Dead Wood - By Dani Amore Page 0,9

man who loved and cherished his daughter above all else, including logic. He was a good man, but he was probably wrong.

It seemed like there was really one right decision here.

But you know, I’ve made so many fucking mistakes in my lifetime that one more wouldn’t hurt.

I would take the case.

Seven

London

The Spook was disappointed.

The investment banker’s apartment was extremely luxurious. Marble floors. Turkish rugs. Original artwork worthy, in some cases, of museums.

All of which didn’t surprise the Spook. After all, the banker had been skimming profits, stealing from the bank’s partners for years. From the dossier that had been given to him, the Spook learned the investment banker had pilfered nearly twenty million dollars. The man’s partners, some of whom had ties to various illegal activities themselves, were not happy. Undue attention in their business could prove to be lethal.

None of that disappointed or even interested the Spook. What upset him was the quality of the guitars. Surrounded by trappings of extreme wealth, the guitars were a joke. A run-of-the-mill Yamaha acoustic, a new Fender and that was about it. Even worse, the guitars were dusty and out of tune. The strings hadn’t been changed in ages. A disgrace.

The Spook was a guitar player. Although he loved his work, loved to get paid to kill people, he lived for music. The piercing wail of a bent third string, the soul shaking shudder of a bluesy vibrato, it moved him in ways nothing else could. He looked at the guitars and shook his head.

This man deserved to die.

The Spook checked his watch. The banker’s name was Gordon Springs and the Spook knew from countless hours of surveillance that he was due home in ten minutes. A routine that the man never failed to repeat, day after day, month after month. The human need for structure made the Spook’s job all that much easier.

He went to the nearest guitar, the Yamaha acoustic and picked it up from its holder. Finding a pick and a slide – one couldn’t very well perform intricate fingerwork wearing surgeon’s gloves – he tuned the guitar to an open G and played a few notes. It didn’t sound that great. The strings were very old and there was a rattle near the bridge. To the Spook, it was how a social worker must feel to hold a neglected baby.

He made some adjustments, then played the opening to “You Got The Silver” from Let It Bleed. One of his idol’s masterpieces of subtlety. No one could make a guitar do things the way Keith Richards could. Keith was more than just the famous guitarist of the infamous Rolling Stones, he was the Spook’s god. The Spook felt that what he was to the profession of assassins, Keith was to the profession of rock and roll.

He finished off the song and set the guitar back in its stand. The guitar pissed off the Spook. To be here, in London, Keith Richards’ home stomping grounds, and to see an apartment filled with expensive shit but mistreated guitars…well, it went against everything he believed in.

He checked his watch. Any minute now.

He went back to the guitar and turned the third string’s tuning key until the string itself began to sag and hang away from the body of the guitar. The Spook continued unwinding until he could pull the string through the tuning key’s hole, and then he popped the plastic peg that held the string in place at the center of the guitar’s body. When it was free, he took two kitchen towels, placed them in the palm of his hand, then wound an end of the string around each hand.

Moments later, he heard the key in the lock and he disappeared into the darkness of the apartment. He heard the door swing open, a pause, and then the door clicked shut. He heard Mr. Springs sigh. Relief at living another day without falling off the tightrope that is the criminal life. The Spook knew Mr. Springs had a mistress, a drinking problem and a severe lack of self-control, but he didn’t care. Mr. Springs wasn’t a person, he was simply an assignment.

The Spook listened as footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Then the footsteps stopped. The Spook knew exactly what the banker was doing.

He emerged from the shadows.

The banker stood in the kitchen, his back to the living room. The Spook had rented a flat directly across the street with a perfect view of Mr. Springs’ apartment. Because of this,