The Executioner's Game (2 page)

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 comfort 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.

Haklim's agents were smart, intuitive men. One of them had found Luther's little camera mounted in the hotel wall. Luther had been watching them and recording everything they did and said when one of them noticed the camera and ripped it from the wall.

The agents had to know from their own training that the surveillance room must be nearby, and they quickly found Luther's room one floor up.

The men moved about the room, and Luther's visual-contact device, or VCD, followed them. It looked like a cheap hotel table lamp, but encased within its domed black head was a camera with a 360-degree viewing capacity. Its transmission went directly to his Tiger Eyes, which looked like normal dark glasses.

Haklim would be quick to find him, so Luther made sure that all the information he had was saved and stored away while the agents were bursting into every room on the floor. Then he set the VCD, put on the sunglasses, and stepped into the wall space, careful to hide any tracks to it he might have left. He was safe for the time being, but he had only seconds to surprise them.

The agents chattered in some Arabic dialect, one of the ones
Luther didn't understand. Then, sure enough, a tall man with a shaved head broke away from the other two and walked over to a closet. He pointed his weapon at the closed door and spoke in English:

“We have you, my friend,” said the bald man. “Come out.” He waited a moment and then fired into the closet. The Uzi popped softly but got a little louder toward the end of the spray. It was hard to silence a pistol so compact and powerful. The bald man opened the door but found no one inside.

Luther felt that it was time. His muscles tightened, and when the men turned, they would begin to search the walls, and he would be found.

Luther took off the Tiger Eyes, pushed open the wall, and swung into the room, pulling out a silenced Namor 48, a new agency weapon that was sleeker and shot faster than the Uzi. The Namor's bullets were about the same size as those of a regular .45, but the casings were made of an aluminum-steel alloy, based on the Agency's old DH-9s, that literally exploded on impact. The Namor was an efficient killer and left ballistics experts little to trace when the corpses were analyzed.

Luther's feet hit the floor in the room, and his first shots got the two men who were grouped together. The Namor coughed hollowly, and a spray of bullets struck them each in the head. The two men twisted, crumpling into each other and falling to the floor.

Before they were eliminated, Luther saw for the first time that one of them was in fact a woman. But even if he had known this, he wouldn't have changed his tactics. Any woman in Haklim would kill just as quickly as a man.

The third man, the unlucky one, had his gun up, but Luther
had already angled to one side and was stooping. The man was caught off balance, and the Uzi pistol had a nasty pull that always left you off target. His shots sailed a good foot over Luther's left shoulder.

Luther had already pulled his other sidearm, a Walther P99, and sent a single shot into the third man's gun hand. It exploded in a misting of red. The Uzi he held dropped to the floor with a clatter. Luther hadn't used the Namor because he needed this man alive.

Luther quickly shot the fallen man and woman again in the head, then went to the third man, who had fallen to his knees. With his good hand, the injured man reached into his pants for something.

Luther ran over to the fallen man and snapped a kick into his ribs, hearing the bones crack wetly. The man grunted hard, his lungs expelling air. Luther grabbed his good arm and wrenched it forward; then, with all his weight, he dropped a knee into the elbow, breaking it. It made another sick sound as the man yelled. Luther hit him hard in the jaw, stopping the noise.

Luther then pulled a cloth from his pocket and stuffed it into the man's mouth, pushing the thick fabric until he felt it going down the man's throat. The man continued to yell in pain.

The Haklim were reported to store poison capsules in their jaws, and Luther didn't want to take the chance that the man would swallow his. He had to take one of them back alive, since he hadn't gotten all the information he needed. This man would have to do.

Luther quickly tied up the man's arms, taking care to put a tourniquet on the bleeding one. The broken arm flopped sadly as he tied it to the bloody one.

He pulled out a hypodermic needle and administered a shot to the man, whose body instantly went completely limp. Luther took the cloth from the man's throat and checked his mouth. His teeth appeared normal, except for one molar that looked unhealthy. It gave way easily. Luther popped the tooth out of his jaw, and sure enough a tiny black capsule was tucked under the fake molar. Luther took out the capsule and popped it into a small plastic bag. The agency would want to analyze it, perhaps make an antidote to the poison for future missions.

Luther stood in the middle of the carnage for a moment. At six-two, his long frame was angular, and even though he was fully clothed, you could see the muscles of his finely toned body. Absently the thought crossed his mind that he was hungry and hadn't eaten since early that morning.

Luther went into the closet and removed the mission case he'd hidden in the back. It was a large black steamer trunk with wheels. He stuffed the third man's unconscious body into it. Then he packed away all their weapons and his VCD. He had to move. The noise of Haklim's searching and the ensuing fight would have attracted attention.

Luther took out a small cell phone, an odd-looking oval thing called an Ion that served many functions. He punched in a series of codes. The phone clicked a few times as it established a link with the agency's secure network.

“Twelve, six,” said Luther. His voice was a mildly raspy baritone, a distinctive voice that he had learned to disguise when need be. It sounded rather loud in the silence of the room. He lowered it ever so slightly.

“Status?” said a voice on the radio.

“Seven,” said Luther. “Cargo coming. Request cleanup.”

“Authorized,” said the voice. “Proceed to blue.”

Luther turned off the Ion. He took out a gray box from his mission case and opened it. He removed a container and poured a brownish liquid over the two dead men. Then he set their bodies on fire. The flames quickly spread up the walls and across the floor.

Luther wheeled his hidden captive out of the hotel as fire alarms sounded and the building was evacuated. People rushed around him as he calmly and quickly rolled his cargo from the building.

Black smoke wafted into the bright morning sky as Luther pushed the suitcase holding the third man to his truck. Mentally he chastised himself for the mistakes he'd made. He had obviously not hidden his camera well enough. Even his cleanup had been sloppy, although the compound he poured on the dead men would reduce their bodies to ashes, making them incapable of being identified. He'd made mistakes, but he hadn't been exposed, and his duty would be discharged.

Luther moved toward what looked to be an American family on vacation. The commotion had gotten their attention, and they were walking toward the hotel. The father was a portly man of about forty or so, accompanied by a soccer-mom wife and two towheaded kids of about ten or so. Luther walked closer to them and was surprised when the father looked at him and spoke.

“Excuse me. Do you know what's going on?” he asked excitedly.

“
J'ai entendu qu'un incendie s'est déclaré au premier étage!
” said Luther excitedly in French.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” said the father in that loud way Americans
have when they find out that everyone in the world doesn't speak English. “Sorry.”

Luther nodded stupidly, and the family moved on. Luther smiled and continued on his own way. He was a half mile down the road when there was an explosion in the hotel, completing his mission.

Luther drove quickly through the streets of the city, thinking about the dying man in his trunk. He did not want to drive recklessly and be stopped by the locals, so he was careful to obey any posted limits.

Stockholm was a beautiful place, filled with historic sites and architectural wonders. He drove his Mercedes through a thriving marketplace close to Hammarby Sjöstad, the city's largest housing project. Stockholm had many government-funded housing projects, and unlike the ones in the United States, they were sought-after places of style and comfort.

Luther rounded a corner and headed toward Natasha's, a local eatery that fronted for the agency and served as its sector safe house.

He pulled his vehicle to the back of the place, cursing under his breath as he slowed to a crawl in the alley. The streets and passageways in Europe were so damned narrow. And of course the agency would have given him an SUV to drive on this mission.

Luther got out and wheeled his cargo past some men unloading a food truck. He quickly headed for the bowels of the basement. When he got down there, Luther faced a dark brick wall with an old wooden door. He pulled out the Ion and hit a button, and a thin shaft of red light erupted from the end. Luther scanned that wall with the laser until it found a matching laser source in a brick about a foot over his head. The light sources met, and something behind the wooden door hummed. Luther stood back as it opened, revealing the CIA's safe house.

The Agency doctors and med techs took the prisoner and administered emergency procedures. They set the broken arm and began to work on the shattered, bleeding hand.

“You guys are so damned messy,” said a doctor to Luther.

“He's alive,” said Luther. “Keep him that way.” Even he could hear the tense tone of his voice. The doctor regarded Luther briefly then and started to work faster.

Behind the dark wall, the safe house was clean, bright, and sterile. When agents came, you never knew whether they would walk in with a shopping bag and a smile or with a bleeding, dying hostage. The staff was prepared for anything.

The hallway was wide and long; the walls and floor were white and plain. A security camera was posted in a corner at the end of the hallway by an inner entrance.

“How much did you give him?” the doctor asked Luther.

“Only ten cc's,” he responded.

“Good. There won't be a danger of cardiac arrest,” said the doctor, almost to himself.

Luther stood back as a gurney was brought out and the prisoner was placed on it and whisked away.

“You're on the local news,” said a voice through a speaker near the camera.

“Couldn't be avoided,” said Luther. “I caught a seven.”

“Sloppy,” said the voice. “I'd never let that happen to me.”

“That's because the hard work is left to the professionals.”

“Come on in, Luther,” said the voice. “I'll buy you a drink. You're gonna need it.”

 

Marcellus Hampton was an extremely unassuming man. He was thirty years old, stood five foot eight inches tall, and had dark brown hair and a face with features that were neither handsome nor homely. He was the kind of guy who blended in anywhere he went. He might be an American, a European, an aristocrat, or white trash.

But Hampton's eyes told a different story. They possessed an energy that said there was more to this ordinary-looking man than one might think. Hampton was a certified genius. He had enrolled in college at age twelve, had graduated with an advanced degree from MIT at fourteen and after that from the prestigious and very secret government technology school in Maine, Seacrest Academy.

Hampton amazed all his teachers as he went beyond their every expectation. His parents were at first shocked and then happy when he proved exceptional, especially his father, a lifetime military man. Their happiness ended when it was apparent that the government was going to take custody of their genius son. They made peace with it once the checks started to arrive monthly. Hush money. And it was better than going to sleep and waking up in a security facility.

After Hampton completed Seacrest, he decided to work for the CIA, turning down NASA, the FBI, the NSA, and the Orion Think Tank in London. Hampton loved technology and information, and when the Agency called, he was very eager to go, since the CIA was known to be in the forefront of all technological advances. He was there only a year before he was recruited into E-1, the ultrasecret agency that employed both him and Luther Green.

Hampton was a TWA, or tech and weapons adviser. He helped an agent coordinate and plan his mission and worked as a field assistant and backup if needed. Luther had worked with many TWAs, but Hampton was the best. They'd been working together for five years now and had become good friends.

Hampton poured Luther a glass of sweet brandy in his office. It was a spacious room, not unlike those occupied by big-time CEOs. The office had nice furnishings, but none of them belonged to Hampton. He was a tenant in this place. The only things he'd brought were pictures of his parents and his current girlfriend, a willowy blonde who stood an inch taller than he.

“Anything I should know about this one?” asked Hampton.

“It'll all be in my report,” said Luther. “The one I brought in should know something that will help us crack the Haklim.”

“So how did you blow your cover?” asked Hampton.

“They found my camera in the wall. I didn't hide it well enough. Tell me why I need this,” said Luther, referring to the drink.

“Director Gray called,” said Hampton. “We're needed back in the U.S.”

Kilmer Gray was the director of E-1. He was one of the most
important men in government, and if he wanted to see you, it was always urgent.

“Any idea why?” Luther was curious. He took a sip of his drink.

“No,” said Hampton. “You know the director's motto: Secrets live—”

“Or people die,” Luther finished.

“I do know that the agency's computer system has been siphoning a lot of information from domestic police organizations here and abroad in the last month or so, but anyone could find that out,” said Hampton.

Luther felt a familiar sense of frustration. It was not uncommon to be summoned for duty, but information was always scarce in the agency, and each assignment seemed to come by ambush. No matter how he tried, he could not get used to this.

“Director Gray wants you back ASAP,” said Hampton. “I have to stay here and get whatever information I can from your captive today. I'll follow as soon as I'm done. All your papers and travel plans are ready. You leave tomorrow, traveling under the name Tennison.”

Luther said good-bye to his friend and left for his quarters. He moved through the quiet hallways, listening to the click of his own footfalls on the floor. The muffled music from Natasha's was distant above him. That was the life of an agent, he thought, just inches away from real life.

Luther walked into his suite, a well-appointed and very comfortable room. He ate some leftovers from a minifridge, then got into bed and settled in. He opened his suitcase and took out his collection of CDs. Luther's musical tastes were eclectic. Music should be pure, he thought, and that kind of music was rare nowadays.

Luther's music collection was divided into two sections. He flipped past the rap section, passing Cee-Lo, Nas, and a Tribe Called Quest and moving to the classical section. He took out
Favourite Piano Sonatas by Vladimir Ashkenazy
and put it in the room's CD player. Soon the soothing sounds of Beethoven's Adagio sostenuto in C-sharp filled the room.

There was a correlation between rap and the classics, he believed. Not in style but passion. The masters' music was filled with strong emotion, as was the best of hip-hop. But he never listened to rap after a mission. That was premission music. After his having risked his life, only the classics could lull him to sleep and allow him to forget the dark side of his occupation.

Luther closed his eyes and let the music move through him. What kind of world could produce such beauty as Beethoven and the horror that was the Haklim? And what kind of man was he? He'd killed two of them, severely wounded another, and settled in for the night as if he'd just had a pizza, some beer and bowled ten frames.

But this was the way of E-1. The disciplines of the agency made you a killer but told you that you were upholding the law. This ran the risk that agents might come to believe they were above the laws they upheld. This is why the agency made philosophy part of its order. Eventually this philosophy led to a set of rules that governed agents on a mission. The E-1 rules, all 224 of them, covered every aspect of mission behavior. But they were as much moral code as procedure. They taught an agent to take life, but only in the protection of freedom, and to respect that this power was derived from the will of greater authority.

Luther relaxed and tried to let go of the many disturbing thoughts in his head. His mission in Sweden was finished, and
now, like any good agent, he was thinking forward to the next. Part of him wanted to go out into the city and have a little fun. The Swedes loved to party, and he admitted that he was missing female companionship these days. Even Beethoven couldn't make up for that.

He let go of this desire and stayed in bed as the next track started to play. He'd let Ludwig put him to sleep, and he'd leave the dangers of tomorrow for tomorrow.