The two men spotted Alex. One of them whispered something to the other, and they moved across the street, circling behind Alex.
Alex sighed. He didn’t need this right now. He was going to get the next piece of information he required and plan the next stage of his mission, and he didn’t want to be late.
Behind him Alex heard laughter. They were nearer now, closing on him. If he played their game, this could take all night. He had to dispatch them quickly.
Alex stopped and turned to face the approaching young men. They kept coming, but now they weren’t laughing. Their faces looked serious and hard. One of them had a hand inside his jacket.
Alex walked faster, closing the gap. Suddenly he started running toward them. The young men stopped for a moment, frozen by the action.
The one with the gun had it out now, holding it next to his thigh. Alex stopped running at the sight of the weapon. He was too far away, and the young fool might hit him with a lucky shot.
“Whatcha gon’ do, nigga?” said the man with the gun. “Give up yo’ shit.”
Alex stepped closer, letting them get a look at his face.
“Damn,” said the man without the gun. “He all fucked up.”
Alex took another step forward. He showed no fear and never took his eyes from the men.
“Yo, man, let’s go. I think he’s crazy,” said the man with the gun. Alex saw him put the weapon back into his jacket. “I mean it. Let’s bounce.”
When the gun was gone, Alex ran to one of the men and slashed at his face. The small knife with the tanto tip slashed the man’s throat, and a spray of blood shot out. Alex spun, avoiding the blood. The man fell to his knees, trying to stop the flow from his jugular vein.
The other man went for his gun again, but Alex had already moved to him and clamped a hand onto the arm reaching for the weapon. Alex lifted the man’s arm, bending it unnaturally. The man yelled as he felt his shoulder strain, and then he screamed as Alex twisted his arm from the socket. Alex finished him by ramming his head into a light pole.
Alex then took the man’s gun, pressed it to his chest, and fired once. The sound of the shot was muffled, and the man collapsed to the ground, dead.
Alex wiped the blood from his knife on the fallen man. He checked the one still bleeding. He had slumped face forward and was trying to get to his feet. There was something sick and awful about it. The man struggled to speak as the blood flowed, taking his life with it. He fell onto his nose, and Alex heard it break on the concrete.
He robbed them, taking what little cash and jewelry they had. Then he left the gun nearby and made sure to turn their pockets inside out. The local cops would need help to make this case go away quickly.
Alex ran off, leaving his work behind him. He didn’t worry about the carnage. Like most inner cities, South Philly was a great place for an operation. No one cared about the denizens of the inner city, and E-1 had no informational systems here.
He was being smarter with Luther than he was with Lisa. He had tried to reason with Lisa and failed. With Luther he was going about it the right way. An E-1 agent on a killing mission would not believe anything a wolf said to him. But he would believe what he felt on a mission. Speaking to Luther through the mission was time-consuming, but Alex hoped it would be worth it. By the time Luther got to him, his former student’s keen mind would be tuned to a different frequency from the one E-1 had given him. He’d be ready to know the truth. And if not, then Luther Green would have to die.
South Philly
Luther and Hampton spent the night at an E-1 safe house in Baltimore. Hampton didn’t seem rattled by the close call, but he did mention that he was going to phone his girlfriend as soon as he checked stolen-car reports. He and Luther assumed that Alex would follow standard procedure. He’d never rent a car or take any form of public transportation. When on the run, an agent acted like a criminal. Alex had probably stolen a car to make his escape.
Luther settled in with a long session of Beethoven. The music was sweet, but it did not soothe him. As soon as morning broke, Luther checked with Hampton about his work the night before.
“I think I got something,” said Hampton.
“Shoot,” said Luther.
“Well, there are a lot of stolen-car reports in the last few months, but not many where the cars were recovered in another state.”
“Which ones were found in or near an inner city?” asked Luther, trying to hurry this conclusion.
“Five, but only one that wasn’t in Baltimore or D.C. It was in Philadelphia.”
“That’s him,” said Luther. “Let’s get out of here.”
“But don’t you think it’s…?” Hampton paused and thought a second about what he wanted to say. “The car, it’s a solid clue, but it’s too solid, too clean. I might even say it’s sloppy.”
Luther had to agree. Alex could have destroyed the plates and the vehicle’s VIN number, switched it or used any number of other methods to throw them off the track. It was like he wanted them to follow.
“I see your point,” said Luther, “but all we can do is go after him and anticipate that he knows we’re coming. Since we know he’s baiting us, we now have the upper hand.”
“Not necessarily,” said Hampton. “If he knows we’re coming, then he’ll anticipate that we know and that we’ll try to counter him. He’ll have a plan.”
“But it won’t be as good as ours…I hope,” said Luther.
Luther and Hampton went to Veterans’ Hall in Baltimore first. Hampton confirmed that the building had been a former CIA drop point in the seventies and eighties. After accessing old data files, Luther found what he was looking for. In a basement utility room, he discovered a lockbox built in to a wall. It was plastered over but had been recently uncovered. The box was empty. Alex had taken something from it and gone.
“Why leave Kraemer and the recording?” Luther said.
“For you, it would seem,” said Hampton.
“I don’t know how to feel about that.”
“He’s not going down easy,” said Hampton. “I think we should consider getting some help on this.”
Luther thought about Frank and Sharon and their offer. “No, we can do this,” he said.
“I hate it when you use that tone,” said Hampton.
“What tone?” asked Luther.
“The black-Clint Eastwood tone.”
“If I were the sensitive type, I’d object to the use of my ethnicity as an adjective.” Luther smiled a little at his own joke. “And if I’m a black anything, it would be Charles Bronson.”
“Bronson?” said Hampton. “Gimme a break.”
“He was an assassin, no false sense of nobility, a stone-cold killer. That’s me.” Luther smiled broadly.
“Sick, sick, man,” said Hampton, laughing softly.
Luther and Hampton set off for Philadelphia, which was a quick drive away on 1-95. They headed straight for South Philly, where the stolen car had been found. Luther was again reminded of his days on the streets in Detroit. The neighborhood around Seventh Street was run-down, filled with the usual devastation. But it was the faces that really got to Luther, scarred with the plague of hopelessness, haunting.
Luther and Hampton parked on a side street in a very dangerous-looking neighborhood.
“Okay,” said Hampton. “This is where the stolen car was found.”
“Alex wouldn’t be here,” said Luther. “He’s too smart for that.”
“Unless he wants us to think that and stayed here to hit us.”
It was a troubling proposition to try to predict the actions of a wolf, Luther thought, especially when he might be functionally insane.
“So you ready?” asked Hampton.
Instead of reading the tea leaves an E-1 agent left behind, they would use some of the tactics the wolf himself had used. Luther was going to hit the streets in order to find him directly.
“I think Alex is on a mission,” said Luther. “Whether or not it’s inspir
ed by insanity, he has an agenda, and that’s how we’re going to catch him. We just have to figure out what he’s up to.”
“Well, we know he took something out of Baltimore,” said Hampton. “So if he’s here, maybe what he took is what led him to Philly.”
“The car we tracked was stolen less than a week ago,” said Luther. “If he dumped it here within that time frame, he might not have finished his business here.”
“Agreed,” said Hampton. “Kilmer is calling in tomorrow morning for progress. Let’s have some good news for him.”
“We will.”
Luther removed his transmitter and started to get out of the Ford.
“Wait. What are you doing?” Hampton demanded.
“If I’m going to get information, I can’t look like I’m wired,” said Luther.
“No,” said Hampton. “Don’t take me out of communication. Most of the street people won’t even see it.”
“Can’t take that chance.”
“Then I’ll send a transmission to your Ion at intervals; just send one back.”
“I’ll try.” Luther got out of the car and walked off.
He roamed the streets of South Philly all night, reacquainting himself with the citizens of inner-city life. He remembered the bizarre combination of fear and excitement you felt as you walked the land, not knowing what lay around the bend.
He was out several hours before he found a source. A pimp, a former prostitute-turned-manager named Sticky B.
Sticky was a tall, good-looking woman of about twenty-five or so. She was of mixed ethnicity, Luther guessed. She had gray-green eyes, a pert little nose that had been broken and never fixed, high cheekbones, and a headful of long black hair that she had tied back with a strand of what appeared to be diamonds. She was dressed in tight black jeans that hugged her generous curves, black stiletto boots, and a black blazer under which she seemed to be wearing nothing. In her right hand she had a cell phone, in the left a gold-capped walking stick.
Her voice was soft and feminine but with an edge to it that suggested that at any moment she might flip on you.
“You wanna talk to me about bid’ness? I can do that,” said Sticky, “but anything else smells like a muthafuckin’ cop to me.”
“If I was a cop, I would have busted you by now,” said Luther.
“For what? Being fine?” Sticky B laughed, revealing a gold front tooth that took her pretty face down a few points. “Look, if you with it, we can conversate. If not, roll up yo’ dick and push on, nigga. Sticky ain’t got no time for cops, faggots, and sexually indecisive muthafuckas.”
“Okay,” said Luther. “I’m interested in a girl.”
“What about it?” said Sticky B.
Luther realized that Sticky B was no fool. She wanted him to solicit her so that she could claim entrapment if he was indeed a cop.
“I’m looking to pay a girl for sex tonight,” said Luther. “You satisfied?”
“I am. Shit, I don’t watch Law & Order for my health, baby. So what you looking for?”
“A white man with a disfigured face.”
Sticky B seemed startled for just a second. Then she processed the information, alternating flashing looks of distrust, fear, and deceptive innocence. A life on the street had turned her into an emotional chameleon, and she didn’t know which face to choose.
“A girl I can handle,” she said, “but the white man I can’t help you with. Bad news.”
“You know him?” Luther hid his excitement.
“Heard about it, but if you want to know how, you gonna have to pay my girl a premium, you know. And then she’ll fill you in.”
“How about you be my girl tonight?” asked Luther.
Sticky B took on an upset expression, and then she stepped back and threw out her arms. “Do I look like a ho to you? My flat-backin’ days are over. I am a playa, a mack, a big, bad-ass daddy with tits.” Her face flashed the angry look.
“I can see that, and I don’t mean any disrespect. What I meant to say was the information on the white man is valuable, and I don’t need to get it from a third party.”
Sticky B calmed down. “I see. That’s good, because if you got some of this, it would make you go blind anyway.” She laughed again and showed Luther the innocent and playful look.
Luther pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to Sticky B. She took the money, checked it, then pocketed it quickly.
“So what you wanna know?” asked Sticky B.
“The white man with the face, where did you see him?”
“I haven’t, but others have. He trying to hide and shit, but, you know, it’s only so much hidin’ a white man can do ’round here.”
“Did you talk to him?” Luther was taking it slowly. He had a feeling that Sticky B might be holding back.
“Oh, hell, no,” said Sticky B. “I heard that muthafucka sliced up two of Red’s crew. I don’t talk to nobody like that. But I do have an idea where he stays.”
Sticky B smiled the innocent smile at Luther. He expected her to extort more money out of him. He held out another hundred. She reached for it, and he pulled it back.
“If he isn’t there or hasn’t been there, or if he got wind of me coming and leaves, I’m coming back to see you.”
“My info is always good,” said Sticky B.
Luther gave her the money and waited. Sticky B checked the bill and turned back to Luther.
“Can’t be too sure these days,” she said. “Your man has been traveling between two different places. One is a cheap-ass motel, and the other’s a dope house. They don’t sell much there, mostly they just use. But they got protection.”
“They?” asked Luther
“Red’s people.”
It was standard mission procedure to have more than one safe house. Luther got the locations and left, repeating his reminder to Sticky B that she would see him again if the information wasn’t kosher.
“One last thing,” said Luther. “Who’s Red?”
“The only bitch in this city that’s badder than me.”
Luther filed away that last statement and then set out for the drug house. If Alex had a motel room, he would not stay there at night. It would be too dangerous. But at a drug house, there would be people looking out for the cops.
Luther went on foot, armed only with his P99 and a few of Hampton’s goodies. He moved carefully through the street, making sure to avoid dangerous-looking men and situations. All his time in E-1 had not robbed him of his street instincts. In fact, he believed that they’d been enhanced by his training.
Finally he came upon the drug house. It was an evil-looking abode, a two-story house that seemed as though it leaned to one side. There was people traffic around the place, and the people were of two kinds: sober-looking young men who cautiously glanced in all directions and tried feebly to hide the fact that they had guns; and lost, dream-walking people stumbling to get inside or away from the place.
Luther watched it from the side of an abandoned house halfway up the street. The night-vision monocular allowed him to see quite clearly the lost souls going in and out of the drug house.
Luther kept watch for more than an hour as the druggies, the dealers, and the young men who served as security engaged each other within their distorted sociology. He waited, remembering what Alex had taught him about patience. Luther could still see Alex at the training facility clad in his black fighting gear, could still hear his voice:
“Sometimes the best way to kill a target is to wait him out. You do nothing but pass the time thinking of the way you will dispatch him. In this regard you wait him to death.”
Another hour passed as the night grew deeper, and Luther had the strange feeling that in this desolate place, the night never ended.
And then he saw the wolf.
To anyone else he would have looked like your average deranged street citizen or perhaps a homeless man. But to Luther the straight back, the deliberate moves, the machinelike military gait, and
the cautious demeanor gave him away. It was Alex Deavers, his mentor and friend—the wolf.
Alex seemed to be buying something from two men who looked to be dealers. Alex passed bills and took a small plastic bag from one of the men. Luther imagined it had to contain drugs. Perhaps Alex was in pain, or maybe he’d completely gone off the deep end and was using. Suddenly the exchange turned heated. The men shouted at Alex, and he just watched them and backed away a little, an action that probably seemed weak to them, but Luther knew that Alex needed the distance to attack.
Luther could have gotten a clear shot from where he was, but he had not brought a rifle with him. He might have been able to hit Alex with the silenced P99 he carried, but if he missed, all hell would break loose, and he needed to kill Alex and take the body with him. There could be no loose ends.
Luther had to move. Finding Alex had been good detective work, but it was also part luck, and if Luther didn’t engage him this night, he might lose him. And once Alex knew that he was this close, he’d become even harder to find and dispose of.
Luther came out from his hiding place and began to walk toward Alex and the men from the other side of the street. He didn’t move too fast, nor did he move too slowly, which might be considered just as suspicious. He set his pace somewhere in the middle, with intent, as anyone might on this street.
Luther was halfway to them when it became clear that the trouble with Alex and the drug dealers was getting worse. One of the dealers pulled a gun and waved it in that juvenile manner dealers display when they’re trying to be bad.
It was not a good thing to pull a weapon on an E-1 agent if you did not intend to use it. Luther had only a second to act. Alex would surely attack, and things would get really dangerous on this cracked sidewalk. Luther quickened his pace, pulling his own weapon.
A second after Alex saw the dealer’s gun, he kicked it from the man’s hand, lifting it into the night. Then Alex hit the man in the throat with a blow that probably bent his windpipe. Another man grabbed Alex and pulled at him. The man ripped Alex’s coat, and Luther saw something fall from it. At the same time, a third man took a swing at Alex. Alex pushed himself back against the man holding him and kicked the swinging man in the face with both feet. For a moment Luther was mesmerized by Alex’s skill.
The Executioner's Game Page 8