Wet Work: The Definitive Edition

by Philip Nutman

  She felt that way now as she moved along the shadowed hallway. As a child she’d feared the dark, and even at age twenty-four, when she couldn’t sleep and would slip from the bed, she always had to put the hall light on. Tonight, however, there was more than enough illumination from outside to guide her. In fact, the comet made it worse, its green aura casting strange shapes behind the small table near the stairs. Don’t spook yourself, she thought. You’re on edge enough as it is. The shape moved and she stopped. Don’t. Of course it hadn’t moved. Clutching her robe to her chest, Sandy started forward. As she passed the table, her arms broke out in gooseflesh. Come on, girl. There was nothing there, just a small pool of darkness created by the angle of luminescence falling through the window on the stairs. Nevertheless, as she reached the top step she stroked the wall to find the light switch, flicking it up and blinking as the electricity repelled the shadows. She descended towards the living room, deciding not to put on the lamp. The night promised a tranquility that she ached for, a comforting sensation outside herself and the conflicting feelings keeping her from sleep.

  Mom.

  She went into the kitchen, pausing by the photo of her mother and father in the gilded frame on the teak shelving-unit. Her eyes scanned it. She wanted to stop and pick it up, but no, that was too painful right now. She’d lost one parent already, now she was about to lose the other. The image of Mary and Don Ellenbrook, the happiest couple she’d ever known, tipped the balance. The equilibrium gained from lovemaking was suddenly gone, and the tears flooded out.

  By the time she reached the sink she was shaking, trying to control the sobs welling in her throat. A strangled moan, low and mewling like the cry of a sleeping kitten, escaped. She gripped the sink as her legs began to buckle. As she reached the floor, her control shattered.

  Mom, don’t die. Not now, not like this. Her mother was dying an undignified death, a fly trapped in a web of technology which only postponed the inevitable.

  Sandy was alone.

  Nick—dear, sweet, dependent Nick—was sleeping peacefully upstairs, dulled by beer and liquor, lost in dreams, perhaps nightmares. Haunted by the brutality of his father, who was committing slow suicide with an endless procession of bottles. Her nightmare was one that didn’t end with waking. It dragged on and on, clutching at her even during the busiest hours at Sears.

  She had to be strong on her own. Nick couldn’t help her. Sometimes she wondered if he was able to help himself. His insecurity, his low self-esteem, his dependence on her, was scary during the times she felt vulnerable. And she had never felt so lost, so exposed, as she did now. She was losing her mother, and there was the possibility she’d lose her husband to the streets. The happiness and stability she’d worked so hard to achieve throughout their marriage now seemed to melt like cotton candy; if you touched it, it dissolved. As she gazed up at the celestial body casting its cold jade light across the world, she wondered if her life would ever be right again.

  ALEXANDRIA.

  DUKE STREET.

  2:07 A.M.

  Bobby McCaul squeezed his eyes shut in pleasure as Vangi’s lips brushed the head of his throbbing cock, her tongue darting out snakelike to flick the groove before she swallowed him whole as Kiss pounded out “Love Gun” on the van’s sound system.

  Vangi Marx was a complete airhead but she gave skull with the true artistry of a girl who’d been born to suck, blowing away all comers. Bobby laughed at the thought and tried to think of the word for that kind of joke, but at the moment, he couldn’t think of anything other than the pressure building in his balls.

  She paused, squeezing the base of his shaft.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” he gasped. “Don’t stop. Oh, baby, don’t stop.”

  Knowing he wouldn’t tell her even if she begged, Vangi lowered her head back to the task at hand.

  Bobby gritted his teeth as she lightly scraped her nails over his skin. Man, he wasn’t going to last long if she kept doing that.

  Sweat ran from his temples to saturate the curls of hair behind his ears. The Dodge’s air-conditioning was fucked, and the interior was pregnant with the sweet aroma of sweaty sex, their body heat steaming up the windows, further obscuring their activities from prying eyes. Not that anyone could see them in the back of the van through its tinted rear windows. Anyone who tried to peer through the windshield would just be able to make out a pair of empty seats covered with fake leopard skin. He and Vangi sprawled on the rug behind the cab, cloaked in the dank, dark shadows cast by the rear wall of the Winter Funeral Home on Duke Street, well out of the way of street lamps. No jerk-off was going to get his rocks off watching the two of them do the wild thing in the McCaul Passion Wagon, as Bobby proudly referred to the customized 1978 Dodge, his home away from the squalid apartment he shared with the drunken fuck who was his father in name only.

  Vangi’s head bobbed with abandon and his balls contracted. Getting her away from that loser Randy Jenkins was the best move he’d ever made, even if it had meant losing Rea Delano. Now she’d been a babe, but Vangi beat her hands—and head—down. Of the twenty-five or so babes he’d fucked, eaten or reamed on the Passion Wagon’s rug since he’d bought the rebuilt rust-bucket three years ago, she was undoubtedly the best. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to please her man, and the way she gave his pocket pistol the kiss of life pleased him no end.

  In Bobby’s eyes, women were put on the earth for one reason, and if they didn’t like it, tough shit. Men made the decisions and any cunt who thought otherwise deserved a good slapping. Women rated lower than dogs in his dim Neanderthal view of the world. And like a caveman, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing her head down so her nose touched his gut. Vangi grunted, trying not to gag, but he didn’t give a fuck.

  “Yeah. Do it.”

  He was on the threshold of temporary oblivion when something thudded against the van’s rear doors, the heavy knock tugging his dulled consciousness back from the edge of orgasm.

  Vangi halted, pulling her mouth clear of his organ.

  “Fuck!”

  A second thud followed, its force rocking the van’s suspension.

  “Sonofabitch!” he snarled, his heart pounding, sudden anger replacing pleasure. “Someone’s gonna fuckin’ die for this.”

  A rain of blows pounded a frantic tattoo against the metal and one of the windows shattered.

  Bobby struggled upright, shoving Vangi heavily to one side, her head hitting the upholstered paneling as he reached for his blue jeans, his erect cock slapping against his thigh. A rectangle of distant streetlight flashed as the glass flew inwards, showering the purple rug; then the silhouette of a head and shoulder blocked the orange glow as a hand reached inside for the door handle.

  Bobby frantically pulled on his pants as he stared in disbelief at the figure trying to get in; his mind whirled as he tried to think where he’d left the tire iron. Vangi screamed, her shrill shriek slicing his thoughts to ribbons.

  “Shut up!” he bellowed, fumbling for the spare tire on the right side. The heavy iron should be there, jammed behind the wheel. His fingers frantically scraped the synthetic fabric, coming away with nothing more substantial than traces of fluff beneath his ragged fingernails.

  The man outside struggled with the handle, jerking it, then withdrawing as the bolt rod clicked up, freeing the door.

  Bobby’s fingers swept down, finally locating the cold weight of the iron. He dragged it free, grunting with rage as the man pulled the door open. Vangi rammed her fists into her mouth, then screamed hysterically as she pushed herself back into the seats.

  Twenty-two years of rage and hate firestormed through Bobby’s body as he swung the tire iron towards the intruder’s head. In an instant, the man became a symbol of everyone who’d ever pushed him around, slapped him down, and made him eat the dog shit of failure and worthlessness. But his aim was off and the iron hit the man’s shoulder with a satisfying crack as bone splintered beneath its weight.<
br />
  The man seemed oblivious to the blow, neither crying out nor halting his forward momentum as he reached out for Bobby.

  Bobby’s eyes widened as the fucker kept coming. He tried to pull his arm back for a second blow as an ice-cold hand clamped his left wrist like a steel trap, promising to crush the bones as it dragged him off-balance. He managed to get the iron up as his left ankle gave way, his body weight sending him towards the paneling. The iron glanced ineffectually off the man’s skull as Bobby hit the wall, left shoulder flaring in dull agony as his weight pushed him down. The man’s other hand grasped his throat, the thumb pressing up under his jaw, propelling Bobby’s head back as he fell to his knees. His neck vertebrae popped slightly under the pressure and at the unnatural angle. He groaned.

  The fingers cold and strong, the pain forced him to drop the iron as he tried to push his assailant away. He stared in mute, insane horror as the man’s face moved toward his as if to kiss him. The intruder was an old man; he looked about sixty in the spill of light from the street. No old fuck could be that strong, but Bobby couldn’t break his grip. The man’s other hand came up suddenly to grab the back of his head. Bobby tried to scream as the man opened his mouth, baring a full set of uneven teeth.

  Bobby couldn’t think straight. He was still stunned from his head hitting the wall, Vangi’s deranged screams jabbing into his eardrums like guitar feedback, a high-pitched whine threatening to sever his sanity from it tenuous moorings.

  The man’s breath stank of chemicals, making Bobby gag as the teeth descended, chomping down on the cartilage and muscle under his Adam’s apple. A white hot nova of pain exploded in his head as the jaws closed, ripping out the chewy esophageal tract. Blood spurted from the wound to spray Vangi’s face as Bobby’s consciousness snapped.

  The jet of hot blood slapped Vangi out of frozen terror into flight.

  She dived for the open doors, falling face first onto the tarmac, breaking her nose and wrenching a deep moan from her aching throat. Then she was up and running, unaware her bare feet were bleeding from the broken glass, vocal chords straining as she screamed again, the sound an unearthly jet stream slicing the stillness of the Virginia night.

  BOLLING AIR FORCE BASE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  5:23 A.M.

  Ryan Del Valle watched the C-130 Transport ease to a halt at the end of the illuminated runway, trying to ignore his stomach ulcer. Stan Hershman, the commander of E.C.O., had roused him from a sound sleep at 3 A.M. after receiving a coded message from Corvino, relayed to him from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  How can such a simple assignment turn into such a major fuck-up? Hershman screamed down the phone while Del Valle tried to throw off the mantle of sleep. Hershman didn’t respond well to failure, a fact that made him a difficult son-of-a-bitch to work with.

  Skolomowski and Harris are dead. Lang is missing, presumed dead as well. Or worse—captured and undergoing interrogation, Del Valle thought, as his wife murmured beside him in bed.

  Del Valle put Hershman on hold while he gathered up his dressing gown and moved to the phone in his home office. There was no need for Jeannie’s sleep to be disturbed.

  “What about Corvino?” he asked as he resumed the call.

  “How the hell do I know? He sent the message,” Hershman snapped.

  “Meet me at Bolling when the plane touches down.” Hershman’s volume dropped, aware he’d been shouting. “And I want answers.”

  The connection broke. Del Valle leaned back in his leather armchair, rubbing his eyes, aware he wasn’t going to get any more rest.

  That was four hours ago, and he was dog-tired. A quiet Sunday playing tennis at the country club was out of the question, as was dinner with his daughter and son-in-law. Jeannie wouldn’t be happy.

  Del Valle climbed out of the back of the limousine before Hershman’s cigar smoke made him sick. He preferred the chill of the pre-dawn summer morning to the heavy smoke of Cuban coronas.

  The C-130 taxied across the runway, turned left, and headed towards them before stopping three hundred yards away with a flatulent hiss of hydraulic breaks. Hershman joined Del Valle beside the black limousine, cigar between clenched teeth, a light sheen of sweat on his bald crown. The E.C.O. commander had been nurturing a barely suppressed rage for the past hour. He hated to wait, a trait that irritated Del Valle. Besides, it was unprofessional. The intelligence business was an endless chess game dependent on strategy, timing and patience.

  “I want a full report on my desk Monday morning,” Hershman said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  It was the third time he’d stated the obvious fact in an hour.

  “Of course,” Del Valle replied softly, adding a silent: asshole.

  The belly of the plane opened, the ramp lowering gracefully to the tarmac. Corvino appeared from the shadows of the hold, walking stiffly, tired, his shoulders sagging. He looks old, Del Valle thought, defeated, as he approached the limo. He’s starting to show his age. But then, none of us are getting any younger. At forty-nine, Del Valle was two years Corvino’s senior, although he looked ten years older due to his steadily receding hairline, male-pattern baldness, and an increasing waistline which came from sitting on his ass all day and eating at too many high-priced D.C. restaurants. As Corvino approached the vehicle, he saw that his friend’s face was pinched, as if invisible wires were pulling the muscles beneath his dark, Italian features.

  “Good to see you,” he said as Corvino reached the limo. The assassin just nodded. Hershman threw his cigar to the tarmac, grinding it out with his heel.

  “Get in,” Hershman said, opening the door. “I want to know what the hell went wrong.”

  Hershman had every reason to be pissed. There were those in the CIA and the National Security Council who’d been opposed to Spiral’s existence since its inception eight years ago, and this screw-up was going to give them enough ammunition to shoot the task force off the top shelf of Covert Operations. Word had it the President was putting pressure on Robert Schlesinger, the newly appointed Director of Central Intelligence, to terminate certain C.O. activities, the old hypocrite. The President had certainly soiled enough dirty laundry during his term as Director.

  Del Valle stepped into the limo last, the driver pulling away before he had the door shut.

  Hershman stared expectantly at Corvino, who gazed absently down at his feet. Del Valle had never seen him that way before. Whatever had happened had affected Corvino deeply.

  “Well?” Hershman growled.

  Corvino blinked, hesitant.

  “What happened?” Del Valle asked quietly.

  He told them everything.

  Except that the man he’d killed should have been dead. They wouldn’t believe him. And the more he thought about it, the less he believed himself.

  ALEXANDRIA.

  SUNDAY. 10:04 A.M.

  Nick liked to start the day with a large breakfast, a habit instilled in him by his mother whose great pleasure was cooking. The kitchen had been her domain, the heart of the home, the place where as a child he could always find her. He would wake up each morning to the smell of her preparing eggs, home fries or grits, grilling strips of bacon. She cooked a full breakfast even on those days when his father was working nights or sleeping off a hangover. Those were the mornings of which he had his fondest memories, just the two of them sitting down to a well-laid table before he caught the bus to school, not having to walk on glass as he did when Will Packard was in one of his black moods.

  The bacon on the grill smelled wonderful as he scrambled eggs. The memory of his mother making breakfast reminded him of Sandy’s dilemma. He’d never really recovered from his mother’s death. He’d met Sandy six weeks after Mom’s burial, and the two of them had begun to spend so much time together he found himself seldom home—partially out of a desire to see his father as little as possible, but mainly because the house was haunted with Mom’s presence. Even the love he shared with Sandy and the kindness her m
om had shown him couldn’t ease the empty ache gnawing at his insides. For two years he drifted, despite Sandy’s being a lighthouse shining in his personal darkness. Now it was his turn to steer her from the rocks of grief.

  Leaving the eggs, he poured two glasses of fresh orange juice and sliced a grapefruit, placing the halves in bowls on the table, next to the vase of roses he’d bought for her that morning at the 7-Eleven. Sandy usually preferred a light breakfast, but today he had made extra home fries and bacon. She probably wouldn’t eat lunch on the train, so he was sure she’d want something more substantial than half a grapefruit and toast.

  He’d risen earlier than usual, his sleep troubled. He was aware she’d awakened in the night and decided to let her lie in until 10:15. Any later than that and she’d miss the noon train.

  He turned the eggs, picking at the home fries sizzling in the other pan. Good, they were done. He turned off the burner, then poured two cups of coffee, sipping his as he heard the stairs creak. She was up. Perfect.

  Sandy appeared in the doorway as he scooped the eggs onto the plates.

  He smiled. “I was just coming to wake you.”

  Her hair was sleep-strewn, her eyes bleary, but she looked beautiful in the pale blue silk gown he’d bought for her last birthday.

  “I smelled the bacon.”

  She sat down at the table, and as she picked up a glass of orange juice, the gown slipped to reveal the curve of a breast. She pulled the fabric together, hugging herself. Tension lines were etched into her forehead.