Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,21

perfect opportunity. Selecting the absolutely most pristine time and place. And then delivering the knockout blow with strength, speed and deadly aim.

It was like a beautiful melody to him that ended in a blazing crescendo of blood and violence, capped off by the silent applause of a roaring crowd inside his head.

His second love was Keith Alvin Richardson, lead guitarist for the Rolling Stones. The Human Riff, they called him. The man who constantly carried around five or six new songs in his head. If you stopped him in the street, he’d be in the middle of constructing a new song at that very moment.

He was the heart and soul of the Stones.

Granted, Mick had something to do with it. But common wisdom held that Mick was a cold fish.

They said that while Mick thought it, Keith felt it.

For The Spook, whose own profession required a detached frostiness, he longed to be like Keith, for his job required him to be Mick. Keith’s riffs spoke to the Spook. The sexy wail of “Honky Tonk Women,” the anthemic call of “Satisfaction.” They all kindled a flame in the Spook’s soul. He could relate to those riffs. To those sudden bursts of inspiration.

Now, in his hotel room, he slid the fingertips of his left hand slowly up the fretboard of his Fender. The little Pignose amp responded smoothly and quietly. As much as the Spook would have loved to crank it up, it wasn’t the time nor the place.

In his apartment in London, he had a soundproof studio in which he would sit for hours and play Keith’s riffs, his riffs, over and over again, until he had a welt on his chest from the Fender digging in.

The thought of his London flat brought back wonderful memories for the Spook. When the Spook had first gone to London almost fifteen years ago, after quietly leaving the CIA and going freelance, he’d immediately set out for Keith’s childhood neighborhood. The Spook was supposed to be scouting out his target, some ambassador from Libya who his client had deemed it was necessary to terminate.

Instead, the Spook had gone sightseeing. He had gone down to Corningwall Road. Found the ramshackle little house where Keith had spent his first ten years.

The Spook had soaked it up. Had imagined young Keith running around, his wicked smile and nasty vibrations welling up inside him. It had been a truly glorious, happy time for the Spook. On his own, free of the rules and regulations the CIA had imposed upon him. A free agent. Gun for hire.

Now, back in his hotel room, The Spook bowed his head and slipped into the rhythmic chords of “Beast of Burden.”

As he played, his boots tapped the thick carpet of his hotel room. He lost himself in the beauty of the evocation. In his mind, he was on stage at Wembly. Mick was in front, strutting across the stage. Ronnie was to his right, smiling, strolling. Wyman was in the back, trying to not be noticed. And Charlie was playing with intensity, his face a mask of indifference.

The Spook’s fingers slid carelessly along the strings. His right hand tamped the strings, creating a playful syncopation.

What a thing, the Spook thought. To be born to do something. That was the ticket. Keith had been born to write and play music. God had opened his brain and poured in all the ability he could handle.

The Spook had a born talent. Killing people was his reason for existence. Each and every one had been a virtuoso performance. He knew this instinctively. It wasn’t arrogance or boastfulness. He was the best there was. He knew it. And those who were in the know, knew it, too.

In the middle of the song’s bridge, the phone rang, but the Spook kept playing. If it was important, they’d call back.

Besides, he had an inkling what the phone call was about.

Or, more accurately, who it was all about.

He smiled at the thought.

I’m just waitin’ on a friend.

The Spook closed his eyes, and felt the music in him while his mind raced ahead to the thought of who he would most likely kill next.

His old friend.

John Rockne.

Fourteen

My plan was to be like a desperate prostitute; loud, aggressive and unwilling to take no for an answer. How’s that for a positive self-image?

Nevada Hornsby clearly wasn’t interested in talking to me. After all, what kind of guy would have no interest in nude native island girls and a year’s supply of Turkey Jerky?

I pulled