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

out of his briefcase and handed it to Munoz. “All the terms we discussed are listed in there.”

“Got a pen?” Munoz said, holding his hand out. “I’m not letting you leave with him without signing a contract.”

“Wise choice,” Drummond said. “Though I’d never try to pull a fast one on you, there are agents who would.”

Prado edged closer as the two continued to talk. He waited until there was a short break in the conversation.

“Think you have room on that plane for me?” Prado asked.

“Maybe—for the right price,” Drummond said.

“I’ll pay whatever it cost.”

“I doubt that, but I might be able to rework your deal with Colorado to reflect that—that is if you ever make it to the Major Leagues.” Drummond paused and tapped his lips with his right forefinger. “On second thought, never mind. I’ll just take you. I’ll probably lose money, but who cares, right? It’s just money.”

“Not so fast,” Munoz said. “I might have plans for him.”

Drummond threw his hands in the air in surrender. “You’re the boss, man. Whatever you want.”

They all loaded up in an SUV and drove back toward the main compound. Prado stared out the window, dreaming that he’d soon be out of Mexico and hopefully back in the U.S. playing baseball. But it seemed like a pipe dream at this point.

He then looked down the road and noticed Cal Murphy running toward Drummond’s plane. He looked frantic and appeared to be screaming at the pilot standing at the bottom of the plane’s stairs.

The SUV skidded to a halt just beyond the jet’s wingspan. Munoz jumped out first and hustled toward Cal and the pilot. Another guard arrived just as Munoz was walking up to the heated conversation.

“What are you doing?” Munoz said, looking at Cal.

Prado crept up to eavesdrop on the rest of the situation.

“I’ve spoken with him several times,” Cal pleaded. “If I only had a minute with him, he might be more willing to take us home and get us out of your hair.”

“Out of my hair? Out of my hair?” Munoz said. “You’re not in my hair—you’re in my comfort suites. But you’re not free to go whenever you please. You’ve seen more than people are allowed to see of this estate. Consider yourself fortunate—and be happy that you get to stay here with us as our honored guests.”

“Well, this honored guest would like to go home now, preferably with Dusty Drummond. Why don’t you let him decide if he’d like to take us?”

Munoz stamped his foot on the ground. “Because I’m in charge around here. I make the rules. And if I say, ‘You’re staying,’ you will stay. I don’t care what anyone says or suggests.”

One of the nearby guards grabbed Cal by the arm and led him to a golf cart and proceeded to drive him back to his room in the compound.

“Sorry about that guy,” Munoz said. “He’s a little persistent sometimes.”

“He’s a journalist.” Drummond shrugged. “It was all a moot point anyway since I don’t have room for anyone else on this flight.”

“Not even me?” Prado asked.

Drummond shook his head. “I didn’t mean to give you false hope. The pilot just gave me word that we’ll be at our max weight with just one extra person—but I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

“For your sake, it’s best they don’t,” Prado said.

Drummond’s eyes narrowed and he looked like he was ready for a fight. “Is that a threat?”

“No, it’s a promise,” Prado said.

Drummond walked toward the plane. He stopped and spun, aiming a finger at Prado. “I’m gonna make your life hell if you somehow ever manage to make it to the big leagues. You can count on it.”

“I look forward to you trying,” Prado snapped.

A few minutes later, Prado leaned on his bat as he watched Drummond fly off with Guerrero.

He was alone again—but now he was more determined than ever.

CHAPTER 50

TORRES WATCHED ORTEGA PACE around the room, bracing for the moment when his partner finally exploded. If Las Vegas had odds on this, he placed the over-under at one hour. Torres looked at his watch—it’d been forty-five minutes since Ortega started to simmer.

“Will you just take a seat and calm down? It’s going to be all right,” Torres said.

“All right? All right?” Ortega said, throwing his hands in the air. “Are you aware of what’s going on out there?”

“Please enlighten me since you have super hearing and X-ray vision.”

“I’m not joking about this.”

“Neither am I since you must have these things to know what’s going on just beyond these walls.”

Ortega exhaled and glared at Torres. “I’m having a really hard time with this right now. I’m always here for you, always up for adventure. But I’ve got a bad feeling about what’s about to go down.”

“Where was that feeling when Louie Goretti decided to screw me over? Huh? Why didn’t you say anything about it then?”

Ortega threw his hands in the air. “It comes and goes as it pleases. It’s not subject to me.”

“How convenient,” Torres snapped.

“I’m not making this stuff up. Look, just hang out up here by this window and strain to listen. The guards out there talk to one another. And they’re likely unaware anyone can hear them.”

Torres let out a sigh and climbed up on Ortega’s cot. He grabbed ahold of the bars and pulled himself up to it. He took in the view of the coast again before looking down for Munoz’s guards prowling around the premises. For about thirty seconds, he held himself up before he saw two guards—one from each direction—walking toward the outside of his room. Neither seemed to notice him.

“Anything happening?” the first guard asked.

“Nah. Just another boring day.”

“Well, it’s far from boring.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, you didn’t hear what’s going down? We’re going to swap the Cuban player for Victor Vegas.”

“You’ve got to be making this up.”

“I swear on my grandmother’s grave that it’s true. Vegas will be back with us once we trade the American feds this worthless baseball player.