The Executioner's Game by Gary Hardwick Page B

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.
    â€œSo what you wanna know?” asked Sticky B.
    â€œThe white man with the face, where did you see him?”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œDid you talk to him?” Luther was taking it slowly. He had a feeling that Sticky B might be holding back.
    â€œOh, 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 herto extort more money out of him. He held out another hundred. She reached for it, and he pulled it back.
    â€œIf 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.”
    â€œMy info is always good,” said Sticky B.
    Luther gave her the money and waited. Sticky B checked the bill and turned back to Luther.
    â€œCan’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.”
    â€œThey?” asked Luther
    â€œRed’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.
    â€œOne last thing,” said Luther. “Who’s Red?”
    â€œThe 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 oneside. 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:
    â€œSometimes 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