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

Already out of hope, Prado was running out of time.

Then he thought of Isabel. He needed to see her just once more.

Maybe it’s time to tell the truth.

CHAPTER 37

AFTER SPENDING THE NIGHT ANCHORED offshore, Torres guided his boat to a quieter inlet early Friday afternoon. He tugged his hat low across his face and made Ortega stay below deck. He still doubted that the guard would create a manhunt for them, but he exercised caution.

This dock wasn’t nearly as active, which was good and bad. Good that there weren’t as many people to notice him; bad that the low activity meant they might stand out more. Once he tied off, he descended into his boat and connected with his contact in Miami.

Ortega fidgeted during the call, eyes wide and brow raised as he tried to glean information from Torres’s side of the conversation. When Torres hung up, Ortega didn’t wait.

“Well—what did he say?”

“He said everything is a green light for tonight,” Torres answered.

“Meaning?”

“We’ll have a short window to grab the player after the game and get back here to the boat.”

Ortega walked toward the stairs and looked skyward. “And what about any other passengers?”

“We’ve got three more who will meet us here thirty minutes after the game ends.”

“Paying cash, I assume?”

“No, but they said they can wire the money to our account while we’re on board. If not, we’ll just dump ’em in the Gulf.”

“You want to take that chance? We need the money.”

Torres held up his index finger. “You’re right. We do need the money—and that’s exactly why we have to take this chance.”

“Who are the passengers?”

Torres shrugged. “We’ll find out tonight. The key phrase is ‘Nice night for a stroll.’ Can you remember that?”

Ortega nodded. “You ready to head over to the stadium.”

“You go ahead. I’ll meet you there. I’ve got a few more things I need to do here to get the boat ready so we can make a fast getaway.”

“Stay out of trouble.”

“You know me,” Torres said.

“Exactly. That’s why I said, ‘Stay out of trouble.’ Think you can do that for once?”

“I could just leave you right now.”

Ortega waved him off and ascended the steps.

Torres spent the next hour filling up the boat with gas and checking everything. If everything went as planned, he would be out from underneath the thumb of Goretti.

After this, I’m out. No more crime.

He tightened the ropes on the dock and glanced at his boat once more before heading to the stadium. The sun had already started to dip below the horizon.

This is going to be my night. I can just feel it.

CHAPTER 38

WALLER RAISED HIS BINOCULARS and peered at the island that seemed to rise out of nowhere. They hadn’t been on the water long since leaving from Miami, and the speed with which they arrived surprised him—though not as much as the size of the island of Cuba.

“Where’s Gitmo?” Waller asked.

“On the other side,” Hampton said. “You can’t see it from here. But we won’t be going anywhere near it.”

“This feels like some fool’s errand,” Waller said as he put the binoculars down and turned toward his partner. He hated the water, though the Coast Guard cutter was more stable than the deep sea fishing boat he’d once been on.

“It’s supposedly credible intelligence,” Hampton said. “Caught the chatter yesterday. I don’t know why you doubt it.”

“These things never work out. Besides, my stomach doesn’t agree with ocean waves.”

“Just lean overboard if you’re going to hurl. It’s best that way.”

Waller sighed and reached for a bottle of water he’d set down nearby. He chugged it without taking a breath.

“Think we’ll catch him this time?” Hampton asked.

“We better. Our jobs are riding on it.”

Waller leaned over the edge and threw up. He wasn’t sure if it was really the sea or the stress. Either way, he couldn’t wait for this assignment to end.

CHAPTER 39

CAL WATCHED THE CARRIBEAN SKY turn from blue to hues of orange and red as evening fell over Estadio Cristóbal Labra, home of the Grapefruit Cutters. He put his arm around Kelly, who, after photographing the first five innings of the game, decided to call it a night and enjoy the game. Cal affirmed her plan before the game. While they needed to maintain appearances at the ballpark, they also needed to save their energy for what would undoubtedly be a long night ahead.

For a brief moment, they tried to forget about everything else and bask in the moment. A beautiful island night in a forbidden nation watching America’s favorite pastime. Cal took a deep breath and smiled.

Ahh. Paradise.

Everything appeared contrary to what he’d heard about Cuba. Life didn’t look that hard; in fact, it looked rather simple. Aside from the government officials, the people he interacted with seemed satisfied with their lives. No one was hustling anywhere; heads were bent over and buried in smart phone screens. People seemed genuinely happy to see one another in the streets. It held a unique charm, the kind of which Cal had never seen back home—not even in small town Americana. But when he looked closely enough, Cal could see the other side of the coin. These people have been stripped of everything that made them unique—everything that made them special. He wasn’t refusing to accept reality; rather, he was choosing to delay engaging with it. He wanted to hold onto his little slice of paradise, contrived as it was.

A screaming foul ball landed a few feet in front of them, snapping him back to reality. The thud of the leather pounding the concrete stadium seats served as a reminder of what this place was really like—an island teeming with life only to have it squelched by the stiff structures of an iron-fisted government. Baseball served as a distraction—and the only place where the impoverished nation could compete internationally.

Cal glanced over toward some seats near home plate and saw