Wet Work: The Definitive Edition (29 page)

Corvino aimed his gun at Skolomowski. “Do as I say. We’re bringing these ones in alive.”

“
What’re you going to do, shoot me?”

McNally snickered behind Corvino.

“
Shut up. Get the truck,” he said, directing the order at Schultz. “We take them in alive. You can do whatever you want later.”

“
I will.” The Pole continued to grin. “You can count on that.”

THE ATLANTIC—OUTSIDE CHESAPEAKE BAY.

9:31 P.M.

They had made good time, and as Briggs assured Sandy over their dinner of canned beans and franks, they were now on the final stretch. He estimated landfall at Aberdeen within thirty-six hours if the good weather held up.

Sandy felt better. She’d slept soundly, rocked into dreamless rest by the gentle rolling of the waves as the boat sailed over a calm sea. But the nagging fear that Nick might be dead stayed with her, whispering its dark lullaby in her ears. She’d kept as busy as possible, trying to keep the thought at bay, but there was little else to do on the boat other than scan the coastline for signs of life.

That there had been none only fed the fear. The silence was deafening.

“
Well, it wasn’t like dining at Nirvana,” Briggs commented, putting down his fork. “But it was better than a Big Boy”.

He was one of those people who could retain his cheerfulness regardless of any situation, for which Sandy was grateful. Dick, on the other hand, appeared earnest, a serious man who’d been worn down by the tough realities of living in New York. From what he’d told her, she’d gleaned that he had lost everything he’d ever cared about—his wife, his son, his ability to play guitar.

Sally Briggs suddenly cupped a hand over her mouth.

“
What’s wrong, Mom?” Jane asked.

“
I don’t feel good,” she said.

“
The food?” Briggs asked.

“
I’m cold,” she added. He felt her forehead.

“
You’re very hot.”

“
I’m freezing.”

Dick shot a glance at Sandy. They knew instinctively. Sally had the virus.

THE PENTAGON.

10:30 P.M.

The former home of the Defense Department was now a fortress and concentration camp, and Nick was just another inmate. How ironic that the pentagonal symbol of America’s military strength had been turned by the paramilitary dead into a prison for the living, he thought. Throughout history, armies had often turned on the people they were supposed to defend. So why should he be surprised that now, as human history appeared to be coming to its end, the American military were literally feeding off the surviving population?

This isn’t a prison.
He stifled a cynical laugh.
It’s a pantry, and we’re the food.

The conference room on the second floor had been converted into a corral for approximately sixty people, mainly women and children. Aside from Nick and Gifford, there were twelve other men, one of whom turned out to be Captain Stipe.

The National Guardsman from Alabama had disappeared the day Santos died, and they’d assumed Stipe had deserted. Now Nick knew the truth. According to Stipe, he and four of his men had been ambushed in Anacostia by a well-organized gang of soldiers after they’d cleaned up the district jail. Three of his team had been shot, and Stipe and Sergeant Kitchen had been brought here and put to work reinforcing the perimeter fence. Dead military operatives, it appeared, preferred women and children as delicacies.

The dead, those who could still function, had certainly adapted to the chaos of the new world with ruthless, structured efficiency, but that, too, didn’t surprise Nick. The living dead had inherited a dying world and like perfect parables of Darwinism in action, were making it their own.

“
What are the chances of getting out?” he asked, turning to Stipe. “How well-guarded is the fence?”

“
I’d say there’re around fifty of them, operating around the clock on two shifts. Beyond this general area, I don’t know how many. For now, I’d say chances of escape are exactly zero. That’s if they’re gonna last.”

Nick raised an eyebrow.

“
You know how some of them don’t adjust to coming back? The ones we’ve seen who don’t seem fully aware?”

Nick nodded. “Like the ones we terminated on the sweep of the Arboretum?”

“
Right. Well, I’ve seen some of these guys wink off into a trance. They just freeze, like they’re lost, confused. Some of ‘em babble like loons. Just yesterday one of these things patrolling the fence went crazy and attacked another one. They shot him. So I don’t think they can survive more than a few days. If that’s the case, then maybe we do have a shot.”

The door to the conference room opened. Four guards entered, selected two women, and dragged them out screaming. Then the door was locked again.

“
Bastards,” Stipe muttered. “I hope they choke.”

Nick leaned back against the wall, trying not to think about the women.

If what Stipe had observed was true—if they did indeed have a chance—then he’d take it. If he died in the process, fine. He damned well wasn’t going to end his life as the main course in some dead general’s dinner.

THE PENTAGON.

MONDAY, JUNE 5.

3:00 A.M.

Lang turned as Corvino’s right fist flashed out from the darkened doorway. It connected with the Englishman’s chin, downing him in one hit with a muffled grunt.

Corvino dropped beside him and drove his knee into Lang’s stomach, forcing the breath from his lungs. He clamped his right hand to Lang’s carotid artery, covering the Englishman’s mouth with his left. Lang struggled briefly then went limp as the blood supply flowing to his brain was cut off, his oxygen intake obstructed by Corvino’s fingers over his nose and mouth.

Satisfied his victim was unconscious, Corvino dragged the inert body into the file storeroom, quietly closing the door behind him.

He’d awakened the Englishman on the pretense Hershman wanted to see them both in his office, then jumped him as soon as they neared the file area.

He pulled Lang’s body up into a metal chair he’d found in the rear of the room late last night, when he’d formulated his plan. Crowded with 2000 square feet of filing cabinets and shelving units crammed full of paperwork, the back of the room was enough away from the door to make their presence there undetectable.

Corvino tied Lang securely to the chair, then gagged him with a strip of masking tape. The Englishman would come around within a couple of minutes, but he was ready.

He picked up a syringe from the nearest shelf, double-checking the dosage. The glass vial was filled with enough sodium pentothol to keep the Englishman talking for a couple of days, but the truth drug was only effective if you asked specific questions. Anything less than a precise wording prompted a nebulous response.

Rolling up Lang’s sleeve, Corvino located the main vein and inserted the needle, the truth now as close as a biochemical reaction. Lang mumbled through the masking tape as Corvino removed the needle, his eyes twitching behind his lids. Corvino pulled over a pile of boxes, sat down and checked his watch.

A minute passed. Lang remained supine in the chair, his breathing shallow.

Come on. You ought to have revived by now.

Corvino leaned forward and lightly slapped Lang’s face. The Englishman moaned softly.

“
Wake up.”

Lang gave another whimper.

“
Come on. Lang. Wake up.”

The Englishman sighed, then raised his head. His eyelids fluttered. Corvino pulled the tape off his mouth.

“
Al? Is that you, Al? I was looking for you. Bates said you were on leave.” Lang’s voice slurred as if he were speaking with cotton wool in his mouth. Lang’s eyes were unfocused, glassy.

“
Lang. This is Corvino. Can you hear me?”

“
Corvino? Where’s Al?”

“
He’s not here. It’s just me.” He had no idea who Al was. Lang appeared to be drifting into a memory loop.

Corvino slapped him again. “What’s your name?”

“
Martin Lang.”

“
Who do you work for?”

“
British Government. S.A.S.”

“
No. Who do you work for now?”

“
The CIA.”

Lang’s eyes were still glassy and he was having trouble focusing. Corvino leaned forward, holding up two fingers in front of the Englishman’s face.

“
How many fingers am I holding up?”

“
Three…no, two.”

“
Good. Who killed Ryan Del Valle?”

“
Hershman. Skolomowski.”

“
Why did they kill him?”

“
Because they did.”

“
Why?”

Lang looked blank.

“
Why was Ryan Del Valle killed? Was he a threat?”

“
No. He didn’t know.”

“
Know about what?” The drug was starting to work. There was little hesitation between his questions and Lang’s answers.

“
About the drugs.”

“
What drugs?”

“
The coke we were smuggling in from Panama.”

“
Who set up the massacre in Panama?”

“
We did.”

“
Who?”

“
Skolly. Me.”

“
Who had me killed?”

Lang groaned, his eyes rolling up into their sockets. His body twitched.

Damn! The sodium pentothol was causing a side effect. Corvino slapped Lang’s face again.

“
Lang. Lang, listen to me.”

The Englishman mumbled something inaudible.

“
Who had me killed?”

The Englishman mumbled again. One word. It sounded like “Hershman”.

“
Who? Hershman?”

“
Yes.”

“
Who was the trigger man?”

Lang paused, blinking. “I was.”

So he was right. The story Hershman and Lang had told him had been complete bullshit.

“
Why was I killed?”

“
You were supposed to die in Panama.”

“
How?”

“
In the drug house. Skolomowski was going to shoot you.”

“
Why?”

“
To make it look like you stole the money.”

Lang’s eyes rolled upwards again.

Corvino shook him. He couldn’t lose him. Not yet.

“
Why?”

“
You…you were…supposed to die…”

Lang passed out.

Corvino grabbed the Englishman’s shoulders, shaking him violently; his head swayed back and forth like a puppet with a broken string.

“
Lang! Wake up! Come on!”

Spittle started to drool from his slack mouth, his breathing sounding increasingly shallow. Corvino slapped him. Again. And again.

Nothing. Lang was out cold. Damn. He wanted more information, but he’d learned enough. Hershman was a traitor. Most of Spiral had been involved. No wonder everything had seemed way too easy before the hit in Panama. But what exactly was the deal with the drugs? Who was Hershman involved with in Panama? What was the arrangement with the Colombians?

But that didn’t matter now. None of it did, really. He leaned back on the boxes, removing his Browning from its holster. He attached a silencer to the barrel. All that mattered now was to avenge the betrayal, the deaths. Mitra. Ryan. Himself.

Corvino raised the gun to Lang’s temple and squeezed the trigger. The gun popped softly. Lang’s body jerked and fell limp again.

It was time to end it all.

CHESAPEAKE BAY—OFF THE ANNAPOLIS SHORE.

10:40 A.M.

Sally Briggs was dead.

The fever had taken her an hour ago, and John had moored the boat while he consoled Janet.

Sandy and Dick sat on the deck with Jared, staring at the dead city across the water. At least physically, Maryland appeared to have escaped the devastation relatively intact. Sandy couldn’t see any sign of fire or smoke. The skyline looked deceptively normal, except for the absence of life.

She stroked her nephew’s hair. The boy had totally withdrawn now. He seldom spoke and played perpetually with a toy car Briggs had given him. If they survived, she wondered, how would he grow up?

Yet there had to be other survivors. Or would the plague, virus—whatever it was—claim them all?

She wondered where Nick was. Had he made it out of Washington? Was he at the farm? Was Elliot or any of his family alive?

Questions. So many damned questions.

Only time would answer them.

Briggs appeared from down below, his eyes red from crying. But he was composed and managed a weak smile. She admired his strength.

“
We should get moving. I think we can reach Aberdeen by dark.”

“
I’ll take the wheel,” Dick offered.

“
Thanks. I need to be with Jane.”

Sandy hugged Jared as the boat continued its journey.

THE PENTAGON.

01:01 P.M.

The hot sun beat down on the men as they unloaded the truck, sweat pooling under Nick’s arms as he lifted a crate of canned soup. Their captors were hoarding supplies to keep their cattle fat and healthy, only some of the livestock were already dying with the fever.

Cattle
. One of the soldiers had called them that earlier in the day and the word had burned itself into Nick’s mind.

Cattle.

Stipe tapped him on the shoulder.

“
Here they come again.”

Nick looked over at the main gate as two military supply trucks rolled in. The vehicles halted in front of the entrance, and several soldiers climbed down from the back, unloading a new batch of prisoners.