She returned to looking out the window, at the imposing structure of Battersea Power Station, now more of a shell than a building. Rumour was they were turning the shell into high-end apartments. That’d be about right, Acid thought. Soon enough the whole of London would be high-end apartment blocks. That and Tesco Metros, maybe the odd Subway restaurant. The people born here were being priced out of their own city. Like Acid and her mum had been all those years ago. It’s what happened. Progress, they called it. She looked at the clock above the rear-view mirror.
“Is that the right time?”
Banjo looked, then at his Rolex. “Yep, we’re going to be late.” He stepped on the gas.
Eleven
Beowulf Caesar was not a happy man. Two days ago he’d been in sunny Monaco, meeting with an Omani oil baron and completing plans to rid him of a troublesome rival. They’d drunk well, eaten well, the whole trip spent in luxury. Now he was back in miserable rainy England, having to deal with idiotic operatives who should know better.
“Bloody buggering piss.”
He stood in the large bay window that looked out over the vast grounds of Kennington Place. It was a nice day outside – sunny for the time of year – but Caesar rarely left HQ in the daytime these days. He hadn’t done since they’d moved operations here a year earlier. A move he’d been regretting lately. Kennington Place was a magnificent country house that Caesar had acquired a few years back that stood in the beautiful surrounds of Royal Tunbridge Wells. It was grand, extravagant, and most importantly set the right tone for visiting clients. But Caesar missed London. Missed the fine dining, the expensive boutiques. Missed the beautiful boys of Soho, too.
There was a knock on the door. Caesar walked back behind his desk and composed himself. He was a large man in both height and girth. Especially since he’d taken a more sedentary, executive role in the organisation. But he liked to think the extra weight only made him more intimidating.
He placed his cane on the desk. “Enter.”
The door opened and Acid Vanilla strode in with her head high and her chest out. “Morning, boss. You wanted to see us?”
Banjo Shawshank followed on behind, dragging his Cuban heels on the antique crimson carpet. Caesar didn’t look at either of them but gestured for them to sit in the two chairs facing his desk. They did as instructed, watching quietly as Caesar went through a well-played-out show of tortured contemplation. He liked to make his operatives sweat. He moved over to his large, leather-topped desk and placed both hands down, leaning over to speak to them.
“Tell me, chaps. How do you think it went last night? And before you say anything, I’ve already spoken to Doris this morning. So choose your words very fucking carefully.”
Acid opened her mouth but Banjo beat her to it. “Yeah. About that. What happened was, there was this neighbour… Bloody nuisance he was.” He spoke fast, jittery. “We were all set. Waiting for the facial ID software to give us a match, and he bangs on the door, screaming the place down. We had to let him in. Didn’t we, Acid?”
Caesar considered Acid Vanilla as she folded her arms and huffed. She would have had this handled in a quick minute, but Banjo was digging a hole for them both. He saw her eyes drift to his cane, taking in the ornate Chinese carvings down the sides. Caesar had had it commissioned from a weapons expert in Bangkok a few years earlier. Acid had been the one sent to collect it. So she knew it wasn’t simply a cane. A sharp blade was concealed at one end and a Taser at the other.
“We’ve got them both sitting there, freaking out, and we didn’t know what to do,” Banjo went on. “Then out of nowhere the neighbour screams, tries to get my gun off me. I don’t know what happened but my gun went off, shot him in the face.”
Caesar paused a moment, then got to his feet and prowled around the room, coming up behind his two operatives. “Banjo, stand for me, will you?”
Banjo swallowed loudly, showing his hand. He stood up.
“How long have you been working here now, Banjo?” Caesar asked.
“Two-two years.”
“Two-two years? What, is that four?”
Another loud swallow. “No. Two years, boss.”
“Hmm. Not that long. But you enjoy working for me? For my organisation?”
“Sure do. This is the elite. The only place to work if you’re a hired kil—” He stopped himself in time. Luckily for him. Caesar wasn’t fond of that term, he thought it gauche, too on the nose. Banjo coughed. “If you’re a pest controller, I mean. An eradication expert.”
“Tell me again, Mr Shawshank, what happened last night?”
“I-I’ve told you. We ran into a small issue. But we got the job done. The mark was eradicated. It would have gone like clockwork if the facial recognition system hadn’t crashed.”
Caesar gave a forced cough. “Oh, so it’s not your fault. It’s my fault. It’s Raaz’s fault. Shall we get her in here, see what she has to say for herself?”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I was only trying to point out: last night was a series of mishaps that happened beyond our control. No one’s to blame.”
“You are to blame!” Caesar yelled. “This is on you. And it’s on her. So please tell me again: who is to blame?”
“But I… If it was…”
Before Banjo had a chance to formulate the right words, Caesar lunged forward and jabbed the Taser into his neck. The skinny fool vibrated in mid-air for a few seconds then fell, banging his head on the back of the chair and knocking himself unconscious.
Caesar looked at Acid. “Silly me. Wrong end.”
“Sorry about him, Caesar,” she said, sitting upright. “He’s cocky. But he’ll learn.”
Caesar returned to his chair and placed the cane on the desk, pointed straight at her. “Maybe he will. But I’m already tired of talking about this.”
He looked out the window and ran his hand over his bald head, drumming his stubby fingers against the layer of fatty muscle where his cranium met his neck.
“You’ve been getting sloppy, my dear.” He glared at her. She went to speak but he waved her down. “I’m not just talking about last night. I’ve noticed a distinct lack of focus in you recently.”
Acid looked at her hands. “I need a holiday. Get my head together. I was planning on speaking to you about it. Even before last night. Before you called us in. It’s not an excuse.”
Caesar chewed at the inside of his cheek. “You’re not losing your edge, are you?”
“Come on, Caesar. Do you honestly believe that?”
“I don’t want to. But here you are telling me you need a holiday. Need? Like some pathetic civilian who’s been working too hard on the spreadsheets. Oh boo-fucking-hoo.”
“It’s not like that,” she told him. “We all need rest now and again. Even you. I make it sixty-one jobs I’ve done so far this year. That’s fifteen more than any other operative. Give me a few weeks off and, I swear, I’ll be my old self again. I’ll work right through to the new year. Deal?”
“Deal?” Caesar growled. “Do you think you’re in a position to make deals presently?”
Acid held up her hands. “Bad choice of words. But I’ll be a much more efficient employee once I’ve had a few weeks of rest and recuperation.”
Caesar glanced again to the window. “Fine, take two weeks. Do what you have to do.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Now piss off before I change my mind.” He waved her away. “Keep me informed of your whereabouts and don’t tell anyone I’m giving you time off. We don’t want the world thinking I’ve gone soft, do we?” He pointed at Banjo, who was coming around. “Take that with you.”
“Do I have to?”
“If you don’t want me to turn him into a new rug, yes. Get him out of my sight.”
Acid stepped over to Banjo who was now laughing to himself. She grabbed him under the armpits. “Time to go home, Sleeping Beauty,” she said. “I’ve got a holiday to book.”
Twelve
Spook
sensed something was off the second she stepped into her building. A strange energy hung in the air and it tickled her intuition, made her uneasy. As a scholar of maths and science, for her not to simply dismiss this as magical, superstitious thinking, it had to mean something, didn’t it? She crept up the stairwell, walking backwards to sooner get eyes on the door of her apartment. As she got half-way up, she stopped dead. Her stomach dropped into her butt. The door of her apartment was wide open, the lock hanging loose from its splintered housing.
Spook’s next thought was to get the hell out. Go to the police. Show them the recording. But she’d seen enough movies where people who blabbed to the police ended up dead. She couldn’t trust the authorities to protect her. Not yet. If Cerberix were sending people to break into her flat and framing innocent people for murder, it wasn’t a massive leap that they could bribe a corrupt cop to silence her.
As far as Spook was aware, she had the only existing copies of the recording. One on the thumb-drive, and one saved on her laptop. Both of which were in the rucksack on her back. That meant she had some leverage. Protection. For now. The second she handed the recording over to the police she could forget about it.
She got to the top of the stairs and padded along the corridor to peer into the front room. Every drawer was open, tipped out onto the floor. Comic books and papers littered the carpet. They’d even slashed her couch. But there was no sign of any intruder. Whoever had been here had already left.
Spook shut the door and stood with her back against it. She half-expected someone to leap out at her. But nothing happened. She went into the lounge and inspected the damage.
“Ah, man.”
They’d smashed her Manga figurines. Snapped her Xbox discs. She couldn’t help feeling that was unnecessary. The poor couch, too. She sat on the arm and tried to gather her thoughts. She couldn’t go back to work, not after this. But she couldn’t stay in her apartment either. Not if they were looking for her.
She walked through into her bedroom. Her idea now was to pack a bag, get on the first train out of London. Brighton, maybe, or Cornwall. She’d book herself into a little guest house on the seafront. It was off season, but that was a bonus. Once she found somewhere safe, she’d do the right thing. Tell the world the truth about what happened to that poor woman.
With renewed energy, Spook pulled her suitcase from under the bed. That was it. She’d hide out. Find somewhere where no one would look. Then set up some cast-iron encryption and send the recording to the police. The FBI too. Plus the media. They couldn’t hurt her if they were in prison. They couldn’t hurt her if the entire world knew what they’d done.
But as Spook slid open her wardrobe door, all thoughts of seaside guest houses and doing the right thing went out the window. A masked man leapt out at her. Spook screamed as he forced her onto the bed and jumped on her. He was big. Almost twice her size. His hands gripped her throat.
“Where is it?” he snarled. He had a gruff London accent and spit flew from his mouth as he spoke. “Tell me where it is and I’ll let you live.”
Spook pushed her pelvis up, trying to wriggle free. But he was too heavy for her. “Okay… I’ll give it… to you,” she gasped. “Please… don’t kill me…”
The man stared down at her. The mask was black wool with holes cut for the eyes and mouth. His lips were pale and unkind. His eyes bloodshot, filled with hate.
“Get up.” He released his grip on her. “But don’t try anything clever or you’re dead. Understood?”
Spook sat up and gasped air back into her lungs. She looked at the man. “Understood.”
“Where is it? Show me.”
Spook slid off the bed. Her analyst mind was working overtime as she assessed the situation. She knew the second she handed over the recording she was dead. But if she didn’t give it him, the result was the same. What she needed was that elusive third option. She walked into the front room with the guy close behind. Her rucksack was on the couch. She tried not to look at it.
“So?”
She turned to look at him. He’d drawn a knife.
“I put it on a thumb-drive,” she stammered, thinking on her feet. “It’s in the kitchen.”
The man gestured with the knife for Spook to move. She walked slowly, playing for time. In the kitchen she headed to the three drawers underneath the microwave, searching her peripheral vision for anything that might help: the coffee machine, one of three kitchen knives in a block by the fridge, a metal corkscrew.
“I mean it. I’ll kill you,” the man growled behind her. His knife toyed with Spook’s lower back, jabbing into her kidney. He grabbed the corkscrew as they passed. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“I wasn’t. I swear. All I want is for this to be over.”
“It will be. Soon enough.”
The way he said it, he might as well have done an evil laugh afterwards. That settled it. Spook had to do something quick or she was dead. She knelt down and made like she was pulling on the bottom drawer.
“It’s in this one,” she said, twisting round to look at the man, showing him the earnestness in her eyes. “I put it here for safe keeping, but it’s stuck.” She went back to the drawer, tensing her arms and shaking without pulling. “I think something’s jamming it from inside.”
She went at it again, giving it the full routine but still unable to get the drawer open. The man hopped from foot to foot and mumbled for her to get a move on.
“I’m sorry,” Spook whimpered. “I can’t get it open.”
The masked man shoved her out the way. “Let me try.”
The second he knelt down Spook jumped to her feet and grabbed a knife from the block. She stabbed down hard, aiming for the man’s neck but only managing to embed it a little way into his shoulder. It was good enough. He yelled out in pain.
“Fucking bitch.”
Spook made a dash for the lounge and grabbed her rucksack. But she wasn’t quick enough. The man was already on his feet and blocking her only exit. He had her, and he knew it. He pulled off the mask, revealing himself to be in his mid-forties with droopy features and heavy stubble. Spook’s stomach turned over. Him removing the mask was bad news. People like him didn’t show their faces if they were expecting to leave witnesses.
“You’re fucking dead.” He sprang forward and got an arm around her neck. She struggled to free herself but he was too strong. The sharp bone of his wrist pushed against her throat. She tried to scream but no sound came out. It couldn’t end like this. She was starting to pass out and she knew if that happened she wasn’t waking up again. She had to try something. She managed to lift her legs onto the arm of the couch and got purchase with her feet. Then, as her head spun and her vision faded, she pushed off with all the strength she had left.
The force sent them both flying backwards into the door. The man hit it hard and Spook heard a strange squelching sound. Moments later he released his grip and Spook dropped to the floor, clasping her neck and fighting for air.
“Leave me alone,” she cried, snot pouring from her nose. “Please leave me alone.”
The man stood in front of the door with a strange expression on his face. As though he’d seen a ghost. Spook got to her feet and cautiously moved nearer. Ready to move if he did. But it was soon clear his moving days were over. The metal coat hook that hung off the door was embedded deep into the back of his skull. Blood was already gushing from the wound.
Spook let out a small yelp that was part relief, part surprise, part… What the hell do I do now?
She ran back into the bedroom and stuffed clothes into her suitcase. Then she grabbed her passport and credit card, picked up her rucksack and, leaving the dead assailant hanging from the hook, got the hell out of there.
The leaves were turning a rich amber and falling from the trees as Kent Clarkson and Sinclair Whitman strolled through the impressive grounds of Kent’s country retreat. A humble affair was how he often described it, but the reality was over four thousand square feet not in
cluding servant quarters, sitting in its own vineyard along the Sonoma Valley.
“How are you holding up?” Kent asked, once they were far enough away from the house. “Have you slept since you got back?” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his Stefano Ricci cashmere gilet. It was cold, even for this time of year, but they were outside for a reason. Away from the help. Away from microphones and webcams.
“I slept like a baby,” Sinclair replied. “Straight after take-off and the whole way back. And yes, before you ask, I made sure I got out and got seen. Went to my poker night, went to my club. It’s all good, Kent, don’t worry. There’s at least three people who’ll swear they were with me that night.”
“Well, I do worry,” Kent snapped. “You know I could care less what you get up to in your private life. But when it affects Cerberix…” He trailed off, noticing a rise in his voice. He took a deep breath. A reminder to himself to stay calm. “All I’m saying is, this is a new world we live in. One that we’ve helped to create. Eyes are everywhere. You can’t carry on like you used to.”
Sinclair stopped. “Are you scolding me, Kent?”
“No, I’m not scolding you. But I need you to be more careful.”
They set off walking again, Sinclair with his head raised and arms held behind his back. “No one knows I was even in London. I took my private jet. There and back. No records exist of me even being there. Now with the spic chef taking the fall, what’s the issue?”
Kent hesitated, didn’t want to say the words out loud. “There’s a recording.” He coughed, pushing his chest out. “Of the… incident.”
“A recording? Are you certain? How?”
“Our new project, the Data Collection unit. One of the Watchers logged onto your personal webcam. Not sure how it happened. Why I keep telling you to use your executive login, it’s scrambled.”
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 6