Acid Vanilla.
“Okay,” she whispered to the screen. “Let’s see what you’re made of, Acid Vanilla.”
She cracked her knuckles and opened a new browser window. Now the real research began. And if she was going to survive the next few days, she had to work fast.
Seventeen
The handsome Frenchman had a strange expression playing across his swarthy Gallic features. Conceited, you might call it. Overconfident. Acid had met him – Lucas – at the train station a day earlier, when she’d accidentally spilt her take-out coffee all down his front. He was incredibly sweet and charming, playing the incident down and asking if he could buy Acid – or Melissa Font, as she introduced herself – a replacement coffee. And now here they were, in the middle of the day, writhing around naked on his bed.
Lucas rose up from kissing Acid and cast her with a crooked smile, placing a soft hand on each of her bare knees. “You will like very much,” he told her. “I am expert.” His voice was deep and gruff, and he seemed to be both smirking and pouting at the same time. No mean feat. His large trapezius muscles rippled in the light from the window as he eased Acid’s legs apart and, not breaking eye contact, slowly lowered his mouth between them.
Acid groaned, playing her part as best she could. But her heart wasn’t in it, and her mind certainly wasn’t. She squirmed about, groaned some more, ruffled Lucas’ thick wavy hair, but all the while she was thinking about her current mission. About Spook Horowitz.
“Melissa? This is okay?” Lucas asked, popping his head up.
“Oh yes, it’s wonderful,” Acid lied. Truth was, even if she hadn’t been so distracted, Lucas wasn’t the crowd-pleaser he clearly thought himself to be. In fact, he was typical – in Acid’s experience – of most good-looking men his age, who seemed to believe a mere eagerness to perform would cut it.
“You do not like?” Lucas’ thick eyebrows met over his fine nose.
“Yes! You’re amazing,” Acid purred, upping her game. “Don’t stop, will you? Please.”
As Lucas returned to slobbering about like an overeager puppy, Acid turned her head to look out the window, watching the building opposite. The reason she was here – the reason she’d orchestrated the coffee spillage and the boozy lunch that had led them to Lucas’ apartment – was that his front room was directly opposite Sinclair Whitman’s residence. From her vantage point on the bed, Acid could see straight into his open-plan lounge and kitchen. The curtains, shut since she arrived, had recently been opened and now she saw movement behind the glass, a round face at the window, with black hair and glasses. It was her. Had to be.
“Got you,” Acid whispered.
Now the mark’s whereabouts were confirmed, Acid could move. The client had specifically asked for a suicide, but they’d have to make do with an accident. No way they’d want the mark’s body found in that particular apartment. Acid felt a ripple of relief flow through her. She’d do it today. Somewhere outside. Wait until the mark left the building and push her in front of a passing Metro train. Then she’d get the next plane out of here. The Maldives perhaps, or Mauritius.
“Mon chéri. You are ready for me?” The Frenchman came up for air. No staying power these youngsters. He blew his fringe from his eyes. “Now we make love, yes?”
Acid sat up and put her hand on his chest. “Listen, sweetie. We’ll have to stick a pin in this, I’m afraid. I’ve got to go meet someone.”
Confusion furrowed Lucas’ brow. “But you say you not know anyone in my city?”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? But they’re arriving today. Now in fact.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and slid off. “We’ll do this again though. Promise.” She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and moved to the window, firing off a few shots with the zoom function on the camera. The mark was peering out on the street below. The idiot. She was face on and the light was decent. Despite the distance, Raaz could get a match.
“What are you doing?” Lucas asked, standing beside her.
Acid held up her phone. “Oh, you know, sweetie. Instagram and all that. Beautiful view, right?”
Then she scooped up her clothes and made for the bathroom.
“But what about me?” Lucas whined, gesturing forlornly at his wilting penis.
Acid spun around, holding up an imaginary watch on her wrist. “Sorry, sweetie. You sort yourself out if you need to. I have to freshen up.”
As she closed the door to the bathroom she heard Lucas huffing loudly, the way only the French can do. Lucky escape, she thought, as she locked the door and got dressed.
An hour later, back in her hotel room and freshly showered, Acid logged onto the Annihilation portal to find three messages. The first was from Raaz, telling her CCTV had picked up the mark entering Sinclair Whitman’s building three days earlier.
“Super, thanks for that now. You could have saved me a garlic douche.”
The next message was from Caesar, moaning about how she was taking too long, how this was an important client, a new account. Acid deleted the message without replying. And the next one, also from the boss, more of the same. She was about to log off, when a direct message window popped up. He wasn’t letting up.
CAESAR: What the hell is going on? Where are you?
Acid’s first thought was to ignore it. But he could see she was online. She typed back.
ACID VANILLA: In Paris! As arranged. Now have confirmation on the mark’s location. Will happen today. Let you know when complete.
She had hoped that would be the end of it, but no. A reply appeared almost instantly.
C: Make sure you get proof. Video or photo. The client requested it. Also, what the hell is taking so long?! Not like you. Should I be worried?
Acid chewed her lip. She could do without the lecture.
AV: No. Nothing to worry about. Give me one day. It’s done.
Then she’d be free. For a while, at least.
C: Fine. Report back the second it’s done! I mean it!
Acid reached for the blister pack of Paracetamol that lay on the nightstand and forced two capsules through the foil backing. She was about to log off for a second time, when yet another message box popped up. What the hell did he want now? But as she returned her attention to the screen, she saw it wasn’t Caesar. Or Raaz. Or anyone she recognised.
555p00k: Acid Vanilla. Need to talk.
Acid sat upright on the bed and lifted the tablet onto her knees. The message portal was secure. Annihilation operatives only. Her first thought was it was Banjo messing around.
AV: Talk about what?
555p00k: Your assignment. I’m the person you’ve been sent to kill.
Acid let out an audible snort. It had to be Ethel and Doris. Testing her loyalty. The old witches had form with this sort of thing.
AV: Don’t believe you.
She cracked her knuckles and waited. Whoever it was, they were taking their time. Proof she’d guessed right – Acid had long had the Sinister Sisters down as single-finger typists. Not a euphemism. A minute later the reply appeared:
555p00k: Name is Spook Horowitz. I know you’ve been sent to kill me because of what I saw Sinclair Whitman do. You’ve been hired by Cerberix. Your code name is Acid Vanilla and you’re in Paris. Near me.
Acid paused. Read the message again. Then she typed back:
AV: How are you contacting me? This is a secure network.
555p00k: Piece of cake for me. I hacked into the White House database when I was 13. Your system doesn’t compare. Tell Raaz Terabyte she needs to sort out the backdoor in your code. The reason I’m doing this is I need your help.
Acid paused. If this was the mark, she wasn’t bold, like she’d first thought. She was just plain old crazy. Or grasping at straws.
AV: I’m here to do a job. Why would I help you?
Acid picked up a glass of water from the nightstand and took a long drink. She watched the screen. Something felt off.
555p00k: Because I’m being fram
ed. Because an innocent woman is dead. Someone who links to your past. Once you know the full story you’ll understand. Meet me face to face. I’ll explain. You’ll want to hear this.
Once more Acid snorted out loud. Who the hell did she think she was dealing with? She stared at the words, wishing she had the wherewithal to close the laptop and get on with the act of killing. But she couldn’t. Links to your past. What did she mean? Something weird was going on and Acid needed to know what. Besides, if she got the mark out in the open she’d get the job done quicker than she hoped.
AV: Fine. Will meet. But I’m not promising anything.
555p00k: Understood.
AV: Where?
555p00k: Top of the Eiffel Tower. Midday. Come alone.
Acid glanced at the ceiling. Nothing like being dramatic. She finished her glass of water and replied to the message, telling the mark she’d be there. Then she shut the laptop and closed her eyes. Whatever this Spook had to say, she’d hear her out. But after that, she was a dead woman.
Eighteen
Spook gazed up at the imposing metal structure of the Eiffel Tower and sipped a take-out coffee, holding the paper cup against her lips and letting the steam warm her nose and cheeks. Was this the dumbest idea ever – meeting face to face with someone who wanted to kill you, and who was set to receive a lot of money once they’d killed you? Well, possibly. But right now it was the only play Spook had.
She looked at her watch. It was a few minutes after twelve and the park here at the base of the tower was a sea of couples. Each one clinging to the other, fighting the chill of the fall air so they could be here. Together. In Paris. Underneath the famous monument. As if in some way this would make their love more special. More real.
Spook finished her coffee, throwing the empty cup in a bin. She had no time for loved-up couples at the best of times, but when you were being hunted by the world’s top female assassin it did tend to highlight your sense of aloneness somewhat. Still, right now the more people that were around, the better. From everything she’d discovered about this Acid Vanilla character, Spook believed she’d stick to her word, didn’t think she’d pull anything so gauche as to bump her off without hearing her out first, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She joined the short line of people waiting to ride the elevator to the top, and took her place behind a man and woman, getting as close as possible in an effort to fox any sniper that might have a sight trained on her. She scanned the crowds and wondered if her would-be killer was already here. Hidden. Watching her. Would she even recognise her if she saw her? All she had to go on was an old photo, found after a long trail and a lot of dead ends.
Bouncing quickly from foot to foot as the line filed down, Spook went over what she was going to say to this terrifying enigma who wanted her dead. She only had one shot at this, she knew that. But from all she’d discovered about Acid Vanilla, it was a shot worth taking. The similarities were there. Now if she could just sell this the right way, and tug on the old heartstrings enough, she might just pull it off. The problem was, the whole plan relied on Acid Vanilla being capable of empathy and compassion, and that was in no way a certainty, but it was all Spook had. She had to try.
She got to the front of the queue and showed the man the e-ticket on her phone, bought from the website earlier. It had cost twenty-five euros for access to the top. Twenty-five euros to meet the person holding your fate in their hands.
The man waved Spook into the elevator and she took her place along the back wall, waiting as more lovebirds climbed aboard. She counted eight couples in total, all of them staring doe-eyed at each other, probably a few vin rouges down, eager to get to the top and have their Amazing Romantic Paris Experience. None of them noticed the small, mixed-race oddball standing in the corner, with an oversized bobble hat pulled down over her eyes and an expression not dissimilar to that of an old family pet who’s just realised this particular trip to the V-E-T is one way.
The elevator quaked and juddered as they travelled the three hundred metres to the top. The couples were still at it, snuggling up to each other, obsequious in their union and oblivious to everyone else. Spook wondered how many engagement rings were being held nervously in pockets, how many men here were mentally rehearsing the next half hour. She couldn’t blame them, of course. She’d been mentally rehearsing the next half hour all morning.
They reached the top of the tower and the doors slid open to reveal a vista of unbroken blue sky. Spook hung back a few seconds, allowing all the couples to vacate before stepping out herself. The air was a lot colder up here, with more of a breeze. She pulled up the collar of her vintage ski jacket and burrowed into it as she walked over to the side and looked out across Paris. Even someone as cynical as Spook had to admit it looked kind of beautiful. If she was here for any other reason she might have even enjoyed it. As it was, all she could think about was finding Acid Vanilla and saying her piece. After that, it was down to the gods. For the second time this month Spook said a prayer to herself, still feeling a phoney but thinking it couldn’t hurt.
She made her way to a gold-plated telescope that pointed out over the river. There were fewer people on this side and her plan now was to wait. Acid Vanilla would have a more up-to-date image of her to go off, so the ball was in her court. Hell, it had been from the start. Spook shoved her hands deep into her pockets and waited. Around the other side of the viewing platform a woman shrieked, making Spook jump. But it was a happy shriek. A shriek of excitement from the first of today’s future brides.
“You know, I’m such an idiot sometimes.”
Spook spun around on hearing the voice. A woman stood next to her, staring out into the sky’s endless blue expanse. This woman was a few inches taller than her, but still smaller than she’d imagined, with thick, dark brown hair. She had the collar up on her leather jacket and her large sunglasses hid most of her face, but Spook knew straight away it was her.
“I was looking out over Paris, thinking it didn’t seem right,” she went on. “That something was missing. Then I realised, it’s because I can’t see the bloody Eiffel Tower.”
Spook stared up at her. “Is it… you?”
“Yes. It’s me. At least I think so.” She – Acid Vanilla - was more well-spoken than Spook had expected, with a heavy undercurrent of British sarcasm in her tone. “So, you’ve got me up here,” she continued, brusquely, “but I’m not waiting around. It’s bloody freezing. Say what you need to say, quickly. But like I told you, I’m here to do a job.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Spook stammered. “But my hope is when you hear the full story, you might change your mind.”
Acid shifted her stance, as if to get a better look at her. “You’re still not telling me anything.”
Spook looked around. “Is anyone with you? That man?”
“What man? I’m here alone.”
“In the park the other day. He was watching me. And then today I saw him as I was coming to meet you. He followed me but I lost him.”
Acid frowned. “What did he look like?”
“A tall, black guy. Jamaican, maybe. He had a scar down one cheek.”
Acid was quiet for a moment, staring out over the city. She had a perfect pout, Spook thought. Perfect cheekbones, too. Menacing, but striking.
“Who you’re describing sounds like Barabbas Stamp,” she said quietly. “But that’s impossible. Like I say, I’m working alone.”
Spook scrunched her nose up, squinting into the bright sky. “He was a scary looking dude. Could have been the guy that you know.”
“No,” Acid snapped. She looked at Spook, her face still rigid with tense coolness. “Well, if that’s all you came here to tell me…”
“No, wait. Please. I didn’t mean to be watching Sinclair Whitman I was drunk. Being stupid. But then I saw him kill that poor girl. They said it was his private chef who did it. But it was Whitman. It’s so messed up.” She spoke fast, the words pouring out of her. “He killed an innocent girl and
now they’re paying you to kill me so they can cover it up. You okay with all that? Do they know I’ve got a copy of the recording?”
“They know. I’m to recover that as well. I’m guessing you haven’t got it on you right now.” Spook shook her head. “Well, don’t worry, I’ll find it. It’s what I do. Blackmailing these people was a stupid move, you do know that?”
Spook scowled at her. “I’m not blackmailing them. I wouldn’t know how to start. Geez, I’m running for my life here.”
Acid sighed. “Sorry, kid. But you’re not selling this, and I’ve got my own shit to deal with. I’m going now. I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.”
She turned and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket before striding towards the elevator.
“I’ve got skills,” Spook shouted after her, despair rasping at her vocal cords. “I found you, didn’t I? I could help you. Work for you. Or something.”
Acid kept on walking but Spook followed her. This was her last chance.
“She was a sex-worker,” she cried, then lowered her voice as people looked over. “The girl, I mean, the one Whitman murdered. She was an innocent girl, down on her luck. Trying to support her young son.” Acid stopped. She turned to look at Spook. “It’s true. Her name was Paula Silva. She was a high-class escort. Wrong place, wrong time. With the wrong client, I guess. Her little boy’s name is Alex. He’s four years old. There’s no one else at home, so he’ll grow up an orphan, passed around the system. All because of what that bastard did. And you’re going to let him get away with it.”
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 9