Dead Man's Land Jack Patterson (classic novels txt) 📖

“Well, that’s how you made it sound to Buckman.”

“It wasn’t exactly like that.”

She waved him off. “You’re ridiculous, Cal.”

He chuckled and reached into his pocket to pull out the card Waller had given him before he left. “Maybe the FBI agent can give me an update on what’s going on.”

Cal punched his number into his phone and waited once it started to ring. It rang six times before it went to voice mail.

“Why isn’t he answering my calls?” Cal asked aloud.

“We’re in the middle of Egypt,” Kelly said. “Cell service out here isn’t exactly the most reliable.”

“True,” Cal said as he hung up. “I’ll try again in a few minutes.”

***

WALLER HEARD AN ODD SOUND coming from the road. He leaned toward the pavement and cupped his hand behind his ear. Squinting, he looked at the blacktop and tried to figure out what was causing it.

“Do you hear that?” he asked.

Hampton nodded. “It’s your phone—or what’s left of it.”

“It’s still working?” Waller couldn’t read the screen, which was splintered. “I can fix this.” Waller located the main piece, dug out the sim card and jammed it into the burner phone in his console.

A few seconds later, the phone buzzed again. It was Cal Murphy.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon, Mr. Murphy, but I sure am glad you called,” Waller said.

“Is everything all right?” Cal asked.

“We’re alive—that’s about as positive as I can spin it right now.”

“Great. Is there any way I can talk to Prado for just a moment.”

“No, not right now.”

Cal protested. “Geez, Waller, just hand him the stupid phone. It won’t take long.”

“I’d love to hand him the stupid phone right now, but it’s not something I can physically do right now.”

“And what can you physically do right now?”

“Just about anything I want.”

“Except hand the phone to Prado?”

Waller sighed. “Look, Cal. I don’t know any other way to say this than the simplest way: he’s gone.”

“What? How?”

“The kidnappers took him.”

CHAPTER 18

VICENTE PRADO WATCHED THE TREES zip past them out of the passenger side window from the backseat of Torres’s Hummer. If he kept his head in one spot and his eyes focused outside, the trees appeared to flicker before turning into a muddled mass of green and brown hues. While it appeared like a benign image to everyone else, it looked like something different to Prado, something bleak and dark. It was what his dream transforming into a nightmare looked like.

They rolled along for several hours with barely a word uttered between the two men up front. Prado certainly wasn’t interested in talking to them, not after he gave them a large sum of money to take him out of the country, risking his life to do so by stealing from a ruthless lowlife like his uncle. Yet, here he was, his hands tied behind him and cruising toward the end of a dream that never got off the ground.

He was left to ponder the worst about his future, which felt like it was closing in around him with no hope for an escape hatch. If the Cuban government was so determined to bring him back, he knew the kind of protection he’d be under. They’d throw him in jail for sure once they extracted whatever information they wanted out of him.

Just a few weeks ago, life held promise. Today, fate clutched him tightly and wrung every drop of hope out of him.

Finally, Torres turned off the highway and neared a security checkpoint at the Bend, Oregon airport.

“Not a word,” Torres said. “I have no reservations about putting a bullet in you.”

Prado didn’t believe him, though he didn’t want to test his theory. He wanted to stay alive long enough to see Isabel again—and Liliana, too.

The security guard inspected Torres’s papers and allowed him to pass through the gates, directing him toward the charter plane service they’d hired.

Ortega stayed with Prado in the car and tried to make small talk.

“Looking forward to going back to your homeland?” Ortega asked.

Prado didn’t say a word and stared out the window.

Ortega chuckled. “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t look forward to going home if Cuba is where I was from. Those fascists will steal your hope and get fat on your back.”

Prado glared at Ortega. “In other words, they do the same thing you’re doing to me.”

Ortega reached back and backhanded Prado. “No more smartin’ off to me, son. I speak the truth. We’re doing no such thing. You should’ve never run. That’s certainly not my fault—and I’m insulted that you would suggest as much.”

“Forgive me if you’re insulted, but sometimes we don’t wake from our slumber until we experience an offense.”

“You’re about to experience an ass whippin’ if you keep talking,” Ortega retorted.

“No matter what you do to me, it will never compare to what my country has already done. But you and my country are—how do you say it?—different sides of the same coin?”

“If for even one minute you think we’re the same, you’re sick in the head. We care about people and want to help them, not hurt them.”

“And this is how you help me?”

“We’re helping the Cuban government by righting a wrong we should’ve never committed in the first place.”

“Is that how you justify what you’re doing? No, you made a wrong right by helping me escape. Now, you’re helping them oppress me.”

Prado started to tug and pull at the ties binding him to the backseat. “You better pray I don’t break free.”

Ortega turned around and looked ahead as Torres returned to the vehicle.

“Wheels up in fifteen minutes,” Torres said.

“I don’t think our cargo is going to be very compliant,” Ortega said.

“I’ll take care of that.”

Torres opened the backseat and slid next to Prado. He pulled out a syringe.

“What are you doing?” Prado asked as he leaned backward, trying to elude Torres.

Torres smiled and held up the syringe. “Just hold still. You’ll only feel a little pinch.” He then jammed it into Torres’s neck.

***

PRADO’S HEAD THROBBED