ACID VANILLA SERIES
BOOKS 1 - 3
Matthew Hattersley
Boom Boom Press
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Discover how Acid Vanilla transformed from a typical London teenager into the world’s deadliest female assassin.
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Making a Killer
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THE WATCHER
Book 1
i
Darkness.
Confusion.
A familiar taste of iron in the back of her throat.
Shit.
She fought herself awake, realising immediately she was on her knees with her hands tied behind her back. Not the best situation to find oneself in on waking.
Peering through the shadowy veil covering her face, all she could make out were vague shapes and distorted silhouettes. She did, however, notice her left eye was swollen shut. Which was when she remembered the rifle butt.
Oh shitting hell, the general.
It was all coming back to her.
“Hey, Ratty,” she gasped, fully conscious now and straining at the thick hessian sack covering her face. “You there?”
“Right beside you, kid. You hurt?”
“Not too bad,” she told him. “Where are we?”
“Some kind of cell.”
She struggled at her constraints. “I guess I went off script again.”
“You sure did. I mean, you might have pulled it off. If you had eleven arms.”
Images of the attack flashed across her mind. There’d been seven of them – mercenaries. She’d killed four before they overpowered her. Not bad going considering she’d been armed with only a pocketknife. She flinched, remembering something else.
“I want to speak to Ramos,” she called out into the room.
“Save it, bitch,” a man’s voice snarled. “The general is on his way.”
The general – General Luis Carvalho Ramos, to give him his full title – was a local politician and part-time gun-runner, whose approach had become too erratic and violent even for the corrupt officials here in Fortaleza. Considering the city was widely known as the murder capital of Brazil, that was saying something.
She shifted her awareness back to the room, slowly lifting her hands to her belt. The air was cool but stagnant, and she had a sense they were underground. With great care and the slightest of movements, she slid the push dagger from out of the concealed sheath in her belt. Whoever had tied her up had missed it. But everyone did.
Concentrating on moving only her wrists, she sawed at the thick rope. Like always, her senses were heightened. She heard noises outside the room. Heavy booted footsteps, coming their way.
A moment later the door crashed open and a voice boomed, “So, these are the pigs sent to kill me?”
The same voice as before answered him. “Yes sir. I’ve had run-ins with this organisation in the past whilst working detail for Al Shaitan in Sudan. They’re assassins. Elite killers.”
“Well, not elite enough, huh?”
“No, sir.”
“Let me see them.”
She flinched as the heavy sack was ripped from her head and Ramos loomed down at her. He was an old man, much older than his picture in her file, and with a disgusting, thin moustache that twitched as he spoke.
“Seems you aren’t as good as they say, bitch.” He grabbed her by the throat, forcing her to peer at him. “You might have killed four of my men, but the buck stops here. Who sent you?”
She smiled, exposing a set of blood-stained teeth. “I’m going to kill you,” she whispered.
Ramos laughed and leaned closer, his foul breath in her face. “No. I don’t think that’s going to happen.” He moved over to the back wall to join the remaining mercenaries. Four of them now, including the general. All armed.
She took long deep breaths, all the while sawing at the ropes around her wrist. She was almost through the first one. Thirty seconds more and she’d be free. If she had that long.
Ramos walked over and removed the bag from her partner, a large, muscular man with short hair dyed camouflage green and a plethora of silver rings running down the curve of each ear.
Ramos curled his lip. “What the fuck are you supposed to be?”
“Go to hell,” Davros Ratpack snarled back. Not so easy with a bust lip. “Just get it over with.”
“Oh no, amigo, I like to savour these moments,” Ramos sneered. He pointed a stubby finger her way. “She screwed you both, this one, huh? Crazy bitch. You know, I’ve half a mind to let one of you go – so you can tell the world that the great General Ramos cannot be killed.” He sighed, theatrically. “But I don’t think I will.”
She watched the soldiers as they bristled with readiness, leather-gloved fingers creaking on their triggers. No doubt they were all highly trained, with years of combat experience under their belts, but they were also overweight and pushing fifty. Two of them carried Walther MP submachine guns, and the other a Kalashnikov assault rifle (an AK-something-or-other, it was hard to tell with the light in her face). Ramos himself carried a Colt pistol, or perhaps an IBEL, the Brazilian-made equivalent. Either way it added up to a lot of firepower.
She kept going with the push dagger, fine-tuning her play. From this angle the soldier with the assault rifle would have to step back to take a shot. He’d be third. Ramos – who had now holstered his pistol and was lighting a fat cigar – fourth. She glanced at the soldiers holding the subs – one aimed at her, one at Davros – they’d be first and second. She bowed her head as one of the ropes fell away.
One to go.
Ramos blew a large plume of cigar smoke into the room and smirked. “So, tell me, who wants to die first? You? Or you?” He waved his finger between her and Davros, bathing jubilantly in their apparent fear.
“Why not both at once?” she replied, readying herself, almost through the last rope.
“Not a bad idea.”
He blew another large cloud into the room and turned to his men, about to give the order. But before any words could leave his mouth, she was on her feet.
She sprang forward and got between the muzzles of the two Walthers, slashing with the push dagger as she went and slicing a wide arc across the throats of both soldiers. Blood spurted from the open wounds as they stumbled forward, whilst in the same fluid movement she flung the push dagger into the skull of the soldier with the rifle, right between the eyes. He fell to the floor and she grabbed one of the Walthers, turning it on the solider carrying it before finishing off his friend. As the two men buckled against each other she rushed at Ramos – now frantically trying to release his gun from its holster. She grabbed him around the back of the head and with a violent jerk snapped his cervical vertebrae, killing him instantly.
As the great General Luis Carvalho Ramos dropped to the floor with a thud, she finally took a breath. Not bad going. All dead in under three seconds.
She walked over to her partner, a smirk forming. “What? You didn’t doubt me, did you?”
“Oh no. Not for a second,” he said. “You crazy mare.”
“You love me really.” She untied him and helped him to his feet. “Anyway, let’s get the hell out of here and back to Blighty. I’ll meet you outside. Don’t be long.”
Before he had a chance to reply, she slung one of the Walthers over her shoulder, shoved Ramos’ still smoking cigar in her mouth, and casually sashayed out of the room.
Job done.
Time for a celebratory drink.
One
The moon hung low over the rooftops of Pimlico, silhouetting the long-dead chimneys of the large town hou
ses in this part of London. Despite the recent rainfall, a sinister mist lingered in the air, giving the wide, empty streets an almost Victorian feel – as if Holmes and Watson might suddenly appear under one of the many lamp posts that studded the pavements. To further add to this anachronistic atmosphere, a 1963 S-Type Jaguar in racing green was parked on the corner of St George’s Square. Sitting inside, a man and woman watched the first-floor apartment of the building opposite, waiting for their night’s work to begin.
The woman (codename: Acid Vanilla) rested her forehead against the window and sighed. It was a long, drawn-out kind of sigh. The kind of sigh that would normally elicit query from a companion – perhaps asking after the sigher’s wellbeing – but not today. Not in this setting. Next to her, the man (codename: Banjo Shawshank) teased at his impressive moustache in the rear-view mirror.
“All I’m saying is, these days it’s hard to know what women want.” He twisted the ends of the moustache as he spoke, more than aware of the cliché. “To be honest, I don’t think they know themselves. That’s the problem.”
Acid Vanilla didn’t reply. Banjo had been talking incessantly for the last hour and she was getting antsy. The job should have been completed by now. Boxed off. She should be at home. She watched out the window as a woman in a Burberry overcoat waited for her dog to defecate at the foot of a tall tree. The woman looked to be a real piece of work. Nose in the air. Snooty. The dog just as much. On the tree, a sign read, Bag It & Bin It. A tenner said that wouldn’t happen.
“Take this graphic designer chick I was seeing a few weeks back,” Banjo continued. “One minute she’s all over me like Weinstein on a starlet. Pull my hair. Spank me. Then the next morning she gets needy because I won’t go for a walk up to Primrose Hill. I got out of there sharpish, I can tell you. Talk about mixed messages. You see what I mean? Hey, Acid. You listening to me?”
Acid shifted her focus to two droplets of rainwater on the other side of the glass and watched as they zig-zagged to the bottom of the pane where one engulfed the other to form a larger droplet. Then they disappeared into the foam abyss between the window and the doorframe.
“Yeah, mixed messages,” she murmured. “Awful. You should write a blog post about it.”
“Oh. My. God. Have you heard yourself? No one writes blogs these days. Jesus.”
Over by the tree, the dog finished its business and the woman led it away, leaving a steaming pile of turds in their wake. Acid smirked to herself. She was good at reading other people. Always had been. It was just herself she had problems with.
She scanned the street. “Where the bloody hell is he? You sure this is the correct address?”
Banjo leaned over her and eyeballed the building. “Yep, Raaz confirmed it. Says he gets home between half eight and ten. So anytime now.”
A familiar prickle of annoyance tickled Acid’s nerves. Technology’s encroachment on the industry. She pined for the good old days. When fieldwork was visceral and exciting. More dangerous too, but she liked that. You had to think on your feet, keep your wits about you. Scrapes happened, sure, but how you got out of them sharpened you, prepared you for the next job. These days it was all too safe, too regimented. Off-site tech-wizards like Raaz Terabyte analysed every eventuality, saw problems before they happened. Acid wasn’t a Luddite, she understood the importance of technology. But this wasn’t the life she’d signed up for.
She clicked open the polished walnut glove box and pulled out a photo. The guy wasn’t a looker. In fact, this might be the most average-looking face Acid had ever seen. The hair was average-length, mousy, parted to one side. Under that was a pair of average eyes, an average nose, lips, ears. John Brown. Even his name was average.
Still, his actions recently were anything but. John Brown had a list of crimes a page long: fraud, embezzlement, blackmail, mistreatment of illegal workers. But the main reason for Acid and Banjo being here tonight was that he’d royally screwed over his business partner and was now systematically destroying his reputation too. Not to mention stealing a client list worth well over eight figures.
Understandably, none of this had gone down too well with the business partner, Brian Rand, and he wanted revenge. Wanted it in the most bloody and painful way possible. So he’d done his research, asked around in his secret gentlemen’s clubs, spoke to people with knowledge of the sort of service he was after – nefarious businessmen, Russian oligarchs – and one name cropped up time and again. The best in the business for what Rand required.
Annihilation Pest Control.
Which was how Acid Vanilla and Banjo Shawshank came to be outside John Brown’s apartment building on this cold September evening.
Acid glanced at Banjo. “Are you ready to move? Soon as we get eyes on him?”
“Relax, babe. I have done this before.”
“Well focus, please. And quit the cute talk, okay?”
Acid shoved the photo back in the glove box and removed her trusty Glock 19 along with a suppressor and push dagger. Banjo watched her with a stupid grin on his face.
She arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “What now?”
“I can’t believe you’re still using that hunk of metal.”
“It’s not let me down yet.”
She screwed the suppressor onto the end of the gun as Banjo pulled out his own pistol, a Colt M1911, and held it in the light coming from the streetlamp.
“Now this – this is a real man’s weapon.” He peered down the length of the barrel.
“A real man?” Acid said. “Hmm. Wonder where we can find one, this time of night.”
It took him a second to register. “Get lost. You know you want me.”
“Sure I do.”
Banjo was starting up again, bemoaning the lack of decent masculine role models in modern literature, when Acid shushed him down.
“I think that’s him. There, with the briefcase.”
A man had emerged from the small grassy area on the opposite side of the street. They watched as he scurried down the side of a black Mercedes SUV. Then he scurried up the short flight of steps that led to the building and frantically pushed his key into the lock. A security light came on, highlighting his dumpy potato face.
“That’s him.” Acid zipped her leather jacket. “Give it five, then we’ll move. You ready?”
“I’m always ready.” Banjo winked at her. “Ready for you anytime.”
Acid fingered the trigger of the Glock, imagining how good it would feel to put a bullet through her colleague’s cheek. Caesar wouldn’t be happy, but it’d be worth it. She looked at her watch. Maybe later.
“Come on, lover boy.” She slapped Banjo on his skinny-jeaned thigh. “Time to go to work.”
Two
John Brown closed the door of his grand first-floor apartment and locked it behind him. It felt good to be home after the day he’d had. He’d met with solicitors, board members, investors. Plus a lengthy Skype call with the CEO of Executive Armour, the personal security firm he’d hired to provide him round-the-clock protection. Just until the dust settled. One couldn’t be too careful.
He went through into the bedroom and undressed. The plan now was a hot shower, order some take-out from the Thai Garden, and then bed. Ready for tomorrow. That’s when Brown would put his final piece of the plan into play. Framing Rand for insider trading and getting the swine sent down for good. That’d teach him, and that bitch Vanessa.
He twisted the dial on the shower unit and stepped under, enjoying the sensation of the hot water on his skin. All the stressful planning and illicit meetings these last few months. It had been worth it. He shoved his face under, willing the powerful jets to wash his troubles away. But then he heard a noise.
“Hello?” John switched off the shower and lifted his ear. “Who’s there?”
He reached for a towel and wrapped it around himself. It was music he could hear, but with the door closed all he could make out was the rise and fall of the bass. Felt it more than heard it. He eased ope
n the bathroom door and stepped into the bedroom, where the unmistakable voice of Chris Rea came echoing from down the corridor. The Road to Hell.
“Who’s there?” John Brown shouted, wishing his voice didn’t sound so shaky. “Whoever you are, please leave.”
Executive Armour had controls in place for situations like this. A panic button app triggered by the volume buttons on his phone. But John had been rather flippant about the situation and had not installed it yet. Either way, his phone was in the kitchen.
“I have people on their way,” he called out. “Security people.”
Nothing. He was half-way to the lounge now. The door was ajar. He craned his neck, trying to see in the room without moving closer. He realised now it was The Road to Hell Part Two he could hear, the single version. He’d been a huge Chris Rea fan since his teenage years. Had seen him play live eight times. Though right now he wished he was listening to anything else. Wished he had his phone on him. Wished he’d installed that damn app.
“Take what you want and leave me alone,” he shouted through the door. “I don’t want any trouble.”
John Brown wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see when he poked his head nervously around the corner of his front room. But it certainly wasn’t the strange-looking pair who were sitting on his brand-new Darlings of Chelsea couch. On seeing John, the male half of the duo stood and pointed a large handgun at his face. “Johnny Boy. There you are.”
The man was in his late twenties, and made-up in that old-fashioned style typical of the East End art crowd. Not that John Brown ventured east much these days. Not if he could help it.
The man gestured behind him at the stereo. “You don’t mind me putting Chris on, do you? It’s a classic.”
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 1