Free The Executioner's Game by Gary Hardwick Page B

removed his sidearm, a 9mm Baby Eagle, and made sure it was loaded.
    Luther took a few steps away, then spoke. “You got me?” he asked.
    â€œYep,” said Hampton, and Luther heard him clearly in a small earpiece he wore.
    Luther took his P99 and proceeded back to the building where Kraemer had gone on foot. He was wearing jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. He’d fit right in.
    Luther walked the three blocks back to the building. With each step he grew more energized and more dangerous. The ghetto was just another kind of mission terrain, he reasoned. London, Prague, or East Baltimore—the mission was the same, and the rules and objectives still applied.
    â€œIf Deavers isn’t here, as you suggest,” said Hampton, “we only need minimal effort.”
    â€œAnd what the hell does that mean?” asked Luther.
    â€œTry not to kill anyone,” said Hampton.
    â€œNot making any promises.”
    As Luther approached the building, he hoped the Volvo would still be there. It was. The two men were still watching the car, but now they were on the stoop of the building.
    Luther saw that they were hard street types, the kind of men who’d probably do anything for money. He debated buying them off but didn’t trust them to take his bribe. In most cases guys like this would just decide to rob him and stay loyal to their employer, in which case he’d have to kill them. He didn’t want that. Still, he would have to engage them in order to find out why Kraemer was in this neighborhood and in this building.
    â€œTwo men in my way,” said Luther.
    The street was desolate. It still smelled like some kind of trap, but Luther pressed on. He moved closer, and the two men saw him. If one of them bolted for the building, he’d have to move fast. But they didn’t. To them Luther was just another brotherfrom the ’hood, someone they had no fear of. They had beaten and probably killed men who looked more dangerous than Luther. The men had no way of knowing that the man walking toward them could bring quick and sudden death.
    One of them stood. He was of medium build and appeared to be only twenty or so. The other man was bigger and looked much more dangerous. That’s the one Luther wanted. In multiple-adversary combat, it was axiomatic that the larger of the two was usually the greater threat. If Luther could subdue the big man, the smaller one would feel vulnerable and would be easier to defeat. And it was always best to expend your freshest energy on the bigger man.
    Luther stopped a few feet from the standing man. He was wearing an Orioles baseball cap and a dirty gray T-shirt. The bigger man was wearing a blue Phat Farm sweatshirt. He just sat and watched, scowling.
    â€œKeep walkin’, nigga,” said the man in the gray shirt. His voice was thin but measured and very confident. “Nuthin’ for ya ’round here, playa.”
    Luther remained silent. And he did keep walking, right over to the other man. The big man stood up, but before he could react, Luther moved in and delivered a slashing blow to his throat. The man grabbed his neck, and Luther swept his legs from under him. The big man fell and hit the stoop hard, his head slamming on the bottom step. He was still clutching his neck and bleeding a little from the side of his head.
    Luther had turned while sweeping the big man, and when he was done, he faced Mr. Gray Shirt. The smaller man was reaching into his pants. Luther pulled his P99 and held it right in front of the man’s face. Gray Shirt stopped, and Luther easily disarmed him of the gun he’d been going for.
    Luther pushed Gray Shirt toward the fallen man and then pulled the fallen man’s gun from his waistband. He put both guns into the pouch of his sweatshirt.
    â€œYou a cop?” asked Gray Shirt.
    â€œThe white man,” said Luther, ignoring him. “Who is he, and why is he here?”
    â€œFuck you,” said