with Ortega.

After they cleared the prison area, the guard ditched his secretive whisper and spoke plainly. He stood upright, his surname stitched onto his coat: “Belliard.”

“Where to now?” he asked.

“The docks. I have the money stashed there on my boat,” Torres said.

“Excellent. I have a boat there, too. That should make the transfer easy.”

Torres said nothing as they meandered along toward their intended destination. He was trying to figure out the best way to kill the man.

“It’s not fair what they were going to do to you,” Belliard said, breaking the silence.

“What do you mean?” Torres asked.

“You were going to be sentenced to six months in prison for your role in that fight.”

“Six months? For that?” Ortega exclaimed.

“You’re fortunate it wasn’t a year. I’ve arrested men who’ve spent seven years in prison for having just one gram of marijuana on them,” Belliard said.

Ortega’s mouth dropped. “Seven years?”

“Most of the time it’s four or five. It just depends on how the judge is feeling.”

Torres didn’t want the man’s sympathy—he wanted his gun.

“How did you get a boat?” Torres finally asked.

“Being a police officer has its advantages from time to time.”

“You mean you get bribes, like we’re doing right now?”

Belliard nodded. “Exactly.”

After a few more minutes, they neared the docks. There appeared abandoned.

“My son loves to come to the docks,” Belliard said. “I don’t think there’s anything he likes to do more.”

“How old is your son?” Ortega asked.

“Four. He’ll be five in a month.”

Torres wanted to scream. Instead, he bit his lip and marched on behind Belliard.

Belliard stopped. “Where’s your boat?”

“It’s right over there,” Torres said, pointing toward it.

“Lead the way.”

Torres continued with a brisk pace. He scanned the area for any potential witnesses. He turned onto a dock and walked down it.

“My boat is tied to the dock next to it,” Belliard said. “This should make the transfer quick and easy—just like your getaway.”

In