Acid was silent for a long time, her face rigid and expressionless, eyes hidden behind sunglasses that reflected back nothing but blue sky. It was an unnerving sight. And when she eventually spoke, her voice was quiet but emotionless. “What are you asking me?”
“Not sure,” Spook said, as adrenaline surged through her system. “To let me live. To maybe help get back at those murdering pricks.”
“Fucking hell. This gets better. Are you totally insane?”
“Think about it. You don’t have to kill me if the person who hired you is in jail. Or dead.”
“Aww. But I like killing people.”
Spook couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic. “Come on. I know who you are. What you do. But you know more than most how hard life is for people like Paula Silva. For her son. Don’t they deserve justice? Help me, please.”
Acid tilted her head, dropped her weight to one hip. “Do you know how preposterous that sounds? If my boss knew I was even talking to you he’d be apoplectic. If I do what you’re suggesting, he’d be putting a price on my head. And I wouldn’t blame him.” She looked away. “Sorry, kid. Can’t help you.”
The elevator doors pinged open and Acid climbed aboard.
“Please,” Spook tried again. “You aren’t all bad. I know it.”
Acid kept her head down. The elevator was filling up. Spook was desperate. If Acid left, it was over.
“Alice. Please.”
Her head snapped up. “What did you call me?”
“Alice,” Spook said again. “I know all about you. You don’t have to do this.”
As the elevator doors slid shut, Acid Vanilla looked into Spook’s anxious, pleading eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”
Nineteen
“Idiot.” Acid punched the wall of her hotel room as the door closed behind her. “You stupid bloody idiot.”
She went at it again, slamming her fist into the hard plasterboard over and over until her knuckles left bloody imprints. Only then did she slump, no less angry, onto the bed and closed her eyes. She wished for sleep, some blessed respite from these chaotic thoughts of hers. But her heart was pounding and her nerves were far too raw for that.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from Caesar. In it he sounded angry and impatient, his default setting these days. It was sad, but Acid hardly recognised her boss from the ambitious, erudite man who’d taken her under his wing all those years ago. Back then he’d been a gentleman killer with a simple goal: to create the best assassin network the world had ever known. And he’d achieved it too. But he’d become power-hungry in the process. Obsessed with staying number one at any cost. Back in the day he’d have trusted Acid to complete a job in her own time. She was a craftswoman, after all. An artist. She shouldn’t be expected to rush her work. But now it was all about pleasing the client. All about money and deadlines and bottom-end.
She rolled over and grabbed for her holdall, hauling it onto the bed and pulling out her tablet and a litre bottle of Grey Goose from Duty Free. She turned the rough-textured bottle over in her hands, feeling the weight. The bats willed her to crack open the top, take a few swigs. Everything would look better soon enough, they told her.
She put the bottle on the nightstand and swiped open the tablet. A quick search and she’d opened up several news sites from around the world, those running the miserable tale of the dead girl and Sinclair Whitman’s private chef. She read each article in turn. All the same. Murdered woman, chef in custody, Whitman nowhere near the scene. Only The London Standard had mentioned her by name – Paula Silva – but the article brushed over what she was doing there. There was a small photo of her at the bottom of the page. Almost as an afterthought. She was young and nice-looking, but with a sadness to her. Acid recognised that look. Had seen it many times.
The article didn’t mention her age either, but Acid would have guessed she was around thirty-five. The same age as Louisa when that vicious bastard almost killed her.
Acid stared at the screen. The mark had called her Alice. She knew about her. Knew about her past. But wasn’t that impossible?
She threw the tablet on the bed and walked through into the white-tiled bathroom, where she turned on the tap and leant down to splash water on her face. It was ice cold and she opened her eyes into it, an attempt to wake herself. It made sense now – why the mark had risked meeting with her.
She straightened, meeting the glare of her own reflection in the large mirror above the sink. She had the look of a startled beast, and could tell just from her eyes she was slap bang in the middle of a major episode. Not good. But what was that phrase…? If you’re going through hell, keep on going.
Except Acid saw something else as well, as she considered herself in the mirror. Something she hadn’t noticed before. It was there in the slightly odd twist of her mouth, in the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, there most of all in her current expression: a mixture of pain and anger – but also humanity, compassion even. That flirtatious nurse was right. She did look like her mother. More so, she looked like her mother had done when Acid was young. Before Oscar Duke. Before destiny ripped both their hearts out and danced all over them. An image flashed across her mind, her mother lying in a pool of her own blood, her face almost unrecognisable it was so swollen. Then she thought of Paula Silva. Already forgotten. A postscript to a much bigger conspiracy. There’d be no justice for that poor woman. Acid swilled water in her mouth and spat it violently into the sink. The pressure in her head was too much. The bats. Always the bats. The high-pitched chatter she’d quelled these last few days was now cacophonous.
This was her story, they told her. Her cross to bear.
She looked up from the sink. Looked herself dead in the eye. “No. No way. Don’t you fucking dare.”
Back in the bedroom she picked up the bottle of Grey Goose. She now had zero qualms about screwing off the cap and taking a long swig, hoping to drown any crazy notions with the strong, viscous liquid. She drank again, imploring the alcohol to do its work, to transport her to a place where none of this mattered. Where she was carefree and without conscience. A place that, although not comfortable, was a place she recognised.
She was Acid Vanilla, for Christ’s sake. One of the best assassins in the world. If not the best. She was highly trained in many disciplines, had killed people on six continents - drug barons, African despots, government officials. She’d been tortured, shot at, had broken nearly every major bone in her body. Yet right now her hands were shaking and she had a tightness in her chest.
Shit.
Tears now?
She punched the bed by her side.
“You are a bloody professional,” she snarled, emphasising each word with another fist to the mattress. She was here to do a job. That was all. Nothing special. She’d done this type of mission hundreds of times before.
More images flashed across Acid’s prefrontal cortex. Faces and voices she hadn’t thought about in so long. Memories buried deep inside of her. Marcia, on her knees and weeping. Begging for mercy. Telling Acid how there’d been some mistake, that she was an innocent pawn, a mule. Then that car journey to hell. With Marcia in the boot howling all the way, inconsolable after finding her boyfriend strung up by his intestines.
Acid took another drink. She could see it all in front of her, as clear as the bloody knuckles that now clutched the bottle of vodka. The hotel suite covered in blood. Marcia’s severed hand on the bed. And then Caesar, albeit younger, slimmer, standing there with a shit-eating grin across his face, telling Acid this is how it was, how it would be from now on. The message was simple. Do not get involved with a mark. Do not listen to their stories. No matter how well they paint their picture of innocence.
“You exist for one reason and one reason only, my dear,” he’d told her. “To remove the mark. To eradicate the problem for the client. You aren’t a judge or a jury or a fucking do-gooder. You aren’t paid to have opinions. You aren’t paid to have a heart. You are a hired
killer. That is what you do. And this,” he gestured at the severed limbs, the pooling blood, the suitcase of unmarked bills in the corner, “this is what happens when you let your guard down and allow yourself to get attached.”
Then later, in the back of Caesar’s Beamer, with Davros Ratpack driving. Caesar friendly now, telling Acid how valued she was. Good cop, bad cop, all rolled into one. Devil and angel.
“You’ll learn,” he’d purred in her ear as he put his hand on her leg. “You’re young. You’re new to this game. Let this be a lesson and move on. It’s a steep learning curve. But learn you will.”
Wasn’t that the truth?
So what the hell was she doing, sixteen years and many kills later, still falling for the old sob story. Letting herself get emotionally attached.
“No.” She sat bolt upright. “Not going to happen. Won’t let it.”
She got to her feet and moved over to the bureau opposite the bed. She slid the top drawer open and removed the Glock and a spare cartridge. She pocketed the spare and stuffed the pistol into the waistband of her jeans. Then she ran her fingers through her hair, took one final slug of vodka, grabbed her jacket and card key, and left the room.
It was time to finish this.
The only way she knew how.
Twenty
For those wishing to experience the famously laid-back attitude of the native Parisian, the traffic-heavy Boulevard Saint-Germain on a late Friday afternoon was not the place to go. Cars and vans lurched erratically along the wide dual carriageway as drivers leant on their horns, making their presence known, and switched lanes every few minutes in a futile attempt to try and beat the system. The boulevard was a long, slow road at the best of times, but today the side on the Left Bank had roadworks half-way along and was down to one lane. Tempers were already frayed, but were exacerbated somewhat by the small American girl who was weaving her way through the traffic and getting in the way of just about everyone.
Cars braked and swerved to avoid Spook as the drivers wound down their windows and yelled French obscenities in her direction. She bowed her head, raising her hands in show of an apology as she scurried across the road as fast as her short legs allowed.
Once over the other side she stopped and looked back, scanning the crowds of people – tourists and locals alike – glancing from one face to the next, like a watchful meerkat on the lookout for a predator. The man wasn’t anywhere to be seen. But that didn’t mean he’d given up the chase. Didn’t mean she could relax.
Things had gone from bad to worse for Spook since Acid Vanilla left her at the top of the Eiffel Tower. Initially she’d been frozen there with fear, as her imagination ran wild. Was the enigmatic assassin now waiting for her at the bottom of the tower, ready to slit her throat as soon as she left the elevator? For this reason Spook had taken the stairs, in the hope she might slip out the back exit undetected.
There were over a thousand steps down to ground level and it had taken it out of her. But it had also given her time to think. To plan her next move. Which was to get back to Whitman’s place, get her stuff and get the hell out of Paris. She’d take the first plane she could get. Put it on her credit card. Somewhere far away. Somewhere even Acid Vanilla couldn’t find her. But as Spook turned the corner towards Whitman’s apartment, she saw him. Sat in the park, same bench as before. The tall man with the scar on his face. She jumped behind a bus shelter but it was too late. He rose from the bench and walked slowly but intentionally towards her. Her first thought was that his composed and sinister gait reminded her of the T-1000 unit from Terminator 2.
Her second thought was to run.
Fast.
And she hadn’t stopped running since. Leaving the Boulevard Saint-Germain behind, she headed down the side of a Louis Vuitton shop, zig-zagging through the hordes of people coming in the opposite direction. At the end of the next street, she skipped up onto the step of a doorway for a better look over the throng. Given his height, she’d be able to see him from a way off, even with all these people. She narrowed her eyes. Nothing. But this was not the time to get complacent. Whoever this man was, he meant business. Plus she still had Acid Vanilla to contend with.
Spook stepped down from her vantage point and cut down the back of an old church. A grand and beautiful building with a tall spire and ornate pillars. She might have taken a passing interest if she wasn’t running for her life. The end of the street opened out onto the wider Rue De Seine and Spook quickened her pace, moving with purpose, praying the street would lead to the river as it suggested.
She pushed on, running past expensive boutiques and tiny art galleries, past pavement cafés and exotic restaurants. She hardly noticed any of them. Her eyes were on the horizon and the blue skies above. A hundred metres or so in front was a gated area, a small square where the street she was on intersected with another. A growing tightness in her chest had now turned into a terrible stitch that was slicing her in two, and she wondered whether she might rest there a few minutes. She glanced back over her shoulder.
And her heart stopped.
There he was. About a hundred metres down on the opposite side, making big purposeful strides. Not running, still serenely ominous, but he was gaining on her. With the stitch adding to her already aching legs and lack of any real direction, he’d be on her soon enough.
She pushed on, grimacing against the pain and heading down a narrow alley that ran between two art galleries. Drainpipes dripped on her from above, and she had to wind around piles of stinking garbage bags to get to the end. There were footsteps behind her. Walking faster now. Closing in. Spook took a left down the next street. Another narrow road that ran behind a row of shops. It was also deserted. Not a good place to be. Though, if you were planning on killing someone in the middle of the day in Paris without being seen, it might have been the perfect spot. The footsteps were closer now and had fallen in time with her own. She picked up her pace, running as fast as she could towards the adjacent street where she could see people and traffic. Ten more steps, twenty maybe, and she’d be safe. He wouldn’t kill her in front of people, would he?
But she wasn’t quick enough. She felt a hand on her shoulder. It grabbed her and pulled her back. She went to scream but another hand covered her mouth. Then her attacker hustled her into an alley and shoved her against the wall. The impact knocked all the air out of her and she slumped to the ground. Adrenaline soared through her system, but it was useless, she knew that. She had nowhere to run. No fight left in her. She was going to die here. Scared and alone. She tried one last time to scream, but a hand grabbed at her cheeks and squeezed them together. Then a face loomed at her out of the darkness. A mess of hair and dark glasses.
“Stop yelling,” Acid Vanilla rasped. “I’m trying to bloody well save your life here.”
Spook’s scream transformed into a strangled, confused yelp as Acid released her grip.
“What the hell?” Spook gasped, fighting for breath. “That man. With the scar. He’s coming. He’s following me.”
Acid’s face was stern. “I know, I saw him. I’ve been following you. But he didn’t see us come down here. We’ll stay a few minutes. Give him the slip.”
“Who?” was all Spook could manage. The adrenaline was still pumping around her body and she was worried she might wet herself.
“Barabbas Stamp,” Acid whispered. She looked over her shoulder, then back to Spook. “He’s bad news. All I can think is Caesar got impatient with me not taking you out sooner and sent him along to finish the job. You’re kind of a big deal, you know that?”
Spook scowled. “So, what? You wanted to finish the job yourself?”
“No, it’s not like that.” Acid bowed her head. “I’ve been going over what you said. About the woman who was murdered. I believe you.”
“He killed her for nothing,” Spook said, putting emphasis on the word nothing.
Acid moved closer. “Okay, now listen. I can’t help you. Not the way you want. I’m sorry, I know that
’s not what you want to hear but my boss would kill me. I’m crazy even for doing this, but no news there.” Spook opened her mouth to speak but Acid shushed her down. “I’ll help you get you out of Paris. Away from Barabbas. But then you’re on your own, all right?”
Spook swallowed. “Thank you.”
Acid held Spook by both shoulders. “You ready to get out of here?”
Spook sure was, but before she could answer a third presence appeared in the alley. The man. Spook cried out as Acid spun around to face him, her gun drawn. But it was too late. She heard a whistle of air, a dull thud, and Acid stumbled forward. Spook tried to catch her but she was a dead weight and fell to the floor, unconscious. Spook watched her drop, letting out a terrified wail as she gazed up into the pitiless face of the man who’d been chasing her. And for the third time that afternoon, a hand clasped around her mouth.
Twenty-One
Coming around, it was the smell that Acid noticed first. A dank mustiness permeating her nasal canal as she blinked blearily into the dark room. But she picked out another smell too, behind the damp. It was heady, spicy, reminded her of childhood. She opened her eyes and tried to make sense of her situation. From what she could tell, she was in some sort of underground chamber. The only source of light came from a small window, translucent with grime and dust and cut into the raw stone wall to her left.
“Here she be,” a deep voice bellowed. “I thought you was never coming round.”
Acid squinted through the gloom, making out the unmistakable form of Barabbas Stamp. He was standing in the far corner of what she could now see was an old crypt. That accounted for the smell: frankincense.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 10