Free Wet Work: The Definitive Edition by Philip Nutman Page B

what happened, I can’t help thinking I was right. But then, Hershman gives the orders; we just carry them out.”
    “ What’ve you heard from Southcom?”
    “ The Panama city police claimed the shootings were gang-related. Our friends in Cali don’t believe them. It’s a mess.”
    “ Does the Southern bureau have any leads on who hit them before we went in?”
    “ No. They’ve come up with nothing of substance. If it was anyone connected with Escobar’s clan, it could take days to confirm anything.”
    Corvino stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette in a marble ashtray. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”
    “ Perhaps. We knew about the safe house and the meeting. They could’ve found out.”
    “ Lang’s disappearance bugs me. And what was Skolomowski doing at the house?”
    “ You think they turned, don’t you?” Del Valle shifted in his chair.
    “ It’s the only thing that makes sense. But why? And if so, who were they working for?”
    “ Hershman asked me the same question,” Del Valle replied. “Your guess is as good as mine until we can gather more information.”
    Both men were silent for several seconds.
    “ Where did you think the relationship with Mitra would lead?”
    “ I don’t know,” Corvino said. “She wanted to be with me. I made the mistake of telling her I was considering retiring.”
    Del Valle’s forehead wrinkled in surprise. “You’ve never mentioned that.”
    “ I’ve been thinking about it for some time, but I hadn’t made a decision.”
    “ You could’ve discussed it with me.”
    “ And have you talk me out of it? You wouldn’t want to lose me.” He looked out the window again.
    It was true, Del Valle thought. Corvino was too valuable an asset to be allowed to retire.
    “ I’m tired, Ryan,” Corvino sighed. “I’ve been doing this too long. I’m burning out. I shouldn’t have let Mitra get close to me. The fact I did proves my point.
    Del Valle silently agreed, then said:
    “ You realize that unless we get some concrete answers about this mess, Hershman will have you designated a potential security risk. The retirement they’d give you isn’t what you’d want.”
    Corvino nodded. A sanitarium instead of a country club retreat. Drugs and confinement instead of tennis and walks in the countryside.
    Even if they got to the bottom of the Panamanian debacle, an early retirement now seemed out of the question.
    He felt trapped.

    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    3.27 P.M.

    Despite the patrol car’s air-conditioning, Nick was uncomfortable but relieved. His first day on the streets was almost over, his thoughts turning towards home. A long, cool shower, a cold beer, some dinner, then unwind in front of a video. Going out with Tranksen wasn’t a good idea. Brion could drink more than he could and starting his second day on the job with a hangover was an invitation to trouble. He felt like kicking back to an old Clint Eastwood western. High Plains Drifter would be a good movie to pass away the hours. The fact he’d seen it a dozen times didn’t matter. It was like having an old friend over, the kind of guy who never lets you down and always guarantees a good time. If the books Sandy read and reread—Danielle Steel potboilers, V.C. Andrews gothics, Stephen King scarefests—were old friends, then his collection of Eastwood westerns and Stallone action flicks were old high-school companions.
    The day had passed by quietly, the high humidity draining the street people and tenement dwellers of any desire to commit crimes and cause trouble. Sure, there had been a handful of minor incidents—a stolen Buick; a domestic dispute involving a baseball bat and an electric fan; and a mugging—but nothing really stressful. Besides which, Santos was turning out to be a decent riding partner and a damn good teacher. His reputation held true.
    “ Just act like what you’re doing is the most natural thing in the world,” Santos had said as they pulled up outside the apartment