Wet Work: The Definitive Edition Read Online Free PDF Page A

Stansfield Hershman, the commander of E.C.O. —Executive Covert Operations, the umbrella under which Spiral functioned.
    But a leak didn’t make sense either. Spiral didn’t officially exist.
    He didn’t give a shit about Skolomowski. The Pole had been showing increasing signs of instability in the field for some time, but any direct criticism of his methods was dismissed by Hershman: he gets results . Corvino had never respected him. The Pole’s passion for killing went beyond duty; he enjoyed it. An efficient assassin felt nothing, neither guilt nor pleasure.
    The street was deserted, but he crossed outside the spill of the sidewalk lamps, keeping as much to the shadows as possible in case Mitra was under observation. Her apartment house, a nondescript brick building in a mid-rent, safe neighborhood, required neither a security lock nor a doorman. He entered, and headed for the elevator.
    Whether Mitra’s cover was blown or not, he should get her out of the country. Until they knew what had happened there was no point in taking unnecessary risks. A flight was scheduled to leave Southcom, the main U.S. military base in Panama, at 11:30 P.M. The flight the Spiral field operatives were expected to depart on. Knowing Mitra, she’d probably refuse to go with him, but Corvino wasn’t going to take no for an answer even if his reasons were more personal than professional. Del Valle, however, would see the logic in his decision. Hopefully, his boss wouldn’t guess Corvino’s true motive. Sexual relations between field operatives was forbidden. If Hershman found out, he’d probably pull him from active service and ship him off to Fort Bragg to train Special Forces in counterterrorist strategy, the prospect of which appealed to Corvino as much as walking barefoot through dog shit.
    The walls of the fourth-floor hallway were painted a bright yellow. Mitra’s apartment was at the end of the hall on the right. He paused outside the door, listening for signs of life. A telephone rang twice in another apartment; the faint drone of a television rose from another. He pressed his ear to the door, trying to shut out the noise.
    Then he pulled the 9mm Browning from his shoulder holster, attached the silencer, and pressed the door buzzer. Its ring echoed loudly in the quiet hallway.
    No response.
    He buzzed a second time and waited a full minute, then lowered the gun to the lock. He pulled the trigger and pushed the door inwards.
    The room was cloaked in darkness, a faint strip of light from the street bleeding through a gap in the curtains. He closed the door behind him and waited. Nothing moved.
    The sudden, overwhelming smell of death made him recoil.
    Corvino gagged as he flipped on the light switch. The living room was neat and tidy except for a blood-stained cloth lying beside the white leather sofa.
    The unmistakable stench wafted from the door next to the bathroom. He entered the bedroom, feeling for the light with his left hand as he held his breath.
    The pale blue walls were bare except for a poster announcing a Picasso exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art and an arc of dried blood above the brass bed frame. Mitra—what was left of her—lay on a crimson mattress, mouth gagged, arms and legs spread-eagled, tied to the corners with lengths of clothes line, the skinless corpse glistening red meat and muscle. He closed his eyes as his stomach heaved, the acid taste of bile rising into his throat.
    God, no!
    Corvino made it to the bathroom sink as a thin runner of gastric juices leaked from the corner of his mouth. He put the gun down, wiped his mouth and ran the cold tap, splashing his face with water as he gasped. He heaved again, but his stomach was empty.
    Killing was never as clean in real life as the movies depicted it, but the atrocity in the bedroom went beyond murder, either legally sanctioned or committed while drunk on the white heat of rage. This was the work of a butcher. He breathed deeply. The mutilated body