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

out a way to outsmart border patrol and get back into the country, be my guest. The three of us won’t look back.”

Torres nodded. “You’ve got a point, one I’ve already considered. Our options are likely probation or death. I opt for the former. Ortega?”

Ortega exhaled a long breath. “If you say so.”

“Got any better ideas?”

Ortega shook his head.

“We’re coming with you,” Torres said.

***

AN HOUR LATER, Cal, Kelly, and Prado took one cab, while Torres and Ortega hailed another. After they arrived at the Gateway International Bridge, home of the busiest footbridge leading into the area, Cal convened another short meeting.

“We need to keep our eyes open,” he said. “There are five of us—and who knows how many of them. We’re at a disadvantage because we don’t know what they look like, but we have to make it to the crossing site without being noticed. If we are, the feds are going to release an assassin for us. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want that on my conscience. Agreed?”

Everyone nodded.

“Great,” Cal continued. “Just stay casual and we’ll be there soon enough. Does everyone have a passport?”

Prado started to check his pockets, while the rest of the group answered affirmatively. He patted himself down several times.

“It’s gone,” he said. “My passport is gone. I have to go back. I think it fell out when we were getting out of the truck.”

“And you think it’s still there?” Torres said. “That’s like a bar of gold on the black market.”

Cal waved off Torres and kept his gaze on Prado. “We’ll find it. Don’t worry.” Then to Kelly, “Cross the border and we’ll meet you there.”

She furrowed her brow. “I don’t know, Cal.”

“Just trust me, okay? We’ll be fine, but I want to make sure you get back to U.S. soil.”

She sighed. “Fine, but for the record, I don’t like this.”

“Noted. Now hurry up and cross over.”

Cal and Prado walked back toward a corner littered with cabs. They hailed one and told the man the name of the intersection where they ditched their attackers. A few minutes later, they were scouring the street for Prado’s passport.

“So, I’ve gotta know—what did you see that night?” asked Cal, who was stooped over as he searched the ground near where Prado thought his passport might have fallen.

“I already told everyone everything,” Prado said as he sighed. “It was two guys arguing and then one guy shot the other one.”

“But why would the Cuban government go to such great lengths to bring you back and question you about it, much less the feds trying to find out the same information? Why could it possibly be that important?”

Prado shrugged. “Maybe it’s because the man who committed the murder was a U.S. spy.”

Cal froze. “What did you say?”

“I think the man was a spy.”

Cal eyed him cautiously. “And what would give you that impression? Did you know him?”

Prado nodded. “He helped me learn English. He said his name was Juan Garcia.”

“Probably an alias if he was a spy. How well did you know him?”

“Not that well. I know he worked on a big construction project near the quarry. He was supposedly a Spanish architect and was assisting Cuban officials with it.”

“What kind of project?” Cal asked.

“No one knows. Even the people building it had no idea what it is. And the people who do weren’t allowed to talk about it. The government denied it was even conducting the project, but most everyone on the island knew about its existence.”

“So why did you think he was a spy?”

“One night when we were meeting up to tutor, I stopped at his door and was about to ring the doorbell when I thought I heard what sounded like another person in the house. I listened closely—but it was Juan, speaking in a heavy American accent.”

Cal let out a long whistle. “That’s interesting. Why were you afraid to tell anyone?”

“Once I realized what they wanted from me—what everyone wanted from me—I knew that they would have no reason to keep me alive the second I shared all that information. It was the only—how do you say it?—leverage I had.”

“Leverage is the right word.” He continued to scan the ground for Prado’s passport. “What did he look like?”

“You should know. You saw him at the game.”

“You were watching me?”

Prado laughed. “I was hoping to see you again—hoping you could get me out of there. I was always looking for you.”

“And you think I saw the man there?”

Prado nodded. “He slipped up behind you and gave you a bag of peanuts. But you didn’t seem too interested in the peanuts.”

Cal laughed. “It wasn’t the same as what I’m used to back home.”

“What did he give you?”

Cal stopped, eyeing Prado again. “He gave me leverage—and it’s how we’re going to make sure you stay out of prison.”

Prado walked toward the sidewalk and saw his passport beneath a bush. “I found it!” he exclaimed.

“Where?”

“Right here, under this bush,” Prado said, reaching down to pick it up.

Cal joined him and inspected it. “Good. Now, let’s get out of here before Munoz sends his thugs after us.”

Click.

“Don’t move,” said a man with a familiar voice. It was the guard whose head Torres had bashed against the truck. “My two colleagues would like to have a word with you.”

Cal only had one thought: Run!

CHAPTER 55

WALLER MADE THE SHORT DRIVE to the International Gateway Bridge, one that skirted the University of Texas-Brownsville campus. It wasn’t scenic by anyone’s standards, but the time in the car gave him a moment to think about how to handle the situation if it soured.

This is my case and I’m going to finish it.

He slammed his hand on the steering wheel for effect, even though no one was watching or listening—or cared. He was part of a bigger team, one whose primary goal wasn’t about personal victories or vendettas, but about making the U.S. safe from its enemies and stopping criminals. The feathers in his proverbial