Free Wet Work: The Definitive Edition by Philip Nutman

tall cop called Timpone whom Nick had spoken with during his orientation days, as he sauntered towards the door.
    “ I’ll lay you ten they do,” replied Orr, his thick-set Irish partner, slapping Timpone on the back.
    “ Done,” said Timpone as they exited.
    Cops. All they’re interested in are drinking, sports and women , his mother had said to Nick one summer night when they were sitting out on the porch, his father getting drunk in front of the TV while he watched preseason football. Have an interest you can share with your wife , she’d added with sadness in her voice. Make your free time meaningful .
    Sorry, Mom, he thought. I like sports, and I like to drink. But I promised you I wouldn’t turn out like Dad. And I won’t .
    “ Packard! Get your head out your ass. It’s ten minutes ‘til briefing.”
    Nick turned to the speaker. It was Detective Sergeant Santos, his training guide.
    “ Yes,” he muttered in reply.
    “ Yes, Sir!” Santos snapped.
    “ Yes, Sir!” Nick shot back.
    Santos had a reputation for being a hard ass, and Tranksen had commiserated with Nick when he’d found out who he’d been assigned to.
    At 5’10” and weighing 230 pounds, Richie Santos was the kind of guy you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of. The Hispanic cop’s temper was legendary in the 19th. Everyone from the lowliest patrolman to the hardened bulls in Homicide steered clear of him if he was in a bad mood. But Santos also had a rep for being a loyal, reasonable man when things were going smoothly. And above all else, he was renowned as one of the best men on the force when it came to training rookies.
    “ Come on, pal, I’ve got no time for daydreamers,” he said as he walked over to Nick, who was now dressing at double time. “Dreaming on the job will get you shot, or worse. Got that?”
    “ Yes, Sir.”
    “ Good. I’ll see you in five.”
    Santos turned and strode through the door.
    Nick clasped his top button and started to knot his tie.

    The battleship-gray walls of the muster room reminded Nick of a prison. I guess we’re as much prisoners of the system as the perps , he thought, half listening to Captain Sienkiewicz as he finished his standard speech-for-the-rookies following the shift briefing.
    The silver-haired captain gripped the sides of the podium, leaning forward for emphasis. On the chalkboard behind him were written two words: Attitude and Conduct. The former had a cross beside it, the latter a check mark.
    “ Remember, when you’re on the streets you are not just there to keep the peace, you are also a representative of the police department. Conduct is paramount. The department is always under fire from liberals, civil liberties fanatics—and most often—from the public we are duty-bound to protect and serve. As rookies, you’re vulnerable. The most common complaint leveled at the department is excessive force . A rookie doesn’t have the experience to distinguish between reasonable force and excessive force. You will, with time, but tread wisely. The theory they teach you at the Academy is fine— in theory . The streets are an education in themselves.
    “ Have a safe and productive first day, men.”
    Capps applauded as soon as the Captain nodded, the other rookies following suit, although none had his enthusiasm.
    “ Jerk,” Nick mouthed under his breath, catching Tranksen’s eye. The mustachioed rookie winked, suppressing his broad grin.
    Santos, seated behind Nick, leaned forward, tapping him on the shoulder. “Save the attitude, kid. Leave it home.”
    Nick stiffened.
    “ Come on,” the older cop said, adjusting his belt beneath this bulging waistline. “School’s out. We got work to do.”

    CIA HEADQUARTERS.
    LANGLEY, VIRGINIA.
    NOON.

    Del Valle sat behind his teak desk, his fingers forming a spire beneath his nose as he watched Corvino. Dominic stood by the window, staring out at the canopy of trees below them, sipping a mug of coffee. The first thing Del Valle