The Executioner's Game by Gary Hardwick Page A

Hampton. “So if he’s here, maybe what he took is what led him to Philly.”
    â€œThe 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.”
    â€œAgreed,” said Hampton. “Kilmer is calling in tomorrow morning for progress. Let’s have some good news for him.”
    â€œWe will.”
    Luther removed his transmitter and started to get out of the Ford.
    â€œWait. What are you doing?” Hampton demanded.
    â€œIf I’m going to get information, I can’t look like I’m wired,” said Luther.
    â€œNo,” said Hampton. “Don’t take me out of communication. Most of the street people won’t even see it.”
    â€œCan’t take that chance.”
    â€œThen I’ll send a transmission to your Ion at intervals; just send one back.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œYou wanna talk to me about bid’ness? I can do that,” said Sticky, “but anything else smells like a muthafuckin’ cop to me.”
    â€œIf I was a cop, I would have busted you by now,” said Luther.
    â€œFor 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.”
    â€œOkay,” said Luther. “I’m interested in a girl.”
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œI’m looking to pay a girl for sex tonight,” said Luther. “You satisfied?”
    â€œI am. Shit, I don’t watch Law & Order for my health, baby. So what you looking for?”
    â€œA 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.
    â€œA girl I can handle,” she said, “but the white man I can’t help you with. Bad news.”
    â€œYou know him?” Luther hid his excitement.
    â€œHeard 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.”
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œI can see that, and I don’t mean any