The Executioner's Game

by Gary Hardwick

  The Executioner’s Game

  Gary Hardwick

  Dedication

  To my paternal grandfather,

  George Hardwick

  Epigraph

  Whenever the people shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.

  —ABRAHAM LINCOLN, FIRST INAUGURAL

  ADDRESS, MARCH 4, 1861

  The only freedom consists in the people taking care of the government.

  —WOODROW WILSON,

  ADDRESS, SEPTEMBER 4, 1912

  You can go home again, but the house is on fire.

  —JOE BLACK, 2004

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Shadow Game

  Africa

  Unlucky Three

  Hampton

  Secret’s Shadow

  The Hookup

  The Evidence of Nothing

  Luther

  East Baltimore

  Encounter

  South Philly

  Harlem

  Adversary Game

  Cass Corridor

  Nappy and Jewel

  Amreeka

  Chinatown

  Sweet Georgia Brown’s

  Turnabout

  The Patriot

  Executioner’s Game

  The Pretty Box

  Lynch

  Deuce and a Quarter

  Wolves

  Kill Team

  Conspiracy Theory

  Spook

  Bluemail

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Gary Hardwick

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  SHADOW GAME

  When executing an assignment, an operative must place the success of the mission above all other concerns, including the lives of nonoperatives, cooperatives, and the operative himself.

  —E-1 Operations Mission Manual, Rule 1

  Africa

  It was a bad sun. That’s what the locals said. It wasn’t customary to think of the sun as something capable of negative energy, but you couldn’t convince the dark men of that. Periodically they would glance up at it fearfully while executing their harsh duties.

  The men unloaded crates and stuffed boxes from a flatbed truck, carrying the items to transports, three big trucks—one of which was being worked on by two mechanics. The boxes overflowed with packing materials, making the containers look bloated and sick. As the men traversed back and forth from the truck to the plane, they muttered in their native tongue, looking up at the sun as if it might detach from the heavens and roll over the land like a molten boulder.

  The sun seemed to appear closer to the earth than usual. It filled the horizon, lurching above the low, rolling hills and bright green bush like a sniper who’d come too close to his prey.

  The hot rays spilled beyond a low brownish green mountain range and into the thick jungle, landing finally on the cracked ground of the road in Laundi, a small village that wasn’t even a speck on the map between the Rwandan border and Kisangani in Central Africa.

  United States Secretary of Commerce Donald Howard felt a sense of dread as he stood on the side of the road near the beginnings of the bush. But it wasn’t the sun that made him nervous.

  What did fill the secretary with dread were the sights he’d seen in the last few weeks, the utter ruin and death he’d witnessed in Southern and Central Africa.

  The AIDS virus had devastated the continent in the last two decades. Howard had been sent by the president to survey the condition of the area and determine the size of a package of economic aid.

  As an African American, Howard had taken on the assignment with pride and determination. He’d hoped that his trip to the motherland would result in a cultural awakening for him, a long-lost connection to his past. What he found in Africa was quite different: economic mayhem, corruption, intra-African racism, a crumbling infrastructure, and a dispirited people.

  And death.

  The epidemic had swept the land like a biblical plague, tearing life from the bosom of civilization. Villages were turned into ghost towns, streets were lined with the sick and dying, and rivers were clogged with corpses whose souls had been ripped from their bodies. It was hell on earth, he thought, devastation like none he’d ever witnessed. And for all his authority, he was powerless to help any of these people. A tiny organism had laid waste an entire civilization, and all he could do was watch.

  “We’re almost ready, sir,” said George Gorman. He was one of Howard’s Secret Service agents. “The mechanics have pretty much fixed the engine problem in your transport.”

  Howard was startled for a moment and then looked directly into the eyes of the man who’d just spoken.

  Agent Gorman was a tall, lean man of forty or so. He had bright blue eyes and a jaw that was wider than it should have been. It made his head seem a little too big on his shoulders and gave him a look of menace that had served him well in his profession. Gorman was one of two Secret Service men assigned to Howard. Gorman and his partner in turn led a security team comprised of four soldiers, two marines, and two army officers. He stood next to Howard, waiting for him to respond.

  “How much longer?” Howard asked impatiently.

  “About a half hour, sir,” said Gorman.

  “Fine,” said Howard. “I just want to get out of here as soon as possible. Go and sit on the mechanics.”

  Gorman nodded and ran off quickly. Howard took a deep breath, letting the strong odors of the land into his lungs. He looked out at the beauty of Africa and was struck by the irony of the wreckage that lay behind it. It was truly a dark continent, he thought.

  He didn’t like the thought of going to Rwanda by land, but the plane the army had provided for them had malfunctioned. And now the armored truck was down as well. It seemed fate was conspiring to keep him in this desolate area.

  Howard would have a compelling story to tell the president, he thought, and he hoped the American government would not hesitate to come to the assistance of these afflicted people. My people, he corrected himself, because he had a connection to the citizens here. Howard had seen the faces of his family and friends in the battered visages of this land, and he felt the undeniable nexus of race.

  Africa had gotten into his heart. He was linked to this continent by more than skin color. When he first set foot on the ground, he’d felt a rush of emotion flow into him. It was as if he had been here before, as if this trip were his destiny. He didn’t believe in past lives, but there was definitely a sense that he was meant to be here somehow. He allowed himself to smile a little at the memory.

  Suddenly Howard felt a presence at his side and turned to see Alex Deavers standing by him. Alex’s silent approach spoke volumes about the man himself. He moved like a cat, quiet and graceful. Alex was of medium build, but muscular and sturdy. He seemed always to be standing at attention, betraying his military background. His dark hair was packed into a neat, modified crew cut. His deep-set eyes were almost black. He was a handsome man, but he seemed to be fighting it, and the last thing you noticed about Alex was the most interesting thing of all: He was not safe. Just behind the handsome face and the easy manner was a personality that would go to the extremes of human behavior at a moment’s notice. It was there in his eyes, his lips, the subtle contours of his face. You didn’t ever want to push him.

  Deavers was the second half of the Secret Service team. He hadn’t been with the SS for long, but he came highly recommended. Gorman led the military and coordinated security checks wherever they went, and Deavers stuck closer
to Howard as a personal guard. For this reason Howard appreciated Deavers’s subtle menace even more.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said Deavers in a voice that was deceptively soft and mellow. “We’ll be out soon.”

  “I’m basically calm,” said Howard, “but you’ll excuse me if I seem a little on edge. It’s not every day that I witness a holocaust.”

  “We knew it was bad, sir,” said Deavers. “We had all the briefing reports.”

  “But I wasn’t ready for bodies piled to my waist,” said Howard, “families dying in one another’s arms, men raping young girls because they think sex with a virgin will cure AIDS.” He took in a deep breath and then said, “And what happened last night.”

  “We’re not even sure if that’s authentic,” said Deavers. “I mean, this is Africa, after all.”

  “You as a white man cannot possibly fathom what that incident might mean,” said Howard. Slowly he pulled up a black briefcase that was attached to his wrist by a thick cable and a steel handcuff. He shook it a bit to emphasize his point.

  “I’m a citizen of the United States,” said Deavers, a little upset. “I know there’s something bigger at stake.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Howard, sensing the other man’s mood. “I just…What do I tell the president about what I know? More to the point, what will he do when he finds out?”

  “That would be his job,” said Deavers. “Yours is to report what you know, and mine is to get you back safely.”

  Howard nodded slightly, acknowledging the logic of the statement.

  “I’ll go and make sure Gorman isn’t slacking off,” Deavers said. “It’s his fault that the transport isn’t ready.”

  He excused himself and moved off toward the transports. Howard watched him walk away. Deavers’s military gait was even more apparent now.

  Deavers was right about the information he carried, Howard thought, but even his reason could not stop the fear he felt this morning.

  Two days ago he’d met with General Kiko Salli, a local strongman, one of several who ruled the area. General Salli’s father, Nelson, had been a legendary chieftain during the 1930s and ’40s. Nelson had worked with several U.S. presidents through three wars and countless calamities, until he’d been overthrown for democratic rule in the 1970s.

  Kiko had inherited more than his father’s vast fortune when Nelson died. He’d also obtained all of the intelligence that had been gathered over the years, including information on many covert American operations in Africa and Eastern Europe and a curious prize: an official U.S. communiqué naming Lee Harvey Oswald as the suspect in the Kennedy assassination some three hours before President Kennedy had been shot. And then there was the thing that Howard had seen the night before, a piece of information so evil that Howard’s hands had shaken when he held it.

  “This is my gift to you, my American brother,” Salli had said in his melodic voice. “May we all one day be free.”

  The “gift” had cost Howard fifty thousand dollars.

  All great men experienced a moment in time when they could feel destiny tugging at their sleeves. Howard suddenly felt that his moment had come. He saw himself at the center of the biggest story of the new century. He would rise to heights of power he’d never imagined; his name would live in history.

  Howard felt himself go calm, felt his heart start to beat in a more normal rhythm and tension seep from his limbs. He was great, he thought, and he would show the world soon.

  Deavers returned a few moments later, and they walked out toward the big trucks. Howard, Deavers, and his staff of two climbed aboard one. Two of the military men got into the one in front of Howard’s transport. Gorman and the other two men got into the last truck. One of Howard’s staffers, an ex-army sergeant, drove the truck.

  They would drive to Rwanda and then get on the government’s regular air force plane and fly back to the coast. Then another larger plane would take Howard back to America.

  He settled into his seat next to Deavers. He heard Gorman outside, barking orders to someone. Howard patted his briefcase absently.

  “As soon as we get to the city,” said Howard, “I want transport to our plane.”

  “The Rwandan officials will be pissed off,” said Deavers. “They wanted to confer with you again before you left.”

  “They’re just making a play for a larger slice of the pie,” said Howard. “I’ll apologize later.”

  The trucks began to roll down the bumpy dirt road. After a few moments, Howard felt more of his anxiety slip away. The truck had reinforced, bulletproof side panels, and the men who surrounded him were all trained to protect and kill if necessary.

  Howard took off the briefcase’s handcuff and rubbed his wrist. He’d had it on all day, and it was starting to hurt. He set the case down.

  “Damn thing’s a bitch,” he said. “Listen, Alex, I wanted to ask you something about what happened last night.”

  Howard looked over at Deavers, who was preoccupied with something, looking back at the truck behind them.

  “Something wrong?” asked Howard.

  “They’re slowing down,” said Deavers. “Falling behind.”

  “Dammit,” said Howard. “That truck is on the fritz, too.”

  “Then Gorman should call us,” said Deavers, “and—Shit! Stop the truck!” Every alarm in his body was going off. He jumped from his seat. “Stop this damned truck! Everybody get off—now!”

  The driver braked. Deavers went to the door and opened it as the truck slowed. He saw the black case on the floor in front of the secretary and instinctively grabbed it. He pushed open the door and began to step out as he heard a loud buzz from the floor of the truck. In the next instant, he felt the air around him charge with energy. Then he saw a flash of light as the truck exploded.

  Deavers was blown out of the truck. The left side of his face felt hot, then numb, as he was lifted into the air. His body twisted, and then something slammed into his limbs, filling every cell in his body with pain.

  In that last moment, Deavers’s mind registered the clues he’d missed: the plane’s suddenly being unavailable, the mechanical problem with the secretary’s transport, the long time it had taken to fix it. All these things should have told him of the plot that had just unfolded.

  He was losing his edge, he thought absently. But it was too late for blame, he said to himself. He’d failed. They were all dead, and whoever had paid Gorman to do this had won.

  He thought about Kiko Salli and the terrible secret he’d sold to the secretary. His final thought was, It’s real.

  Unlucky Three

  Luther Green held himself perfectly still as the killers entered. They kicked in the flimsy door to the hotel room and rushed in with their silenced Uzi pistols out in front. One of the men lifted his eyes to the ceiling to see whether Luther was there, but all he saw was the sickly yellow water-damaged ceiling. The man lowered his weapon to eye level, and they began to search the room.

  Another man rushed to the window, which was slightly ajar, and carefully stuck his head out. He looked left and right to see whether his prey was on the ledge. No one was there.

  Luther stood beyond them, silent, motionless. His breathing was thin and measured. He was there but not there, a man but also part of the building. Luther stood just beyond them inside a wall next to an open window. When he’d arrived, he’d spent a lot of time cutting the hole, emptying the wall, and making a door hinge. His electronic eyes, called Tiger Eyes, darted this way and that to spot all of his quarry.

  Three of them, he thought. Always a problem when there were three. When there was a duo, the men tended to stay together, making it easier to get them with groupings of shots. Even if they split apart, they would do so symmetrically, allowing you to hit them with two guns. But three usually meant one would break away from the other two and become a danger to you while you took care of the pair. That had been one of his first lessons in multiple-adversary combat.

  His training was always a c
omfort at times like this. It gave you a foundation, a structure to work from. The mission had a low probability for death, but when you were dealing with these kinds of men, you had to accept that anything could happen.

  Luther’s mind began to drain itself of the reason and limitation that most people had when it came to violence. The mission, he thought, was paramount, and these men were just obstacles standing in the way of its completion. At this point he knew he would not extricate himself from this situation without violence and fatalities. And yet he could not kill them all.

  Luther was in Stockholm to gather information on a group of freelance terrorists. Actually, the group financed terrorism, but according to most governments, that was a distinction without a difference. The group, known to the agency only as Haklim, sold drugs, killed for profit, and conducted elaborate financial scams to fund the operations of their compatriots around the globe. They sold murder and destruction to the highest bidder, and business had been good lately.

  The post-September 11 world was always in need of Haklim’s many talents. They’d funded the bombing of a Catholic church in South America, killing seven. They’d defrauded German investors out of $3 million for stock in a bogus digital-TV company, and with the proceeds they’d purchased high-tech weapons that they sold to warring factions in North Africa. Their latest endeavor had been to kill an American businessman who had bought in to several Kuwaiti oil concerns.

  Unfortunately for Haklim, that businessman was really a front for U.S. government interests. Naturally it did not sit well with Washington when the man was gunned down.

  So Luther had been sent to get the goods on Haklim and bring them into the light of justice. It was his first “NK,” or nonkilling, mission in three years. The president was putting out many fires around the world, and he couldn’t let one like this go on burning.