The Executioner's Game

by Gary Hardwick

  Luther moved as little as possible. Alex was too smart to be taken completely off guard, so Luther’s only hope would be to give him the least amount of time possible in which to react. If he remembered his capture-and-detainment lesson well, Alex would use lethal means to the fullest extent to protect himself. So when Luther made his move, Alex would try to destroy him and everything in his path.

  Alex Deavers watched as Luther approached the building. Luther had found him much sooner than he’d anticipated. Then again, Luther had always been a superior student. Alex had left enough clues on the street for him, but Luther had obviously done more homework.

  Alex wondered whether Luther had put any of his clues together yet. He had to know that something was amiss with this mission, that Kilmer and the big boys were involved in some shit that was extremely dangerous, even by E-1 standards.

  This was it, Alex thought. All his planning had come to this moment. He would engage Luther here, and either Luther would join him in his quest or Alex would leave him dead in the streets of his hometown. He would not make the same mistake he’d made in London with Lisa.

  Alex was suddenly possessed of that feeling that he was not quite sane. His head spun with the circular logic of it. He had to rely on the confidence in his heart that he was a functional human being who had done terrible things to achieve a noble goal. He had to be sane. That was the only way any of this made sense.

  Alex composed himself and then looked out the window again. He saw his men waiting and the dark figure of Luther across the street. To an untrained eye, Luther could have been a bush, a shadow, or at most some bum lurking in the night. But Alex saw the deliberate movement of a man on a covert operation. It was his old student, all right, and Luther was doing everything by the book.

  Alex would be careful not to injure Luther too badly. But he had to hurt him to make his point. You couldn’t reason with an E-1 agent. He was a killer, and the only way to neutralize this attitude was to threaten him with the same type of death the agent hoped to inflict.

  Nappy had brought two of his best men for this mission. The man who called himself Wolf had asked him to help defend against an assassin who had a beef with him. That had been days ago. They’d been camping out every night, waiting for the assassin to arrive.

  Nappy knew most of the good street-level hitters in Detroit. The best of them were just sociopaths who were on their way to jail. This guy must be an out-of-towner, perhaps from Chicago or Cleveland. There was even a good one in Toledo he’d heard about a few years back.

  Nappy had his two men, Menthol and Casey, posted in front and back of the house, respectively. Menthol got his name because of his chain-smoking. Casey was an import from Toronto. Both were smart and ruthless. Nappy was stationed a half block down the street, where he watched from the Buick. He had confidence in the two men, but just in case, Nappy had brought along his most trusted friend, a new Thunder Ranch .223 rifle, a nasty weapon made for gun nuts and NRA types. The Thunder Rifle would stop anything human. Nappy didn’t like gunplay, but when he did shoot, he wanted to kill. In this city you didn’t want to just wound a man.

  The disfigured white man who had asked Nappy to call him simply Wolf was a great source of information, but Nappy was concerned that he didn’t know what Mr. Wolf was planning. He told himself that it didn’t matter, that after Wolf gave him more secret government information, he could take his business legit, create a new sense of political awareness for his people, get out of crime for financial support, and fulfill the dream of his father.

  But his instincts told him something was wrong. Wolf had to be some kind of ex-government agent, CIA or NSA, to know the things he knew.

  Mr. Wolf was holed up on the fifth floor of the place. Nappy didn’t know how the hitter expected to get past his men and get to the top of that building without being killed. So why was Wolf worried about this hitter? Why not handle it himself? Nappy began to get more worried about it himself, and he was suddenly glad he’d brought the two men to engage the hitter first. If Wolf was afraid, then the hitter was bad news.

  Nappy saw a man emerge from a house down the street—just appear, as if by some magic. Had he been there all along? Or was Nappy imagining it now? No, it was a man, a tall man, and he crept up the dark street a half block from Wolf’s building. Then the tall shadow crossed the street and headed toward Menthol, who was guarding the front entrance and lighting up his tenth cigarette of the evening.

  Nappy smiled. It would be a short night’s work. Menthol and Casey would kill the man, dispose of the body. Wolf would thank Nappy and reward him with another subversive secret that would dazzle his readers. They would all be eating White Castles by ten o’clock.

  Alex watched from his window as Luther circled toward the house. Luther would take the front man and then come straight to him on the fifth floor. Luther would wait and kill the rear guard, who would undoubtedly follow him in. Then he’d engage his target. Nappy would enter in the middle of the fight between Luther and himself. Luther would kill Nappy easily, but that would be his fatal mistake. While Luther killed Nappy, Alex would take him down. Then young Luther would get one chance to join him. If he answered wrong, Alex would have no choice but to end his life.

  But he was forgetting something, Alex thought. He didn’t know what, but a piece of this scenario was missing. These days there always seemed to be something slipping from his mind. Luther’s approach was stealthy but still too orthodox for what he knew of the man. But Alex had left him no choice, really.

  I am not insane, he kept telling himself. He knew what he was doing. He was right in mind and mission.

  Alex watched as Luther stopped just in front of the guard. He was probably going to pretend to be some local guy looking for drugs. The guard would try to take him, and then the game would be on. Alex watched. His pulse quickened, and he felt his muscles tighten.

  The man they called Menthol threw down his cigarette and said something to the man who was about ten yards or so in front of him. Menthol slowly began to step toward Luther.

  Then Luther turned and ran.

  Luther sprinted back up the street away from the building. Menthol immediately gave chase, leaving his post. Alex heard him yell something and assumed that the rear guard had been called to give chase as well.

  And that was what was missing. Alex thought.

  Luther’s only chance to take him was by surprise, and Alex’s only assumption had been that Luther had found this hiding place just days ago, but it seemed possible that Luther had been onto him for much longer.

  That was not Luther down there on the street.

  Alex was pulling out his gun when the back windows to his room exploded. Luther swung in on a harness and flew at him, landing on his old mentor and dislodging Alex’s gun from his hand. Alex flung Luther off him. When Alex got to his feet, he ran to Luther and began an attack, inflicting fierce blows and trying to keep Luther from drawing his weapon.

  Luther threw a punch that Alex easily avoided, but Luther switched direction of the same hand and landed a backhand to Alex’s jaw.

  Alex spun and raised a kick, which barely missed Luther’s head. Luther struck again, this time also with a kick. Alex dodged and caught Luther in the ribs with a blow that made him back off.

  Luther attacked again, and now he and Alex traded blows, each man doing damage. Alex struck at Luther’s throat but missed. Luther wrapped his arm around Alex’s outstretched wrist and pulled him forward onto his knees. Alex reeled backward from the blow.

  Luther heard the footsteps coming before the door burst open. He drew back from Alex, and the last thing he saw was the sad expression that passed for a smile on his old mentor’s face.

  Luther ran to the door as Nappy and his men burst inside. Either the decoy outside had gotten away or they’d killed him. Menthol was the first through the door. Luther hit him across the throat, and the big man dropped his gun and tumbled forward.

  Luther heard an explosion as Nappy f
ired the rifle. The shots missed him but tore a hole in the far wall.

  In his peripheral vision, Luther saw Alex jump out the same window that Luther had come in through, landing on a fire escape.

  Luther easily took the second man, Casey. He grabbed the man’s outstretched gun hand, pointed the gun into the man’s own thigh, and made him fire. Casey dropped to the floor, dropping the gun.

  Luther got a look at the third man. He was tall and bald and carried a rifle. He fired again, ripping bullets wildly. Luther dove away, pulling his P99 and firing at the doorway. He heard the man back out of the room and run down the stairs.

  Luther quickly walked to Casey and kicked him in the head, putting him out. Then he turned to Menthol, who was still on his knees, choking and gasping for air.

  Luther put his gun to the side of the man’s head. “Where can I find your boss?” he asked.

  “Don’t…know,” he said feebly.

  Luther stepped back from Menthol. As the man turned to look at him, Luther knocked him out cold.

  Luther made a hasty retreat. It would be harder to find Alex now that he’d narrowly escaped. But Nappy was in the mission, too, and he was not as clever as the wolf.

  Sweet Georgia Brown’s

  Luther was back on the street. Now he was looking for the man they called Nappy. It had been three days since he’d lost Alex in Chinatown. It was a tormenting failure that had nagged him each waking moment. He had outsmarted Alex, but to no avail. Nappy and his band of thugs had no idea what they were dealing with. Alex would backwash them all as soon as he got whatever he was after in Detroit.

  It was painfully clear to Luther that Alex had changed the rules of covert urban operations. He was bringing others into the loop, forfeiting their lives, but that made it easier for him to operate against another agent. To catch him, Luther would have to do the same.

  Hampton was out in another part of town trying to get info on Alex. He didn’t know the city, and his complexion was probably going to hinder him, but he was giving it the old college try.

  The city was still on high alert, and the Middle Eastern community had closed ranks against the local government. An Arab business had been torched, and the fire department had been accused of coming late to the blaze. The city was still crawling with cops, which made Luther nervous.

  Tonight Luther was just off Gratiot Avenue east of downtown. This was part of the area controlled by Nappy.

  It made Luther angry to think of the things Alex would promise a man who’d dedicated his life to working against his own government. And sure enough, Nappy’s so-called newspaper, The Radical, had recently published several stories revealing secret government actions that only someone like Alex would know about.

  Luther didn’t care about Nappy’s politics. Men who were anti-American were possessed of a special insanity. They were self-important fools who thought that the toppling of the established order would lead to greater power for themselves. They never saw that the end of government was the beginning of anarchy, and that was the end of civilization.

  The Renaissance Center loomed in the background like a benevolent big brother to the shabbiness of the city below. Luther walked the neighborhood that lived in this shadow, with its dark streets and darker houses. The sidewalks were cracked, and some had gaping holes in them. The harshness of winter would rip up the concrete paving, and it always took the city the longest time to repair the poorest neighborhoods.

  There was so much criminal activity here that it seemed legal. Luther had witnessed four drug buys and seen three men who were carrying weapons. It was just after nightfall, and the denizens of the city were out in force.

  Today was Friday, and cars were rolling into downtown from all directions as people came into the city to gamble at the casinos and dine at the many fine restaurants. The night was warm, and Luther felt just a hint of the terrible humidity that was to come in the summer.

  He crossed Gratiot and moved closer to downtown, slowing as he spotted the man he was waiting for. Luther waved at a thin black man with dyed blond hair.

  Luther had recruited Sharpie to impersonate him at Alex’s hideout. Luther was happy when he found out Sharpie had escaped. He’d sent word that he was looking for him.

  “Guess you surprised to see me, huh?” said Sharpie.

  “Somewhat,” said Luther. “How did you get away from them?”

  “Too fast,” said Sharpie. “That big dude was fat, and he was a smoker. You can’t catch Sharpie when your ass is out of shape.” He laughed and seemed pleased with himself.

  Luther noticed that the man was nervous. Sharpie was one of those street people who tried to cover everything with a smile and an upbeat attitude. The other kind covered everything with anger. Luther didn’t think much of it. After all, Sharpie had been chased by killers just days before.

  “Did you get your white man?”

  “I’m looking for someone else now,” said Luther, ignoring the question. “Nappy.”

  “Shoot, you don’t wanna be messin’ with him, man,” said Sharpie.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Your funeral,” said Sharpie. “How much you payin’ for this information?”

  “Fifty,” said Luther, and he said it like that was his final offer.

  “Fifty?” said Sharpie, as if insulted. “Man, a nigga ain’t gonna do nothing with your dangerous ass for that kinda money. Two hundred.”

  Luther just turned and walked away. Sharpie was no different from any other informant. He’d do it for nothing if he had to. You had to let him know you weren’t about to negotiate with him at all. Foreign street people were easier to deal with. They usually had a price, and that was that. They accepted that they were scum. In America the lowlifes were so arrogant; they assumed they were actually doing business.

  “Hold up,” said Sharpie. “Damn, cain’t even haggle with a nigga no mo’. Okay, I’ll take a hundred.”

  “Fine. What you got?” asked Luther.

  “These hos told me he been hangin’ out in Greektown lately, playing the casinos, you know.”

  “You want me to pay you for secondhand information from prostitutes?”

  “Yo, man, these ain’t random, skanky hos. These bitches are high-class, tight and fine, just startin’ out. Don’t do a lot of drugs or nuthin’.”

  Luther almost laughed at the attempt to lend the women credibility. But in Sharpie’s world it made sense. “Who is he hanging with in Greektown?” asked Luther, trying to hide his building excitement.

  “Young girls, big dudes, you know how they roll.”

  Luther knew Greektown. It was a popular shopping and dining neighborhood. It was also home to a big casino. It was densely populated, and he worried about going there on a Friday night.

  Luther gave Sharpie a hundred. “If it doesn’t check out, I’ll be looking for you,” he said.

  “No need. Remember, Sharpie can get ya.”

  Sharpie walked off quickly. Luther headed toward Greektown, covering his head with a Tigers cap and his eyes with a pair of sunglasses. The shades, which helped to disguise him, were also night-vision glasses that allowed him to see far more than he would have without them.

  He tried to calm himself down. He’d botched the first acquisition attempt, and he was looking to redeem himself. But he had to keep a cool head. You become vulnerable to your enemy when you let emotion override logic.

  Soon he was in Greektown and starting to look around. There were even more people than he’d expected, and now he wished that he’d worn some kind of real disguise. He moved quickly along the streets. Cop cars were everywhere, and Luther remembered that police headquarters was not far away, on Beaubien Street.

  He struck out that night but returned on Saturday and then again on Sunday, still searching for Nappy.

  Luther walked the streets, keeping his head down and eyes averted. When he passed one particular Greek restaurant, he stopped in his tracks. He saw a man dressed in black and wearing a hat. The man h
ad his back turned and was standing at the end of a corner near the freeway. Quickening his pace, Luther headed toward him.

  As Luther got closer, the man shifted on his feet and turned, revealing the face of Alex Deavers. Luther saw only a flash of it, and then Alex was off.

  Luther went after him, dodging people and pulling his P99, then just as quickly putting it back. He’d been chasing Nappy but had found Alex. Luther had to get him before he did any harm to the many people around. He pursued Alex in a big circle and saw him dart into a restaurant. Luther followed, not noticing the sign that read SWEET GEORGIA BROWN’S.

  Stepping into the restaurant, Luther scanned the place. He saw a commotion at the back, and it seemed as though someone had just run out that way, knocking over a waiter.

  Luther was about to go after him when he heard a familiar voice.

  “Cricket?”

  The word hit Luther like a shot to the head. A hand caught him by the elbow. Instinctively, Luther had begun to push the person away when he recognized the voice, and reality came crashing in on him. Alex had outsmarted him again. He’d had his own plan, and this was part of it. So was Sharpie, who had been turned like a double agent.

  “Hello, Mama,” Luther said.

  “We thought maybe you were dead,” said Theresa Green. She hugged her son. Roland, Luther’s father, was sitting in the waiting area as well.

  “Hey, son,” said Roland. Luther hugged him.

  “How you doin’, big head?” asked his sister Mary. She was smiling and had a glittery bracelet on her wrist. Luther was reminded why they’d nicknamed her Mary Sunshine.

  He was speechless. Alex had invoked Rule 35 as a warning to him. Luther’s family was now part of this mission, whether he liked it or not. Alex had deliberately lured him here so that they would see him.

  “What are you all doing here?” said Luther, removing his dark glasses.