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

prison to him. Standing on his toes, he could see the bay and the sunrise starting to peek above the horizon. Yet the dawn of a new day didn’t bring him the hope he needed, the hope he craved. He fished the picture of Isabel out of his pocket and kissed it. Her photo and a growing sense of false hope was all he had to hold onto.

“What’s it like?” a man said.

Prado spun around to see Guerrero standing in the corner of the room. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t see you there.” He took a deep breath. “What’s what like?”

“The show. What’s it like?”

“The big leagues?”

Guerrero nodded.

Prado shrugged. “I have no idea. I was a guest for the Mariners after they signed me, but that was as close as I got.”

“Think I can make it?”

Prado shook his head. “I hope so—at least I hope you can do enough to impress an agent. Otherwise, you won’t have a shot. You’ll be playing here in Mexico and drinking cheap tequila.”

Guerrero leaned against the wall and slid to the ground. “What if they deport me?”

“Who?”

“These men. What if they decide I’m not worth it and send me on a boat back to Cuba?”

“You’ll survive—but that won’t happen. I’ve seen you pitch, Guerrero. You’ve got a chance.”

Guerrero looked up, his demeanor brightening. “You really think so?”

“You were the best pitcher on our team—and the only one to beat the Nationales in the playoffs, from what I heard.”

Guerrero smiled. “And you think I’ll be able to make it on with one team?”

“Without a doubt.”

Before their conversation could continue, the door swung open and a couple of guards walked into the room. One of them waved a piece of paper in the air.

“Congratulations, Señor Guerrero. You’re now a Mexican citizen. Now, time to make you an American ballplayer.”

“Good luck,” Prado said as he watched Guerrero escorted out of the room.

Prado was alone—again.

***

TORRES PRESSED HIS HANDS against his thighs in an attempt to keep them from visibly shaking. While he admired Fabian Munoz’s drug operation, he wasn’t in awe of him. To the contrary, he despised him. And feared him.

Munoz made national news in the U.S. when he started decapitating police officers and hanging their heads from overpasses on Mexican highways. He made an open declaration of war on Mexican law enforcement and appeared to be winning. Based off Torres’s observations, the Munoz compound was overflowing with women and money. And while it shouldn’t have, it made Torres’s interaction with Munoz all the more shocking.

“So, are we good here?” Torres asked when he finally received the opportunity to talk with Munoz.

Munoz, whose bare arms and neck were covered in colorful tattoos of skulls and demons, didn’t even turn around. He rubbed the back of his baldhead and continued to stare out at the Gulf of Mexico just a few meters away from the end of his deck.

“Good for what?” Munoz asked.

“With our delivery? Are we good to get paid now?” Torres asked, his palms beginning to sweat.

Munoz spun around. He clasped his hands and touched his lips with his forefingers. “No, we’re not.”

“What?”

“In fact, I think I need something from you.”

Torres threw his hands in the air. “What are you talkin’ about? We brought you another player—and one who has potential if he goes back. Maybe you can renegotiate his contract.”

Munoz nodded. “Yes, Prado—the one who profits us nothing.” He paused. “And a second one who’ll be lucky to get the same worthless signing bonus that Prado here received. For all my expenses, I’m going to need something from you.” He took a deep breath and stared back out at the water. “Like your boat, for example.”

“You can’t take my boat,” Torres said. “Besides, how am I supposed to get back into the country without one?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.” Munoz motioned for the guards to grab them.

The guards marched them down several hallways before shoving them into a room with Prado.

“Oh, you again?” Ortega said as he looked at Prado upon entering the room.

Prado growled at him. “If I wasn’t concerned about anyone watching us right now …”

He let his words trail off, but everyone knew what he meant.

“Knock it off, you two,” Torres said. “We need to work together if we’re going to get out of here.”

Prado chuckled and shook his head. “What makes you think I’d ever want to help you do anything ever again?”

“Karma?” Ortega asked.

“It’ll take a whole lot more than that for me to even care about you, much less work with you,” Prado said.

“They took our boat,” Torres said, hoping to generate some sympathy.

Prado smiled. “What? Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

“That’s not what this is about. In fact, the last thing it’s about is my feelings. It’s about how we’re going to get back to the U.S. And it’s your problem now too.”

“You’ll be fine,” Prado said. “I’m sure of it—and don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“Good,” Torres said. “I wouldn’t worry about you so much if you weren’t the reason we’re all here, for better or worse.”

Prado put his hands on his hips. “Put your worries aside. I’m sure I’ll be back in the U.S. in no time. Nobody knows my timetable because nobody’s asked.”

Torres bit his lip. He wanted to believe Prado and share in his optimism—but it wasn’t happening. Not today. Not as long as it was clear that this operation prized money above all else.

And Torres’s palms started to shake again.

CHAPTER 48

CAL GRABBED THE BARS in front of the window in the holding cell he and Kelly had been placed in. He pulled himself up to get a better look at his surroundings—a large grassy field with a windsock affixed atop a structure several hundred meters away. The field was surrounded by thick vegetation.

He let go and slid to the floor.

“Well, what’s out there?” Kelly asked.

“Not much. Just an airfield—a big strip of pavement through a long grassy area.”

Kelly’s lips quivered