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

as she buried her head in her hands. “So, now what?” She started to cry softly.

Cal knelt next to her and put his arm around her. “It’s going to be okay, Kelly. Just hang in there.”

“It’s going to be okay? Really? You know that for a fact how?” Her sobs turned to heaves and moans.

“You just have to trust me on this one.”

“Trust you? Every time I’ve trusted you, I’ve ended up in some ridiculous situation—and I’m tired of it.”

Cal took a deep breath. “I hate how this has turned out as much as you do, but this was your idea—not mine. You’re compassionate and you couldn’t leave Prado. I understand. But I don’t regret going along with you. We couldn’t just leave him.”

She sniffled and looked up at him. “And I’m why we’re here, imprisoned in a Mexican cartel’s compound. We’re never going to get out of here alive.”

Cal shook his head and sighed. “Look, we’re going to make it out of here. Believe me. It just may take a little bit more thinking, but we can do it.” He put his hand on top of Kelly’s and gave it a quick squeeze.

Kelly started to cry again. “What about Maddie? What will happen to her?”

Cal rubbed Kelly’s back. “Nothing is going to happen to her because we’re going to get back safe and sound—you can bet on it. Have I ever let you down before?”

She shook her head, but they’d had plenty of near-collisions with the freight train of life that could’ve easily derailed everything—and Cal knew that’s what she was thinking.

It was only a matter of time before some major event occurred, a major event that he couldn’t reverse or change. And while Kelly was well acquainted with the dangers this type of brazen reporting led to, he knew she didn’t want to face this head-on here, today, in Mexico at the hands of Munoz’s lawless marauders.

“I’ll get us out of here—trust me,” Cal said, again squeezing her hand.

Cal then stood up as he heard the fast-approaching sound of a jet.

“What is that?” Kelly asked.

Cal jammed his face against the window and searched in his limited line of sight for the plane. A few seconds later, it came into view and was gone in a flash as it sped down the runway after landing.

“That is Dusty Drummond’s plane.”

“And who exactly is Dusty Drummond?”

“He’s one of the biggest agents in the game today. If he’s representing Guerrero, Drummond must think he’s a pretty big deal. He wouldn’t just fly down here for a guy who isn’t projected to have the skills to make it in the big leagues.”

“And you know him?” Kelly asked.

“We’ve had several conversations in the past since he represents a few players in Seattle. But I doubt he’d remember me.”

“Think he’ll give us a ride out of here?”

A faint smile spread across Cal’s face. “It’s worth a shot. Now, if I can just get out of here and get a moment to talk with him.”

CHAPTER 49

PRADO LEANED ON A BAT as he watched Guerrero wind up and deliver a slider that would’ve made the best hitter in baseball look foolish chasing it. Less than an hour ago, they were in their “comfort suites,” as Munoz called them during his conversation with Dusty Drummond. Now, they were on a neatly groomed baseball field at the far end of Munoz’s property. The field was kept better than any Prado had played on in Cuba—and maybe even better than the Sea Farers’ home field in Yakima. He couldn’t be sure until he walked on it to check it out.

Prado grinned as Guerrero fired a fastball that led to Drummond letting out a slow whistle as he stared at the radar gun.

“A hundred and two,” Drummond said, holding it up so Munoz could see it. “That’s some nasty heat right there.”

Munoz nodded in agreement.

Drummond turned to Prado. “Why don’t you give him a live batter, Prado? I want to see how he can do when he’s not just playing catch.”

Prado strode to the plate and stepped into the batter’s box. He didn’t like the situation, for his sake or his former teammate’s. One of them was going to be a loser—and the consequences could be enormous.

Guerrero rocked back and recoiled before unleashing a fastball that caught the inside of the plate for a strike, according to the catcher.

Prado shot the catcher a look of disgust before he dug back into the batter’s box.

Guerrero’s next pitch was a nasty slider that Prado waved at with his heavy wooden bat.

The catcher laughed. “At least you tried that time.”

Prado ignored his comment and zeroed in on Guerrero’s hands, which slowly rotated the ball until Guerrero got the sign he wanted—fastball, outer part of the plate. After playing with Guerrero for years, Prado knew what was coming. Not that it made him any easier to hit.

However, this pitch was a mistake, left up in the strike zone and over home plate. Prado smashed the ball, sending it screaming off the fence in center field.

Prado ran it out, sprinting down the first-base line and then turning toward second. He slid head first into second.

Drummond laughed. “Why’d you slide?” he shouted. “In case you haven’t noticed, no one was going to throw you out.”

“I always slide,” Prado shouted back. “There are no do-overs in baseball—just more opportunities to do it right the next time.”

Prado then jogged back toward Drummond and Munoz.

Guerrero hurled a few more nasty pitches that continued to arrest Drummond’s attention.

“What an arm,” Drummond said.

“So, what do you think you can get for him?”

Drummond shrugged. “Hard to say right now without a full evaluation, but I think I can get this kid a signing bonus in the neighborhood of one to two million dollars—and maybe a three- to four-year deal.”

“And I get twenty percent as long as he’s in the big leagues?”

“Without a doubt. I even brought a contract for you.” Drummond reached down and pulled a folder